#noncon touching tw

[befuddled-calico-whump]

The Soiree (part five)

@whumptober No. 5: “It's broken.”

cw: noncon touch

previous ///// masterlist

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The night refused to end.

After enduring another several rounds with the shock baton, Lex's body had all-but given out. He doubted he could stand if he wanted to. When he came to for the third—fourth?—time, the brunette man from earlier had his head in his lap and was idly stroking his hair. Lex hated how it almost felt good, how his battered body was desperately trying to lean into the action as if it were a comfort.

His head was still spinning; nausea swirling inside him like a hurricane. His shoulders shook as he feebly tried to push himself up, not even clearing an inch before his body went slack from the effort.

"Shhh, poor thing," the brunette man murmured, moving his hand from Lex's hair to his face, cupping his cheek. When the assassin didn't even attempt to pull away, the man clicked his tongue.

"I think we broke your plaything, Fox."

Lex barely caught Uriah's reply.

"He's taken worse. I'm sure he'll be alright."

"Glad to hear it."

Another wave of nausea hit Lex as the man slipped out from under him, letting his head fall onto the sofa beneath.

"There are still so many games I'd like to play."

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Tag list:

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing , @bloodinkandashes , @fleur-alise , @whumpy-daydreams

[whumppmuhw]

Whumptober Day 14: No anesthesia

tw: medical whump, noncon surgery, surgery without anesthesia, intimate whumper, noncon touching (non-sexual), blood eehehehe I love this prompt and trope good shit right there

Whumper made the first incision, right down the middle, collarbone to navel. Whumpee had too many restraints to squirm. Their gag prevented them from screaming. Whumper soaked up as much blood as they could. Then came the second incision, across the abdomen, right under the rib cage. Again, Whumpee could do nothing. Whumper reached inside Whumpee with a gloved hand. They were careful not to displace Whumpee's organs, but it felt good to have a hold on Whumpee that they previously couldn't attain. Whumper's main purpose for the procedure was research and curiosity, but beyond that was a longing for the intimacy that came with being inside of someone. Whumper had fantasized of organs and bones and muscles all in his grip, Whumpee helpless as they took control of Whumpee at a deeper, more physical level. Whumper took his hand out of Whumpee. They removed that hand's glove and changed it to a fresh, sterile one. With their other hand they picked up a small camera. "Hold still," Whumper instructed, "and breathe easy. This next part will go much smoother if you cooperate." Whumpee's panicked, rapid breaths through their nose slowed to deep, full ones. Whumpee became less tense and Whumper muttered a "mhm, just like that," as they prepared for what was next. Whumper lifted the flaps of skin up one by one, taking pictures of Whumpee's internal structure. They could see Whumpee trying their hardest to stay calm as Whumper temporarily shifted things around. Whumper could only imagine what it felt like for their patient. Whumpee was scared in a way they never had been. Whumper had crossed a boundary that Whumpee never imagined being crossed, and every time Whumper touched their insides with that gentle, yet controlling touch of theirs, Whumpee felt a shiver go up their spine. One side of Whumpee felt the pain of the invasive surgery and the restraints digging in, and wanted to lash out, to scream for Whumper to stop every time they felt Whumper's touch in a place it shouldn't be. Whumpee's other side recognized that course of action wasn't possible, and instead kept as still and calm as they could so Whumper could finish up faster. Whumper had to admit to themself, this was fun. Not only were they learning about human anatomy in a direct and fascinating way, but who better to operate on then their very own Whumpee, who just couldn't say no! Whumper oohed and ahhed at seeing the human body laid out before them like this. They wished they could keep Whumpee open like this for days as they took a plethora of pictures and notes and felt the thrill that came with holding Whumpee's insides. Whumper finished taking the pictures and observations they wanted an hour after the procedure began, and set down their camera. To finish, they placed both hands on the two sides of Whumpee's rib cage, fingers gently stroking bones, and felt Whumpee's chest rise and fall with each breath alongside their beating heart. "Thank you, Whumpee," Whumper said quietly, like they were sharing a secret. "This has been a very pleasant and educational time for me. Your body is beautiful, truly something to marvel at." Whumpee wanted to squirm at that comment and Whumper's hands, a knot twisting in their stomach. "Don't be afraid, I've taken great care to make sure everything's still where it's supposed to be. Once I've stitched you up, it'll be like this never happened. Though I bet you and I won't forget." Whumper removed his hands from Whumpee's chest, then put on a new set of gloves and picked up a needle and thread. They moved back to Whumpee and began the meticulous process of putting them back together again. Whumpee hated the pain and wished it would be over. They knew Whumper was putting stitches in, their work done, but the constant piercing from the needle and the pulling of the thread was getting to be too much. Whumpee tried to yell out and failed. Whumper acknowledged this. "Don't be so impatient, this won't take long." They were nearing the end of the first incision and would soon stitch up the second.

A few minutes later, going by quickly for Whumper and painfully slow for Whumpee, the stitching was finished. Whumper breathed a sigh of relief at a job well done; Whumpee at the end of a horrible trial. Whumper took off Whumpee's gag and took their camera and notes journal to their study, leaving Whumpee to recover and take some deep breaths. Whumpee could feel the ghosts of Whumper's hands in their body, and they felt icky. Neither of them would forget that day.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 2 - The Shadow of Death AU

This is canon verse-ish in that it's not modern, but not an actual canon event. Short and vague, haha.

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

Masterlist

No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.” | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

Contains: lady whump, implied noncon drugging, noncon touch, restraints, muzzle, a bit brainwash-y, open ending

.

.

There’s a thick fog over everything - her vision, her thoughts, her memories. It goes on for an eternity. She can’t remember a time that she wasn’t trapped here, in this fog. It’s always been too cold. The voices have always floated around her. The rope on her wrists and ankles, stretching out her limbs, has always been there, she can tell by the way it settles into her skin like it belongs.

The hands…the hands have always been there, too. Any time that they’re gone passes in a blur that she’s unaware of until they return. The hands are one with the pain, they leave scars on her mind everywhere that they touch. 

“Bru-…Brun-…” She remembers him. Somewhere, beyond this existence, there was a light, and that was his name. “Bruno…please…” 

She knows he won’t answer. He hasn’t answered any other time, no matter how much she pleads. 

“Shh.” One of the voices comes closer, breath too hot as it brushes across her cheeks. “No more of that.” Fingers pry her chin downward, and cold metal presses against her tongue, leather straps cutting into her lips. She chokes on a sob, any words that her mind could conjure now trapped. “He doesn’t care about you, otherwise he would be here, wouldn’t he? You’re where you belong now.”

He should be here. She wants him to be here. She wants him to take her away from here, but there is nothing else but here. He doesn’t exist. There’s only cold and pain and hands and fog.

The voices want her to give into it all. Maybe they’re right. Maybe she should.

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 5 ~ Version 1: Bleeding out

Hidden Depths AU

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

AU of AU (V.2 Game Over)

Genre: Fantasy whump

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

WC: 1748

Taglist: @kixngiggles

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

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

Resh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For allowing this to happen. 

For, for… 

A waterfall of red splattered across Carr’s chest. 

Resh blinked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next

Image Description

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

[its-my-whump]

Febuwhump - Day 15 and 20

"Who did this to you?"

Truth serum

Tw: non con touching (mildly sexual), mentioning of domestic abuse, drugged, mental break down, fighting, unconsciousness, language

@febuwhump

It was supposed to be a joke. It was supposed to maybe bring a little embarrassing moment, all of them could laugh about in the morning.

But, whenever could intoxicating someone against their will, be a joke?

They didn't know, what they would unleash, when they sneaked the thruth serum into his drink. After they had collectively drained their shots of Tequila, the atmosphere slowly changed. Sandy, Matthew, Elisabeth and Roger all knew, what was supposed to happen. Only Andy, there involuntary guiney pig, didn't. Everyone of them threw him a curious look now and again, while he was talking to Elisabeth about his unpleasant boss.

Andy felt kinda off. He hadn't noticed right away, the process was slow and inconspocously running in the background. But all of a sudden, he felt disconnected. This was his second beer and he had only that one shot in-between. The drinks couldn't have been the reason, his sight was swimming, his ears felt hot and breathing was slightly uncomfortable. The second beer wasn't even half empty, so drinks couldn't be the reason, there was a rushing in his ears and his chest was tightening. Sweat started to tickle down the back of his neck.

When he tried to get of the coach to get some air, his legs weren't really obeying. Andy managed to push himself up, but after shaking dangerously Roger was by his side, gentle but determined pushing him back down and taking a seat right beside him.

Suddenly he felt cornered by all 4 of them, pushing their faces forward. Roger the worst, inventing his personal space, Elisabeth sitting in front on an armchair, Matthew by her side. All of a sudden Sandy was sitting much too close by his left. Her knee touching his, her hands on his. He hadn't recognised his fingers were twitching, and he was apparently clinging to that bottle for his life.

The hot sweat on the back of his neck turned cold and big drops starts rolling down the sides of his face. Breathing was getting worse. He knew that feeling. The sheer helplessness of being trapped, that paralised him so often in his life.

'What had they done to him?' Even if Andy didn't know what, he knew, it was their doing. There was no concern in their eyes, their faces had such nosy expressions, the boys were grining, the girls smiling. They had defintely done something, maybe drugged him.

Sandy squeezed his trembling hands, to get his attention. Apparently he had been staring right ahead, pulling air into his lungs strained.

"Maybe, we gave him too much?" A distant voice. Matthew snapped his fingers right in front of his face, it finally made Andy blink.

His senses slowly came back. Sandys fingers were burning hot against his cold sweaty hands. Rogers arm was uncomfortably and heavily pressing down on his shoulders. They were all much too close.

"Nah, he's fine." Someone said.

His paralising panic was pulling him down, making him believe a heavy weight was sinking him into the cushions of the coach underneath.

"...with me?" Sandys hands went for his crotch. "Do you want to sleep with me? I asked." She leaned her face even closer, her hot moist breast on his skin, her curled lips almost touching his cheek. It wasn't a nice smile, more a wicked, unsexy evil one.

A cold, frightening shower ran down Andys back, he felt nausea creeping up. A bitter taste in the back of his throat. He couldn't be sure, if it was the drugs or the situation of all of them invading his space, forcing him into this cornered position. Fear, but also a flame of defiance battled in his core. Still his head was muffed, he feld disconnected and weak.

"No." He spit out. 'Not with this barbie.' His head tried to convince him, but he had doubts all of a sudden.

Her hand rubbed against his jeans. "You're sure?" Lasciviously she dragged the words out. He hadn't had any desire for this woman, but he couldn't deny his bodys urges and his head wasn't working at all. His tongue felt lose and not being apart of him, when the word slipped out. "Maybe."

'What was he thinking? Why would he even considering to answer this dumb question at all?'

A collective laugh from all around, stopped his chaotic thoughts jumping through the smoke in his head unordered. His brain couldn't catch up. 'What was so funny?'

"Ask him about the scar." Elisabeth voice. 'Why wouldn't she ask herself?' That thought at least made some sense in his cloudy head.

"Ask him yourself." Matthew barked from above. Andys vision was narrowing. Whatever they gave him, maybe they really gave him too much of it. His heart was racing and it felt, that he had to swallow really hard against a not existing obstacle in his throat. Additionally, he felt like burning up.

The half filled beer bottle still in his right hand, Andy pulled his left from under Sandys hands to make some space around his collar, but it didn't help.

Not being able to breathe, was making this feeling of being cornered worse. Or maybe it was the reason for his windpipe tightening more and more.

"... what happened?" Andy had zoomed out again. A firm slap to his face. A big hand tucked at the collar of his shirt and pulled it down, right to the scar above his heart.

"Let it go, Matt." A woman's voice. "This wasn't the plan." Roger yelled from his side. But the hand in Andys shirt was still pulling, a finger painfully digging into his scar.

"I asked, who did this to you, Andrew?" Matthew barked at him. Suddenly all of his instincts went haywire.

Andy pushed through the stupor in his head, the ringing in his ears and his shortness of breath and literally pushed up from the coach.

"OH, YOU REALLY WANNA KNOW?!" He growled like an angry beast, his voice deep and bloodcurling, as if another dark personality just turned up.

His right hand with the bottle went down on the coffee table as he got on steady feet, bursting the end of the bottle, creating a deadly weapon.

With his left he grapped Matthews own collar and both of them ended up on the floor. Andy straddling the shocked man, that was intimidating him only moments ago.

That hand, just seconds ago, on his chest, the finger poking into his scar tissue, the intimidation, a foreign breath on his skin and his brain completely switched off, so his survival instinct could take over.

"WANNA KNOW, HA?! It was my fucking cooksucking stepfather. Wanna know, how he did it? I SHOW YOU!." Andy ripped open Matthews buttondown shirt with his free left, sending buttons flying. The opponent was panicking on the floor, his arms trying to ward him of, his legs helplessly paddling under the other man bodyweight. But Andy was in berserker mode, enormous strength pushing him forward. No way in hell, he'd ever be a victim again!

Someone was yelling in the background. He heard his name. But his heart was beating too loud, he couldn't make any of it out and he couldn't stop.

The broken bottle in his hand, he positioned over Matthews exposed chest, ready to slice him open.

A strong impact at the side of his head. It felt like his eardrum burst, stars exploded inside his vision and Andy felt himself thrown to his left side. He blacked out before his limp body hit the ground and the left side of his head banged into the hard floor. Blood was freely flowing out of a laceration on his right temple, where Roger had struck him hard. He was unconscious a second later. His limp body laying right beside a heavily breathing Matthew.

Yeah, how could intoxicating someone against their will ever be a joke?

Part 2

My masterlist

[all-the-gory-details]

Whumptober Day 11/12

Animal Trap / Captivity / “No one will find you.”

Red / Insomnia / “I’m up, I’m up!”

Sorry, life has been shitty, combining these two days cause I couldn't bring myself to write last night.

TW: Non-con touch (Not sexual), stress position, sleep deprivation, blood, broken nose, restraints, torture

Georgia sat curled up in the corner, trying not to think. Casey still hadn’t come back from his ‘client’, and she couldn’t help being worried about him. She hardly knew him, but it didn’t matter. He was kind to her, and that was enough at the moment.

It didn’t help that Felix was pacing the room, back and forth at a slow pace, fists and jaw clenched tightly. Georgia had a feeling that if they were acting nervous, there was reason to worry.

When the door opened again, both heads snapped up, anxious to see Casey and his condition, but when Alexei walked in, he was alone.

He smiled at the way Felix froze, tense like a spring forced to stay coiled, and at Georgia’s wide eyed, deer-in-the-headlights stare. Whatever had been causing his bad mood earlier, it was gone.

There was nothing but delight and curiosity in his face when he walked over to Georgia, crouching in front of her. He reached out to brush a strand of hair out of her face, but she flinched back, hands flying up to her chest in an attempt at protection.

“Ah ah ah,” Alexei chided, “stay still.”

When he grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the face, she couldn’t help pulling away.

Alexei sighed. “Still so much work ahead of us,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Don’t you worry, though, we’ll get started today.”

Without another word, he grabbed Georgia’s forearm and pulled her to her feet, before grabbing her by the shoulders and steering her towards the door.

Felix stayed frozen in the middle of the room, as much as they wanted to protect Georgia. Finally, when the pair had reached the door, they took a step toward Alexei. “W-wait, don’t do th-”

“Shut your mouth,” Alexei ordered. He paused, not bothering to turn around. “Another word, and things will be much worse for your new friend.”

Felix took in a deep breath and let it out, slowly. They didn’t say anything else.

“Come on, darling,” Alexei said with a smile, once he was sure of Felix’s obedience. “Let’s get started on your training, shall we?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Georgia wasn’t sure how long it had been. Hours, definitely. Days, improbable. But maybe.

It felt like days. Alexei hadn’t come to visit since he had chained her wrists behind her back and to the floor. Since he gave the order.

No sleeping, love, he had said. Don’t fall asleep.

She hadn’t slept well the night before, and the room was dark, and she couldn’t keep… her eyes… open… any longer.

She opened her eyes to a sharp pain in her stomach, right below her ribs. “I’m up!” she gasped, vision blurry and heart pounding.

Alexei was standing a foot away from her, smiling, as usual. “You are now. The problem is that you were asleep a moment ago. And I told you to stay awake.”

Georgia didnt know what to say to this, so she said nothing at all.

Alexei disconnected her handcuffs from the ground and stepped back. “On your knees, Georgie. Now.”

Her heart was pounding as she slowly pushed herself to her knees in front of Alexei. She didn’t know what was happening, only that it wasn’t good, it was really really not good-

Alexei bent down in a moment, grabbing her by her hair and, before she could even register what was happening, slammed her face into the stone floor.

Her nose exploded with pain, blowing up like a balloon animal. A red one. There was red everywhere, on the floor, on her face, in her mouth. Red tasted like copper and salt and pain, and she spit but it would not leave.

Alexei pulled her up by her hair, and she could hardly see through all the red.

His words were warbled by the blood pumping through her ears. She heard comfortable. And disobedient. And sleep.

Sleep sounded wonderful. A soft pillow to match the painful one sitting in her head, a nice dark room with no lights to hurt her eyes, and deep, comfortable oblivion.

When Alexei hooked the cable to her wrists and adjusted the length, Georgia was forced out of her daydreaming as her arms were pulled back and up and tight, forcing her to stand, to bend over, anything to lessen the pressure in her shoulders.

Alexei smiled at his handiwork for a moment before leaving and locking the door behind him.

And Georgia was left alone to bleed, to cry, to tremble with exertion and exhaustion.

Anything but sleep.

[mumza-superiority]

if any of my irls see this no you don’t no you don’t please do not perceive me with this one ok I just I just

More creepy/intimate whumper things

Part 1 can be found here! Happy Valentine's Day!

Cleaning Whumpee while they're tied up in bath

Playing with Whumpee's hair before roughly pulling it

Nuzzling Whumpee or possesively putting an arm around them while they're in public

Groping Whumpee in public

Holding Whumpee's face to examine them

Forcefully kissing Whumpee and biting their lip until it bleeds

Calling Whumpee pet names and refusing to use their actual name

Forcing Whumpee to undress Whumper

Making Whumpee sleep in the same bed as Whumper (tied up or not)

Forcing Whumpee to pretend they're in a romantic relationship with Whumper (in front of Caretaker)

Touching/kissing Whumpee while they sleep

Hand-feeding Whumpee

Whumper forcing their fingers into Whumpee's mouth

Whumper filming/taking pictures of Whumpee while they're in a compromised position

[envy-of-the-apple]

Center of Attention

Dark! Geto Suguru x reader x Dark! Gojo Satoru

5.6k wc

Synopsis: Your boyfriend cheats on you with his best friend

(Warnings: rape/noncon, cheating, infidelity, forced relationships, piv sex, oral sex, afab reader)

In the beginning, things with Suguru were great. 

He was nice, considerate, sweet. Down to earth, honest. You'd only been official for a few months, but it felt real. Like it could last forever. 

And then, he introduced you to Satoru. 

It started from there. You hated everything about that man. He came from money and drove in loud, fancy cars. He was vapid and insulting. The way he behaved with you was just as disgusting. Calling you pet names like 'princess' and 'baby'. Touching your waist, your arm, your ass. Suguru once said they shared everything together. You were starting to wonder if Satoru thought you were on the table as well. 

It started a lot of arguments between you and Suguru. He'd always defend his childhood friend, barely even listening to your protests. It's just his nature, he doesn't do it on purpose, he does it with everyone. With how defensive he was about his best friend, you should have known. You should have seen the signs. 

Maybe then you would have been less surprised when you walked in on the two making out. 

You'd left Suguru's house after the last fight you had with him, once again about Satoru. You were halfway home when something like guilt spread across your body. Doubt. Maybe you were being too harsh on them. They were childhood friends. They'd always have a connection you just wouldn't be able to understand. 

You had come back with a bag of take out-an apology- on your wrists. You didn't think anything of it when the front door was unlocked, Suguru's clothes on the ground. 

They were on the couch, half-naked. Satoru was pressing his precious best friend further into the cushion. Suguru's hand was in his white hair, aggressively pulling. You could feel your heart breaking with every second. Every breath you took. 

"Suguru...?" They froze. 

It was your fault. You should have been faster. 

The food you'd brought drops to the floor as you turn, ready to bolt out the door, run to your car, drive far far away and just forget this shitty night. Satoru is faster. His slender hand wraps around your waist, pulling you back. 

"Wait. Just wait," he begs, his voice uncharacteristically desperate. Given any other situation, you would have laughed, but the tears were already streaming down your face. You can only stare at the empty couch, where those two had just been. Where you can see your cotton pink panties. 

God, this is all one sick joke, isn't it?

Suguru calls your name, but you don't bother to look. Satoru's grip is strong, and you're forced to wither just a foot away from the two of them. You feel everything. Humiliation. Heartbreak. Anger. 

You slap away the hand that tries to cup your cheek. It's all it takes to snap you back.

"Don't touch me." Through your tears, you try to wrestle your way out of Satoru's grip. 

"Let me go," you demand, your throat threatening to close, "Satoru let-let me fucking go—" 

"Not until you let us explain," Suguru begs. By now, Satoru had cornered you against the wall, and you feel yourself crying even harder because you don't want an explanation, you know what you fucking saw. 

"Jesus Christ-what could you possibly say that can-that can explain anything!" Your voice is too shrill, too high, too emotional, you need to bring yourself down but you just can't. It's so much. You need to leave.

"Satoru and I love each other." 

Your voice halts in your chest as you look up. Suguru's eyes are somber as he gazes at you. You want to stop yourself from examining him. The unruffled clothes, the dark hickeys on his neck. For some reason, the evidence breaks you more than the action. 

"We always have," he continues like he's talking about the weather. He was always the logical one, "Ever since we were teenagers." 

"Great," you respond, voice too damp to signify any real sarcasm, "how touching. Then just—" 

"—But it wasn't enough," Satoru rushes in, quick to cut you off. "We—we weren't complete. Like we would never have the right time....and then we met you." 

You don't like adoration in his eyes, like he wasn't just about to fuck your now ex-boyfriend. Disgust fills your stomach as you continue to glare at him. You hate him. You hate them both. 

"The first time Suguru brought you home, I knew you were the one for us," Satoru says. "You-you're our missing puzzle piece—what we've been looking for our entire life." He's good with words. He's a little like Suguru, in that sense. Maybe they do deserve each other. 

You can only stare at him, and then your eyes shift to Suguru. He has the same expression, though a little less obvious. Despite how much your heart hurts, a disbelieved laugh chokes out of your throat. 

"...that's your excuse?" you whisper, "you wanted a fucking threesome?" 

"It's not an excuse." Suguru steps forward, now they both are fully trapping you. His voice is soaking with emotion, almost like he was about to start crying. 

"It's the truth. I love you. We love you, and we want you to be with us." 

You couldn't believe them. You couldn't fucking believe them. It was all too much. The argument, the kiss. This, them cornering you and claiming that they love you. It was the first time Suguru had told you that he loved you. You thought you would have been happy to hear those words come from his mouth, given enough time together. 

Now, it just feels like another nail in the coffin. 

You look down, looking at the spilled food. You'd brought curry. It was currently all over the bare floor, leaking into cracks. Good. You hoped when you left and cried your heart out, Suguru would be here, cleaning up your mess. You wouldn't be able to hurt him as badly as he did you, but at least you'd be able to make him miserable. 

"I want to go home," you finally say. You pull at Satoru's hand. He doesn't budge. "I want to leave. Let me leave." 

He doesn't reply. His grip gets tighter, almost crushing. You stumble when he pulls you forward, nearly crashing into his chest. When you look up, he looks....wrong. Off, in some way. 

"You can't." His sunglasses are off. You can see his eyes. They're too wide, too manic. It scares you. "We—we just told you that we loved you. I love you. You—you can't just leave me—" 

“Let go, Satoru.” 

Satoru stops rambling, looking over at the other man. Suguru steps even closer. His hand reaches up, touching your hair. You don’t slap him away again, but you flinch. His frown deepens. You hate the look of hurt in his eyes, like he’s the victim here, like he spent months with someone who was just stringing them along. 

“You need time,” Suguru says, more to himself than you, “we get that. We’ll give you time. And then, you can come back to us.” You should snap at the blistering hope in his voice, but you don't. You grit your teeth, holding everything in until you're finally away from them. 

He steps back. Satoru doesn’t. His teeth mash together, jaw clenching like he wants to argue. Fight. 

Suguru’s eyes darken. “Let go, Satoru.” 

Slowly, you can feel his grip on your wrist loosen. You react, stumbling back, hands desperately gripping on the door. You can feel their eyes on you the entire time. 

You can give yourself credit, however. You don’t break into sobs until you get into your car. 

Two months later, and you still refuse to see them. 

It's not like they haven't tried to get in touch, much to your disdain. They called and texted and spammed until you blocked them. Then, you blocked them on social media. At work, you ask the secretary to start dumping the bouquets instead of sending them up to you. And you have to tell your mutual friends to stop trying to act like the middle-man. 

You can't do anything about the letters or the gifts left at your door every other day. Ignoring the full mailbox becomes customary, and you start passing off the chocolates to your neighbors and friends. 

"Can't you get them to stop?" You ask Shoko as she rummages through another gift basket they had sent, "seriously, I'm close to snapping here." 

"Oh, this looks expensive." She eyes the wine bottle. When you give her a look, she sighs. 

"You know I can't do that. Whenever they get obsessed, they don't take no for an answer. Maybe that's why they have such a great relationship." You wilt at that. 

"Did you know?" 

Her fingers twitch in a way that makes you know she's craving a cigarette. 

"I mean, I knew they had a thing for each other back in high school, but I thought it faded." You sink your face further into your hands. "Trust me, I wasn't in on whatever bullshit they did to you." 

Her fingers reach over to squeeze your thigh, a way of apologizing. You give her a timid smile, before ultimately sighing again. Her hands move to your back. You feel the urge to cry in her chest again, but you've been doing that for days now.

"Just keep doing what you're doing. Ignore them, and hopefully, those assholes will focus on something else." Shoko suggests. She shifts closer. You can smell her perfume. 

You nod. "Yeah, hopefully." 

Eventually, the gifts start to dwindle. The flowers stop coming, the gift baskets get more and more sporadic. Two months later, everything stops, and you're nearly crying in relief. By now, you're mostly over whatever you had with Suguru. You two hadn't been together for very long. Now that you think about it, the whole situation was more embarrassing than anything else. And the fact they both had the audacity to lovebomb you too? Humiliating. All you want to do is never see him again. Him or Satoru. In your eyes, they can both just fall off the face of the Earth and you'd be all the more happier for it. 

The date was nice. Cute, was the word you'd use. A nice dinner and peaceful conversation. And he wasn't that bad to look at. A nice smile. Dimples, you noted when he laughed at something you'd said. 

"I'd like to see you again." He said, right before you let yourself out of the car. 

You glanced back at him. And you stay there when he leans closer. The kiss was nice, too. 

You're giddy the entire short walk to your apartment. It fades just when you reach the door. 

Their arms are crossed, and it strangely feels like you're coming home to two disapproving parents. Satoru is leaning against a wall, sunglasses tucked underneath his collar. Suguru holds something in his hands—another bouquet. 

Your excitement fades, but secretly, you're relieved. You don't feel the remnants of your heart shattering the more you look at them. You feel....nothing. 

Nothing but the slight irritation that they were blocking your door. 

"Welcome back." Suguru starts, but Satoru is much less tactful. 

"Who was that?" He demands, but the car has already left. Thank god you would want to bring a man you'd barely met into your drama. 

None of your business, you want to snap, but it's too late for either of their bullshit. 

"No one," you say and their glowers only grow that more intense. 

"Can this wait until tomorrow?" you finally ask, "I'm exhausted." Satoru seems to get even more pissed at your comment, but Suguru steps in. 

"You haven't been answering my calls," Suguru starts, "and you haven't accepted any of our gifts. We're just worried about you." 

That's rich, coming from him. You can't help but let your irritation control you, at least for a little while. Just because you were over him, doesn't mean you were fine with what he did. 

"Sorry, but you lost the privilege to 'worry about me' when you started sucking your boyfriend's dick," you mention to Satoru, who stiffens, "Speaking off, was he the mistress here, or was I? How long had you two been doing it behind my back, anyway? Or is it technically not considered cheating because you said 'no homo' before making out." 

"I'm sorry," Suguru says, and to his credit, he sounds remorseful, "there's not a single day that goes by where I'm not regretful at how you found out." 

"Oh my God, absolutely not. You don't get to apologize to me to clear your conscience." You're hissing. "What? Do you expect me to give you and Satoru my blessings or something? Fuck off before I start throwing my shoes at you." 

"Would that make you feel better?" Satoru cuts in. "You can hurt us if you want to, baby. What—what do you want us to do?" He steps forward. You step back. "We can get on our knees, and you can punch us. Hit us. Wanna smash beer bottles on our faces? Anything, baby. We want you to forgive us." 

His sincerity takes you off guard. His eyes were wide. He was serious about what he just said. For a moment, you felt bad for Suguru. He was stuck with that. And then you processed Satoru's words. 

"Forgiveness?" You spit out. "You have to be fucking with me because there's no way in hell I'd ever forgive you. Do you know the worst part about this entire shitshow, Suguru? It wasn't the fact that you broke my heart, it was that everyone except me knew that my boyfriend was sucking his best friend's dick. Do you know how humiliating that was? Of course you didn't because you two were so busy thinking about each other that you didn't even think how it would affect me." 

By the time you were done, you were panting. You bit your lip, forcing the hint of tears back because if you broke, it would negate everything you had just said. Despite the tremor in your voice, it felt good to yell at them finally. The look on their faces made the cake that much sweeter. 

"Now, fuck off," your voice was quieter, almost hoarse, "leave me alone." 

They don't stop you when you reach your door. You can barely stop your hands from shaking, and you know you won't be able to hold yourself together for much longer. The door unlocks with a click. 

And then you're stumbling through your home with an added weight on your back. 

You almost fall into the carpet, quick to balance yourself and whirl around. They're already inside. Suguru is shaking his head while Satoru fiddles with the door. 

"Satoru—" Suguru starts. 

"Enough." He hisses. "We've tried doing it your way, and look where it got us. My way, now." The lock clicks into place. 

Suguru looks like he wants to disagree, but he holds himself back. He frowns, glancing over to you. 

"You're right," he says, "maybe actions are better than words." 

Something like fear pushes its way into your throat, but you're waving it away. You immediately reject the sudden increased thumping in your heart. This is Satoru and Suguru. Assholes. They are selfish bastards who care about nothing but themselves. But they wouldn't hurt you. They wouldn't do that to you. 

Right? 

You're certain of it. You know it, yet your voice falters the first time you try to speak up. 

"...What are you doing?" 

You can't keep the anger. It's gone, as much as you try to pull it back inside your chest, keeping it there. Instead of hot, you just feel cold. 

You don't like the way they're slowly inching towards you, like you're a scared feral animal—like they're hunters itching for a taste. 

Despite your clear discomfort, Satoru still has the audacity to smile. Not his usual grin, filled with unabashed confidence, this one is warmer. Nicer.

You think it makes what he's doing worse.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he sounds like he's begging, voice low, simpering, "I never wanted to hurt you. I promise." 

"What are you doing?" You demand again, but your voice wavers even more. 

"I get it. I get why you're so upset with us. You just felt left out, right?" Satoru's saying, and you should be getting angry at his words, but the way he isn't stopping is getting more and more concerning and something is wrong, they aren't leaving, why aren't they leaving?

"Just let us show you how sorry we are, how much we care," Suguru says, "Everything. All for you. I promise." 

"Get out," you're whispering, and it hope it has more bite than you can possibly give, "just get out. Leave me alone—" 

Satoru grabs you. You manage to scream before his lips crush into yours. The kiss isn't anything the way Suguru used to kiss you. Gentle, soft, giving, never taking. Satoru was all strength. The strongest. He pulled, and nipped, and bit until it wasn't even a kiss. It was just you being devoured by him. 

You push away (he lets you), but before you can suck in a breath, Suguru's there, grabbing the back of your neck. The kiss is less painful, but just as searing. Especially considering you've kissed him before, back when things were innocent, much less twisted. 

"See, Suguru?" Satoru whispers when the dark-haired man pulls away. "So much quieter, now. You just wanted all our attention, right baby?" 

You can't speak, not when you can barely breathe. You're pushing again, struggling to get out of their hold, but you are nothing against Satoru. You are nothing against Suguru. 

What are you when it's both of them at once? 

You mumble about a quiet 'get the fuck out'. It's too shaky to be anything intimidating. They both have the audacity to laugh in a way that makes you feel like a tiny kitten clawing at their owner's hands, desperate not to sink into the warm, soapy water. 

It's easy to manhandle you onto the couch, Suguru keeping you nice and pliant as Satoru fiddles with your pants. Suguru hushes you, like you were just playing around. Playing hard to get. Like the sobs and the tears and the tearful begs aren't enough to prove anything coherent. 

"Stop," you say anyway because there's a chance, there's always a chance, "Suguru—Satoru stop. What—what are you doing? Please just—" 

Suguru bites your neck, making you yelp. He apologizes with a warm tongue, ignoring you and glaring down at his companion. 

"Hurry up." It sounds impatient. "You wanted a taste, right?" 

Satoru clicks his tongue and they're both ignoring you, as if your opinion, your struggles, your screams is just background noise, nothing truly important. Your pants are already down at your legs, preventing you from kicking. Satoru's large hands squeeze at the fat of your thighs, and you jump as his cold hands brush over your sensitive skin. 

Your voice is muffled by Suguru's lips once again. The man moans into your mouth, loud and lewd. 

"I'm savoring this," Satoru says while you're distracted.

He pushes two fingers into your clothed cunt, shuddering at the touch. "You touched this pussy all the time. Can't say the same. Cut me some slack, man." 

Suguru reluctantly pulls away, leaving you panted and slightly breathless. He says something to Satoru, chiding. Satoru bickers back. You can only come back when you dazedly look down just in time to see Satoru push your panties to the side and attach his mouth to your pussy. 

You're not wet. How could you be? Satoru remedies that, eagerly licking until your hole is covered by his saliva. Your recent inactivity doesn't help either. You hadn't done anything, not since Suguru. Your body is starved for attention, something Satoru is readily giving. You become wet and needy in no time. 

Not one to be ignored, Suguru pulls your shirt over your head, abandoning it somewhere behind the couch. Your arms are useless, barely catching onto his wrist before he's forcing you away. Suguru's head dips down, running his tongue over the skin at your breasts, eager for a taste. He bites at one of your nipples, groaning when your hands reach up to wildly tug at his hair. Your actions seem only to excite him further as he squeezes your other breast, digging his fingers into your soft flesh. 

On the floor, Satoru is having more than enough of his fill. You aren't prepared to feel the long finger prodding your hole before easing its way inside your tight pussy. You give a faltering whimper, arching your back. Suguru pulls away from your chest with a pop. 

You're sobbing now. It doesn't prove anything, considering each sob is interrupted by a reluctant moan. Suguru leans up to kiss you. You squeeze your eyes, turning away. His lips brush your cheek. He chuckles at your act of defiance. 

"So cute," he says against your skin. Butterfly kisses across your cheek, your neck. "I missed this. I missed you." 

The words hurt, cut into your skin, enough to make you bleed. You cry harder. They are kind enough to let you. 

"Did you miss me too?" Suguru asks. When you give no answer, he laughs affectionately. 

He's unbuckling his belt as he traces more kisses across your skin. Suguru pushes away the hem of his pants, untucking his cock. You can feel its length press against your side. 

Below you, Satoru grabs you by the hips, adjusting you further down the couch until the new angle makes his fingers hit something deep inside of you. You gasp, eyes flying open. 

"Look at him," Suguru says, taking your chin, pointing your gaze down, "Isn't he so pretty?" 

Blue eyes stare back up at you, clouded with lust and need. You can't help but stare back through your tears. You've never noticed how beautiful Satoru's eyes were. They were always covered, obscured by his glasses. They're so pretty. Like oceans, merged with a starry sky. They're so beautiful. He's so beautiful. How could someone so beautiful do this to you?

"He wanted to do this for so long," Suguru murmurs into your ear, "would not shut up about eating you out, making you cum down his throat. Sit on his face until he passes out." 

Satoru says something, it sounds irritated, muffled by the slick sounds of your pussy. In response, Suguru grabs the back of his head, shoving him deeper between your thighs, keeping him there. You jolt at the sudden intimacy, another whine melting out your throat. Satoru seems to forget whatever he was saying, going back to worshipping your battered pussy.  

"If we're lucky, he'll suffocate down there," Suguru says with no real heat in his voice, "though I think he might like that idea." 

His voice is heavy, like he'd been running. Suguru grabs your hand, enveloping it in his own. The same hand that was touching his throbbing cock. When you try to jolt away, he doesn't let you, trapping your fingers underneath his own. 

"C'mon baby." He says through gritted teeth. You squeeze your eyes again, turning away into your shoulder. Suguru doesn't let you run away, not this time. He's quick to make himself known, scrapping his teeth against your neck. He moves yours and his hands up and down his leaking cock. 

"There we go." He sounds relieved. "That's it. So so good for me." 

You let him. You let them. You lie there like a doll, letting them maneuver you as they wish. Satoru's the loudest, moaning against your pussy, sucking on your clit. Suguru is more refined, shuddering into the crook of your neck as he forces you to grip his cock tighter and tighter. 

"Stop." It's nothing more than a pleading whimper. "Please please stop." 

Suguru kisses you again, sloppy and messy, just as Satoru sucks on your clit, hard enough to make you see white. You come right on his tongue and fingers, riding out your high. Against your will, your back arches, rising off the couch with a high-pitched keen. Your thighs squeeze around his head, threatening to crush his skull. He's more than happy to let you. 

Suguru follows right after, you can feel his cum coat your hand. Sticky, making you feel even more disgusted with yourself than you already were. 

You slump into the couch just as Satoru pulls away. Suguru tucks you into your chest, but you don't care enough to struggle. You can only watch as Satoru rises from his place on the floor, locking eyes with Suguru. 

"So?" Suguru asks, still panting, but there's a smile in his voice, "How was it?" 

There's something carnivorous in Satoru's eyes before he lunges. He aggressively kisses Suguru, and the latter returns the affection just as potently. Numbly, you realize that they were softer kissing you. They were holding back. Now, they go together like wild dogs, teeth clashing together. When they part, Satoru's lips are bleeding. 

Satoru turns his gaze on you. You avert your eyes, not wanting to bait the unpredictable animal. Luckily, his earlier inhibitions had been sated by the kiss. He falls on top of you two, burying his head into the crook of your neck, where Suguru has turned your skin into a patchwork of hickeys. 

"Fuck baby," he sighs into your skin, "you're an addiction, y'know that?" 

You focus on breathing. In and out, filling your lungs with much-needed oxygen. It works to keep you from processing the absolute awe in Satoru's voice. The sincerity. The adoration. So so much worse had he just been mocking. The way he usually was. 

But it was over now. It can't be anything more. You'd go insane if it were anything more-- 

"Now, I don't think it's fair anymore," Suguru's sighing into your ear, "you had a taste, right? Let me have a turn now." 

He's about to stand, but Satoru's placing a large hand on his chest, forcing him back on the couch. 

"Sit the fuck down." He spits out in irritation. "You're so greedy, y'know that? I'm fucking this pussy first, just like we agreed on." 

You can feel your breath hitch at that. The way they just stripped you down of your humanity. Like you were a toy, two toddlers were fighting over. It was horrifying. You can feel nausea build up in your throat. 

Suguru notices your distress first. He sighs, nuzzling his face into your cheek. 

"Okay okay, I yield," he relents, "don't start throwing a tantrum just because you don't get your way. Today is supposed to be about someone else, remember?" 

Satoru huffs, but he calms down significantly. He pulls away, you can feel his hands trail again your chest, like he's eager to put his mouth on something else, before he's stopping himself. 

By now, your fight has been sucessfully withered out by these two men. As though you ever had a chance, even in the beginning. Even if Suguru's threatening grip hadn't been present, even if the crazed look in Satoru's eyes wouldn't have manifested through his touch, this result would have always happened. 

Even then, you still squeeze your eyes shut when you hear the clanking of his belt. Your eyes sting again, and you tuck your face into the comfort of the fluffy cushions. 

Your thighs are clamped shut. Satoru easily plies them apart, sliding his way between your legs. Something hot and blunt lightly brushes against your entrance before he eases his cock into your pussy with one smooth motion. 

Despite the previous orgasm, it's not enough to obscure the pain. He's too long, and you're certain you could feel him right to your stomach. He curses a stuttered moan. 

It's useless, but you're reaching up anyway. Nails close to his face. Maybe your true goal is for his two beautiful eyes, ripping them apart, eager to see blue turn into red.

You don't get the chance to find out for yourself. Suguru's stopping you, restricting your body with his own. There's a punishing bite right on your neck. You yelp. Suguru grins through the blood. 

"Be good." He chastises. "Behave. We aren't hurting you, right? We're making you feel good." 

He's wrong. They have hurt you. They are hurting you. You feel it in your neck, the aching bruises, your battered cunt. It's everywhere. 

It hurts even more when Satoru doesn't even give you time to adjust. He's blabbering something; you can't hear through the blood between your ears as he collapses into your chest. The position is awkward, considering Suguru is still sucking on your neck, but never mind. They don't care if they suffocate you. 

The rhythm is rough and deep. He pushes his cock as deep as it can go inside of you, stretching your walls before he pulls back, only to restart the terrible cycle all over again. It's horrible. Excruciating, despite how slick your pussy is. Despite it all, you can't help but compare how differently Suguru and Satoru fucked you. 

Suguru's cock was thicker but wasn't as long. He was nicer, slow, only going when he knew you could take it. But back then, you didn't know Suguru's true intentions. You weren't aware of his sadism, the eagerness to rip you apart. Perhaps he was even worse than Satoru was. 

"Doesn't this feel good?" Suguru asks suddenly. His soft lips brush your cheek when you bury your face deeper into your couch. At least this time, he wasn't forcing you to face your unwanted assault head-on. You suppose you should feel grateful. 

But he's right. You hate that he's right. You get used to Satoru's rhythm eventually. When his cock brushes against something deep inside of you, you jolt around his dick, unable to stop yourself from squeezing your walls. Satoru hisses at that, but he barely falters. 

"Fuck fuck fuck," he's hissing, "squeezin' me so tight, gorgeous." 

He gropes at your tits, trying to give himself a reprieve from the sensation. You mirror him, squeezing your hands into fists, nails threatening to break skin. As if to comfort you, Suguru murmurs sweet nothings into your ear. 

Satoru's rhythm starts to falter. His breath hitches, indicating what's to come. His hands squeeze. His pace gets even rougher. Suguru frowns when you give a wilted moan, more pained than anything. 

"Satoru," he says, almost lecturing, "be nicer." 

When Satoru doesn't respond, Suguru is quick to retaliate. You flinch when he grabs Satoru's hair, yanking him away from your chest. Satoru whimpers. 

"'Can't help it—fuck, so fucking good." His voice is high and needy, juxtapositioning the crude way he's fucking himself into you, the way he's hiking a leg over his hip, driving himself even deeper inside your cunt. He starts drawing quick messy circles around your swollen clit. 

The angle proves to be enough to push you over the edge. You seize around his cock, spamming around him. Despite the harsh grip Suguru has on him, Satoru is quick to follow. He grits his teeth before something hot and horrible fills you. 

You stay like that, heaving in deep breaths. Satoru's breathing is labored too. He laughs, it sounds exhausted. You're helpless to do anything but comply when he grabs your chin to kiss you. It's messy, but not as rough as it was earlier. You're too exhausted to hate it. 

His cock slips out of you. His cum slips out, too, running down your thighs. You should be worried about it staining the carpet, but you're too out of it to think of anything. Suguru brushes Satoru's hair, looking satisfied. When Satoru has his fill of your lips, he pulls away. You catch his eyes. There's no unsatiable lust within them. Just warmth, as well as another emotion that makes you want to hurl. 

But it's over. It's finally over. It's the only part that keeps you from breaking apart. They'll leave. Leave you to cry in a corner while you pick up the pieces that were once you. 

Satoru tucks himself back in his pants. Suguru exhales in contentedness before he, too, rises from the couch. You wait for them to leave. 

They don't leave. 

With horrible gentleness, Suguru picks you up, corralling you into his chest. You whine when he moves your body, but you don't do much else. You can't. 

They share a laugh at your expense before he's carrying your broken, naked body up to the bedroom. It parallels the times when you were too tired to walk to the bedroom yourself. When Suguru was just a man you thought you could love. When you felt safe in his arms. 

Now you feel nothing but cold, despite how warm his hands are. 

He deposits you in the bed. Satoru comes up behind him, pulling an oversized shirt over your head. Their hands are uninterested in your body, working in tandem. 

The don't leave. 

You feel dirty and sticky. You're aching all over. You want to do nothing more but curl up in the hot shower and cry. They prevent that luxury from you too. The bed isn't big enough for all three of you, but they manage regardless. Satoru curls around you, sliding a hand across your back, bringing your face into your chest. You can feel Suguru settle in behind you, draping his hand across your waist. 

Someone kisses your temple. Someone yawns. 

They don't leave. 

You don't want to sleep. You feel like if you do you might not ever wake up from this nightmare. But your eyes are getting heavy, and for even a couple hours, you want to escape from thinking and hurting. 

"Isn't this nice?" Suguru says from behind, burying his face into your hair, he inhales deeply. 

"It'll always be like this from now on." He sounded relieved. Satoru hums in agreement. 

"All for you, baby," Satoru promises again, curling his hands tighter, "We're all for you."

Your heart drops to your stomach. 

That's what you were afraid of. 

[draconic-desire]

🔹 Oculus Infinitum 🔹

Yandere Satoru Gojo x Reader

He’s infinity; in comparison, you’re nothing. So of course using your cursed technique on him backfires.

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI! Yandere behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied kidnapping, forced imprisonment, nsfw, non-con/dub-con, afab!reader, slight mindbreak

Infinity is often interpreted as the largest numerical magnitude to exist. And while that fact may be true in theory, infinity is better defined as the endless division of infinitesimally smaller and smaller values. One can be separated into half, half to a quarter, and so on, until the space between fractions almost ceases to exist.

Almost.

Gojo is a lot like infinity. Blame it on his technique, sure, but you suspect it runs much deeper than that. His actions never reach an end; instead, each one sinks further and further into your skin, fangs so small you barely feel them until it’s too late and the venom irreversibly invades your veins. He’s chipped away at you, piece by little piece, until you are the opposite of infinity; you are nothing.

On a surface level, most would say you have it pretty good. You (are trapped in) live in a huge home, filled with opulent furniture and all the luxuries you could ever want. You’re (expected to) allowed to cook meals for the two of you, including your favorite dishes. You still have (basic rights) privileges, such as free roam of the house, your own selection of clothes, access to the television and your phone (minus the ability to call or text, of course), even outdoor time with Satoru’s supervision. Why would you ever need to leave?

You had escaped, once.

Calling it an escape would be generous. Nothing ever happens without Gojo’s knowledge, without Gojo’s permission. How foolish you had been, to think you could evade his Six Eyes. Despite weeks of planning, he’d dragged you back home within the hour.

The chains hadn’t been removed for an entire month after that, and their lingering presence on each post of Satoru’s bed serves as a constant reminder that they’ll never rust.

Currently, you’re in the (not your, nothing is ever truly yours anymore) house’s lofty kitchen now, preparing dinner for his return home from work. Glancing up at the clock, you see it’s nearly time for him to arrive. You click the stovetop on and place a pot of water over the open flame, watching the blue fire flicker. Your thoughts immediately go to Gojo’s eyes, twin infernos of endless blue. Those eyes never seem to close, never seem to be too far from your own. They have the ability to lock you in place and throw away the key forever.

Moments later, the sound of the door opening and closing, along with the click of multiple locks, echoes from the hallway. Long, casual footsteps alert you to his presence behind you. His velvet voice, so languid and carefree, fans your ear as he settles his hands on your hips. “There’s my girl. Already making dinner for me?” He places a surprisingly chaste kiss to the top of your head. “Missed ya, baby.”

You add rice and a bit of salt and stir the pot in front of you in silence. When did you stop fighting him on that? On losing your full name to simple titles like girl and baby? The old you would have gagged at those pet names. The old you that kicked and bit the hand of your captor like a rabid animal, always fighting for freedom.

His grip tightens when you fail to immediately respond, though you hear him force a light tone to his voice. “What, curse got your tongue?”

Tension immediately floods your muscles. Gojo is a vain man; your silence maims his huge ego, something the most powerful jujutsu sorcerer will not stand for. You must react. “No, Gojo. I was just lost in thought, is all.”

You worry your lip when the quiet drags on. “I-I’m sorry?”

Gojo barks out a laugh, but his smile is strained and all fangs. “Back to Gojo again, huh?”

A mistake you notice too late. The spoon falls from your grip as you turn your head slowly. He’s still wearing his blindfold, but you know those infinite abyssal eyes are currently boring into your soul, daring you to speak. “Ah, no! Satoru, I mean—”

“Shh, baby. I get it.” His hands move to your shoulders, which he begins to massage. “Is it because you’re mad at me for neglecting you?”

To an outsider it may sound like he’s teasing, but you know all too well the creep of annoyance laced into his deepened, husky tone. “Or are you just being a brat?”

Swallowing, you place a hand on his toned forearm in an attempt to calm him. You feel him practically melt into the touch. “Truly, ‘Toru, I’m fine.” Your honeyed tone makes you sick, but you’ve learned it can subtly manipulate your captor in the right setting, usually this domestic fantasy world of his. “You’ve been so busy with work, and my mind has just been wandering. Why don’t you go sit while I finish up with the food?”

He hums absentmindedly, fingers swirling patterns across your abdomen. “I have a better idea…” Hot breath caresses your ear, eliciting a shiver. “Let me make it up to you.”

A deft hand snakes its way down the back of your bare thigh, barely ghosting across your skin. You can feel him, solid as a rock, yet you know there will always be space between you. He can touch you, but you’re powerless to do the same.

Just like in everything else, you can’t hold a candle to him. Your cursed energy is inconsequential, a tiny spark against his infinitive well of power.

Talk of your innate cursed ability is a topic you actively choose to avoid. Your technique, when activated, allows you to briefly control the thoughts and consequent actions of a single individual—but only after you’ve kissed them. And it often backfires tremendously, with the kiss causing overwhelming feelings of obsession or insanity in the receiver. From more than enough uses you’ve learned to see it as more of a curse in and of itself, and one you prefer to keep hidden.

Especially from the man behind you. Gojo—Satoru, you correct yourself—has enough twisted love that you wouldn’t dare try to possess his thoughts. The mere idea makes your throat tighten with panic.

Satoru’s technique, on the other hand, causes every nerve ending along your skin to explode as his hand falls beneath your skirt and skate across your barely clothed core.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he groans. “Are you wet for me, baby?” Before you can respond, Satoru easily moves your panties aside and spears you with his middle and ring fingers.

The invasion makes you jolt instantly. An involuntary gasp leaves you as he presses deeper, his fingers sheathed to the knuckle. You hate how your walls immediately tighten around him, slick with your arousal. No, you don’t want this, but Gojo gives you no choice in the matter but to practically ride his hand as he lifts your skirt with his other hand to get a better view.

“I’ll never get tired of this.” His thumb passes over your clit, pulling yet another shameful moan from your lips. Your tense demeanor only causes your pussy to accidentally squeeze him tighter, spurring him on. You try to pull your thighs together, but Satoru wrenches them apart easily with his other hand. “Oh, no, none of that. This pussy is mine.”

You squirm, grasping for something to get you out of this mess. “Satoru, stop, the food will burn—”

“Forget it,” he commands, ripping your skirt off. “We’ll order takeout after.”

Your heart drops. “After…?”

“Aw, you thought I’d stop here?” His condescension floods your ears. “No, babe, I’m only just getting started with you.”

His persistence, like infinity, has no end.

Without warning, Satoru removes his fingers from your core and swings you over his shoulder, smacking your bare ass and wrenching a yelp from you. You blanch when you realize he’s carrying you to the bedroom.

“Wait, Satoru—!”

You are unceremoniously thrown onto the bed, said white-haired sorcerer towering above you. He pounces immediately, locking your limbs in place. Satoru must see the fear, the readiness to engage in fight or flight, across your face, because he brushes a tender hand across your cheek to wipe away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” he teases, but it somehow sounds like a threat. His fingers, still coated with your arousal, hook around your thong and slide it down your legs. “You’re acting like this is our first time or somethin'.”

Oh, it was far from the first time that he had touched you or been inside of you. But something about today, about this time, sends fear skittering across your whole being. Perhaps it’s all the reminiscence lately, or the fact that your thoughts drifted to your innate technique for the first time in weeks. Panic sinks its claws into you.

Breath ragged, heart pounding, you grab his face in both hands and react without thinking; for the first time since he kidnapped you, you willingly kiss Satoru Gojo and activate your technique.

Satoru immediately reacts, deepening the kiss and pressing you more firmly into the mattress until you feel as if you’re nearly suffocating.

Release me, you project into his mind, threading a hand through his white locks and squeezing hard.

The world suddenly goes very, very still.

Satoru freezes. Slowly, painfully, he parts his lips from your own and straightens his arms against the mattress to hover above you once more. His breath comes out in jagged huffs. The only sound that remains is the unending tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall, bringing you closer to your doom.

For a second, you almost believe your technique worked.

That is, until he quickly sheds his blindfold, and you are meet with those stunning, terrifying, brilliant, paralyzing blues. He whispers your name with a foreign stillness that chills your bones to ice. “Do you…have a cursed technique?”

What an idiot you are to have thought you could sneak past Satoru Gojo’s barriers and Six Eyes. You can’t touch his physical form; why would his mind be any different?

It takes all of your willpower to withhold the panicked, hysterical laugh threatening to escape you. “Look, I can explain—”

Satoru leans back on his knees, one hand carding through his hair as he looks up to the ceiling. “God, babe, I knew you could see curses and harbored cursed energy, but here you go surprising me!” He laughs, a gleeful chuckle that has you reeling.

“You’re not…mad?” you dare to ask, inching your knees towards your chest. Maybe your technique failed, but you can still buy some time and get into a safer position.

Satoru gazes down at you, head tilted and a full grin on his lips. “Mad? Baby, why would I be upset when for the first time in our relationship, you were the one seducing me?”

Oh, no. No no no no no.

Grabbing your ankle, he drags you back to a supine position, your pussy on full display for him. He licks his lips at the sight. “Plus, you trying to get inside my head was cute and all. Weak, but you gave it your best!” He laughs again, and you realize that he never took you seriously, not even for a second.

The thought should enrage you—it would have infuriated the old you—but all you can manage now is a low whine as his hands go for his belt.

Satoru pulls himself free, his already hard cock pulsing in anticipation. Precum beads at the tip as he lines himself up with your entrance. “What was it you asked me for? Release, right?”

Your eyes bulge at his implication. “Wait, Satoru, I didn’t mean—!”

You barely have time to react as he buries himself in you completely. A choked sob bubbles up your throat as you breath through the stretch of him.

Satoru moans in ecstasy as he begins a steady pace, thrusting mercilessly into that squishy spot deep inside your core that has you seeing stars.

“Kiss me again.” It’s light and breathless, but it’s an order, not a request. Fear makes you comply immediately, though your kiss is a hesitant, timid thing compared to your earlier attempt to sway him.

He’s having none of that. No, Satoru had a taste of your affection, and now he’ll tolerate nothing less than your full reciprocation. If only you could truly peer into his mind and see that no amount of your cursed energy would change him; your being was already permanently imprinted on his brain. You were his perfect doll, held in the palm of his hand.

Nails rake down his back as you arch against the mattress. Every time he thrusts, he grinds against your clit, and you feel yourself chasing your finish. You hate this, you want it to stop, but you can’t help—

“Please, Satoru,” you plead without thinking, meeting his limitless eyes. You feel yourself drowning in them, a blue sky that never ceases.

For a split second, his rhythm hesitates. “…Say that again,” he whispers, almost reverently. “Beg for me.”

You’re not quite sure what you’re asking for. “P-please, I can’t take it anymore, please let me—!”

“Choose your next word carefully,” he warns, voice shifting to a low growl as his hand moves to your throat, adding ever so much pressure.

Tears streak your vision. The embarrassment of your technique failing and the lewd position he has you in all crash down upon you, and another piece of you breaks. “Please let me cum,” you concede.

To your dismay, his pace slows, and you cry out in protest as your orgasm fades. “I just need you to do one more thing for me, baby.” He leans into your neck, nipping and sucking at all your sensitive spots, torturing you even further. “Tell me you love me.”

Alarms should be blazing through your head, but the fog of your arousal clouds your judgement as you seek your climax.

That piece of your soul he took shatters into a million shards as you whisper, “I love you, Satoru.”

The two of you shatter simultaneously. You register all too late the warmth invading your core as Satoru pumps his cum deep inside you.

He’s never come in you before.

Your name is murmured over and over like a prayer against your neck—or maybe it’s a curse. You jolt in overstimulation when he pulls out and bends down to place a kiss against your puffy folds. “So good for me, baby. This perfect pussy belongs to me.”

He kisses you a final time, long and slow. When he pulls away, a languid smile sweeps across his features. “You’re all mine, (Y/n). Even your mind.”

With the use of your innate technique, you’ve dug your own grave for good. Satoru will never let you go now.

After all, infinity is indivisible.

[baby-tini]

Bully Dabi🥵 he messes with you your whole life ever since you moved in the neighborhood. He makes sure you don't have any meaningful connections with friends from school so no one bothers you. It wasn't till University that it got kicked up a notch. He wasn't shoving into you or saying mean things anymore it was more sexual now. He grabs you around the corner of a classroom and makes you grind on him. While doing that he says the nastiest things in your ear. 'You always wanted this' 'wanted to ruin you for so long' 'wait till you see my cock you'll drool over it like the little cock slut you are' 'my cock slut' 'can't wait to see this tummy buldge from my cock'

TW- NONCON, victim blaming, sexual assault, bullying, verbal and physical abuse You had moved into the neighborhood when you were about eight years old, your dad had gotten a new job that payed way better then his old one. Being an only child, you never really had people to play with so, when your dad told you that there was a family across the street with kids your age, you were ecstatic. The kids were really nice to you, well, except the oldest, Touya or as all his friends called him, Dabi. He was always so mean to you. Tripping you, pulling your hair, spilling juice on your pretty clothes, you never liked Touya, he never gave you a reason too. So, you did your best to avoid him, you only came over to play with Fuyumi anyway, so, you would just be in her room playing dolls and having fun, until you had to go home. Now the bullying wasn't too bad as kids, it was more like an inconvenience for you. But in high school? That's when it started to get worse, the tripping turned into Dabi- as he now forced you to call him- pushing you into lockers and laughing when he sees the bruises on your shoulders and thighs. The hair pulling turned into him yanking you up by your hair as he called you mean names. You wanted to tell someone, you truly did but all the girls loved Dabi, that was apparent when he had a new one hanging off him everyday. Plus you didn't want your parents to move you to a different school, you had a lot of friends here. You especially didn't want to tell Fuyumi, knowing she'd tell everyone, it would be in good faith coming from her but, she really couldn't keep a secret to save her life.

Dabi being older then you by a couple years means he graduated and went to college first, giving you two years of peace, you didn't have to look over your shoulder or wear jackets all the time in order to cover the bruises he inflicted. You could have fun and joke around with friends without him staring you down from across the hall. It was the best two years of school you've had in your life, plus, Dabi moved into a dorm on campus with his friends Keigo and Tomura. So, you rarely saw Dabi around the neighborhood, except when he came home occasionally on weekends. But even then, you'd rather five- rarely seven- days of peace then none at all. It also meant you could talk to guys without Dabi threatening them or in most cases, beating them black and blue. It's the worst in college though, the years of peace in high school gone all too quickly as you start uni. Although, you don't have any classes with Dabi, so you rarely see him. After classes is a different story though, he's trailing after you, holding you hostage in empty classroom and calling you mean names as his bullying gets bolder.. more.. sexual. He's pinning you against the wall now, leaving hickeys and bruises on your neck, shoving his tongue in your mouth and probably the worst is when he pushes you on top of the desk to spread your legs and hump your cunt over your clothes. Then there was the time that Dabi had dragged you you into an empty classroom, calling you a slut because your skirt was too short for his liking as he laid you on the empty teacher desk and proceeded to pull your skirt up and take his cock out. He had you lay there as he rubbed the head of his dick over your clit, through your panties, making you beg for him to play with your pussy. "Feels good, doesn't it slut?" Forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist, he grinds into your cunt. Slapping your hands away when you try to hide your face and laughing when you start to cry. Pumping his cock a couple times, he runs it over your panties, making sure his tip catches your clit. Trying to look away from him doesn't work 'cause he'll just pull your upper body off the desk and make you watch him fuck your clit, his slit leaking beads of pre-cum, wetting the sensitive nub, his piercing catching on it so nicely. He'll switch from that, to pulling your underwear to the side so that he can slap at the little bundle of nerves and rolling it with his pointer and thumb.

"I don't know why you're covering your face, you were asking for it, wearing all the slutty clothes that you do." Dabi says the meanest things when he has you like this, he's never been soft while he touches you. Always bending you over the railing in the stairwell so that he can lift your skirt to rub your pussy with two fingers then he'll pull your thong tightly against your pussy, so that your lips peak out and he can grind against you. Or when you're leaving the building he'll pull you with him behind the school so that he can give 'daily hole checks,' as he calls them. He says he does them to make sure you're not whoring yourself out, seeing how tight you are by making you suck on his fingers so he can push them inside you. "Bend over bitch, I won't ask again, gotta make sure this pussy is just how I left it." If you're too slow doing as he asks, he'll push against the wall and pulling your ass towards him. From there, he'll pull your panties down, letting them drop to your ankles as he spreads your pussy open and literally stares at your pussy for minutes, pulling lips apart and pushing tip of his thumb inside, spitting on your clit and using his palm to spread it all over your cunt, getting spit on your thighs as he does so. If he deems that your pussy isn't how he left, whether his cum is no longer in you or you feel "looser" then he'll punish you. He makes you hold up your skirt from behind with your face squished against the dirty brick wall as he slaps your ass, hitting you so hard your eyes burn from the salty tears running down your cheeks. Telling you mean things as he carries out his brutal assault on your ass. "Don't start crying now bitch, if you weren't such a slut, I wouldn't have to hit you." or, "Did you really wipe my cum out of you? You ungrateful little whore." and, "Move away from me again and see what happens, I'll hit a lot fucking harder, try me." and of course, "You really think anyone'll believe you? Those bitches you hang out with would kill to be in your position, would beg to have my cock stretching them so full it bulges from their fucking stomach.

[whumppmuhw]

Whumptober Day 26: Curse, noncon touching*

tw: magical whump, knife/carving into skin, noncon touching (non sexual), intimate whumper, extreme pain (from the curse), manipulation, control/power imbalance

*alternate prompt

fuck it more neopronouns! :D

...

Whumpee clutched nir side as ne stumbled in the field where ne first met Whumper. The pain hadn't ceased for a month, and ne was getting desperate to make it stop. Ibuprofen and aspirin didn't help at all, and ne didn't even consider going to the doctor. The pain was always constant, though not always overbearing, and always seemed to get worse at the most inconvenient times.

On the back of nir neck, right near the top of nir back, was an intricately carved sigil. Whumper had taken her sweet time making sure it was perfect, setting the curse with the tip of her blade and chants on the tip of her tongue. She had made sure that if Whumpee ever got free, ne would regret it. And ne did. The pain ran down nir spine and around nir ribs, making it painful to move and breathe. At the worst of it, ne would collapse onto the floor, shaking and panting, begging anyone who might be listening to make it stop.

The full moon was shining down as ne lit a few candles and set them in the grass. Ne didn't really have an idea of what ne was doing, but if ne could informally summon Whumper the first time, ne could do it again.

Ne took a deep breath and chanted what little of the cryptic language ne knew, inserting Whumper's name from time to time. Ne wondered if ne should have come here, unprotected, alone, but ne didn't want to put anyone else in danger. No, if ne had to do it, ne had to do it nemself.

A ray of moonlight shone on Whumpee's candles, and it changed the flame to an eerie white. Ne continued chanting, and a minute later nir pain flared up and ne fell to the ground, squirming. However, the chanting was complete, and in an instant Whumper was standing above nir.

"Oh, darling, miss me already?" She laughed as Whumpee whimpered an answer, soaking up nir misery as ne struggled to breathe. "I thought you were stronger, hasn't it been only a month?... but it sure is good to see you again."

She snapped her fingers and the pain stopped, if only temporarily. Whumpee took some deep breaths and stood up, facing the woman who gave nir so much agony.

Whumper cupped Whumpee's cheeks in her hands, making nir flinch. "Are you ready for it all to end?"

Ne realized what she meant and shook nir head.

"No? Well then, I guess you won't be coming back with me tonight." She took her hands off of nir and positioned them to snap, preparing to restore her rather effective curse.

"No, n-no, I didn't mean like that," Whumpee wasn't entirely sure where ne was going with this, but ne knew ne never wanted to go back there. "I want this to stop, but I really don't want to go back with you."

Whumper took a second to consider this, Sure, she could force nir back with her into her realm, or she could leave nir here suffering until ne was begging to go with her, but what's the point if she doesn't get to see what leads up to that? What about dependence? Surely she could arrange that...

She wrapped her arms around nir shoulders, forcing ne to listen to her. "Alright then, how about a deal? There's an antidote to curses like this, in a form of a simple potion." Whumpee looked intrigued, and she knew she had caught nir. "You come here and summon me once a week, and I'll give you the potion you need to keep the pain at bay. What do you think...?" With one of her thumbs, she traced Whumpee's sigil. Ne looked so cute in this desperate state, and she wished she could keep nir like this forever.

"That...sounds alright. But I don't know how to formally summon you."

"Not a problem." She let go of Whumpee, then reached into a pocket in her dress and pulled out a piece of paper, with some simple directions and an incantation to chant, and handed it to nir. "Don't worry about waiting for the full moon, either. The phases of the moon affect me less than most."

"Okay," Whumpee paused, thinking of all the ways this next part could go wrong. "Don't-don't you usually charge a price for these types of things?" Ne slipped the paper into nir pocket to look over later.

Whumper put her hands on her hips and smirked. "Yes, and you'll have to pay too, but I'll keep it pretty cheap, just for you. A few crystals one week, a small blood sacrifice the next, not too bad, right?" She grinned as she watched Whumpee imagine all the horrible things ne would have to offer her. And she wouldn't require much of nir, not at first, anyway. Seeing nir needing her would be the best price of all. "So, it's settled then?"

"Yes," ne replied warily, though ne didn't like the situation ne found nemself in. "When do I get my first dose?"

Whumper loved that she had gotten nir to agree. She inhaled deeply, as if she could smell nir sweet desperation and her success. "Three days from now, and then every week after that. Sound good, Whumpee?"

"Yeah. I'll see you in three days."

"See you then." Whumper snapped her fingers, reactivating her curse, though for tonight she would keep nirs pain to a minimum, a small mercy. She pivoted on her heel, moonlight illuminating her face. She was gone as quickly as she came.

Whumpee sighed, though not completely out of relief. Magic folk like her were tricky to work with, and deals were usually to be avoided at all costs. Ne picked up the candles and headed home, hoping that the potion would be worth its weight in gold.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 16 - College AU

This part of the College AU takes place before the events of the rest of the pieces I've written for it, and is the first hospital incident referred to in "Comfort". It's one of the longest of my Whumptober fics!

Keep in mind that the Kamaria in this universe, while still tough and still having gone through a lot of abuse in her life, isn't hardened by war and torture like canon Kamaria.

Bruno belongs to Izzy and is used with permission!

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

The Shadow of Death Masterlist

No. 16: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?” | Gurney | Flatline

Contains: lady whump, dude whump, hospital, referenced noncon, real word for noncon used, referenced beating, collar, internal bleeding, mild blood, noncon touch, touch aversion, talk of death, aftermath of noncon in hospital, cpr, passing out, police, broken bones

.

.

She screams his name again and again, but there’s no response.

“Bruno…Bruno no…please, Bruno!”

They wouldn’t stop hitting him, and kicking him, over and over and over, until he finally fell completely still. He hasn’t moved since. She can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, only knows that there’s blood streaking his face and his arm is misshapen and he won’t wake up.

Even when the frat house basement is miraculously flooded with police officers and paramedics, it’s all she can think, all her mind will repeat.

Bruno. Bruno. Bruno. Bruno. Bruno.

She’s pressing so far forward she can barely breathe, the cord that connects her to the wall digging the collar into her throat, but she’s nowhere near reaching him. She can’t even see him anymore, not with everyone kneeling around him. 

Her voice is raw from screaming and crying. “Bruno!”

All of the attention has been on him so far, as she wants it to be, but one officer finally turns and approaches her. The last thing she wants right now or ever again is anyone touching her, but at the same time…

“Get it off!” She clutches the hated collar, making brief eye contact with him before looking back to Bruno. “Get it off, get it off!”

“Okay, hold on. I’ve got you.” He crouches down, examining the clasp and the padlock that holds it shut, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife, flicking it open. Kamaria flinches backwards involuntarily. “You’re okay, you’re okay. I’m just gonna cut through this, okay? It may take me a second, but I won’t hurt you.”

Just hurry.

The wait is agonizing, but eventually he’s able to saw through the collar and she’s free. Immediately she begins to crawl toward Bruno, ignoring the pain that tears through her. 

His eyes are still closed. He’s still not moving. She reaches out for him, but before she can finally touch him for the first time since this all began, he’s lifted up by several sets of hands onto the gurney waiting next to him. Straps are pulled tight across his body and the gurney is unfolded to its full height.

Still kneeling on the floor, Kamaria lets out an ugly sob.

“I’ve got you, sweetie. You’re okay. Can you stand?” Someone, she doesn’t register whether she’s a paramedic or a police officer, crouches down next to her, too close, hands reaching out. 

Kamaria flings herself backwards. “Don’t touch me!”

“Okay!” Gloved hands raise in surrender. “I was just going to help you up, but I won’t touch if you don’t want me to.”

She does need to stand. She needs to be with Bruno, but they’re already carrying him toward the door. A strangled cry escapes her, watching his still form being taken away. “He’s…he’s…”

“Look, what if I offer you an arm? You can use my arm to pull yourself up, then we can follow your boyfriend, okay?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” The words spill automatically from her lips, repeated over and over so many times in the past…week? month? more? He’s not my boyfriend, we’re not even dating! We’re just friends! Kane never cared, though. He’d decided his own version of the truth, and nothing was going to sway him from it. 

What they technically are to each other hardly matters now, though. She cares for him. She feels something for him that she’s never felt for anyone before, especially not Kane. If it wasn’t obvious before, then watching him suffer because of her and having him try to comfort and support her through it all sealed it in her mind and heart.

“I need…I need to be with him.” The woman is offering her arm, like she said, and Kamaria only eyes it for a moment before clinging to it and allowing herself to be hoisted to her feet, biting back whimpers of pain the whole way. She lets go as soon as she’s steady enough and begins limping after the others, arms wrapped around her stomach.

The yard of the frat house is total chaos. Police cars are parked haphazardly at the curb, lights flashing. Multiple fraternity members, including ones that weren’t involved at all, are being handcuffed and questioned. In the next yard over and across the street, crowds have gathered to gawk at the scene.

But she can’t think about any of that right now, not the embarrassment she should be feeling or the dread of what a legal mess all of this is going to become. Her eyes desperately dart around until she finds what she’s looking for - the gurney with Bruno on it, being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

She rushes forward as fast as her abused body will go. “Please, please! Take me, too, I need to go with him!”

People in uniform block her path. The ambulance and the lights and the uniforms and the despair clogging her throat are starting to swirl together in her mind, trying to turn into a different event entirely, but she doesn’t have time for flashbacks right now. She has to get to Bruno. 

“Please,” she sobs. “I need…I need to…is he okay? Is he alive?”

“He’s alive,” someone answers, gentle. “But we need to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible to keep him that way. You can’t come inside, they need room to work.” 

The ambulance doors slam shut, and Kamaria feels like someone is twisting her insides into a knot.

“Let’s go to the other ambulance, over here. We’ll take you straight there behind him, alright?”

She doesn’t need an ambulance, she’s fine. But if it means following Bruno, then she’ll accept it. She lets them lead her there in a daze, unaware of anything but his absence until the vehicle is moving and strangers are trying to touch her again. The trip is spent with her curled in a corner next to the door, fists poised to fight, snapping at the paramedics every time they try to convince her to let them look her over. 

“Did those boys assault you?” one of them asks at one point. 

“I said I’m fine, leave me alone!” She can’t let her mind go there, not right now. 

The ambulance stops, and someone opens the doors from the outside. Kamaria immediately tumbles out, jerking away from the hands that try to catch her, and hurries toward the emergency room doors. At least a couple of people are following her, but she ignores them. She can see Bruno up ahead. Not even the onslaught of hospital sights and smells can deter her from getting to him. 

“Let’s wait right here so we don’t get in the way.” It’s the lady from the basement, appearing by her side and putting out an arm to keep her from charging into the small room where they’ve taken him. She starts to protest, but it’s obvious by now she’s not going to win with these people. The last thing she wants is to prevent him from getting the care he needs, anyway, no matter how it makes her heart ache.

Bruno is lifted again, off the gurney this time and onto the bed. He still hasn’t woken up. As the paramedics clear the room, the doctors swirl around him, hooking him up to machines and calling out terms that sound like a foreign language. 

The device that had started out steadily beeping starts flashing numbers, the beeps becoming a long, high-pitched screech.

“He’s crashing!”

More people run into the room, shoving past Kamaria. Someone has their hands braced on Bruno’s chest, pounding out compressions, while another fits an oxygen mask over his face and manually pumps air into his lungs.

Kamaria crumples. The woman catches her before she can hit the floor, holding up her weight while she screams. “Please no…please! He can’t die, he can’t, it’s all my fault!”

If she’d never dated Kane, none of this would have happened. If she’d never become friends with Bruno, none of this would have happened. He’s hurt because of Kane’s jealousy over her. He’s dying because of her.

“Shh, shh.” She can barely hear the voice in her ear over the sound of her own cries and the wailing of the monitor. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Look…they got him back. See? He’s okay. He’s alive.”

He’s alive. For now. 

She’s so exhausted, so utterly spent, that she can barely straighten herself back up. Somewhere between the frat house and here, the tentative scab that had been trying to form over the cut across her face apparently got knocked off in a couple of places. She can feel wetness on her forehead and nose where it’s sluggishly bleeding. She ignores it, though, just like everything else, pushing the arms away from her and clinging to the doorframe.

“We need to get him to the OR,” one of the doctors is saying. They’re prepping him to move again.

“What’s happening, where are they taking him?” 

“To surgery,” the woman answers. “You’ll need to stay here until he’s done.”

“Surgery.” What did Kane do to him? “What kind of surgery? Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know, but I will find out everything I can for you. In the meantime, let’s get you your own room where you can wait for him.”

He’s being wheeled away again. She can’t do anything but stand in the middle of the hallway, swaying slightly, and watch.

“Come on, sweetie. This way.”

She follows numbly, heart still beating out a rhythm of his name. Bruno. Bruno. Bruno. Bruno. It’s not until she’s sitting on the bed that the setting starts to catch up with her. She runs her hands through her hair, fingers getting caught up in tangles, eyes darting around the room. 

“I can’t…I can’t be here. I’m fine, I don’t need to be here.” Fire. Smoke. Oxygen mask. “I’ll go somewhere else, I-I’ll wait for him…somewhere else.”

“Hey.” The woman is still there. Kamaria focuses in on her features - blonde hair, blue eyes, hard jawline, shadows under her eyes - trying to think of anything but the room she’s in. “I know this is incredibly difficult. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through, and I know you’re worried about your friend. But you need to be examined, too, you need to let them look at you.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “No. No, I’m fine, I don’t want them touching me.” I want my mom. “Bruno, he’s…” Another sob catches in her throat. “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” The last time she was in a hospital, her mother was dead. Hospitals go hand in hand with grief.

“I don’t know, sweetie.” The woman’s eyes are filled with sympathy, but Kamaria can’t look directly at them. “I’m still going to find out for you what’s going on, but I do know for sure that the doctors here are amazing, and they’re gonna do everything they can to save him.

“We need to talk about you right now, though. I know you don’t want to be touched. But you need to let someone treat that cut on your face, so it doesn’t get infected, and check you over for other injuries.”

“I don’t have any other injuries.”

The woman looks at her for a long moment. Kamaria doesn’t want to know what she sees. “I can’t force you to get treated. I can’t make you do any of it. But I need you to consider letting them do a rape kit.”

She can feel all the color draining from her face. “What?”

“I don’t want to let those boys get away with what they did, and I know you don’t, either. We need to be able to collect samples so we can run DNA and pin this on the right people.”

“No. No!” She jumps off the bed, backing across the room. “No, I can’t, I can’t do that. They…they saw us there, they saw what they did to Bruno…” For the first time, it finally registers that the woman is wearing a police uniform. “You saw what they did to him. I can…we can tell you what happened, who it was. Set up a, a lineup, or whatever you call it, we’ll point them out. You don’t need…I can’t.”

The officer nods. “Your testimony will be very helpful, and if you can ID all of the guys that’s great. But listen…” She takes a couple of steps closer. “Boys like that? Have rich families with expensive lawyers to back them up. Lawyers that will do everything in their power to cause doubt and get them off scot-free. DNA evidence, though - the kind of evidence we can get from you - will put them away. They won’t be able to argue against that. Chances are you wouldn’t even have to go to court or see them ever again.”

She pauses. “Maybe you’re not looking for justice for yourself. But what about Bruno? Don’t you want justice for him, however we can get it?”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t, just the thought of more hands on her, of the invasion of privacy and the looking and the questions…she wants to scream, she wants to crumble into a million pieces and disappear, she wants her mom, she wants Bruno. 

But she can’t have any of that. And no matter what happens to Bruno, the people that did this to him need to be locked away. Kane needs to be locked away, so that they never have to worry about him again.

“I’ll be right there by your side the whole time. You can hold my hand if you’d like.”

“No, you…you’ve got to find out about Bruno,” she mumbles.

“I will. I promised I would. I can go get someone to do your exam - a female - find out about the surgery, and be back here to keep you company. Okay?”

She can’t. She has to. “O-okay.”

It’s worse than she imagined. She nearly loses it just putting on the hospital gown and has to be talked back down by Officer Williams, as she learns the woman’s name is. They take pictures first, and with every flash of the camera she’s taken back to social services taking a photo for her foster care file. 

Officer Williams does her best to keep her mind off of what’s happening throughout the process, though the questions she asks about their time in the basement aren’t much better to dwell on than the present or her flashbacks. Kamaria does her best to answer, staring up at the too-bright lights on the ceiling with tears in her eyes, jolting and nearly hyperventilating every time she’s touched again. 

Finally, the officer is leaning over her. “It’s over, sweetie, it’s over. You did great.” 

Kamaria immediately stands. “I want my clothes back. When can I see him?”

“Your clothes are evidence, I’m sorry. But I’m sure the hospital has something they can provide for you to wear.” She looks to the nurses, still packing up their supplies, for confirmation. “And I will go see if there are any updates while you’re waiting on those.”

He’s in surgery for internal bleeding and a punctured lung. It’s no surprise, the way they’d beaten and kicked him. He’d withstood it for so long, so many days of torment, but that last time…it was just too much. His body couldn’t take anymore.

If the police hadn’t shown up when they did…

She can’t think about that.

Officer Williams comes back to report that Bruno is still in surgery, no indication of how much longer it will be. Kamaria is given a pair of grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and some slippers, and sent out to the waiting room. They wanted to keep her in a room, put her on an IV, but she adamantly refused. 

It should be her, injured like that. All she has to show for their time in that basement is some bruises and the deep cut bisecting her face, which only required some cream and a little bit of tape and bandages in the worst places. It was too late for stitches. She has no idea what she looks like now, doesn’t want to know. But it’s nothing compared to what they did to Bruno, and he should never have even been involved. He shouldn’t have come after her when Kane grabbed her, then he’d be okay right now.

She’s exhausted, but she can’t rest. Her legs bounce up and down, hands rubbing her thighs, fingers dancing along her arms making little crescent-shaped imprints in her skin. Her mind won’t stop flashing pictures at her of Kane and the others, of Bruno lying motionless on the floor. 

He has to live. He has to.

“Kamaria Veisi?”

She clears the floor completely as she jumps from her seat, eyes wide, heart dropping into her stomach.

The nurse strolls forward, offering a grim smile. “He’s out of surgery. It was tough, but they feel sure they got everything patched up.”

It feels like all the blood in her body drops into her toes all at once. The world goes black, and next thing she knows she’s sitting back in the chair, head between her knees. 

“You with me?” a voice asks.

She nods, though her skin is hot and her ears feel clogged up. 

“Just take it easy, don’t get up too quickly.”

“He’s…” She lifts her head slightly, looking for the nurse’s eyes. “He’s alright?”

“It’s going to be touch and go still for a little while. There’s always the chance that something was missed, or that infection will set in. But…for now, he’s alright.”

Kamaria shuts her eyes, breath shuddering. He’s alive. He’s okay. 

She sits up slowly, propping her elbows on her knees, letting her head adjust to the new altitude. “Can I see him?”

“Yes.” He looks at her with concern. “But I’m going to get a wheelchair to bring you to him.”

“I don’t need a wheelchair.” She sits up further, ready to stand.

The nurse puts out a hand to stop her. “Just humor me, okay?”

All that really matters is getting to Bruno as soon as possible, so she agrees and lets him wheel her through the hallways. They head to a bigger room, not one of the cubicles in the ER. 

Kamaria stops breathing as soon as he pushes her through the door. Everything about the room - the smell, the bed, the sterile whiteness, the softly beeping machines - is suffocating, but Bruno is here. He’s far more pale and still than he ever should be, the white sheets and the sickly blue hospital gown making it even worse, but at least there’s no more blood smeared on his face. He looks peaceful, despite all the tubes attached to him. As the nurse parks her right beside his bed, she watches the gentle rise and fall of his stomach. 

He’s alive. 

The nurse comes around to the side of the wheelchair and crouches down. It makes her feel like a child, but she’s too enraptured by watching Bruno breathe to pay much mind. 

“I heard that you turned down an IV earlier. Would you reconsider? He has one, see? And I could bring it to you in here, for you to wear while you’re sitting with him. I bet when he wakes up he’ll want to know that you’re letting us take care of you, too.”

When he wakes up. Because he’s going to. He’s going to be okay. And…yes. He’ll be so frustrated with her if he finds out she’s refusing any further treatment.

So, even though the thought makes her skin crawl, she sighs and mumbles, “Fine.” She’s been through far worse today already, and as long as she’s with Bruno, nothing can be that bad. 

“Great. I’ll be right back.”

The nurse leaves the room, and Kamaria grips the railing of the bed, pulling herself to her feet and gazing down at Bruno’s sleeping face. This whole time, she’s wanted to be able to touch him. To offer and to get a little bit of comfort. But Kane always kept them tied too far apart for that, all they had was their words to comfort each other. 

Now it’s finally possible, and she’s hesitating. There’s been so much unwanted touch. She’s not even sure if she can handle it. 

But she needs that reassurance that this is real, that she hasn’t dreamed up this whole day, that he’s not a hallucination that will disappear before her eyes. Slowly, she reaches out with a trembling hand and ever so lightly lays her fingers on his stubbled cheek. 

He’s warm. He’s real. Tears begin streaming down her cheeks as she strokes his skin with her thumb. 

She still doesn’t know what they are to each other, what exactly this is that she feels for him, what life will look like from now on. But right now she urgently needs to feel safe, to have him feel safe when he wakes. Gingerly, wincing at the pain since there’s no one around to see it, she climbs up onto the bed and squeezes herself in between the railing and his body, curling around his arm with her cheek on his shoulder. 

She can hear him breathing from here. He’s safe. They’re safe. Being pressed up against him feels nothing like the touch she’s been dreading, it feels…like she belongs. 

Within seconds, she’s asleep. 

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Pairing: Yandere!Alastor x Reader

SFW

Word Count: 2'627

Warnings: Yandere behaviour, Implied forced relationship, Implied captivity, Toxic relationship, Possessiveness, Invasion of personal space, Non-consensual touching.

Additional Notes: Do be kind, I have not written for this man before and find him exceedingly difficult.

Every week at the Hotel, there was something new Charlie had planned.

Trust exercises. Ice breakers. Activities meant to bring everybody closer together as a group. To try and get people to open up and show a side of vulnerability that - she believed - would help sinners take one step closer to salvation.

Most of them were awkward, and a lot of them never went as planned. A fact she realized and, after a near mental breakdown, had her promptly take advice from Vaggie and agree to try something different.

The task was very simple compared to the previous activities. She requested everybody to think about redemption and what it meant to them.

Thinking about the definition itself took little to no effort.

Redemption (noun): The action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

But it was clear that Charlie wanted more than just a quote from the dictionary. She wanted residents of the Hotel to mull over it while looking deep down into themselves so they could share their stance on the matter later on.

That was the tricky part.

From how you saw it, “saving yourself” from sin was easy enough to accomplish. ‘Just don’t be a dick and avoid the bad shit.’ was the first thought that came to mind, but where you hit a snag was based on what Charlie had shared about Heaven. According to her, even so much as breathing in Hell was enough to solidify your place in the inferno, yet she made it clear that actively resisting sin wasn’t something to go unrecognized.

It took a lot of effort, energy, and courage to do so, and it was hard to disagree even if Heaven didn’t see it that way.

Error was a bit harder. In your opinion, nobody could be saved from that, at least not entirely. Eventually, inevitably, you or someone else would do something wrong, it was just a matter of degree. It could be something as minor as bumping into somebody by accident or as major as Angel relapsing for what felt like the hundredth time, but it would happen and it was only a matter of time.

Charlie did bring up a rather good point, though. Apologizing when you realized you had done something wrong was the best thing someone could do, and it was the first step in the right direction.

You had to give her credit where it was due for that.

But evil was a different matter entirely.

Evil lurked everywhere in Hell. Across every street, around every corner, evil was out in the open for everyone to bear witness and see. None of it was hidden. None of it was meant to be hidden.

What would be the point? You and every other sinner were already in Hell - and many would argue that hiding it would be counterintuitive to being there in the first place.

Charlie tried to plead the case that everyone had good in them. A good that could be tweezed out if given the right chance, and the right environment, which the Hotel was perfect for.

You wish you could agree.

Evil was in the hotel itself, not that Charlie was fully willing to see it.

You believed she was careless there. Little Miss Bleeding Heart wanted to see the best in people, and by god did you ever want to know what it was like to see through such rose-tinted glasses, but you knew you never could. Not in this place.

Stepping a foot into the building was the worst thing you’d ever done because it showed you just how wrong you were about evil being so out in the open. It still had the ability to lurk, something you learned the moment you shook hands with Alastor.

You could see it on his face upon meeting him for the first time - the way Alastor’s perpetual grin widened upon seeing the goosebumps that lined your arms when he clasped your hand in his. No comment was ever made on the matter, but the way his lips peeled back to reveal the black of his gums before he pressed a brief kiss to your knuckles said enough.

Something utterly sinister reeked from him in a manner you couldn’t describe, so you took your own advice and applied the same thing you did when it came to sin.

Avoidance. As much as you could, at least.

Some moments were easier than others. The distinct metallic clack of Alastor’s microphone against the floor combined with a surge of radio static usually bought enough time for you to make whatever excuse you needed in order to leave before he arrived.

Other times you weren’t so lucky, and Charlie’s group meetings were usually to blame in that regard.

At first, you made a great deal of effort to put as much distance between yourself and the Radio Demon as you could, which worked for a time. Unfortunately, Alastor caught onto what you were doing much faster than you would’ve liked.

He reveled in it. You knew he did. After a while you had the gnawing suspicion he was purposefully going out of his way to make you as uncomfortable as possible for his own entertainment. You saw no other reason as to why he’d consistently move so close to you that you could literally feel him breathing down your neck.

Lately, he had adopted the skin-crawling habit of locking eyes with you the moment you stepped foot in the room and patting the seat beside him - reserved specifically for you. Accepting the gesture felt like swallowing nails, but being openly rude to Alastor was something that you knew better than to do.

Instead, you began to find excuses for skipping the meetings entirely and have Angel or Husker fill you in later, which was exactly what you were doing now.

“To be honest I wasn’t payin’ much attention,” Angel said while he scrolled through his phone, resting his chin in his upper left hand while his lower right swirled alcohol around in a glass. “Was the kind of thing that could’ve been sent in an email.”

You traced your finger around the rim of your own glass, its contents untouched. “Still, I want to know what I missed.”

“He’s right, it wasn’t anything special,” Husker replied, slinging a cloth over his shoulder from behind the bar. “Same old bullshit about salvation with a new coat of paint on top.”

A pang went through your chest, but you pushed it down. “So nothing new?”

Angel scoffed and looked up from his phone. “Trust me, dollface, you did yourself a favor.” He downed the rest of his drink in one go. “What were you doing anyways?”

“You know…” You replied with a shrug, glancing down. “I went out.”

Angel smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Out?”

“Yeah.” You tapped your nails against the edge of the glass. “Things were feeling a little claustrophobic, so I went out for some air.”

Husker made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I know how you feel, kid. This place is a mess.”

Angel tilted his head, placing his phone down on the bar and leaning forward a bit. “So where’d you go? Anywhere fun?”

“Where indeed~.”

All your movements went rigid. After a few seconds, you slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder to see Alastor standing barely a foot away from you, staring down at you with a tight, closed-lipped smile. You hadn’t heard him coming in the slightest, which you immediately could tell was intentional.

Whether he’d used his shadow or had actually stalked up behind you wasn’t something you wanted to think about, and if Angel or Husker picked up on the immediate tension, neither of them said anything about it.

“Hey, Smiles.” Angel greeted with his usual flirtation, placing the elbows of his upper arms on the bartop as he turned to face Alastor. “Fancy a drink? You look a little stiff” He gave Alastor a very long once over, “and I’ll have you know I know a few ways I can help relieve some… tension.” 

Alastor’s lips curled back to reveal his teeth, the muscle in his cheek spasming for a moment.

Mentally you were kissing Angel on the cheek for the save as you slowly picked your coat up off the bar and slipped it on, concealing the goosebumps already present on your skin. Husker gave you a glance from the side and gave a very slight shake of his head, silently advising you against your unspoken desire to leave.

“I assure you, such a thing is never going to happen.~”

“You sure?” Angel rested his lower right arm on his hip. “I have a few tricks that can loosen you up.”

The leather in Alastor’s gloves audibly squeaked as his grip tightened around the staff of his microphone and his attention immediately shifted back to you, ignoring Angel entirely.

“My dear,” His voice dripped with such a saccharine sweetness it made you feel sick, “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Fewer combinations of words could instill such a unique feeling of encroaching dread all at once, but you refused to let it show as you nodded and turned your body on the bar stool to face him fully; waiting for him to say the first word.

His eye twitched ever so slightly.

“Privately.”

That made you swallow.

“Sure.” You slid off the bar stool, doing your best not to appear as reluctant as you felt.

“Lovely.~” He said, promptly turning on his heel and walking towards the staircase - expecting you to follow.

You glanced back towards Husker and Angel, each giving you looks of grim sympathy and confusion respectively before you took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other, following Alastor up the steps.

You thought he would talk along the way. Engage in some form of idle chit-chat where he’d be pulling the strings, or even hum along to the countless jazz tunes that he played in the halls over the Hotel’s sound system.

But no such music played and he remained silent. A few minutes into the walk you gathered enough courage to glance up at him and found his eyes locked straight forward, not even sparing you so much as a glance.

You averted your gaze, the hem of your sleeves suddenly the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

Eventually, he came to a stop, and he held out the end of his microphone to prevent you from going any further down the hallway.

“Here we are!” Rather than producing a key from his coat, a green flash emanated from the lock when he placed his hand on the handle and opened the door.

He all but leered at you as he gave a small bow that didn’t feel genuine in the slightest.

“After you.~��

Like the alleged gentleman he was, Alastor held the door open for you, eyes never leaving your form as you walked inside his suite.

The smell of dampness and soil hit you immediately.

Alastor’s suite wasn’t the worst thing you’d seen in Hell by a mile, however, it was still eerie beyond words. The skeletons that hung along the walls and mantlepiece of his fireplace became less complete and increasingly disorganized as they led further into the room - which itself gave way to a swamp-like environment halfway through. Undoubtedly a result of whatever hoodoo, voodoo bullshit he was capable of, and while it still wasn’t the worst you’d seen, it served its purpose thoroughly.

It creeped the shit out of you.

“Now, then.” Alastor clicked the door shut, his body half-facing yours as his hand still lingered on the doorknob. “I'm sure you have a good explanation for what you’ve been doing.~”

The immediate dryness in your throat was hard to ignore. You knew what he was talking about, and you knew that he knew, but you still attempted to buy some time as you tried to figure out what to do.

You cleared your throat. “I was just catching up with Angel and Husk-”

He chuckled, the sound like that of a radio shifting stations. “Don’t be coy.” His head turned towards you with a sickening, ossified crackle that bent his neck in a manner that made your stomach lurch. “You’ve been avoiding me, and I’d like to know why.”

Fuck.

“I haven’t.” Lying to Alastor was a mistake, but you still decided to risk it since it wasn’t entirely false. “There’s just been a lot on my mind recently.”

“Hmm.” Interest and something much worse flickered behind his eyes as he faced you fully with another crack of his vertebrae. “Such as~?”

You shook your head, looking away from him. “That’s private.”

There was a quick flash of red, and the tip of his microphone turned your face back towards him - the cool metal of the edge digging into the skin of your cheek. You had to bite back a grimace.

“Not when it concerns me.” His tone was sharp, a stark contrast to the faux politeness he was putting on before. He kept the tip of his microphone where it was to prevent your eyes from looking anywhere but him. “And trust me darling, when it comes to you, everything concerns me.”

His words twisted in your gut. “...I’m not sure what you mean.”

Alastor tutted, his smile widening once more. “Don’t be stupid, darling, it’s unbecoming of you.” The way he said it was patronizing, like he was scolding a child. “You know precisely what I mean, so I’m going to ask again, as much as I hate repeating myself.~”

Cool metal was replaced with the warmth of his hand as he tilted your head up and brought his face frighteningly close to yours.

“Why are you keeping yourself from me?”

It was an odd sensation. Being backed into a corner, both metaphorically and physically. A frightening one that all but yanked on your instincts to do whatever it meant to get the fuck out of there, but you knew that was the worst thing you could do.

Alastor was a predator, a creature designed to prey on those he deemed weaker, and turning your back on a predator would almost certainly trigger a series of events that would not bode well for you.

So you did the next worst thing.

You told him the truth.

“Because I can see you.” The words felt wrong to say out loud. “I can see you for what you are, I can feel the absolute malevolence that radiates off you in waves, and it’s suffocating.”

Saying any more was a horrendous idea, but you couldn’t help but add one last thing.

“And if I want any chance at leaving this god-forsaken place, I can’t be around you.”

The silence that stretched on afterward was deafening.

Mentally, you were bracing yourself. Alastor had killed people for far less, and you expected nothing different for saying something so daring to his face.

You could see it too, the anger that simmered underneath his gaze. You expected the red of his sclera to flash black and his antlers to extend with his body in a grotesque display before you were ripped to pieces while he laughed.

What you didn’t expect was for his eyes to narrow into slits and his expression shift into one that was far more genuine than you wanted it to be, and it was then you knew that being saved from this kind of evil was never going to happen.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t need to worry about something silly like that.” Alastor all but cooed.

“After all, what makes you think I’d ever let you leave?~”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2024. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 4 ~ The Chase

Hidden Depths AU

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

Genre: Fantasy whump

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

WC: 1949

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

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

Taglist: @kixngiggles

Carr

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

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

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

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

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

Not real. Not real! 

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

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

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

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

Resh. 

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

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

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

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

Or–

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

Okay, then. 

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

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

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

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

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

Carr said nothing. Did nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he fucking laughing? Fuck. This. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was over. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the muscles in Marcus’ arm relaxed.

The dagger drifted farther away from her throat. 

Farther… 

Farther… 

Now! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something slammed into her back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image Description

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

[its-my-whump]

Whumptober 20+21

No. 20: “People don’t change people, time does.”

“You will regret touching..."

No. 21: Restraints | “Don't move.”

Hummingbird 20+21

(Story starts here, if you like) previous

...

Sunlight was bathing to room. It was so bright, Sam didn't need to open his eyes to know, how bright the day would be.

He was in bed, an additional hand on his side. He touched for her shoulder. Hadn't she dumbed him a few weeks ago? Maybe it had just been a dream. Jessy was still here, wasn't she? Or did he hook up, when he went to the club? Had he really lost his job, or was that a dream too?

Sam's hand brushed over her shoulder. "Jess?" His voice was still sleep-drunk. He wanted to lean in on her, touch her, feel the warmth of another human being, feel alive.

With shock he realised, that 'her' shoulder was too broad, too muscular for a girl, even a big one, if he actually had hooked up. The hand on his own side was just too heavy. His fingers found a path up that ungirly shoulder to a neck.

Sam's fingers touched stubbles. 'THAT was not a girl! Defenitly NOT Jessy!' He wasn't homophobe or anything. He was more dumbstruck and had never done something like this, whatever this was. Had never shared a bed with a man willingly. Not even with his best mate Peter, when they got wasted. Even then, one of them would take the couch or the floor. Even after so many years, Sam couldn't stand another man invading his personal space for too long. Cause this last barrier, he had build around himself, made sure he would at least see the enemy coming, instead of being surprised by the pain.

His hand stopped moving and his eyes flew open, he pulled away. "Not quiet. And Jessy was a bitch, wasn't she?"

Grey was looking at him from much too close. One arm propped up against the side of his head. An amused smirk played around his lips. 'How did he know about Jess?'

Suddenly everything was back. Sam remembered, or more was struck by lighting about what had happened since he went to the club alone. As if actually struck by lightning, he jumped and scouted away until his back hit the wall behind him with a dull thud.

"Have we...? I mean have you?" Sam was confused and even more ashamed, that he unconsciously had searched for his captors prensence during the night. 'Great self-defense, that instantly crumbles, when you feel lonely, idiot!'

"No, we haven't and I! haven't done anything to you either! Relax! I already told you, I wouldn't touch you indencently. Only if you explicitly asked me too."

Maybe that guy also had different personalities. Sam came to understand, that he had at least 2 just now. The one that kept him alive, when he needed to struggle and fight and the one, that kept him alive, when he needed to reason and obay.

So it was still possible, that Grey was this kind of forthcoming, descent and understanding in one moment and then he was slapping, chaining and electricuting him in the next.

Maybe, Sam needed to adapt better. It didn't really mean, he was giving in, would it? It would increase his chances of escape. But could he willingly obay to that man's commands?

'NO! NEVER!'

"Don't move." Grey said. Sam was lost between his overwheming thoughts and feelings staring into nothingness. Suddenly a flash blinded him. The familiar clicking and brushing sound he had heard the last time he was constriced to this bed.

'This sick fuck just took a picture of him?' Fury burned like phospathe was enflamed and he lashed out. The camera left Grey's hands and seemed to be standing weightless in midair. Time stopped.

Both their heads followed it moving through nothingness in silence and slow motion.

Then time just caught up suddenly and it crushed to the floor with an earpiercing shattering sound. The camera was ripped into pieces by the impact. Debris of plastic and metal scattered all over the wooden pannels, while a picture got stuck halfway in its slit.

Grey sucked in a deep breath, his calm demeanor instantly changed. Sam was still frozen. Hadn't he just debated with himself, that he needed to adapt to survive. He was paralysed by his own overflowing emotions and the unimmaginal stupidity he just so openly demonstrated.

Inwardly he expected a hard slap. The angry voice thundered through the room. "You will regret touching..." But it was a fist that connected with his temple. The impact let his head snap back and the base of his scull hit the wall behind him. His brain hadn't had a chance to recognise the pain before everything went dark.

...

Sam was dragged over the floor by a strong grip fisting his shirt in the back, while the big hand under his left armpit restrained him like a vise. His heels scrapped over the floor, his legs and butt occacionally touched the ground. His hands, shackled together with thick leathercuffs again, were laying in his lap. Blood was flowing down the left side of his face. His head was pounding mercilessly. His vision only a blurry mix of colors.

Grey was ravishing behind him, while he made their way down the corridor. It seemed they were heading for the room in the basement. Actually Sam hadn't seen the way there even once. And now it was hardly any different. Even if he had been able to keep his eyes open, his foggy vision would have prevented him from seeing any details.

"Now, see what you made me do. I don't want to hurt you. But YOU made me, hummingbird." The voice was distant, not only by the areal distance between them and that Grey was talking in the other direction, but by the emotionless tone he was using or actually not using.

"She always said, people don’t change people. Time does. So that's exactly what I'm going to do. I give you time to think what is best for you, SAMMY!"

They stopped. A door flew open. It must have been the solid steel door from his underground prison by the loud impact it made when it hit the outside wall. Sam flinched hard. The bang repeating itself in his head over and over again. His shackled hands went for his ears instictively.

TBC

Hummingbird masterlist

@whumptober-archive

[merakiui]

angel/angler.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, stalking, non-con, non-consensual photography, chikan/groping (train molestation), obsession, kidnapping/captivity, drugging, violence, blood, death (or is it??), azul's insecurities and low self-esteem, azul’s not-so-subtle breeding kink, implied disordered eating, reader's height isn't described, but it's written that azul is taller note - to obsess is to hunger like an angler from the deep sea. living his entire life in pitch-black solitude, entranced by an angel's halo; his only purpose is to find the body that will become his lifeline and, one day, his cemetery.

entry 1: 18 April, 20XX.

For anonymity’s sake, I’ve chosen to write using a vague pronoun. Additionally, this diary will be a record of my thoughts so that I can keep my mind and senses intact. In my youth, I was prone to terrible fits of self-destructive rage, and as a result they suggested I write my feelings down to prevent any outbursts. I’m not very physical towards others. Rather, it was the harm I posed to myself that fostered concern.

But this space isn’t for my own views on myself. It’s about someone else. 

I have a confession: I’ve fallen in love with you from the train, and I’ve been in love with you for the four months I’ve come to know you.

You wear perfectly pressed suits, heels of a modest height, tights, and pencil skirts that cut just at your knees. I want to touch you, but if I do you might stop wearing skirts altogether and then I’ll never see your legs again. I suppose trousers aren’t so unattractive. They’re appealing in their own right. Everything looks good on you, though. (Nothing would look even better.)

You work in an office building. I’m not sure which floor, but I’ll know soon enough. I wanted to follow you inside, but there’s a security guard in the lobby. He always greets you, and you always smile and chat with him. You’re a kind person, so I let this pass without incident. But I can’t lie to these pages and say it’s not troublesome when I watch his gaze linger longer than it needs to. 

I’d kill him, but then they’d employ a new guard and you’d make friends with him because you’re so kind. I don’t admire kind people. Rather, I find kindness to be a double-edged blade (Is that the correct phrasing? It’s different in my hometown. We say kindness is like pufferfish—harmless until it’s provoked and then it becomes poisonous). It’s not that I look down on kind people. I just think you shouldn’t be so quick to befriend the world in its entirety.

After plenty of observation, I’ve learned that you often leave your building to get lunch by yourself. This is what you’ve eaten in the week:

Monday - A salad at a popular café. Iced tea because it was a sunny day. A tiny cheesecake for dessert. It was blueberry.

Tuesday - A wrap of some kind. Chicken? Or was it vegetarian? Sweet potato fries. Water.

Wednesday - You didn’t leave your building. Were you at work today? 

Thursday - Another salad. Water. Same café. No tiny cheesecake.

Friday - You went to lunch with that guard. I only remember my irritation and so I’m afraid I can’t make note of your meal for today. He looks at you like an obsessed puppy waiting for its owner to give it attention. I want to pluck his eyes from his sockets so he’ll never look at you in that way again.

You lead a healthy lifestyle, but I can’t help wondering if you’re eating well. Did someone say something about your figure? I’ll eviscerate them for you and then they can see how much it hurts when unnecessary scrutiny is thrown around.

It’s quite late. I want to sleep, but thinking about you has my body wide-awake. I wonder if your mouth tastes like the moonlight shining in through my window. I wonder if your body is soft like mine… Of course it is. A silly, irrational thought. You’re much warmer than me. This is just a theory. I’ve yet to feel and confirm for myself. I will in the foreseeable future.

Before we part ways, I want you to know that I’m not very good at cooking. I’ve picked up a few books and hope to learn. I’m going to practice so that I can feed you better meals one day. Salads are the worst. Fried chicken is the true meal of heaven. I’m certain you would share this sentiment.

If I were to be condemned to a last meal like those serial killers on death row, I’d ask for fried chicken. Knowing you, you’re too good to kill anyone. In this hypothetical, supposing you’re a heinous criminal, your last meal would be something healthy. Do you even like those salads, or are you forcing yourself because you must? I understand calorie-counting well enough, but if there’s one thing to enjoy in life it should be food.

I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. I ought to take my own advice.

Oh. I’m starting to grip my pen with more force and the lines have become shaky. I usually break my writing utensils if my focus strays. I’ll stop here for today. Ink is a pain to clean.

AA.

The morning rush is your greatest enemy.

Jack Howl, the lobby’s security, has suggested giving you a ride on numerous occasions. “It’s part of the reason I got my license,” he explained once, “so that I can protect those who work in this building from the rush. Not like you have to accept my offer. It’s just…convenient for both of us. Again, I don’t care what you do.”

(He does. You see through his gruff surface.)

According to him, the morning and night rushes bring out the worst kinds of characters.

But isn’t that everywhere? you think as you peer out the window, watching the city come into clarity.

Like every morning, the train car is more crowded than a sardine tin. You’re used to being pressed up against other commuters, pinned to the window or between people. You’re flattered to know someone’s concerned, but nothing has happened yet. And why would it? It’s bright outside. No one would dare do something during the day. At least, not in a crowded area where anyone could see and hear.

I wonder what I should have for dinner. I still need to go shopping. My fridge is way too empty, you think, sighing. And I need to follow up with that one author. They’ve yet to get back to me about my edits. Perhaps we should meet in the office instead of through video call… And I also need to finalize that other style sheet after the last round of editing. And then another conference… There was something else. Was I scheduled to have lunch with an author? Or was that next week? I should check before—

The train shudders as it slides into the station. Someone brushes against you from behind. Their hand is pressed against the window just near your head. They steady themselves, their body so close to yours you can hear their staggered breathing.

“Ah. S-Sorry…”

It’s next week, right? I really should check once I get to my stop. This is going to eat me alive all day.

“Mhm,” you hum, waving dismissively.

The stranger standing behind you peels his hand away from the window. A sweaty palm print is left in its wake.

“We will be approaching the next stop shortly.”

Just one more and you’ll be getting off.

A pair of bright eyes blinks back at you in the reflection, watching the city just as you are.

entry 5: 22 April, 20XX.

I’m not a social person by any means. If I can avoid crowds, I usually do. An introvert’s paradise is best spent in the comfort of their own room, after all. But if you prefer outdoor dates I can become extroverted for your sake. There are lots of things I’m willing to do for your sake.

Which is why I’ve forced myself to tolerate the train. I loathe it. It’s cramped and uncomfortable. Most days I’m not even near you, and so all I can do is stare longingly from afar. I content myself with imaginary scenarios like in the books you edit. I’ve mentioned it sparsely in this diary, but you’re a brilliant editor. Most of the novels you work on aren’t exactly my taste, but there’s something to appreciate about them. Reading through them knowing your very eyes pored over these pages dozens of times before publication… I admire your work. Immense time and effort goes into all professions, especially ones that involve meticulous touches. 

With this discussion of careers, you might wonder what I do for a living. I manage my own restaurant chain off-site. It must be shocking news for you to realize: your secret admirer is actually quite successful.

If I’m not able to provide an adequate life—no, more than that. If I cannot drown you in all of life’s luxuries, I should sooner throw myself on the beach and let this soft, wriggling body of mine dry out than settle for the barest of minimums. You deserve only the finest.

In fact, I have a room in my home dedicated to you. A private office in which you can write and edit in peace. It’s furnished with everything you’d ever need. I hope to gift it to you one day.

Remote work is very relaxing. (You’ll know this once you try it here.) When you’re boss, you work your own schedule. That’s why I’m able to fit our secret meetings into my weekly itinerary.

Today’s meeting was quite fortuitous. I felt like I’d won the lottery. Mostly because I was finally given the opportunity to be close to you. So close, in fact, that you didn’t even notice when I slid my phone under your skirt to take a few photos. Your undergarments are unexpectedly plain. Truthfully, I’m somewhat disappointed. I was hoping to learn your lingerie preferences. At the very least, I know your tights are sheer enough to show me the color of your panties.

I consider myself a connoisseur of many things, and I’ve done enough interior decorating in my time to become well-accustomed to color palettes. A fool would say your panties are red, but they’re actually maroon.

That same fool wouldn’t take another breath after glimpsing such a private side of you.

If you must know, my dear, I am excessively avaricious when it comes to the things I like. I have always been this way. I am a collector. A hoarder of secrets. I refuse to let others touch or take the things that belong to me, especially when they are wholly undeserving…

I’ve broken another pen. Thankfully, the mess wasn’t so extreme. Not-so-thankfully, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Ah. Right. Trains.

Today I rode the train, and I was standing right behind you. You were looking out the window, lost in your thoughts, and so you didn’t notice me. You must have seen my reflection, but I wear a mask and a hooded sweatshirt when I go outside. Perhaps it’s a touch embarrassing to admit, but I am very self-conscious of the way I look. Firstly, my eyes are too tired. I’ve read that many people are not fond of eyes with dark circles under them. Secondly, my face is average—unworthy of your love by my lofty standards. My hair never cooperates. My smiles never fit properly. My skin is too pale. My eyes are too blue and my pupils are abnormal. My weight is just a few kilograms above the average. I will work hard to bring it back down for your sake and for my own so that it won’t show. I prefer a slim waist, so I must stomach all manner of healthy foods for the weekend. What a pity… Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could eat whatever you wanted without having to worry about caloric intake and numbers on a scale?

That aside, there are times in which my glasses sit crooked on my face and it’s a horrifying thought to imagine I walk around looking like that! As if I’ve rolled right out of bed with no regard for my appearance whatsoever!

Perhaps the both of us share one similarity. We are vain creatures who care too much about how we present ourselves to others.

Thus, I conceal myself so that you won’t judge me harshly should you look upon me. Not like you’d do that. You were so immersed in your head that you hardly paid any attention to your surroundings. You should be more careful. What if something were to happen and I wasn’t there to protect you?

The train stuttered to a halt at the first stop, and some fool bumped into me. I should thank them because I got to brush against you. You gasped softly. I watched your breath fog the window. I placed my hand just above your head and apologized softly, and you weren’t bothered in the slightest. Oh, how I envy your carefree nature.

As a result of that stranger’s mishap, I’ve learned something new. You wear perfume. Even with my mask, I could smell it. Strong and flowery, overwhelmingly sweet. Maybe you prefer these scents? I’m more partial to mature scents, but I admit there’s a certain charm to the scents you wear. I wish I knew the exact brand. There are dozens of perfumes with the same notes as the ones I picked up, but none can compare to the one you use. I want to be able to hold the bottle knowing it’s your favorite.

I’ve prattled enough. With the length of my entries, you’d assume I was this chatty beyond the page. I’m not. I only say as much as I think is necessary.

Once again, I’m having trouble falling asleep. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m looking through the photos I snapped and the outline of your lips against your panties is lovely. I’m sure you’re just as soft and sweet inside as you are on the outside. If only I could experience it right now. My hand can’t replicate the softness or the wetness or the way you’ll probably clamp down when we finally make love.

I can only fantasize for now. What a pain. 

AA.

“It’s going to rain today,” Jack tells you the minute you step through the lift doors into the lobby. He stands straight like a soldier, his shoulders squared and features set into something serious.

“Looks like it, huh?” You glance at the darkening sky outside, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Hopefully it rains after I get home. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“I’ll drive you.” He falls into step beside you. “It’s dark out and the station is—”

“It’s only five minutes away. I’ll be fine. I take this way all the time.”

Jack’s lip twitches into a grim frown. The beginnings of a sharp, pearly-white canine flashes at you as his mouth curls. “Fine,” he concedes with a huff. Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck and looks elsewhere. “Do what you want. I’m not forcing you or anything.”

You smile at him. “You’re very considerate, Jack. I appreciate the concern.”

He’s like a puppy. It’s really sweet.

“W-Wha—who said anything about concern?” His face is growing warmer by the second, thawing his external ice.

“I’ll be okay. It’s not even that dark out either.”

“Still…” He sighs and cards his hand through his hair. “You haven’t noticed anything weird lately, have you?”

“Anything weird?” You furrow your brows, suddenly confused.

“On your way home. Nothing out of the ordinary? It’s the same every day?”

“Mostly, yeah. Why? Did something happen?”

“No. Just wondering…” Jack looks past you then, searching for something you can’t seem to see. “You sure you don’t want a ride? I can walk you to the station. Protect you if anything or anyone—”

You force yourself to laugh. “Come on. You’re trying to scare me on purpose. This is because I told you I’m editing a horror novel, isn’t it?”

Jack doesn’t share in your humor. Instead, his frown tightens on his face.

“While I’m grateful you want to help, I really don’t want to put that on you. It’s not your job to chauffeur me around. I’d feel bad if I made you do that. So thank you, but I’ll have to decline.”

You turn swiftly on your heel before he can protest, striding out the door into the gloomy night.

When is it going to be summer? It’s way too chilly.

You burrow into your jacket as you beeline for the station. A brisk breeze blows through busy city streets. Even though there are still people out and about, it feels strangely desolate.

Jack’s heart was in the right place, but did he really have to phrase it like that? 

You wrap your arms around yourself and hurry along. Your steps are in time with your pounding heart. A cold sweat beads along your forehead. 

Relax. It’s nothing to get worked up over. I’m fine.

Crunch.

You whirl around, clutching your bag between your arms. There’s no one in sight. The city seems eerily quiet tonight.

Stop scaring yourself. Nothing’s there.

No, it’s not something that could make that sound—a noise akin to a footstep. That belongs to someone.

Is someone following you?

You aren’t going to wait around and find out. Now you’re jogging the rest of the way, your heels clicking against the pavement. Your breath comes in shaky heaves, and by the time you finally step into the station’s blinding fluorescents, adrenaline still vibrating through your veins, you notice the time.

My train—it’s already here! Thank you. Oh, thank you so much!

You rush through the station in a flurry, and the relief is tangible once you’re safe and sound inside the train car. You squirm through the throng of late-night commuters towards the window.

“Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me,” you murmur as you navigate the crowded space.

You make it to the window just as the doors slide shut. Moments later, the train squeaks into motion.

I worked up such a sweat. I can’t believe I got so frazzled over something as small as a snapped twig…or whatever that was. It wasn’t a footstep. And if it was, it was probably my own.

You shake your head at your reflection.

Look at me, losing my mind all because I let someone’s words get to my head. 

The stranger standing behind you sighs alongside you. You’re about to turn around, but it’s their hands on your waist that stop you. Your blood freezes. Your spine goes rigid.

“Excuse me? Um… C-Can I help you?”

You gasp, horrified, as the hands creep higher until they’re wrapped around your chest. The stranger squeezes almost curiously. Their breath catches on an eager hitch. You peer helplessly at the window. Two blue eyes blink back.

“Wait… Hold on—”

“It’s okay.” A man’s voice. Sweet and silky-smooth. A reassuring whisper. Only you can hear it with this invasively close proximity. It might as well be a drop in the ocean that is the rickety din of the train on the rails. You reach to grab his arms, hoping to pry him off. “I’m not going to hurt you. As long as you’re quiet…”

“No, you can’t. Please, sir. S-Stop… Don’t touch there.” Your fingers curl around his wrists. You squirm against him, your brain blanking.

This can’t be happening… There’s just no way…

Something stiff prods at your ass from behind. You yelp softly when he rubs himself against you. You try to catch sight of his features when you crane your neck, but all you get is a faceful of a dark hoodie. He’s tall enough to block you from the other passengers, his body caging yours against the window. One hand slides away from your chest to slip under your skirt. He gropes at your inner thigh; his fingers draw dangerously close to private territory.

“Sir—”

He inhales a dreamy breath. “Perfect,” he babbles, his words muffled by his mask. “So perfect. Warm… And soft. Just as I thought.”

There’s nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to hide. You’re trapped here with this fiend until you get off at your stop.

“We will be approaching the stop shortly,” the woman on the intercom says, but it doesn’t give you the relief you’re after.

Three more stops and then you’ll be at yours. Three more. Three. Your stop might as well be years away.

Two fingers trace the outline of your pussy through your panties. You’re grateful you’re wearing tights.

His breathing is heavy. He’s mumbling filth in your ear. You hardly register it over the static in your brain.

Gross. So gross. Stop it. Please stop. I don’t want this.

A whine bubbles low in your throat when he presses down against your clit. He caresses you through the fabric of your panties. You slump against the window with your palms on the glass. Your heart is in your throat. You feel sick and dizzy. It’s too hot in here. Everything is spinning. Your heart is picking up its pace. Your hands are starting to shake. 

And there’s nowhere to go. No amount of begging will stop him. He’s all over you, pressed impossibly close—so close you think he’s trying to fuse his body to yours, becoming one mutual unit.

You want to scream, but you can’t find your voice. You can’t do anything. You can’t even think.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmurs, twining his fingers around your trembling ones. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mmh, no… No—stop. P-Please, sir, please stop.” You shudder against him, and a choked, broken sob rattles through your ribs. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand. His other circles your tender, sensitive clit, and the contact elicits a whimper from you. “Even though you’re making the cutest sounds? Aah, I wanna be inside you so badly… I’m sure it’s even softer there.”

You bite down on your bottom lip so hard that your teeth pierce the skin. A thin ribbon of blood dribbles down your chin. You refuse to give him that satisfaction. Even though your attempt to snuff your voice is successful, your body doesn’t seem to agree. It shakes in fear and arousal. When he presses against your panties next, he feels the growing damp spot. 

That’s just a natural reaction, right? I’m not actually aroused by this. There’s no way!

Just when you think he might pursue further, he pulls back. His hips are still flush to your ass. You can feel his cock straining against the fabric. It’s gross and demoralizing. You’re nothing but a doll for him to get off to. Less than a person.

The train glides to a halt and the doors open. People exit and enter in a busy fashion. You stare out the window at your blurred surroundings.

When the train eases back into motion, you realize tears are welling in your eyes. They don’t fall. Not yet.

It isn’t until you get off at your stop, sprint the rest of the way home, hurry up into your apartment, and lock the door that the horror of it all finally catches up to you. You collapse to your knees and wail like you’ve just lost something precious—something you’ll never be able to get back.

You’ve never felt more dirty before.

entry 36: 4 May, 20XX.

I did it. I finally did it.

My hand is shaking; I’m so happy. No, I’m more than happy. I’m absolutely overjoyed!

You don’t know this about me yet, but I’m terribly envious. I suppose that’s why I could muster the confidence to touch you and hold you… Your body is so soft against mine. Every inch of you is beautiful. I wish I could have felt beneath your shirt, lifted your bra to see your bare breasts in the window’s reflection. This is quite the shameless admission. Even I, despite admiring you for so long, am loath to admit it.

You mesmerize me. I’m already flustered just thinking about the way your hand fit in mine when I held it… And you were aroused! I was so close to such a precious area, and you were wet for me and only me. I feel so overwhelmed. It’s a dream come true. You’re such an angel. My angel.

My dear, darling angel, I’m sorry for startling you. That was the only way, you see, and certain circumstances led me to that point. You must understand.

To be unfiltered about it, it was annoying seeing that security guard pester you. I had the strongest urge to kill him, but that’s not something you can do on a whim. Murder is like running a business, in a way. One misstep, a bad investment or a sliver of evidence left behind, and it might spell the end.

That’s besides the point. It’s hardly worth the time. 

Regrettably, while on the train into the city, I noticed you were wearing trousers today. I was right. Last night was a once-in-a-lifetime event. A pity. Your legs in those sheer tights is a vision to behold. Luckily, I have enough pictures to satisfy the craving to see you in them. When you live with me, I’ll buy plenty of tights for you to wear around the house. That way you won’t have to worry if I rip them.

That aside, you’ve started looking over your shoulder more. You talked to that security guard longer than you normally do. It’s irritating. Quite frankly, it pisses me off.

I don’t want to be childish. I understand you’re stressed and nervous. Anyone would be. That’s normal. But I’m not going to hurt you. I even told you those exact words! I’m certain you would have calmed down if you could see my face. Unfortunately, I’m not very blessed in that department. I assure you my personality is far prettier…despite the ugly truths I’ve penned here.

But then those don’t matter when it comes to love. Even in love, couples are supposed to recognize and accept each other’s flaws. So it’s fine if I’m an ugly person. It’s fine if I’m a devil or something grotesque from the deepest trench in the sea. At least, in spite of such darkness, your halo will continue to light the way and I will always be lured in by your luminosity.

I can’t do much of anything right now and that has led me to feel increasingly itchy. I want to feel you again. Smell you. Touch you. I’d like to taste you next time. Part your legs or tear your skirt off and indulge in the space you keep hidden from me. I want to sink into your depths and know the shape of you just as you twist yourself to take the shape of me. 

It’s just not enough. I desire more of you. 

AA.

entry 40: 8 May, 20XX.

It’s been a few days. You haven’t taken the train since. Now you’re driven to and from work by that pest. I was overcome with such frustration yesterday that I slammed my hands down upon my desk and fractured my wrist. For the time being, until my wrist heals, I must wear this unsightly stabilizer-brace-thing and write carefully with my non-dominant hand. I like to consider myself ambidextrous, if only because it’s a talent I’m sure will impress you, as you seem to surround yourself with successful, talented people, but I must admit my lettering is rather…subpar.

It’s not as neat as I hoped it would be. Something to practice while my wrist heals, I suppose.

There’s only so much strain I can take, my angel. Are you really so afraid of me that you’ve chosen to rely on someone else to protect you? If it was funny, I’d laugh. But it’s not. It’s annoying. Must I chain you up by the throat so that you won’t run away? Must I cuff our wrists together so that neither of us can part ways? What must I do to ensure you’ll never leave me?

Every day I spend in solitude, you grow closer to everyone but me. It’s infuriating.

However, there are always silvers of hope to be found and exploited in misfortune. As a businessman, I know this well enough.

I can plan around this. I’ve taken a few photos of your house at every angle. It’s important to think ahead when making a calculated risk.

When you go to kidnap the love of your life, you must dress appropriately, no? Now should I wear a formal suit or something casual?

I have some time and plenty to look forward to.

AA.

Like always, early as usual, Jack is waiting for you below your apartment. You see his car from the window and light up at once.

It’s been two months since the incident on the train. Jack insisted you go to the police when you confided in him a week after the fact. But what could they do? A story isn’t evidence. Evidence is evidence. So to combat that, you’ve avoided public transport altogether. Jack drives you to and from work and anywhere else you need to go. You never knew him very well before this mess, and you regret not starting a friendship sooner. He’s everything you need right now: a friend, a listener, and someone you can trust and rely on.

Like always, he unlocks the door so you can put your things in the back. “It’s my turn to treat for lunch today, so let’s go somewhere you like.”

You shut the door and open the passenger side, sliding in seamlessly.

“There’s no need for that.”

Your heart skips. Your breath stumbles in your lungs. Your body tenses.

You finally look at the driver.

He’s wearing what appears to be an expensive collared shirt with a tie, but the top half is covered by the soft hoodie he’s thrown on over it. He has a mask like before, but there’s no denying his eyes. Bright and blue, deep and deceptive like the ocean, they blink back at you.

The door locks with a click.

You throw yourself at it in a useless effort to escape. The masked stranger seizes your wrist. You scream.

“There’s no need to be afraid. I-It’s only me! I won’t hurt you.” He tugs his mask down to his chin so that you can see the wobbly smile on his face. “Please don’t be scared…”

“Let go of me, you pervert!” You rip your arm free and reach for the door once more. “What the hell are you doing here?! W-Where’s Jack? Why are you—”

You choke around the rest of your words when he wraps his arms around you and yanks you over the seat towards him. You kick out like a deranged animal, breathing heavy and frantic, your eyes darting to and fro. The stranger manages to manhandle you into a chokehold despite the struggle. With his arm wrapped around your neck, he grabs a plastic water bottle with his free hand. Clumsily, he unscrews the cap and presses the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

“I’m sorry for being so rough, but I need you to drink this. Can you do that for me? Drink all of it.” As he says this, he tips the bottle and the strange liquid fills your mouth. You fight against his hold, doing everything you can to resist. He tightens his grip on you, dragging your body closer to his. “Swallow it, or I’ll slit your throat.”

Against your will, very shakily, you gulp down the solution. It tastes bitter and vile like medicine. A little salty.

“I didn’t want to frighten you, my angel, but this is the only way you’ll listen.” He swipes the tear threatening to spill from your eye. “You don’t have to cry. I’ll take you home and keep you safe. Just drink the rest of this and take a nap until we get there. That’s it. You’re almost done. I know it’s disgusting, but you have to drink it all, my love.”

“Why…” you sputter, coughing. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” He blinks at you as if the answer is obvious. “Because I love you.”

You can’t understand the logic there. You don’t want to.

Slumping against the seat, boneless and disturbed, you tremble when he leans over to buckle you in. And you continue to do so until you’re pulled into sleep. 

Two blue eyes follow you in your dreams, sticking to your body like old gum under a school desk. In sleep, you feel his hands on you—clinging and cloying like tentacles and the stench of brine, all-enveloping.

entry 179: 24 September, 20XX.

Summer is winding to a close. The last few vestiges of warmth are slipping away. Today’s weather was crisp. Autumn is approaching. 

It’s been a difficult few months. I’ve catalogued my process in the time you’ve spent with me, locked away in our bedroom. I must keep you chained to the bed for the time being. It’s long enough to lead into the bathroom. Until I can trust you, this is the arrangement at present.

They’re still searching for you, albeit not as frantically and frequently. I hope they assume you’ve met some grisly end so that I can finally shelve that anxiety and move on with my life. While I’m relieved it wasn’t as messy as I thought it’d be, I’m just a touch disheartened. I would have loved to watch the light fade from that guard’s eyes.

But that just wasn’t feasible or smart. Besides, what else am I to use my current fortune for, if not the props needed for that day? You call it kidnapping, and while that term is technically true I prefer something sweeter. A reunion of sorts. 

There’s nothing of note to discuss. You haven’t accepted your new home or me yet, so I will continue to wait. I can be patient. I must be if this relationship is going to work (and it will). 

I don’t particularly believe in soulmates. Rather, I find the concept to be foolish. Fate does not dictate an entire life. It is the decisions you make along the way that shape your paths. Just like in my favorite board game. I’d like to play it with you. Although I must admit I already know how our life goes. I have a few routes in mind.

You look at me with such scalding contempt when I imply we ought to start a family, and even though I’ve been victim to that look so many times it doesn’t burn any less. You just can’t see how good this is for you yet.

What else are we to do with our time if not use it to fill quiet halls with the pitter-patter of tiny feet? I have a few names in mind, but for now we’ll take it one day at a time. I’m a patient man despite my temper.

AA.

entry 257: 11 December, 20XX.

Exciting news! Though it may seem small, we’ve reached an understanding. Or so I suspect. You’re not so averse to me anymore. In fact, we take baths together, eat meals together, watch TV together, play board games together… There are so many things we do together as a couple and so, despite the encroaching winter frost, my days have become warmer! Just last night you allowed me to sleep beside you on our bed, and I held you close and you kissed me and I felt like the luckiest man alive.

Finally! Genuine progress!

I won’t delude myself and say that you may finally love me in the way I love you, but a start is a start. I admit I couldn’t help myself. I returned your kiss tenfold, all over your face, down the column of your throat to your collarbone. I was gentle and careful. I didn’t rush.

I like to play experienced in all fields, but even I can’t act perfectly. How should I describe our first time without all of the shameless vulgarity? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Sex is sex no matter how you try to embellish it. Filthy and imperfect, sweaty and sticky, more effort and exercise than I realized.

You pulled me in close, pursued my mouth with the same want in mine, and it was more cathartic than anything I’ve ever known. Oh, to be kissed by the love of your life! I wasn’t aware such joy existed.

You palmed me through my pajamas and told me you wanted a family—that the idea of raising a little one was perfectly charming. I admit it’s an alluring thought I’ve had long before you lived with me. I’ve always thought you would look very enchanting while pregnant. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself. Even though it isn’t official yet, it doesn’t hurt to call myself your husband. In my mind and heart, we’re married. It may not seem so to you yet, but it will be.

Back to the matter at hand. Hearing that you wanted a child with me made me happy. I can’t remember if I cried. I must have because you pulled me in close and you, lying beneath me, wiped at my face and told me you wanted me to give you a child. And who am I if not the most doting, most benevolent husband? I’d do anything for you.

This must be what a predator feels when they tear into prey: a rapture so absolute and all-consuming that it covers their brain like a cotton shroud and renders every other action a hazy instinct.

It was a blur even though I was sure I moved slowly. Clothes weren’t exactly shucked. They were in the way and we had a singular goal, far too focused to remove them completely. Thus, they were pulled up, down, to the side, in whichever way provided easiest access. I closed my hands around your breasts and they feel so much softer without the obstruction of clothes.

Perhaps, rather than humans, we’re just anglerfish. Hungry for each other, using the other, a voracious relationship full of mutual benefits. If I could, I’d love to live inside you. I want nothing more than to press myself close enough to feel your heart beat alongside mine. To feel rushing blood. To turn myself inside-out just to satisfy you. Give you every little thing I can offer—brain and body—and we’d cleave through sunless waters as one, together forever.

The word ‘love’ is not large enough to truly encapsulate all that I feel for you.

My forehead pressed to yours. You kissed me once. I felt sloppy. I was sloppy. Inexperienced. We both are. Your hand wrapped around me. I told you it was okay, to do it at your own pace, to tell me if it hurts. But you kissed my every anxiety away, and in just a few strokes we were connected. Perhaps I died then and I’m still dead now.

Maybe I’m writing this from the moon or the deep, dark sea. Maybe all of this is just a long dream and I’m not even human. Maybe I’m the anglerfish stuck to your side, latched on with my sharp teeth, our lives forever intertwined. You taste of fruit and blood and every beautifully painful thing in this world.

For the first time in the many months we’ve lived together, you called me by my name. You gasped it as you curled your legs around my waist and clung to my chest, your arms draped over my neck, nails in my back. You chanted it like a song. I must have done the same with yours.

However, no amount of carnal euphoria can change the fact that I still have my reservations about unchaining you.

A deliberation for another day. It’s time to cook dinner. I’ve improved lots in the time we’ve known each other. You help around the kitchen as well. Harmless things like stirring batter or mixing a salad. I can’t trust you with actual food prep for reasons I’m sure are obvious and understandable. I try to create balanced meal plans. Now that I’m no longer eating alone and surviving off of misery, I want to show you that I’m both a great chef and a conscientious eater.

AA.

You watch the seasons shift outside the bedroom window and there’s nothing you can do.

You live life chained like a prisoner and there’s nothing you can do.

You eat off paper plates with the same utensils made for toddlers and there’s nothing you can do.

You let the same man whose touch was once so covetous pet you all over with his hands and mouth and there’s nothing you can do.

You’re stuck here forever and there’s nothing you can do.

There are highs higher than the clouds and then there are lows lower than the sea. You oscillate between these temperaments, a body thrown around on rocky waves. How you’ve yet to sink and drown for good, you’re not sure.

Today’s low has brought Azul to his knees. You stand over him, gripping the knife in a shaky hold. Chopped vegetables scatter in a rainbow on the floor. He had been chopping them so methodically, so wrapped up in pleasant conversation with you, that he hadn’t been expecting the retaliation. The blade is freshly sharpened. The perfect weapon. The perfect opportunity. Freedom just after this final hurdle.

Freedom that comes with its burdens—with a child and the law and the media and… And then what? A life of loneliness. A life spent working through mountains of trauma. A life in which you can never look at the train again.

Two blue eyes blink up at you. For the first time, Azul looks scared and weak—a small, pitiful thing. For the first time, you have him trapped beneath your thumb.

You want to bring the knife down and put an end to these cyclical days. You want to crush his spirits in the same way he crushed yours. You want him to know pain so brutal it rots him from the inside.

But you can’t. You want to and in an ideal scenario devoid of fear you would. But you can’t.

You dig your heel palms into your eyes and sob. “I can’t! I’m sorry. I… I can’t do it!”

Azul deflates with a deep sigh. “Oh… Oh, my angel, it’s all right. I forgive you. You’re just a little confused. A little emotional—I get it. We all have emotional moments. I’m not upset.”

“But I—I almost… I was going to—”

“You didn’t. You didn’t, my love, and that’s what matters.” 

He beckons you to his height; you lower to your knees. The knife is still clutched in your hands. He looks between it and you, as if weighing which is more dangerous. Volatile emotions or a blade. Maybe both.

Azul wraps his arms around you and rubs your back consolingly. “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

You sniffle, but the tears won’t stop flowing. “Still… I almost did such a horrible thing to you. I could’ve hurt you—k-killed you!”

“My dear, it’s okay.” He kisses the top of your head, tucking you beneath his chin. “I forgive you.”

Your fingers tighten around the handle. “You do?”

“I do. I always will.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Angel—”

You turn the sharpened point inwards and slam it into his side, just below his rib. It pierces through soft flesh. You pull away just in time to see hurt and betrayal flash across his face, hot like the tears you’re now drying.

Shakily, his movements unsteady, he reaches for the handle. His fingers dance across it, assessing the reality of the situation. You stabbed him. You did it.

He hisses through his teeth when he tears it out. Blood spatters the kitchen floor in a brilliant, vermillion arc. Azul, knife in hand, staggers to his feet and lunges.

You stumble away in a blind panic. 

“How dare you…” He clutches his side with one hand while the other slashes through the air. You narrowly dodge before the knife can slice your arm. Blood seeps through Azul’s shirt, staining his palm red. His expression is twisted in a dark concoction of agony and anger. “I’ve shown you nothing but love and care… I’ve been nothing but patient. I’ve done everything! You were beginning to warm up to me—to this life—our life! I was wrong to trust you. Get back here—”

“You’re crazy! You assaulted me, kidnapped me, threatened me! Do you really think I’d love you after all of that?!” You yelp when his slick, blood-stained fingers wrap around your wrist to drag you down. “Stop! Let go of me!”

You elbow him in the ribs, which causes a shockwave of pain to travel through him, and it gives you enough time to wriggle free. Ripping your arm from his hold, you try to get away when he, aiming to subdue you, grabs hold of your ankle next. You feel the blade sink into your calf before you see it. A terrible cry frays your throat, torn from the depths of your chest like a flower pried from the soil.

“If I’m going to die…” He flops to his knees, wheezing. “If I’m going to die, you’ll die with me.”

“Like hell I will!” you hiss through your teeth, thrashing wildly.

Stupidly, you pull the knife from where it’s wedged in. Blood spurts from the wound, trickling down your leg in a thick, steady stream. You wince and limp towards the door. Closer… You’re almost there.

Azul reaches out with a bloodied hand, his expression utterly shattered. “Wait… Don’t go any further. Please… I need you. We need each other. My angel, my love, please don’t go!”

You tear your eyes away. He’s a monster. You’ll never sympathize with him.

Just before you can get to the front door, Azul picks himself up and wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you down and your head hits the floor with a harsh smack. You see stars. The ceiling spins above you. You try to get up, crawl away, escape—whatever it takes to lose him—but he clings to your side, holding tight. His blood is warm and wet against your shirt. The pain in your calf is sparking up your leg, joining the ache at the back of your head in duet.

Pressed so closely, the flow of blood slows. Your shirt soaks up what the rest of his already drenched shirt can’t hold.

You watch the ceiling. The light looks like a halo; it shines brightly. Azul blinks up at you, hopelessly, sickly enthralled. The tip of the knife prods at your stomach. If it pierces, you don’t feel it. You’re sore all over. Bruises are already beginning to bloom.

At the bottom of the sea, clothed in frigid darkness, there is no sense of direction.

That’s the sweetest relief while you wade into unconsciousness with a parasitic angler.