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adhdnursegoat · 3 months ago

Text

Have fun!

Per usual, link to full story beneath teaser!

Warning: blood play, obviously, and oral sex in full length fic

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This is too much.

You’re overwhelmed by the sensory overload—the smell of sweat and fear, the sounds of pain and terror, the suffocating heat trapped beneath the blindfold and gag. Every little thing adds to the weight pressing down on you, and you feel like you’re smothered by it all. The fear, the disgust, the helplessness—it’s all too much to bear. You want to scream, to cry out for someone to help you, but the gag reduces your voice to nothing more than muffled sobs and desperate whimpers.

And then you hear it—a voice that slices through the suffocating darkness, male, sharp, and clear. It’s a voice that, against all odds, makes you feel oddly calm. Not calm enough to stop the silent sobs racking your body, but it doesn’t bring the same paralyzing terror that gripped you when the henchmen spoke. This voice is different.

"Ah, quite the pitiful selection you brought me this time."

The voice is confident, dripping with haughty arrogance. There’s a cocky undertone, a showmanship that tells you this man enjoys the sound of his own voice. As the speaker moves closer, each word is a note in a cruel symphony, and you can almost see the smirk on his face. You’re not sure why, but the sound doesn’t send chills down your spine the way the others did. It’s unsettling, yes, but in a way that makes you want to listen more closely, to hear what comes next. And, for some reason, you feel like you’ve heard the voice before.

"They all look dumb, don’t they?"

His tone is casual, almost playful, as if he’s discussing something as trivial as the weather. You can hear his footsteps now, the rhythmic clomp of boots against the floor. The sound grows louder, closer. You and a teammate knock elbows every time one of you moves, a stark reminder that you’re all lined up like cattle. There is a faint rustling, maybe the others shifting uncomfortably, or maybe just the thugs making sure none of you try anything stupid.

The speaker hums a tune, one too cheerful, too lighthearted for the situation. The absurdity of it all almost makes you laugh, if it weren’t for the tears still streaming down your face. This whole thing feels like a twisted joke, a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

"Ugly, too… I’m doing the world a favor by culling the rabble."

The way he says it is so nonchalant, as if human lives mean nothing to him. You can hear the disdain dripping from his words. He is mocking you all, taking pleasure in your fear. The footsteps stop, the sound dying away right in front of you. Your breath catches in your throat, the air around you suddenly thick with tension.

And then, after a heartbeat of silence, you feel his presence looming over you. The air feels colder, the space around you narrowing, suffocating. You brace yourself for whatever comes next, muscles tensed, heart racing.

"Oh my…” His voice drops into a silky purr, dripping with something dark and sinister. “Except for this one~"

There is a shift in the atmosphere, an almost palpable change. You don’t know why, but you feel like a spotlight has just been turned on you, like he’s zeroed in on you and no one else exists. You cannot see him, but you can feel his gaze, a weight pressing down on you, stripping you bare. He is close now, too close, and you don’t know whether to scream or stay silent.

Your mind races, trying to decipher his intentions. What does he mean by “except for this one”? Is it a compliment, a threat, or something worse? You’re paralyzed, unable to move, unable to think clearly. You try to tell yourself it’s nothing, just more of his sick game, but there’s something in his tone, in the way he said “this one,” that makes your blood run cold.

Every nerve in your body is on high alert, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You can feel his eyes on you, like a predator sizing up its prey. The sobs you were trying so hard to suppress start to bubble up again, fear mixing with confusion, making it hard to breathe.

The sound of boots scuffing against the floor cuts through the thick air, signaling a shift in the predator's attention. He’s right there, standing over you, and you don’t know what he’s going to do next. Then he’s moving, twisting his weight to face you, and with a rustle of fabric, you sense him lowering himself closer. The space between you evaporates, his presence invading your personal bubble, suffocating you.

All you can do is wait, your heart pounding in your chest, and the voice that once brought a strange calm fills you with a new kind of dread.

And then, without warning, a hand clamps onto your chin—a grip so cold, it feels inhuman. The sudden contact against your burning, sweat-soaked skin sends a shock through your body. There is a texture difference between the skin of his fingers and the palm of his obvious fingerless gloves. The chill of his touch seeps into you, freezing your breath in your throat. You start to pant, struggling against the vise-like grip, your body’s natural reaction to the overwhelming fear and discomfort. The gag forces your drool to spill out the sides of your mouth. The more you squirm, the tighter the hold becomes until you swear you can hear the faintest crack of your mandible straining under the pressure.

A pitiful whimper escapes you, filtering through your nose in a desperate plea for mercy. But the hand doesn't relent. Instead, the person twists your head from side to side, tilting it up and down as if examining a prized possession. You feel utterly powerless, reduced to an object under their control. His cold thumb rakes firmly across your lower lip, dragging the flesh in a way that exposes your bottom teeth as you bite down on the gag. The touch is slow, deliberate, and it sends a shiver of dread down your spine. Your breath comes faster around the wet gag, each movement of air accompanied by a moist hiss.

Your chest tightens with each huff and pant, the fear clawing at you from the inside. What are they going to do to them? To you? The questions swirl in your mind, but there are no answers, only the increasing sense of doom that coils around your heart and mind.

"Quite the little snack, aren’t you?" the voice coos.

The words slide out of his mouth, smooth and sensual, a stark contrast to the situation. It’s as if he’s toying with you, savoring the moment, relishing in your fear. You can only whine in response, the gag muffling your voice, reducing your defiance to a pitiful sound. The lilting tone of his voice feels out of place, too intimate, too wrong for what’s happening.

He finally releases your jaw, the sudden absence of pressure almost as jarring as its presence. His fingers tap your cheek lightly, almost playfully, as if sealing some unspoken agreement.

"Yes, you’ll do nicely."

And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he moves away. The space he occupied feels actually warmer in his absence. Panic wells up inside you, and you try to speak, try to ask the burning question that gnaws at your mind.

"Nicely for what?" you attempt to say, but the gag distorts your words into a garbled mess. "NIthly her mut?!" you repeat.

There’s no answer, no clarification. Instead, a rough hand—much less gentle than the last, which is saying a lot—grabs you by the upper arm. The henchman’s grip is strong, unyielding, as he drags you to your feet. You fight against him, kicking and thrashing with all the strength you can muster, but it’s useless. He doubles down, grabbing you with both hands, and you feel yourself being hauled away. Your screams fill the air, high-pitched and cracking with fear, each screech echoing off the walls as you're pulled into the unknown.

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Read the full length piece on ao3: In Vein