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rocoutlaststuff · 5 days

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So I’ve got a request a Franco Barbi x reader where they were his lover from before he was captured but now they’ve ended up in the trials as a reagent (assuming they can even remember each other) maybe some angst/hurt/comfort as a imagine or one shot whatever would be better for you!! ♥️♥️♥️

One request coming up! I got carried away with this, and you've officially turned me into a bit of a Franco fan which I did not expect. That's what listening to dialogue for an hour straight will do to a person, I guess. Regardless, I hope this is what you were looking for!

Presently in the Past (Franco x Reader) [Requested]

🐑 ♡ I lost the footage to make a Franco gif, anyone wanna play to get it back ♡ 🐑

You can't remember anything about your past, but your past remembers you.

Explicit, Graphic Violence, F/M, M/M, Other/M, Tag(s): Trauma, Human Experiments, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Drug Use, Needles, Memory Loss, Angst, Hurt/Some Comfort, Blood, Violence, Death, Explicit Language, Obsessive Behaviour, Possessive Behaviour, Pet Names, Cuddling, Flashbacks, Oneshot, Ambiguous Gender Reader, POV Second Person

Find it on ao3 ♡ WC: 6,432

Disclaimer: Easterman's introduction to the trial, and the first paragraph of the story were written by Red Barrels. I recommend reading Barbi's comic first if you haven't already!

Thank you to an anonymous user for requesting this! This is very much my first time writing Franco - hope he's written well ♡

CIA ASSET AT A BAR SOUTH OF MIAMI CONFIRMED FRANCO BARBI'S INVOLVEMENT IN AGENCY ACTIVITY IN CUBA. FRANCO DEEPLY ENTWINED WITH EXPAT/COUNTER-REVOLUTONARY CUBAN COMMUNITY IN FLORIDA.

STATEMENT FROM LAST KNOWN FROM CUBAN-COUNTER REVOLUTIONARY ASSOCIATE CONFLICTS WITH CIA ASSET. FRANCO IS HINTED AT LEADING DOUBLE LIFE BETWEEN ROMANTIC INTEREST AND CAREER.

ATTEMPTING TO CONFIRM.

“Maybe he didn't expect someone to like him,” Clyde muttered.

His attention hadn't left the shot of Wolf’s Milk that had been made for him. The mere thought of sickly sweet taste forced his insides to turn. Like the wild goose hunt he was on, he wasn’t about the forget it any time soon. And just when he thought he had some semblance of understanding, it had come out that Franco was attempting to hide his involvement with a potential lover.

He had done a good job too, despite him running his mouth in supposed privacy.

Finding said lover was useful if they could, yet Clyde was close enough to Franco that he preferred the time and resources went towards his target.

“You can say that again. Looking like that I'd give up, but that man… He's got tenacity. If you want to call it that, anyway.” The agent put down the freshly cleaned glass with a sigh, and he waved off a patron.

“I can chase up that lead for our mystery friend if you need, but the shop’s closing soon, so it's best that you're leaving. Good luck finding your guy. Nasty piece of work that one.”

Atropine. Benzedrine. Chloropromazine. LSD. Nitric acid. Glass. Knives. Needles. Drills.

So many things had dowsed, punctured, and been absorbed by your skin.

If you could take stock of how much abuse your body had suffered, you would have died many times over. Yet the cocktail of drugs that flowed through your veins mixed with the very same abuse to create a near perfect blank slate.

You knew who you were. You were one in the same with the person in the mirror. You shared your history with that reflection and no one else.

Yet sometimes when you looked at yourself, you felt like someone else. It was only ever a brief flicker of emotion - a feeling that you replicated in the decor of your space - but you held onto it when you felt it.

Hell, you encouraged it when you could.

Waiting to go into a trial was not one of those times.

Your focus remained on the reagent who sat in the lobby with you. Whereas you sat on one of open tables, he sat on the floor by the stairwell. His hands flit about his body which rocked back and forth from the repetitive tapping of his feet on the ground. The cries of other unfortunate souls beyond your rooms sent him further beneath the stairwell to the point that he was nothing but a shadowy figure.

You suspected he was new.

It was a horrible fate for someone new to be stuck with you too. While the others took their sweet time waking up, you had checked every room. There were four of you in total still within your lobby. The other twelve had left to go to their own trials. So you were left to decide whether you asked the newcomer if he wanted to follow you into the depths of Hell.

Doing trials alone was not the answer. It was rarely the answer in the facility, and the people you saw alone were alone for a reason. They scared you more than some of the freaks they released into the trials.

Your trio was one man short.

Yet you were experienced, and experience meant more pain.

“Hey,” you called out.

A muffled yelp.

“Hey, it's okay,” you soothed as you rose from your table. Each movement was slow, and you held up your hands. Before you even reached the stairs, you crouched to make yourself smaller to him, skirting your hand along the floor to steady yourself.

“Who are you?” the stranger barked at you. His voice was fractured. It never settled on a pitch, nor could one emotion truly determine the tone.

Even in the darkness, enough light reached him to caress the edges of the tears that fell down his face.

You told him your name then asked for his while you sat beside the stairwell. With your hands crossed over your knees, you hugged them tight and waited for him to respond. He eyed you from his hiding spot perfectly still as opposed to how he had been a few short seconds ago.

“I don’t remember-” he choked. “I don’t remember my name.”

There was not much you could do except watch him repeat that statement over and over again in floods of tears. When he started to hyperventilate, you guided him with his breathing to the beat of your fellow reagents coming down the stairs. When they saw the scene, they agreed to take him with you.

Sure, it took a lot of convincing to have him step into the shuttle with you, but he did.

And you gave him a nickname: Franco.

He seemed happy with it, and you were grateful to get the name out of your head. The others knew that was what you called the soft toy you kept on your bed, but you didn’t care. It was one of those silly things you fixated on - one that was better than some of the things other reagents found comfort in.

Like cattle, you were herded into the chairs without any other thoughts about what you should have been doing. It was a routine. One that you explained to Franco. You warned him about the clamps on the chair. Then you warned him about the TV and the gas.

How could you tell someone to brace for the torment you were about to endure though?

"You are the surgeon's knife, and where you meet flesh, blood and pain must follow. We are the surgeon's medicine, who regulate pain and death. Poison the supply of those who would ease pain, and we will let you out."

There were no words shared between the group, only the terrified whimpers of Franco beside you. He cried out at the images that manifested in the fog. The suffering was unique to the reagent, and you stared forwards in disgust with bile in your throat. It was impossible to drown out the sheer panic beside you.

Instead, it became part of your nightmare.

A woman staggered towards you. Her body was outlined in the needles that clothed her skin. They touched every part of her, bouncing to the irregular rhythm of her steps. She tripped, tumbled, and fell into your lap - your eyes shut in an instant to block out the sensation you knew wasn’t there. You told yourself that the weight that hit you wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

She wasn’t really there.

Franco’s cries were a white noise that tore through your skull like the nails that dug at your tattered slacks. It was too much. Unable to help your morbid curiosity, you allowed your eyelids to flutter open.

The pulse that pounded within your chest threatened to cease. Tension gripped at your body, and a man held your legs with a similar zeal. Chipped nails belonging to the pasty skin sunk into you. Bloodshot eyes met yours, yet they didn’t seem to hold any hatred. They watched you with a warmth you hadn’t seen since you entered the facility and a smile to match.

You felt like you were looking in the mirror again. Familiarity swelled within your chest, and frustration compelled you to tears the second your wrists crashed against the metal restraints.

He was gone in a blink.

The shuttle stuttered and ground against the rails, coming to stop. You mustered up a brief smile for one of your fellow reagents at the concerned look she shot you. She still asked you if you were okay though while the other checked in with Franco.

“I'm fine.”

You were. If you didn't know why you were so upset by your vision then there was no reason why you couldn’t be fine. If anything you were good. Maybe even great.

Despite the way your guts churned, and a dull ache beat against your head, you were exhilarated.

You recognised that man. You didn't know who he was, but you recognised him, and he was a part of whoever you were before.

He was your answer.

The first thing you noticed was the water. Amid the boxes and televisions, you were lost to the sound of water lapping against something. It seemed you weren’t the only one who noticed it too.

“What is that?” your friend asked. There was no telling if he was talking to himself or not as he passed by you. Franco lingered by your side while your group headed to a nearby set of railings.

“I knew it!” your friend exclaimed. “It’s water. They got water in here.” He proceeded to laugh at the sight before him when he turned to see a pier extending beyond you.

“Fuck - this is…” you watched as he looked around the walls plastered in the image of a distant city, and you noted the way his expression strained under the weight of his thoughts. “It’s too real.”

Nothing else was said. He continued onwards past the viscera not a few steps ahead of him. You allowed yourself the chance to peak over the railings, and the water seemed hypnotising in the way it calmed to near stillness. Something must have fallen in seconds prior to your arrival for it to have made a sound.

You decided you weren’t going to stick around to find out what that something was.

Franco twitched when your body collided with his. He’d frozen. Fight or flight’s third sibling had no place in the trials, however, and you felt your heart sink at the sight of his vacant stare. You weren’t sure if he had clocked out for good already when he probably hadn’t seen a dead body up close yet.

A once over of his attire led you to almost regret bringing him along as you leant down to remove your shoes. The action caused Franco to return from the depths of his mind, and he watched you with intense focus.

“Put these on,” you told him.

With two shoes placed before him, he did so with ample tenderness. Maybe he'd suffered from splinters already. It was a thought that repulsed you given you now had no protection against that fate.

“Thanks.”

You nodded at him and took his hand to guide him along.

“Ignore what you see. Focus on what we're doing,” you said.

Enforcing this yourself, you closed yourself off to the world around you. It didn't matter that the wood bit at your soles, nor did it matter that blood that wasn't your own caressed every pinprick sized wound you endured down there. There was no face you made when you felt something compress under your weight and burst with a squelch.

You continued - plain and simple.

There was little in the way of danger along the pier. Just a couple of stragglers that muttered to themselves. Nobody disturbed them. When you drew near the gate, things changed, and your steel willed determination waned at the sound of nearby pleading.

“Salvatore Cargo,” you parroted from a sign in a bid to soothe yourself subconsciously.

The pleading only grew louder as the gate was lifted. One by one, you slipped underneath to find the source of the cries. Two men hung above you like the countless decaying fish strung out to dry long ago. Except they were very much alive and terrified.

Their fear was your own as you knew the sound likely drew attention, and sure enough a shoulder connected with you.

So it began.

Your friend collided with you to prevent an ex-pop from gutting you on long talons. You were forced back into a crate, and you acted on impulse. Around you, your friends scrambled to fend off the attacker. Franco froze once more.

Taking his hand, you snatched a bottle from a shelf and launched it at the ex-pop to distract them. It gave your friends enough time to run, something that was feral and frenzied when lives were on the line.

Your heart pumped. Unable to keep up with your pace, Franco staggered behind you. Directions and quick observations sounded out from your friends like gunfire.

Without them, you would have missed the safe zone.

You threw Franco into a slot and pushed your way into another. As the click resounded, you nearly fell out the other side. Franco knelt on all fours beside you, and you wrapped your hands around him to pull him up. There wasn't anything going through your head as you dragged him to his feet towards the nearest desk.

All you wanted was for him to be okay. You pulled him down into the cramped space beneath the desk on instinct. He was hyperventilating again. The sounds of movement around you let you know that the others were on their way upstairs.

Meanwhile, you held Franco close to your side.

Each shudder of his body shook your own. ‘Calm’ wasn’t exactly the state you could describe him falling into, but he fell silent soon enough. It was just in time for you to catch the latest disturbances upstairs.

A voice different to your friends sounded over the now frantic cries of the hung men. The first gunshot made Franco smack his head against the table in fright. The second was cause for concern as you realised that you had in fact heard a gun.

The screams were silenced, and the voice was too muffled for you to make out what was being said.

It belonged to a man. That much you knew.

You peered over the table to survey the scene. The safe zone was still in tact. The lockers beside you didn’t seem disturbed, and the partition was still up. A third and fourth gunshot rung out, however.

Whatever was happening wasn’t finished.

The shill scrape of metal on metal filled you with dread - the partition nothing but a memory in the span of a second. You were being told to continue.

“Come on, hey. We’re going to make it through, but we need to move,” you told yourself as you grabbed Franco’s arm and pulled him from his hiding spot. Your friends all but fell down the stairs in their panic to tell you what you already knew: whoever was stuck in the trial with you had a gun.

It was a point of debate as you manourved through the environment towards the next stage of the trial. Even as you hauled pounds of drugs from a cart between one another - the gun outweighed any opinions or thoughts on your given task. How did you combat a gun? Could you take it from the unknown assailant? Were the ammo stashes anywhere?

Nothing useful came of your frantic whispers to one another, and while you took time to search for resources, you decided to help Franco out. It changed the subject at least to something more productive.

“Battery packs go in like this,” you explained, showing him how to work his ESOP. “As for this, if you ever step on a mine and there’s gas - or you’re gassed because it can happen, one puff. That’s all you need. It’ll take it all away.”

You snatched a brick for safekeeping, but no explanation was needed for Franco. He understood its use the second it was in your hand. It seemed he learnt quick too, repeating back what you’d said to him on the way back to your rendezvous by the drug cart.

“I’ve got this,” your friend said. He took out a thin tube you recognised all too well and placed the needle to the edge of his arm. It sunk beneath the surface. You were ready to move again.

Things were going smooth for such an advanced trial.

That’s what you thought as the cart was heaved along at a brisk jog. You eyed the surrounding area from the boat to the fish market, and you agreed with your friend. It was getting very real.

Too real, in fact.

The stench of rotting fish and past reagents left you nauseous.

“Right this way, please.” The mannequin pointed you in the direction of a weird tool, and the group immediately fell into disarray.

“No - geez, another fucking thing we can’t deal with right now,” one of your friends hissed. The other picked up the unfamiliar device. She pressed the switch on the side, yet nothing happened.

“Symbol decoder, it says - look,” Franco managed, “aim it at the uh, at uh-” he trailed off as he waved his hand in the direction of yellow paint nearby. The first attempt didn’t work, but as you crammed around the corner, everything became clear. You had to line up the image.

The device whirred as the roulette of potential combinations locked in far too slow for the sense of urgency you all felt.

Eight, seven, four.

You were left with Franco as the other two rushed over to the vault and input the code. Nothing could have prepared you for what happened next though.

“It’s mine. It’s God damn mine, and I’ll skin, salt, and fuck any ruptured scumbag who tries to take it!”

You weren't in the trial. For a second too long, you were somewhere else. In your head, on a dock, you didn't fucking know. All you knew was that the voice stirred something within you. Somewhere - you'd heard it somewhere before. Where? You couldn't remember. Maybe you hadn't even recognised it, but the strength of the familiarity was enough to shake you.

Somewhere. Someone.

In the blank space of your head that you could feel, you knew he was there. It made you want to claw at your scalp and peel back the flesh. If you shattered your skull then everything would spill out. Or would you end up dying in a disappointing pool of black tar instead?

What if you forgot everything?

“-you alright?” Franco asked, and your attention snapped towards him.

What did you do to deserve to be taken away from everything you knew?

You didn't say anything, nodding instead. A hand wrapped around yours, and he gave you the best smile anyone could muster in your circumstances. Fake and pained.

“Let's go,” he said. You nodded again.

Your friends caught up, and you were given an extra decoder. The space before you led to multiple darkened passageways.

Cattle cars displayed the symbols you needed to find like some sort of messed up children's game, and you were left with Franco. It was decided as a team. You went left. They went right. With a mental note made of the symbol you needed, you beckoned to Franco to follow.

So began your search.

All the while, you searched your mind for memories attached to that voice.

Franco gasped from the pain his night vision goggles caused him when he pulled them over his eyes. Thankfully, it was a pain you had forgotten, but you could sympathise with him. The section beside the train was incredibly narrow with no visibility. He had no choice but to wear them if he wanted to see.

You navigated around a corner with no luck finding a star. Then you navigated around another corner to find nothing useful either. But then a light from another cattle car caught your eye. Yellow paint lit up like fireworks the second you lifted your goggles.

The star was there. Part of it anyway. Both of you moved towards the part of the puzzle you had found, and you glanced around for its missing half. It had to be in front of you if needed to line them up, but where?

The answer was on a barrel.

“Got it-” you breathed, holding up the decoder. It sprang to life, and you jolted when Franco bumped into you.

You were going to ask if he was okay when he told you he had heard something. Against the buzz of the device, you had failed to listen for anything else. How could you when your attention was divided between some stupid star and fragments of your past? But when you focused you could hear it too.

Breathing. It was heavy. Strained. It had to be him. Unless it was another ex-pop there was nobody else it could be.

He wasn’t getting any quieter either, and you looked back at the decoder to see it had stopped on one number. You waved it in front of you, desperate for it to work. You were so close to being able to leave - you could get it before whoever it was making their way towards you reached you.

They could turn and leave. It was a gamble that you were willing to take.

If you stayed you could see him.

“Go hide-” you snapped, and Franco hesitated. “Go.”

“Who is that?” That voice. You froze when Franco finally moved, and he brought you with him onto the car much to your dismay.

“My dad send you? Think I'm fuckin' scared of you?” Franco guided you to a barrel and instructed you to get inside.

You did, albeit you were slow. The voice lulled you into a trance, and you wanted to know who it was. His face was all you needed. Just one peek. That was it. Fingertips rounding the edge of the barrel, you peered over the top to see Franco cross the train towards a barrel on the other side.

He ran right past the opening and fell in unison with a bang.

The sound of the gunshot continued to ring in your ears, and you stared in horror at Franco. He was alive - a strained groan spilled from his lips as he rolled over to grip his leg. The bottoms he wore were red already, but the blood began to seep from between his fingers.

“Found you, fuckin’ rat-” the voice cooed. “Try fuckin’ runnin’ now, cocksucker.”

The stranger came into view. As he stepped into the light you could see everything. It was him.

He was the man in your vision.

Your answer.

And still nothing made sense. Even as you took him in, you couldn't place him in your memory. But you could see the situation was dire.

“Gonna cry? What a fuckin’ coward,” the man said, and you shot up from the barrel. With a blind rig, you weren't much use, but the brick in your pocket was.

“Franco - move!” you cried out. Both men looked at you, and you launched the brick at the stranger.

It was a perfect shot.

“Shit - my fuckin’ head!”

You leapt from the barrel and almost careened over with it as Franco threw himself to his feet. He cried as he did - falling down when he tried to make the jump from the car.

When you landed beside him, you didn't get very far. A hand snatched at your neck, and your body was pulled back against the car floor behind you.

“Must be one of those roaches - the fuck do you think you are usin’ my name like that? You-”

He was Franco.

You let out a whimper at the sensation of your spine being pulled against the car's floor and upwards. As if it couldn't get any worse, a gun pressed to one side of your head, and a face the other. The proximity forced you into stillness at the feel of the real Franco’s breath against your ear.

“Ain't no fuckin’ way,” he huffed beside you, and you looked at the Franco on the floor who was trying to crawl beneath the car.

“One of a God damn kind,” your assailant said.

The aggressiveness he held in his voice shifted into something more joyous. He carried an excitable air around him as he let go of your neck, and he jumped from the train. The mood was shattered when he landed on an injured leg, and the shriek that erupted from beneath the train must have been heard trial wide.

“Shut your whore mouth!”

What were you meant to do?

As two shots fired off into the Franco beneath the train, you were faced with the Franco who had inspired the nickname. And he had killed a man. There was nothing else you could have done but run. You were a credit to your own survival as you did, but you mourned two losses.

One of which tailed after you.

“Where do you think you’re goin’? Are we playin’ games? Kiss and chase?”

You sped towards the drug cart at breakneck speed. It seemed Franco had a hard time keeping up with you as his breathing became more laboured. He shouted after you and began to talk to himself when he lost sight of you.

There wasn’t any time for you to explain as you crashed into your friends.

“Did you get the drugs?” one of them asked, and everything came crashing down around you. They asked about Franco. You felt yourself slipping as the thoughts struggled to form on your tongue.

“Gone, no - he’s gone. Franco got him.”

“What do you mean Franco got Franco?” You didn’t have a response to the question as you fumbled for anything. Each word that unceremoniously left your mouth felt like chewing on dirt. Franco killed Franco. Franco was the name of the ex-pop they had seen.

The silence that fell after you finished spoke volumes.

You could see it in their body language. The way that they didn’t move, yet their eyes danced across you. Muscles tightened like coils ready to spring. They didn’t say anything, but you felt their judgement.

While you tried to convince yourself it was just guilt, you knew why they would take suspicion with you.

You understood why.

“C’mon out, orsacchiotto, I wanna make sure it’s really you,” Franco called out. His tone was playful despite the weasely undertone of something else that dripped through. Whatever it was was primal. “You got more friends you want to introduce me too? I’ve somethin’ for ‘em too.”

A metallic bang erupted from one of the trains as if something hit a wall, and you flinched.

“I know where the code thing is, I got one of the numbers before Franco appeared - I can lead you to-” you were cut off by a hand against your mouth. Your friend had lunged forwards and covered it with his head turned. He let it slide down, and ran a hand over his own face, refusing to step back.

Then he gestured behind you. “Go on, lead the way.”

You did - going back in the way you came. At the same time, it seemed Franco hadn’t given up his search, and his words damned you beyond the judgement you had already suffered.

“D’ya remember those cold, cold nights when I used to keep you warm?” You weren’t sure if you wanted to remember.

“I’d give anythin’ if you’d come cuddle up to me. Baby’s lonely.” Whatever you were to him was more than a friend.

“I know what you want - zuccherino for my zuccherino - too bad it’s locked away. I thought your mommy taught you good manners… All you gotta say is please…” Yet there was a bite of hostility in his voice.

“Don’tcha miss me?”

You did. Deep down inside, despite the way your body screamed at you in all the confusion and pain, you missed him.

You wanted to stop running.

With a shaky hand, you held the decoder up to the star symbol.

Nine, three, zero.

You stared at the void between the floor and the cattle car knowing there was a fresh corpse there. Your friend went to the vault to open it up, and you waited beside the edge of the car.

But it wasn’t silent.

Your name spilled from nearby. Close. It was close, yet you couldn’t see anything. The sound of shuffling and debris being pushed out the way forced you back into the cool steel of the cattle car. From the safety of your light, darkness opened up before you. So you let the goggles slide over your eyes.

There, opposite you, was Franco. You were witness to him as he crawled through an opening in the wall on all fours. He was swift to his feet and quicker to train both barrels of his shotgun on you. A broad smile decorated his sunny expression, and laughter bubbled from his throat at your reaction to him.

“Bang!” he exclaimed. “Caught you.”

There was movement inside of the car.

“And another fuckin’ rat,” he muttered. “Am I not enough? You gotta bring these dumb fuckin’ fucks into my work? My house?”

Your heart was in your throat, and the lack of sound from the train alerted you to the fact that your friend had stopped moving. He was playing it safe. He wasn’t going to leave you was he? He was going to leave you with Franco.

Regardless of if your friendship still existed or not, you were going to try at the very least to let him do that.

You were fine.

“Wait,” you blurted out. “I don’t remember Franco, I don’t remember anything at all.” He stopped dead in his tracks. You glanced at the way his finger toyed with the trigger on his shotgun, and then you met his eyes.

“I don’t remember anything at all,” you repeated as everything began to unwind into sadness. “They put this fucking thing on my head, and they force me to do things I don’t want to do.”

You gripped at your night vision goggles, the bolts embedded in your skull. Franco’s head lolled to the side with narrowed eyes, and you had his full attention.

“Who?” he asked.

“Who what?”

“Who the fuck is making you do anythin’? Is it those scumbags that are runnin’ around?” You shook your head. “Nobody fuckin’ tells you what to do. You’re not some fuckin’ whore…”

Franco’s expression contorted as his fist tightened in on itself. He shook his head and strode over to the car. You watched as he slammd the butt of his shotgun against the train, cursing each time. Each sound sent shockwaves through your poor nervous system, and you felt feint from the amount of adrenaline that coursed through your body.

“Fuck!” Franco repeated. “Why the fuck is nothin’ makin’ sense today? Shit’s so confusin’. Give me strength, somebody.” The gun was pointed at you in a casual gesture far too dangerous for your liking.

“Baby’s got to put on his big boy pants. I’ll be comin’ back for you, oh, don’t you think I’ll forget, but first…”

You couldn’t stop him from leaving. He hopped onto the train, and when he left it, it wasn’t long before you heard the gun go off.

Lupara.

That was what he called it. You remembered.

Unable to control your tears, you let them stream down your face like you fell to the floor. When there was a scream from near the drug cart, you cried out louder in unison. Knees brought up to your chest, you buried yourself into your own makeshift darkness.

Nothing could reassure you as your head pounded from the memories that tried to break through into your conscious mind.

It hurt. All your friends were dead.

And the man who murdered them came back to you with a spring in his step.

Apparently, one summer before Franco had to leave for Cuba, in the light of the rising sun you’d both gone to the docks together. Nobody else was really up at the time, and only the waves disturbed you both. Nothing had been planned, it was more of a spur of the moment thing, but you enjoyed it none the less according to him.

He explained to you in great detail how you’d made plans together to get ice cream and spend the whole day lounging there. Nobody was going to move either of you unless you decided to go yourselves. It was something you wanted to do, and he was happy to oblige since you were willing to give him everything he wanted in return.

You would hold his hand and drag him around to show him all the things you loved, and he would tell you that he loved you.

Love was a word that felt like choking up sawdust when he said it. Love never worked out for him. It wasn’t his thing, but he said it anyway. He recounted how you were so innocent to him.

He never told you how he pictured the shoreline coated in red. Intrusive thoughts flashed the image of you lying before him all mangled and pretty with your face stained in blood. You never needed to know because he couldn’t do it.

No, you were different.

There was nothing but joy on your face as he’d followed you along that beach. It was hard for him to explain, but ever since you had settled into something together, he’d chased after that feeling of being wanted like he chased you along the sand.

You humiliated him in your own way by making him think he truly belonged.

And you’d done it again.

Still in the same spot that you had fallen to beside the car, Franco sat with you. He waved his feet back and forth, swaying his body side to side while he looked at you. You hadn’t come out of your self imposed cocoon yet, but you had a single eye on him too.

Things had been ironed out to some degree.

Obviously he’d asked you what you remembered before he told you a few bits about your past, and while you couldn’t be certain what was true or not, you wanted to believe him. At the point you were at, you prayed that it was true. Something about him soothed the ache in your head.

He was undeniably charismatic, and you weren’t going to deny the fact that you felt drawn to him.

Then the important question of what you were doing in his territory with the others came up again. There was little he could have done to hide the irritation in his voice as he spoke about you being around them. He wanted to know why you were helping them. If you were anybody else he would have killed you, yet you had a chance to explain.

Franco understood to some extent, despite being frustrated.

He told you that he felt great - better than he’d ever been - but things were off. Seeing you made everything that much sweeter, yet that didn’t change the fact that he too was having issues with his memory.

Déjà vu he called it. It felt like the same shit everyday with different faces.

When you’d told him you were kept by faceless men in laboratory coats and given orders, he mentioned he’d seen some people like that behind glass. It was clear the worlds you were living in were very different. To him, the docks were real. To you, it was an experiment.

Things had gone quiet after that while you pieced together the shards of your past until a hand found your arm. Fingers walked up it and poked at your cheekbone. Franco shifted himself into a kneeling position with his body turned to you, and you lifted your head at the way he searched your soul with his gaze. Without even speaking, he was searching for something in you.

“Not gonna leave, are you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to leave, but I’ve never tried to stay in a trial before without doing what I’m told. What if they come to get me?”

“Then they’re fuckin’ dead. Think they got a chance against my Lupara?” Each word was spat with pride like he could see them cold already. “Hey-”

Your pulse quickened as Franco pulled your arm from your leg. He supported it in between his hands, and he brought your knuckles to his mouth.

“You’d never leave me,” he hummed against your skin. “No - no, I knew you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t abandon your baby.”

The contact left you flustered as your mind raced over the implications that you were very much his old partner. You didn’t even know if you’d ever separated. Most likely not, if he was going to treat you the way he was. It was strange to feel his kiss against your hand. Not unwelcome, but it was strange.

As he told you that he wanted to feel your arms around him, you crossed your legs and opened yourself up to him. Surreal was an understatement to have him crawl onto your lap without the need to be prompted, and you were delicate in the way you pulled him towards you.

When his head rested on your shoulder, you decided to stop trying to process everything.

“Back where I belong…” you heard Franco sigh.

The weight of his body kept you grounded in the moment. An overwhelming sense of comfort washed over you at the contact - something you had sorely missed - and you let it happen. There was so much you wanted to ask Franco, but for the time being, you savoured the affection he showed you.

He made everything feel better.

“Well shit,” Clyde sighed as he placed down Easterman’s report. He bet Avellanos was going to have a field day with the information they had been given. It was a small world, but even he hadn’t been able to track down Fraco’s supposed partner in the height of his investigation.

Turns out all they had to do was pick up people from the streets, pluck them from their homes, and they’d get lucky.

THE PREMATURE END OF THE TRAIL WHICH RESULTED IN THE DEATH OF THREE REAGENTS WAS BOTH DUE TO FRANCO’S OWN AGGRESSION AND THE NATURAL FLOW OF THE TRIAL. YET THERE WAS A CATALYST.

WE FOUND HIS OLD FLAME. THE FOURTH REAGENT BEING FRANCO’S ROMANTIC PARTNER CAME AS QUITE A SURPRISE, AND I THOUGHT YOU’D BE INTERESTED IN SEEING OUR FRIEND IN THE FLESH. I HAVE RECONSIDERED THEIR POSITION AS REAGENT MOVING FORWARDS, BUT WOULD LIKE TO INVITE YOU TO DISCUSS THESE OPTIONS FACE TO FACE.

UNTIL THEN, FRANCO AND THE REAGENT HAVE BEEN SEPARATED.

#Ritual_Of_Cirice fanfiction #Ritual_Of_Cirice requests #franco barbi (outlast)#franco barbi (outlast) x reader #outlast trials #tw blood #tw violence #tw death #tw drug use #tw needles #tw injury #tw non consensual body modification #tw flashing lights

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corgiqueen14 · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Maddie Buckley, Howie "Chimney" Han, Henrietta "Hen" Wilson, Bobby Nash, Athena Grant, Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Additional Tags: Non-Consensual Drug Use, Seizure, Whumptober Day 4, Whumptober 2022, Whumptober Day 19, Protective Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Worried Eddie Diaz, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Getting Together Series: Part 4 of CorgiQueen14's Whumptober 2022 Summary:

Buck was just trying to have a nice night out with the team. He just wanted to have a drink/ He didn't expect this.

Whumptober Day 4: Can't pass out, and Day 19: Repeatedly passing out/head lolling.

#whumptober2022 #day 4 #can't pass out #day 19 #repeatedly passing out #911 on fox #buddie #tw: non consensual drug use #911 fic #my fics

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lildevyl · 2 years

Text

Whumptober Day 5: Ransom Video

DSMP Superhero AU Phoenix Rising

Summary: “Are we live? Yep, we are! Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen of L’Manburg. You probably already know me and my brother but let me introduce myself. I’m Nightmare. But let’s actually move on to the star of the show!”

TW: Kidnapping, Ransom Video, Nonconsensual Drug Use

Part One Here

Part Three Here

Part Four Here

Nightmare takes the camera and strolls through the hallway and towards a door leading to the basement. When Nightmare gets to the bottom of the stairs and turns the camera to the center.

“Aw! Doesn’t he look so cute! Already trying to escape Tommy? But we haven’t even started on why you’re here yet!”

It has been about a week since the sixteen year old Thomas Theseus Innes Watson has been reported missing. Reports say that a man had come to pick up Thomas from school that was not his father or brothers. However, since Thomas stated and showed that he knew the man the school allowed the man to take Thomas with him. Since then no one has seen Thomas. The last time anyone saw him was last Friday. If you have any information please call the hotline.

The news drone on and on about some more boring stuff. Oh, so they finally noticed that their little boy had gone missing? Well, time to put the Superhero Family out of their misery. Oh this was going to be fun! Let’s what the Crow Father, the Blade and Ghostbur truly value. Their so-called family that they kept on saying and repeating from time to time but had no problem in ignoring their own family? Or the lives of faceless and nameless people that only see them as the heroes when they need a hero?

He went to the laptop and checked to make sure everything was ready. The New Channel was still going on and it was live! Perfect! He then hit the button.

The screen went black and white and with nothing but TV Snow for a few minutes than it came back. One side of the screen was the L’Manburg News Channel and the other side of the screen was the live footage that he presented.

“Are we live? Yep, we are!” He then took the camera that was broadcasting the event and turned to him. The News Anchors covered their mouths when they saw who it was.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen of L’Manburg. You probably already know who me and my brother are but let me introduce myself anyway. I’m Nightmare. But let’s actually move on to the actual star of the tonight’s show!”

Nightmare takes the camera and strolls through the hallway and towards a door leading to the basement. Nightmare starts going down the wooden stairs and just starts monologuing the entire time. About how easy it was to get the kid’s trust. How easy it was to just lure him away. How easy it was to just get him to trust him and his brother because of how lonely the kid was. The kids' family were Superheroes though he made sure not to say what their names were and how they were so dedicated in saving so many lives but chose to ignore their youngest son.

When Nightmare made it to the bottom of the steps, he panned the camera to the “Star of the Show.” Thomas Theseus Watson. The kid had his arms free and was trying to get the ropes off his legs.

“Aw! Doesn’t he look so cute! Already trying to escape Tommy? But we haven’t even started on why you’re here yet!”

Tommy looked up and gave Nightmare his best intimidation of his brother’s the Blade, death glare. “You fucking tricked me! You said that we were friends! I trusted you! You - you took me to see your shop and everything!”

“Aw, don’t be like Tommy! Of course we’re friends!”

“Bullshit! Friends don’t kidnap them and shove in the basement for days on end!”

“Oh Tommy! It isn’t like that! Look, we both know how neglectful your so-called family are! I just decided to show you how much they truly don’t care about you!”

“That’s not true! They care about me! They’re just - really busy is all!”

“Tommy, if that was true then you wouldn’t have summoned me. You wouldn’t have summoned my brother. We are attracted to those you call out to us. Those who truly have a truly deep seeded wish that they want to come true. You, Tommy, have truly called us. I haven’t heard a call like that in so many centuries, it isn't funny!”

Tommy stilled at that. It couldn’t be true! No, he was just lying! Trying to get under your skin! “You’re lying! I didn’t - I didn’t summon you! You - you’re a fucking wrong’un is what you are! Fucking godman dickhead that can’t get any women because you just go around kidnapping people! What too afraid to face my family so you had to kidnap me? Stalk me?! What the absolute fuck!”

Nightmare just cracked a smile at this kid’s attempt at bravery. He had to give it to the kid. He had no fear in insulting his kidnapper like there was no tomorrow.

“Oh don’t worry, Tommy. There’s an actual reason why I came down here.” Tommy eye Nightmare. He didn’t like where this was going. “Oh, Tommy, you’re the Star of the Show! We’re going to actually see what your family truly values. Their youngest son/brother who’s got no powers and is completely human? Or the lives of the faceless, nameless civilians of this city?”

“What are -what are - you going to do?” Tommy stammered.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that, Tommy.” Nightmare came over to Tommy and put his hand in front of Tommy’s face. He then let his Sleep Mist do its trick. Tommy slumped in his chair, completely passed out.

The next thing that the News Channel saw, when the segment went live again was. Tommy Watson passed out in a coffin, both Nightmare and Phantom were standing over Tommy. Then they closed the lid and lowered the coffin with the boy still inside. Then Phantom took his cane banged on the ground and the dirt covered the coffin evenly.

Phantom then looked back at the camera. “You have a choice, Heroes. You have one hour. You either save the lives of the worthless faceless, nameless civilians that have no problem in turning on you at the drop of hat? Or the life of your youngest? The one that has no powers and will grow up to be another nameless, faceless civilian while the rest of you have all the fame and glory. The L’Manburg Graveyard or the City Park. One has the life of your youngest and will be dead in less than an hour when the air runs out. Or the people in the park where we hid a bomb.

Your choice, Heroes.”

The screen went black as the camera was turned off. No doubt everyone was panicking. Oh, this will be fun. What would the Hero Family choose? Their youngest brother and son? Or the lives of the civilians that they swore to protect and literally put them first above all else.

*******

Tagging: @weirdmixofweirdness, @ashedflower, @luna-moonblood, @luverofsupernatural, @tracobuttons, @10th-no-name-person, @10ths-writing-corner, @a-humble-narcissus, @isa-ghost, @septic-dr-schneep

#whumptober 2022 #whumptober day 5 #whumptober #nathonwantstobattle #nate mare #phantom #nwtb egos #dsmp #dsmp superhero au #tommyinnit #dsmp tommy #tw kidnapping #tw non consensual drug use #phoenix rising #youtube

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konigsblog · 5 months

Note

incel konig kidnapping his favorite (obsession) cosplayer girl??

tw/cw; kidnapping, non-consensual touching, dark fiction, afab!f!reader.

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT — MDNI 18+ 🔞

photo credit: @ave661

könig isn't against kidnapping. if he really wants something, he'll make sure he gets it. he doesn't understand why you're so petrified and unable to speak in his presence when you're usually so bubbly and bright, tied to his bed.

könig spends lots of his free time on your tiktok page, waiting for another upload. he has multiple tabs open at all times and they're all links to your social media accounts. he stalks your twitter and gets off to the deep fakes he creates using various websites, listening to you speak on live to your lovely followers.

the majority of your followers are other cosplayers or people that enjoy your content. to könig, it feels as if he's the only depraved pervert on your page. he strokes himself while fantasising about doing horrible, horrible things to you. it's sickening to most, totally immoral and taboo to even think about.

you announced that you'd be going to a convention for cosplayers like yourself, and since then, könig's plan was in action. he'd stalk you before drugging you and dragging your back to his car, to tie you up and lock you in the "safety" of his home. könig claims that he's doing this because he can't protect you from others. you can protect yourself and make responsible decisions, but you can't control the decisions other people will make. the world is a dangerous place, mäusi, he's looking out for you. you should thank him.

he'll tie you to his bed and will jerk off to the sight. he'll caress your soft curves and breasts, buying lingerie and different costumes to put his beloved girl in, to force you to present and put on a show for him.

you belong to him, got that?

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year

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Title: Needlework.

A grab-bag commission for the very lovely @pale-horse-writing.

Pairing: Yandere!OC x Reader.

Summary: Your long-term captor takes one more step towards making you his perfect little doll.

Word Count: 1.2k.

TW: Injury To Reader, Infantilization, Dollification, Feminization (Reader Dressed Femininely and Specifically NOT Cool With It), Implied Kidnapping, Unhealthy Relationships, and Non-Consensual Drug Use.

Every stitch took exactly fifteen seconds.

Two for the tip of the needle to pierce your skin, three more to find its exit-point, and ten for Dottie to pull the long, braided string through your punctured flesh. The final result was two perfectly symmetrical rows of neat, pinkish white ‘x’-es leading from the curve of your foot to the bottom of your knee, binding vinyl to skin and ensuring you wouldn’t be able to remove it without a great deal of trouble, without ruining your perfect white gloves and perfect white dress. The shoes themselves – because that was the point of this, as difficult as it was to remember, to make sure you couldn’t misbehave and remove your real punishment – were silver and well-polished, a pair that he'd just brought home a few days ago. There had been crossed strips of ribbon down the front at one point, but they’d been removed in favor of leaving that much more of your skin exposed, and in place of the dainty, delicate heels he usually preferred were thick platforms; about six inches tall and specially weighted to limit mobility. You couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten them. You couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten it into his head to use them for something like this.

Dottie brought the needle to your skin for the final stitch, the point sinking into your numb calf for the thousandth time. Despite everything, he wasn’t a sadist – the mask fitted over the lower half of your face and the canister it was attached to made sure you stayed limp, complacent, too strung-out to move or run or think as he worked. A few months ago, you would’ve protested, kicked and screamed and threw the kind of tantrum he’d have to calm with a hushed tone and a handful of sedatives, but you’d learned better, since then. He was going to do whatever he wanted to you, no matter how you reacted to it. The only thing you got to decide was how much it was going to hurt.

There was an airy chuckle, the sound of a thread being cut, then a fleeting kiss to the inside of your knee. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, peeling off his latex gloves and discarding them along with his bloody needle before turning his attention back to you, to your prone state. Your mask was removed, but your vision remained unfocused, the fog laying over your thoughts still thick as Dottie ran his fingertips over your cheek, rubbing out the lingering indents. Out of reflex, you leaned into his touch, eager to savor his gentleness before the numbness wore off and the ache let in, and your desperation was rewarded with a light hum, another kiss – the one to the top of your head. “You did beautifully.” You felt his lips against the shell of your ear, then your cheek. “I couldn’t ask for a better model.”

You tried to speak, to respond with something halfway coherent, but your tongue was too heavy and your throat was filled with cotton and it was all you could do to open your mouth, to let out something you could only compare to a fractured whimper. There was a sympathetic coo, a new weight on the edge of the velvet-cushioned lounge-seat he used for your little ‘adjustments’. Carefully, with pains taken not to disturb the delicate bows tied into your hair, he draped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I know, I know,” he muttered, squeezing you against him before detangling himself from you completely. “But it’s for the best. I knew what had to be done the second I saw what you were getting up to while I was gone.”

What you were getting up to. He must’ve meant breaking his unspoken rules – cooking for yourself, changing out of his meticulously chosen outfits, loosening the strings of the lung-flattening corsets he took minutes out of his schedule to bind you into. You weren’t supposed to do anything, not while he was gone, not if there was a chance you’d bruise yourself or tear the hem of one of his handmade petticoats. He would never say it aloud, but he wasn’t subtle. He wanted you to be something pretty, something useless, something that was doted on and adorned with proof of his misplaced love. You’d heard him admit, once, while he thought you were asleep, that if he had his way, you wouldn’t have to do so much as think for yourself, but thankfully, he hadn’t found an article of clothing that can accomplish that. Not yet, at least.

“This’ll keep you out of trouble while I’m away.” He positioned himself at your side, clapping his hands the way you would if you were trying to get a child’s attention. An animal’s attention. “Why don’t you try taking a step for me, sweetheart?”

Dread, fear, and shame coiled in the pit of your stomach. With more than a little reluctance, you swung your feet over the side of the chair, tears immediately welling up and blurring your vision further as the platforms strained Dottie’s stitching and sent a thousand stabbing, agonizing jolts racing up your legs. Standing was no easier, but you managed to push yourself to your feet, to ignore the way your legs screamed in protest long enough to lift your right foot and took a single, unsteady st—

Your knees buckled, your strength faltering, and then you were on the ground, legs bent into a crumbled heap and dress fanning out around you. Dottie was by your side in a moment, pulling you into his arms as you heard yourself start to sniffle, as you felt warm tears start to drip down your cheeks. “Poor thing.” The sentiment was empathetic, but his cadence was overjoyed, brimming with excitement. It was the same tone he used when he sat you down in front of a vanity, made you watch as he fastened yet another lace collar around your neck. It was the same voice he used when he was on top of you, wiping away your tears as he pretended to care about whether or not you were happy. “Like a puppet without its strings. That’s alright, though. You know I’ll always be here to repair you.”

You rested your cheek against his chest, shutting your eyes. “People don’t need to be repaired.”

“But you do.” One last kiss, this one to the corner of your lips. This time, you couldn’t bring yourself to pretend the affection made you feel much of anything at all. “And that’s why I have to look after you.”

He was taking you back to your bedroom, to the pink-soaked space filled to the point of bursting with soft blankets and stuffed animals and all the things he wanted you to want. You’d be left there until the numbing agent wore off, until the pain was more than you could take, and when you cried out for him and his distorted comfort, he’d take joy in doting on you, in reassuring himself that you were too helpless to take so much as a step without his help.

You could only hope that, whenever he decided you’d learned your lesson, his stitches would come out faster than they’d gone in.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabble #yandere oc #oc x reader #yandere oc x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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mochiroreo · 7 months

Text

And I will fuck you like nothing matters

Dark!reader x Rafe Cameron

TW: M18+ NON-CON, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, implied heavy smut at the end, degradation, non-consensual use of drugs, mentions of rape and domestic violence, mean!rafe, psycho!dark!reader, non-consensual recording (sorry not sorry rafe lol)

Author’s note: I am back just to post this blurb cause I love dark!Rafe but I also want to read something about the reader being the unhinged, pyscho one 🤭 . Also, this is unedited so if you see some wrong grammar or wrong spelling.. no you didn’t.

“Hmm..” a dull, throbbing pain made him tightly closed his eyes. His body feeling heavy and sluggish. He felt like he slept in a wrong position for two days, with how his muscles are aching. He was about to stretch and move his arms when he felt a tug that restricted his movements.

“Wait.. wha—?” The sensation made Rafe open his eyes, his baby blues scanning the room in utter confusion. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the low light, looking up at his wrists tied together above him, and his legs tied to the bed frame. “What the fuck..?” He mumbled in a slurred manner, his baby blues darting around the room before feeling the bed dipped beside him.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

Rafe immediately looked up, his breath slightly hitching with how close your face is.

“A-angel?” He whispered his nickname for you, confusion more evident on his face now with his brows scrunched up. “How— why—“ Rafe’s questions were cut off by your giggle, airy and as if the whole situation is amusing, making his jaw tick in irritation.

For him, maybe it’s not as amusing. For you, however, it is definitely the highlight of your life.

“What are you doing? You think this is funny?” He asked, voice low and threatening, as if he is not the one tied down tightly on your bed right now. You just looked at him with a soft smile, a soft hand landing on his forehead to smooth the creases between his eyebrows before affectionately running your hand through his buzzed hair.

“Oh no, Rafey. I just think this suits you..” you words hanged onto the air, making him anticipate what’s next. “After all, isn’t this what you had planned for me? I just switched up who will be the victim.” You answered, ignoring the slight widening of his eyes with your answer.

His heart was thumping loudly inside his chest now, feeling the rope’s roughness that bound both his wrists and ankles. “W-what? I don’t— I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about.” Rafe looked straight into your eyes, trying to convince you. Yet your smile sent a chill down his spine.

“What do you mean? I know your plan silly!” You giggled, biting your bottom lip which made the boy gulp. “I am very much aware of the Kook king’s personal life and the rumours surrounding you, you know. The rape allegations at the parties after slipping some drugs on their drinks. Or maybe asking them to drink a bit too much. I have also heard how much you have punched and kicked your previous girlfriends.. lucky that your daddy knows how to bail you out!”

Your eyes travelled down Rafe’s disheveled state, the buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing a slither of tan skin underneath. His taut muscles evident as he squirms to move. While you were distracted, Rafe tried to free himself, struggling as the rope got tighter and tighter the more he tried to escape.

“Where was I? Oh! And so— I have heard from Topper how it’s now my “time” apparently. Then there you were! In front of my house, asking me to drink with you cause you were feeling lonely. I knew you slipped a drug on my drink,, so I have beat you to it and knocked you out.” You admitted with a shrug, moving away to stand up while still watching Rafe closely.

“You’re fucking crazy. I-I didn’t even— wasn’t planning to do anything!” Rafe tried to reason out, gritting his teeth when the rope wouldn’t budge.

“Really? Cause the rope that I used was from the back of your truck. I even found some little baggies.” You inserted your hand inside your bra, the action making Rafe stare straight to your chest and take in what you are wearing.

You wore white lacy set of lingerie, hugging the swell of your breasts and thighs, accentuating every dips and curves as if you were carves by the gods to look like a literal angel on earth.

Except, you are holding every variety of drugs that Rafe owns with a big smile.

Each bag has some different sized pills and powders, which you were sure were party drugs and coke from his drug dealer best friend, Barry.

“Now come on, Angel. Don’t you know that you shouldn’t touch what’s not yours? You don’t even know shit about drugs or-or how expensive those are!” He groaned, unable to do anything. Rafe is at his limit, his patience running thin as he think of the things he will do once he breaks free from the ropes, promising to himself that he will definitely fuck you to the point that you’ll beg him to stop plowing your abused cunt. Your appearance and his imagination making his thick cock hard despite his anger.

“Hmm.. I know which drugs is which. I think I stalked you enough to know which one is your favourite other than coke.” Moving closer, you brushed your hair away from your face. “And to be honest. I thought you would have more.” You grabbed a bottle of water on the bedside table before straddling Rafe’s chest.

The action made Rafe’s shorts tighter with how painfully hard he is, his point of view accentuating your breasts, seeing your nipples perky from the cold air inside the room. Once again, he struggled with the intention of trying to free himself to grab you and slap the shit out of you while drilling his cock to your wet pussy, he gritted his teeth and whispered menacingly.

“Now now, Angel. We can do this without the rope.. you know? If I have known you were a little freaky.. I would have asked you properly instead of what I was planning to do.” His words made chuckle, raking your manicured nails on his chest, making him let out a low groan.

“But where’s the fun in that?! Besides it would be unfair to just let you do that.. knowing how much you’ve been a bad boy here in Outer banks..” leaning forward, you balanced yourself and gripped his arms, slightly rutting your clothed core on his stomach. The action made Rafe groan, his anger disappearing as he thinks that you are just a closeted little freak that is now removing your disguise to fuck him. Rafe’s hips were bucking slightly, loving the hazy look in your eyes as he lets you to revel on the power you have over him right now.

“This is exciting, but I want to make it wayyy more pleasurable for us two.” Dragging your tongue on his collarbone, you moved away to grab one of the baggies containing some neon pink and green pills making Rafe eye you suspiciouslly. As far as he remember, he did not order some odd looking pills from Barry.

Grinning at him like the devil, you took two from the bag before going back to your position, your left hand tracing the bottom of his lips as you bite your own. Rafe’s lips parted, his pink tongue slightly peeking, urging you to lean down and finally kiss him.

The kiss was hot and messy, and Rafe kissed you like a man starved. His tongue immediately invading your mouth, savouring the slight dominance that he has knowing that he cannot escape your bed to flip you over. Rafe was so into the kiss that he did not feel both of your hands wrap around his neck.

Your hands were getting tighter and tighter, making him pull back with wide eyes that is staring right straight to your in panic.

“A-angel— hey hey..!” He tried to fully scream at you, nails slowly digging into the flesh of his neck. Rafe was slowly running out of air, his vision swimming in the dark while looking at you smiling so gently to him as if you aren’t choking him to death right now. His lips parted in a silent scream, before you let go to forcefully shove the pills down his throat which almost made him puke.

You let go once the pills were stuck down his throat, Rafe immediately heaving and gasping for air, making the pills slide down with his spit. He didn’t waste any time to steady his breathing, immediately screaming at your face.

“ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?! YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH, I WILL FUCKING RIP YOUR HEAD OFF AND YOUR FUCKING PUSSY IF I GET OUT OF HERE! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” His neck was red, veins popping out from him screaming directly on your face. You faked a sniffle, eyes slightly watering before you broke into a laugh.

“Woah calm down, pretty boy!” You managed to squeeze out as you continue to laugh, making Rafe jolt with the want to punch you down and force himself on you. “I just want to make sure you drink the pill candy without a fight.” You stated, offering a water bottle pointed at his lips. His breathing was erratic with anger, nudging the bottle away from his face before it dawned on him.

“Fuck—“ he mumbled. “What the fuck are those pills?!” You just shrugged, shaking your head as you so. “I have enough of your bitchy brat games, you fucking psycho! What the fuck are those pills!” Wiping down the spit that landed on your chest, you sighed giving him a faux pout.

“It’s just something to relax you.. and maybe give you more strength as I use you the whole night?” As if on cue, his cock that went soft with the stunt that you pulled suddenly hardened, blood immediately rushing down south. Rafe’s body slowly started to feel hot, he feels so lightheaded that his eyelids were almost closing on him while he tries not to pant and control his breathing. “Shit shit shit” he mumbled in panic, mind swimming with all the possibilities what the pill might be and what it might do to him.

You cut his thoughts short when you swiftly undressed him, his eyes wide and watery as you blow air on his clothed cock that was immediately weeping before letting it spring free. You thumbed the continuous flow of his pre-cum, making him buck his hips for more. Your touch was cold on his burning skin, a soft whine passing by his lips when you gave his leaking tip one kitten lick.

“Fuck please— what— what did you do to me..?” Rafe whispered softly, slowly losing his mind with the need and desire to feel your mouth, cunt, or your ass on his dick that is now standing proudly against his stomach.

“Nothing really. I told you I’ll make sure to make this more pleasurable for us, didn’t I? Must have been frustrating to be on the receiving end, huh?” Straddling his waist, you move your lacy panties aside to rut it on his cock, his pre-cum making it slide easier on your sopping wet pussy. You continued your actions, ignoring Rafe’s please to let him put his cock in you.

“You know.. I’ve heard how much you wanted me.. how much you think you can ruin me, to manipulate me into your ‘slut’. But I don’t want to be one of those girls that you took advantage of, Rafey. I want to be special, I want something more.” Your body was slowly getting covered with a light sheen of sweat, lips so close besides Rafe’s ear as you lick and tease his ear lobe. Soft whines and gasps escaping your lips before smirking as Rafe tried his best to listen to you despite him slowly losing his mind.

“So I decided to just show you, decided that maybe I’m the one that can break you..” Rafe lets out a deep strangled cry as he cums, body vibrating with the intensity of his ejaculation while he shut his eyes close. “Oh my, you just cummed but you’re still hard, Rafey!” Your statement made Rafe open his eyes weakly, vision slightly blurry with unshed tears, his cock more sensitive that ever.

Your left hand encircled his thick shaft, slowly dragging your palm up and down, making Rafe choked out a sob “‘s too much— please— fuck— ‘s too much” Rafe rambled, making you stop playing with his cock; giving him soft kisses on his cheeks, kissing his tears away. “Oh shush, don’t cry Rafey. I will make you feel good, make you feel so so good.” You whispered against his flushed skin, licking the lone tear that slid down while you console him.

You grabbed the water bottle and popped a pill on your tongue, Rafe watching you with blown out, unfocused eyes. “See? I took one as well!” You stated, slowly getting rid of your lingerie which made Rafe’s cock bob up and down, pre-cum once again leaking out of him despite coming just seconds ago.

“Gonna show you how special I can be, Rafey.” Whispering on his skin while you trail wet kissed down his chest, Rafe sobbed when you lightly bit his nipple, the action making him cum once again. You felt his warm load spatter on your ass, making you giggle.

“ ‘m gonna show you how I can make you feel like a god.” You eyed his drowsy state, drool sloppily pooling on the side of his mouth. Lightly tapping his cheeks, he opened his eyes before you pointed at the red dot on the corner of your room, which he eyed for a moment.

“Don’t forget to smile.”

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tht0nesimp · 1 month

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indulgent Drabble…

Idea: so have any of you guys seen those AU things where it’s like being a Yandere is a normal thing, so if you’ve seen season four you know about the wrong timeline things so like what if they ended up in one of those or this was one or something, this is probably not very well written…

tw: spoilers but not like specific instances just like information,Yandere bcs…it’s my blog, kidnapping, non consensual…everything?, normalized stuff idefk , Five is inspired by a Yandere five fic I read once I won’t even lie

thinking of them all having their little darlings and how they treat them >.<

Luther’s darling is getting it probably some of the best, he pays, and he really wants them to love him! Really! He just…don’t get mad when he breaks all your stuff, he knows that you had an ex and that the object was important, but you can’t be mad! People see you two and are probably a little off put because likely you are dwarfed by him unless your a body builder or something, he doesn’t mind, just please don’t make him do anything….:(

Diego and a little spitfire, they’re likely someone Hellbent on fighting it, clawing and biting. Hair frazzled, likely to have a hole or tear in they're clothes—he doesn’t really mind, even when he has to drag you into the mansion, the others having some level of understanding of what he’s going through because…they’ve all done it, to varying degrees of lengths and extremities. He never felt healthy love before and it’s damn sure his dad don’t love ‘em so he truly doesn’t understand why you can’t just accept love?

Allison who makes sure her precious little mannequin is well known as hers, people envy you, an amazing actor with enough money to last a lifetime?! You might be able to run off and find a closet to huddle up in at home, but she won’t be patient with misbehavior in front of the media, you will find yourself on the wrong side of a chain if you try anything. Probably not a big fan of introducing you to people personally, she loves the flashy couples stuff; at least 2 dozen roses might make up for it? Right?

Klaus is barely making it, his other siblings likely pay for and/or babysit for him. He doesn’t snap very often like his siblings, he sees you as an angel! But, not a person. Truly, I think not only would the being forced to be around a very active addict but he won’t let you do anything outside of a hobby or two! He rarely leaves you alone, and to be honest he probably uses a chain or restraints all the time because even if he can come back, he’s not physically the strongest guy—but past that, he’s always eager to help you with bathing or eating or baking or drawing or writing or drinking or meditating or relaxing or sleeping or making the bed or cleaning up or driving or going outside(ofc with him, can’t have his little martyr running around! What if someone recognizes you as his and and and the debt collectors collect you!?) or any possible task, he’ll learn to cook or bake so you don’t have to! Just ignore the small white grains on his credit card….please! He won’t get angry commonly, if ever, but in the very rare chance he gets angry it’s best to just shut up and try not to make the voice begging him to tie you back up any louder.

Five and the little doll he carries around, always looking lost and glazed over, or maybe a girl who is eerily like him, either way, he’s dressing them up in whatever he wants. He likely drugs them pretty consistently, it makes him feel good to have someone who will thank him when he takes care of them, even if they don’t know what’s going on whatsoever. His siblings are surprised at the ice cream dates and picnics he sets up, people smile at him when he goes to get you a milkshake, the guy behind the bar laughing when five pours a little packet of powder into your drink and stirs it—happily accepting the man’s offer to top up your whipped cream, so you don’t get distressed about it—all in all, atleast his darling will never have to do anything for themselves…ever again

Viktor happily plays instruments for you, learning your favorites so he can serenade and impress you. He tries to be as accommodating as possible, so patient and okay with your panic that he succeeds in comforting you. He’ll even let you help him at the bar once you get settled in, people find it adorable when you and him work together you don’t really do anything

They probably don’t have playdates very often, but the most to least well behaved would probably go

Viktors darling—Viktors humanity pays off, and his darling likely comes to terms pretty quickly, asking him nicely for things and even letting him touch them willingly!

Luther’s darling—All in all, they probably don’t have all too much to complain about. They’re awkward, but the darling isn’t clawing at him or anything

Allison’s darling—no cameras? Her darling is probably playing a Nintendo switch on a couch somewhere in the mansion, avoiding the wackos

fives darling—He’s trying, and so are they, but they’re a little out of it most of the time. I won’t give them credit for behaving because they don’t even know they’re doing something good by clinging to torso they wake up on every morning or by not biting the hand that feeds them dinner every night

Klaus Darling—Trying to run like all hell, but klaus just pulls them into whatever room has been set up for the meetup and wraps a friendly arm around them for the rest of the event

Diego’s darling—Biting at him, breaking things, all hell will break loose and he will be chuckling at his siblings as his darling tries to stab him with a fork

—

Maybe I should write more in depth personal series about it??? Who would yall wanna see first??? All of them?? SEASON 4 IS STUPID AND I HATE IT >:(

#Yandere umbrella academy #Yandere five hargreeves #Yandere viktor hargreeves #yandere diego #Yandere Allison #yandere male #yandere blog #fandom #umbrella academy #umbrella academy fic #yandere scenarios #how do we feel about this???#CandiesActualFics

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rottmnt-residuum · 2 years

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Some Things You Aught to Know (this also the index)

“At the end of it all, what’s left of you?”

The long reaching ramifications of an alien invasion… it all starts here. After the Kraang were defeated, the boys have taken a back step from their usual activities to heal. Which has been surprisingly easy due to sudden lack of activity from their rogue gallery. At least, until Donnie disappears.

Hi! Welcome to the side blog that hosts my comic, Residuum. This little brain baby of mine was conceived in a dream my subconscious cooked up one night and then refused to leave me in the morning! Yes, yes, very interesting, but why is that relevant? Well, my darling reader, dreams can get really, really fucked up. As suuuch, this comic gets kinda, okay a lot, fucked up (￣▽￣|||)

So, this handy dandy pinned post is both the content/trigger warnings and where to find parts. The warnings do contain some spoilers for future installments, so I’ve put them under the read more. I do stress again that this comic is fucked, but to those who don’t read the warnings:

Probably don't read this if you're squeamish. It will contain a lot of, uh. Gore. Seriously. I'm not kidding around here.

This comic will not contain anything sexual, consensual or not. Nothing implied, either. (I can’t believe I have to say this, but no incest, and yes, I am kink-shaming you.)

Directory | F.A.Q.

Parts

Parts that have gore or the more extreme tw's will be red. Parts with mild-ish tw's will be yellow. Censored versions of extreme gore will be blue.

Read it chronologically: [censored gore] [full gore] (only works on desktop as far as I am aware. also! part 17 isn't showing up in either of the links, and i don't know why...)

(Updates every other Sunday)

Content/Trigger Warnings

Subject to change, I’ll tell y’all if they change when I update. They probably won’t change much, but the creative process is annoying :)

Feel free to message directly for any reason, be it clarification or something else

Desturbing Imagery, Trypophobia, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Guns, Gun Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Ableism, Coercion of Minors, Solitary Confinement, Contractual Slavery, Blood & Gore, Implied Death/Actual Death, Major Character Death, Animal Death, Animal Experimentation, Dismemberment, Disembowelment, Non-Consensual Medical Procedures, Irreversible Alterations, Cannibalism, PTSD, Anatomically Correct Organs, Lobotomy, Imprisonment of Innocents, Medical Experimentation, Body Horror, Police Brutality, Corrupt Government Institutions, Xenophobia

#rottmnt residuum #residuum

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silvershewolf247 · 2 years

Text

ChuckyAndy smokes cigarettes and Andy fucking hates it, but he doesn't have any pot and if the damage is going to be done, he might as well enjoy it.

#andy barclay #Chapter 2 Au: Not Out Of The Woods #non consensual drug use tw

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theredofoctober · 3 months

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MANNA- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: FISH

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, non consensual drug use

Read after the cut

---

Two hours after guests and staff alike have made their egress from the house the host himself leaves it, getting into his car with a solitary glance up at your barred lodgings. You cringe from that look, from the purpose that coaxes him out like a stoat into the rain-clothed night.

Hannibal has known perhaps since the first Lover killing the culprit's identity and abode.

He himself is beyond a murderer, a master of games, lording himself above the board of life and only involving himself directly in that play when it serves to amuse him, or else he has no choice but to interfere.

It occurs to you that his current motivation is, in part, both the former and the latter, being that he’d likely sensed a collision with Freddie Lounds or some other disruptive circumstance that would result in his going after Amy again. He’d perhaps even devised such an event; you—predictably affected—had merely struck the spark of it into birth.

Always Hannibal’s intent has been to make some grand demonstration of his influence, a court magician with a vanishing trick: now you see it, now you don’t.

Who else has disappeared through his performance and returned only in death?

You’re convinced by now that he is indeed the Copycat, need only proof in absolutes to entirely believe it. But if he is so then all food consumed within this den has been of human produce, and there is no length of starvation nor manner of purging that will expunge this from your history.

They are part of you now, the whispering dead; you are built of cadavers, and the entrails of stars, and champagne, engorged with the reeking malign of the jackal you’ve become in your imprisonment.

You resign yourself to bed, feeling truly ill, and so do not hear when Hannibal returns in the early hours of the morning. Do not fully wake as he comes into your room, a needle between his fingers, nor when he whispers to you over the click of the metronome.

Nor, too, when through your lips he passes some fatty soup, which in a half doze you attempt to expel.

“You need to eat, my love,” he says. “Let’s try again.”

You dream of Savannah Belmont, her dark eyes turned grey in absence of life, sitting on a kitchen chair beside the muttering waters of a river. The fingers of her right hand play idly between her legs, and the other reaches into the foramen of her open gut, emerging full of water beetles and wriggling fish.

“I’m not hungry,” you say, as she offers them to you.

The dream repeats all night and on into the day until you think you may never escape its smothering hold.

You rise the following afternoon like the personification of the sin of Sloth, unsure what to make of Hannibal’s visitation, or of the hours lost to the shifting hallways of memory.

Grudgingly you go down through the house in search of your jailer, knowing that you must play inquisitor and have the truth of Amy’s fate out of him.

It is in the grand living room with its many decorative animal skulls that you find him, a king of the deceased amidst his plenty.

He sits in an armchair, holding his iPad on one crossed knee as he might the works of Kafka, dignified and invested in the screen. Standing on tiptoe to peep over his shoulder you see a news reporter standing against a backdrop of half bare trees.

The volume is low, only a scattering of words reaching your ears.

“Breaking... the woman thought to have been the most recent victim... found hitchhiking along a forest road just outside...”

"Amy," you say, aloud, and Hannibal part turns his head to you, his face like that of Jesus Christ, all grace and mercy.

"Hello, Little One,” he says. “Please sit with me. There's something I'd like you to see that should comfort you."

You hesitate to approach, your instincts a vortex of craving to run. Yet you must make nice with the monster, or else become his meat.

"Yes, Daddy," you mumble, and perch stiffly on the arm of Hannibal's chair, straightening your back in aversion to even accidental contact with him.

He blinks at your inappropriate use of his furniture, but does not reprimand you aloud. Instead he turns the iPad towards you and taps a forefinger on the screen.

“Police say the victim was kept in an abandoned shack after being struck in the head and abducted the previous night,” says the reporter. “Glass was able to escape through an unlocked door while her assailant was distracted by an unknown individual. After fleeing through a forested area she was able to find the nearest road and flag down a passing driver, who promptly called the police.”

“That was you,” you say, softly. “The ‘unknown individual’.”

Hannibal puts a finger to his lips.

“Keep watching, please.”

“Glass is suffering from concussion and minor memory loss, but is otherwise healthy,” says the reporter, through a grin of chemically whitened teeth. “Police are investigating the area in which she was held hostage for any evidence left by the attacker.”

The screen flashes to video of Amy, her eyes marbled with broken veins, bruising spread across her temple like an abstract watercolour piece. She’s wrapped up in an oversized sweater that only makes her look thinner within it, her every bone like armature against her skin.

Jealousy yanks at you like a vicious hook, and you find yourself appalled by your disease, that seeing a friend unwell inspires in you desire to replicate her sickness.

One of Amy's older brothers, Darrien, stands with an arm around her narrow shoulders, a surprise to you, being that they hadn't liked one another in childhood.

They both stand smiling like hospice patients forced to attend some miserable function against their will.

“I just want to say how grateful I am to be home with my family,” says Amy— she sounds stilted, almost scripted, unlike herself. “I know how lucky I am to be here. I’d like to thank Morgan Vance, who picked me up at 5am and never complained once. If she hadn’t stopped for me I don’t know where I’d be right now.”

“As a family, we’re asking for privacy,” says Darrien, and he rubs Amy’s shoulder, an unimaginable gesture from the boy who’d once shunned his sibling in school hallways. “I get people have a ton of questions, but right now we’d appreciate it if everybody gave us time to process everything.”

The news segment shifts to another topic, the falling of a church roof in Savage, Maryland.

You glance up at Hannibal, tears brimming in the fonts of your eyes. His face is pretty in the afternoon daylight, the age coaxed out of it by the sun.

"You saved her life,” you say.

"Yes."

Like a witch come to some blue blood’s birth he extends his curse to you as a gift, and you know better by now than to decline it.

In a whisper, you say, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome,” says Hannibal, and he puts a light hand upon your trembling knee, his thumb stroking the joint where a knife might cut it out. “I only hope that now you see the genuine intent behind my words, as well as my capabilities."

"How did you do it?” you ask. “How did you even find the Lover?"

Hannibal continues stroking your knee through your skirt, sending a tremble of sensitivity up your thigh.

"I've known his identity for some months now,” he says. “I can't tell you how just yet. But I can divulge that the Lover is following his own investigation, and knows that I've been helping Jack and Will when I can.

“Through this the Lover came to learn of our connection to you. When I called him to suggest Amy as his next interest he informed me that she’d already been considered."

You struggle down from the arm of the chair, taking a few hasty steps back.

"You... you gave her to him,” you stammer. “I knew it."

"And I returned her to you safely,” says Hannibal, patiently. “At my side, you'll receive all that you could ever ask of me, but as my enemy there is much to lose. I don't mean to threaten you, Little One. My interest is only in being truthful with you."

You gather your hands at your mouth, breathing in quick, stinging bursts.

"Why did the Lover want Amy?" you ask.

"He, like Freddie Lounds, had deduced some connection between you and Miss Glass. The Lover believed that abducting her would sow discord in our household, and therefore derail the investigation. I suggested that I agreed with his assessment."

How unemotionally he speaks of his this, as though reading aloud the introduction to some dull novel.

"Then what happened when you went out there the other night?” you ask, sweat staling your neck. “Why did he just let Amy go?"

"I told him that we'd made a mistake,” says Hannibal, “and that Will had grown suspicious. The abduction itself had gone poorly due to Amy putting up more of a fight than was expected of her; from Will's piecing together of the scene and certain evidence noticed there he would have located the shack the Lover was using in some days.

“So I encouraged the killer to allow Amy her freedom and abandon the building entirely. I’m told he burned it some minutes after her escape."

You picture your friend staggering by dark morning through some wood, the stink of smoke all through her hair.

"Won't she give you both up to the police?” you ask. “She must have seen his face, then there was the phone call—"

"Amy will remember very little prior to her liberty,” says Hannibal. “The avenue for her escape itself was staged by the Lover and I to resemble an unexpected interruption. I spent some hours with Amy before this, ensuring that she wouldn't stray from the official version of events. Her concussion is not the cause of her lost memories."

"You hypnotised her,” you say. “With the white lights. The ones from therapy."

You do not mention the day taken from you by similar practice, afraid of that vacuum of memory.

"You’re correct,” says Hannibal. “I did.”

"But her phone records—"

"The Lover removed Amy's cell phone from her person and took care to destroy it. I believe this is procedure with each of his killings."

Appalled, you wonder how you are to smile and be the swaddled baby of the doctor now the first layer of his ghillie suit has been shucked away.

"So you're like, friends with the Lover?” you ask, unable to entirely disguise your disgust.

"We are acquaintances,” says Hannibal, “with a similar goal: that of proving our love to an individual so adamantly set against receiving it."

He polishes the iPad with a thin cloth and puts it away in a silver case, labouring with a quiet delight over the mundane nature of routine.

"When are you going to tell Will who the Lover is?” you ask, bleakly. “You can't just let him kill more and more girls."

“Will is already on the verge of uncovering the killer's identity without my intervention,” says Hannibal. “By enticing the Lover to be reckless he has somewhat revealed himself, and is no longer the enigma he once was. Besides, if I were to unveil the Lover myself I would invite questions I cannot safely answer.”

Naturally he is self-preserving, first and foremost. But above all, to end the killer’s reign too quickly would bore him; from Hannibal’s handling of your own case you understand this.

"Don't you care about those dead girls at all?" you ask, and your captor smiles without warmth.

"Their deaths are part of the Lover’s exhibition. He is a crude artist, certainly, but he is not yet in possession of his muse. It’s satisfying to observe the progression of his work.”

Your balance wavers, threatens to give under the shock of this confession.

"Daddy,” you say, pitiful in your horror. “You’re scaring me."

Hannibal regards you with a kind of disappointment.

"God frequently inspires terror with His might, but those who follow Him with obedience need never fear His hand. I’d hoped that you might learn this through Amy's safe return."

Alarmed, you slip from the couch and kneel before Hannibal, feeling that you must display some false devotion or else be expelled as a heretic by terminal design.

"I'm grateful," you say, clutching at him with fervent hands. "I am, Daddy. I get why you did it. And I'm thankful you did what I asked. Just... please don't do anything like that again. I swear I'll try harder to be good. I'm trying to understand you. Really I am.”

Hannibal gazes down at you for a beat, seeming on the cusp of some internal decision.

"I can see that,” he says, at last. “And you’re young. There’s time yet for you to study under me.”

Will's voice, hoarse with illness, swerves through the room like an abrupt change in the forecast.

"What have I missed?"

You think to leap up and away from Hannibal as though caught in some illicit tryst, but a look from the older man impels you to remain, your cheek resting in his lap.

"She's offering me gratitude for my leniency regarding her outburst at the party," says Hannibal, unruffled by the interruption. "It's fortunate that my guests were unsurprised by Miss Lounds' deliberate attempt to provoke our Little One. They've been wholly charitable and sympathetic."

Will steps into view, his eyebrows almost at his hairline. His face is cadaverous and glazed with the resin of sweat.

The case, his illness: they suck from him his vigour, and though he is accomplice to your deadly keeper you’ve soul enough in you to pity him.

"Honestly, I don't know why you even invited Freddie,” he says. “It was a bad idea."

"In hindsight, I concur,” says Hannibal. “But my intent was to give the impression of having nothing to hide."

Will laughs and shakes his head.

"Freddie’ll see dirt on us both no matter what we do. Now she'll have even more of a reason to look."

"We mustn’t concern ourselves with the idle fodder of gossip columnists. I’ve had a stern word with Miss Lounds discouraging her from provoking our charge at future events. The matter is much resolved.”

Eyeing your sniffling figure, Will says, "Doesn’t look resolved from here.”

"There was another matter. Our Little One also chose to overindulge in champagne.”

Starting, you look up at Will and see him struggle not to laugh again.

Rather than be a hypocrite and side entirely with his friend, he asks, "Did you explicitly tell her she couldn't drink?"

"No," you pipe up from Hannibal's knee. "He didn't."

"I've never claimed to be faultless," says the doctor. "Evidently I haven’t been clear in my stance. But the implication was strong enough that you deliberately hid your drinking from me. You were far from subtle, I assure you."

You turn your face against his leg, hiding it in the fabric so as not to see the developing lust for punitive sex in his eyes.

"I’m sorry."

"Perhaps I'd be more inclined to believe that claim if you made a demonstration of it."

"Well, she knows how to give apologies," says Will, as much to diffuse the dark tension between you as to follow his own sensual curiosities. "I received one once in this exact room that seemed pretty genuine.”

“Hey," you say, rather hurt; you’d rather hoped he’d rise more strongly in your defence.

You’re uncertain whether the two men would be on such cordial terms if Will shared your knowledge of Hannibal. Yet already he suspects at least partly his shadows, and still is willing to flank him in the act of rape.

Still, you know his revulsion for the Lover to be genuine, see it in its wearying of him. There is a line for Will Graham, somewhere, but you do not know how long it will remain before he crosses it.

“Little One,” says Hannibal, gently reminding you of your duty.

As you begin working listlessly at Hannibal’s trouser button that Will says, "Mind if I help?"

For a moment you imagine him on his knees beside you, sharing the heavy phallus with eager tongue and coarse, pale hands, and you loathe the little light that flares between your compressed thighs.

Instead Will comes to stand behind you, smoothing back your hair as you bow your head to Hannibal; the other man bends likewise, arms going out to you as you consume him in a bite without teeth.

Four hands, then, upon you, two in your hair, twins caressing your face and neck with a touch that bears the prospect and willingness to love, should you become, like the dancing myth, a swan by night— you shift beneath that touch as ash, eating of the hated one as though for the taste of him.

You kiss his length, look up into the face that shunts through you a stake of killing fear and see him clearly, then, a legend brought earthwards by the wants he shares with men. See through the tiers of guise and truth that you fear most his humanity, that he can love.

Even in this coaxing to consent in your dismantlement you know it, see through a window of time how gently he would rear you as his own.

You do not want him, or this, and yet you feel yourself seduced by him, if only in a subconscious attempt to lessen the guilt that is sister to you.

His gaze, of lowered lids and pleasured shine, watches you with enjoyment. As your tongue whispers on his cock Hannibal murmurs to you praise and urging, sometimes an utterance of your name; while he is sated, you are safe, and so into your narrow throat you sink him down.

You owe him, you think, in some cosmic fashion, for the gold of two lives spared, yours, and that of Amy Glass. Like all Gods Hannibal demands his offering, and though you are no virgin you give yourself to that altar, raise and drop like the sun upon a mountain.

“That’s it,” says Hannibal. “My talented darling.”

Your mouth is a grail to him, some magic article; you know it from the breathy groans with which he exalts your attempts to satisfy.

“Don’t give her an ego,” says Will, but then he kisses your bent neck, and you feel a pulse between your legs again like the last heartbeat before death’s oblivion.

Hands, hands, mouths.

You take their lips on yours like a rat bite, assuming they’ve already long begun to infect you with their disease.

Then as you suck again, aware of Will’s thin form over you like a bower, enclosing you in the act, with them.

Mouths, mouths, hands, only one pair of which have not given themselves to murder, yet are not wholly clean of sin.

You wear your shame like a bridle as you mouth Hannibal’s cock, feel its restraint and harsh leading as you tongue him to his peak.

Will’s fingers tense slightly at your throat, something of his old meanness in it— threatened, you realise, by your curiosity in Hannibal’s affections for you, which you test now with your submission.

Even if Will ever offers up the steaming muscle of his own heart to you that unpleasantness will remain like gristle on the meat.

You do not wish to be a partner in this business of mystery and sex, and yet there is power in it, power with which you may bend Will to your side before you’re contorted by what you may become.

This you think even as you hold Hannibal between your jaws to swallow his finish, a desperate thought that may deliver you to some dinner plate. But you think of it still, think it even as you get up from your knees and turn to Will, twitching with resentment that he, to whom you’ve grown close, still allows you to be so abused.

Light as a fairy child on tip-toe you cross to him and push your wet mouth to the invitation of his lips, spilling warm seed between them so that he, too, might share in the taste of his man.

Will’s eyes widen, yet he does not withdraw from the affection, merely kisses you back with a silent passion. When you draw apart he swallows, glancing down and away from you, his fingertips on his mouth like a stitch, holding Hannibal in.

Later, when the doctor makes brief leave of the living room to prepare dinner, you find yourself looking at Will with the haughtiness of betrayal.

“I’d better address the elephant in the room,” he says, at last. “I should have been in your corner. It’s not easy playing both sides, but I know that night was hard for you. I won’t judge you for making a mistake.”

“I don’t care about that,” you say. “You should have told me the Lover took Amy. Sure, it’s been years since I’ve seen her or anything, but it doesn’t matter. You should have told me as soon as you knew.”

Will looks away into the fire.

“I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you with that news. If she hadn’t survived—”

“So what? I’d rather you hurt me than anybody else.”

You hear Will murmur your name, the beginnings of an explanation.

“I don’t care,” you snap, again. “I don’t want your apologies. I got you back for it, anyway.”

Will turns away quietly, ignoring the barb.

Then he says, “One. There’s another reason I’ve been holding back. Not just about Amy, though she’s part of it. Since the Copycat murder I’ve been thinking a lot about previous killings in the area. How similar they are to what happened to Savannah. Have you ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a moody shrug. “Maybe.”

“Over the past few years he’s killed in groups of three, always putting the mutilated victims on display after removing their organs from their still living bodies. Savannah Belmont was also still alive when her stomach was cut out of her. Both killers have surgical knowledge.”

At this you twist towards Will’s armchair, watching nervily as he feeds a new log to the hearth.

“You think they might be the same killer?” you ask. “The Lover and this Ripper guy?”

“I won’t know for sure unless there are at least two other murders,” says Will. “He always follows a pattern.”

“But you can’t just wait for that to happen.”

“I know.”

You yearn to tell him about Hannibal, daren’t breath even a letter of his avowal.

“The organs the Ripper cuts from his victims,” you say. “Do you know what he does with them?”

Will glances up, rapidly alert.

“The way you’re asking me that makes me think you’ve made some kind of guess,” he says. “You want to tell me what it is?”

At first you say nothing, knees brought high under your chin like a child’s.

“Will,” you whisper. “What if he eats them?”

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