#tw past drug use

[milesmarek]

I rewatched days of future past and I realized charles fucking fiending over the serum flew over my head as a 12 year that it was a reference to heroin usage in the 70's.

Also I had to explain to my mother the extravagant details of cherik and how they act like a divorced couple to which she said "god forbid if two guys be friends" and when I said both sets of actors like cherik, she decided it's gay as fuck

[sicknessbysalem]

happy lost in heaven album day!! if youve listened by time you answer whats your favorite song? anyway! honestly im so happy to see lex and soren again. can we possibly see something with them? maybe see something of one of them (im biased to lex but… either works) thats gives us an insight into the new lore + emeto obviously! thank you so much!

omg i love you! i think i even deleted the post forever ago talking about how much i love c/hase a/tlantic!!

i have listened to it, multiple times! I think my favorites are HOURS LOST and YOU, but also RICOCHET and DISCONNECTED are bangers!!

i decided to do a semi continuation of this fic but also could just be a standalone, and weaved in some new lore to show where lex and soren are at right now in their relationship as well as lex and his whole situation!

if you have any requests, comments, questions, etc., send them my way! i am so honored to be entrusted with lex and soren and i thoroughly enjoy these boys!!

tw emeto, fevers, trying to hide an illness, panic attacks, references to substance abuse trauma

The sound of the guitar strings hummed softly through the small studio, a melody that was familiar but still searching for its final shape.

Lex sat cross-legged on the couch, hunched slightly over his guitar, his fingers moving deftly across the strings, the faint calluses on his fingertips pressing into each note with a practiced ease.

Soren and Ksenia were deep in conversation over the latest track arrangement, their voices a quiet murmur against the steady strum of Lex’s playing.

Normally, Lex would have been sketching on his tablet during these breaks, doodling absentmindedly between takes while ideas flowed around him. Or, he’d be making abstract works based on what he saw when he heard the music.

But today, his focus seemed clouded, as though a thick fog had settled over his thoughts, leaving him feeling disconnected from the usual rhythm.

Every few minutes, he found himself clearing his throat—a small, dry sound, almost unnoticeable, except for how often it kept slipping out, a reflex he couldn’t shake. A habit Lex didn’t remember picking up, but had for as long as he could remember. A way to stave off nausea, he assumed. Or try to, anyway.

Soren’s gaze flicked over to him, a subtle glance that didn’t seem intrusive but held a quiet awareness, and Lex shifted under the attention, fighting the prickling discomfort that seemed to crawl along his skin.

His stomach gave a faint twist, the sensation low and persistent, a hint of nausea that lingered just enough to keep him slightly on edge. He cleared his throat again, this time with more force, trying to dislodge the tightness that seemed to have settled there.

“Dusty in here today?” he muttered, his voice steady but strained, offering a casual excuse as he shifted his gaze back to his guitar. “Could swear it’s getting to my throat.”

Soren gave him a brief nod, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but his eyes didn’t quite match the lightness.

“Maybe we should air the place out more,” he replied, his tone light but laced with a gentle care that only Lex would recognize, the subtle way Soren sometimes let him know he was there, that he noticed.

Ksenia had probably only heard fragments, but she looked up and offered a smile, standing from where she sat and opening up the window and pulling open the sliding door to the balcony.

“There, maybe the fresh air will help us think,” Ksenia shrugged.

Lex forced a small smile in return, shrugging as though it were no big deal, as though his skin didn’t feel cold and prickly beneath his old sweatshirt, despite the warmth that hung in the studio.

He shifted slightly, tugging the sleeves down over his hands, hoping the familiar fabric might ground him, anchor him through the quiet discomfort that was starting to settle deeper in his bones.

He pushed through the next half hour of playing, his fingers moving through the chords with mechanical precision, each note clear but somehow lacking the ease that usually flowed between them.

His head began to feel heavy, a faint ache forming just behind his eyes, and he could feel a slight chill spreading through him, an unwelcome reminder of a time when this sensation had been far too familiar.

Memories of the Silver Lining Tour flickered at the edges of his mind, bringing with them an uncomfortable tangle of anxiety and guilt, even though he knew that wasn’t where he was anymore.

In the past, on that tour, he’d always been slightly sick, or on edge, as though his body and mind were locked in a constant struggle. Back then, he’d hidden his nausea behind a facade of forced laughter, blamed his exhaustion on the long days, the flights, the sleepless nights. Anything beyond that was substance abused and left only himself to blame.

He could still remember the weight of that mask, the way he’d kept everyone at arm’s length, hiding the extent of his misery with a practiced ease. Now, sitting here, feeling the faint ache in his stomach and the beginnings of a dull chill, he realized he was still fighting that urge to downplay, to brush off any sign of discomfort before anyone could ask questions.

Lex shifted again, his stomach giving another faint twist that sent a shiver down his spine, the nausea growing more insistent, a weight that settled heavily, as though testing his endurance.

He cleared his throat once more, but the sound came out weaker this time, less controlled, and Soren’s eyes flicked up, his brow furrowing slightly as he studied Lex.

“You okay?” Soren asked, his tone casual, as though it were just another passing question, but Lex caught the concern lingering in his gaze, the slight tension in his posture. “You’ve coughed half a dozen times in the last hour…”

Lex forced himself to nod, keeping his expression neutral, leaning on the familiar habit of brushing things off with ease.

“Yeah, probably just allergies or something. Just feels a little… off today,” he replied, his voice steady, though even he could hear the faint edge of strain.

He looked down, focusing on the guitar in his hands, letting his fingers pick out a soft, aimless melody that kept him grounded, at least for the moment.

But Soren didn’t move his gaze, his attention lingering in that quiet, perceptive way that always managed to unnerve Lex without intending to. He didn’t press, though, just leaned back slightly, his fingers idly tapping on his notebook, as though he were giving Lex the space to be honest if he wanted to, but also letting him keep his guard up if that was what he needed.

Ksenia was absorbed in her own notes, humming a faint tune under her breath as she scribbled, her mind clearly lost in the music. Lex felt a twinge of relief at her distraction, not wanting to draw any more attention than necessary. He took a slow breath, willing his stomach to settle, but the faint chill was beginning to seep into his bones, and he found himself wishing he could just curl up somewhere warm and quiet, away from the bright lights of the studio.

The minutes crawled by, each one marked by the growing ache in his head and the steady hum of nausea that refused to dissipate. He was vaguely aware of Soren’s gaze flickering toward him, and each time he looked up, he caught a brief glimpse of concern in Soren’s eyes, the subtle way he seemed to anticipate each uncomfortable shift, each forced cough.

Finally, Lex felt a light touch against his temple—a familiar gesture, one that had become a quiet habit between them. Soren brushed a few stray strands of hair away from Lex’s face, his fingers gentle, lingering for just a moment before he settled back into his chair. The gesture was almost automatic, a silent acknowledgment that Lex wasn’t fooling him, that he didn’t have to keep up the facade.

Lex’s chest tightened at the touch, a mixture of comfort and unease knotting in his stomach, the remnants of old defenses clashing with the warmth of Soren’s care. He took a shallow breath, his stomach twisting again, the nausea inching closer to the surface, but he pushed it down, swallowing against the uncomfortable tightness in his throat.

“You sure you’re good?” Soren asked quietly, his voice barely above a murmur, meant only for Lex.

Lex forced a smile, nodding, though he could feel the effort it took to keep the mask in place. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice softer now, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Just… a little tired, I guess.”

Soren didn’t push, just offered him a quiet, understanding smile, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s shoulder for a moment before he returned to his notes, giving Lex the space he seemed to need.

As the recording session continued, Lex struggled to keep his focus, each passing moment feeling heavier, the chill seeping deeper into his bones. He leaned into the music, letting it carry him through the discomfort, but the memories of that tour lingered, casting a shadow over the present.

He reminded himself that he wasn’t there anymore, that he was safe, surrounded by people who cared, but the habit of hiding, of masking every symptom, ran deep, a quiet ache that lingered beneath the surface.

With each strum of his guitar, he tried to shake the memories, to remind himself that he was here, with Soren and Ksenia, that they were just working on music, nothing more. But the nausea and the faint dizziness clouded his mind, blurring the lines between past and present, until he felt like he was straddling both worlds, each one pressing down on him in a way that made it hard to breathe.

As the afternoon stretched on, Lex’s discomfort deepened, each symptom sinking into him like stones pulling him under. The nausea that had been a low, manageable hum became a sharper presence, curling tightly in his stomach, twisting in relentless waves that made his throat feel raw and tight.

He cleared his throat again, a small cough escaping before he could stifle it, and he noticed Soren’s gaze flicker toward him, the concern in his eyes growing with each strained sound.

Lex shifted where he sat, tugging the sleeves of his old sweatshirt down over his hands, hoping the familiar fabric might warm him enough to shake the chill that had settled deep in his bones.

But even with the hoodie’s weight around him, he couldn’t shake the shivers that ran sporadically up his spine, a subtle reminder of the feverish heat simmering beneath his skin. He clenched his hands, willing the nausea to pass, but each breath only seemed to tighten the uncomfortable coil in his stomach, like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point.

The music continued around him, Soren and Ksenia discussing their ideas in low, familiar tones, but Lex could barely focus, his thoughts clouded by the ache in his head and the weight of memories pressing down on him.

He coughed again, the sound rougher, harsher than he intended, and this time he could feel his stomach lurch in response, a small, unwelcome gag that he quickly swallowed down.

His throat burned, and he had to clench his jaw, forcing himself to breathe through the nausea, refusing to let it get the better of him. Memories of that tour flooded his mind—nights spent hunched over in tiny, cramped bathrooms, the hollow ache in his stomach as he fought to keep anything down, the weight of his own exhaustion dragging him under, while he hid every symptom behind a practiced smile.

The memories settled over him like a heavy blanket, a quiet, relentless reminder that his body had once betrayed him in ways he could never forget. He tried to shake them off, to remind himself that this wasn’t the same—that he wasn’t there anymore. But the nausea was insistent, each cough digging deeper, pulling him closer to that edge he was so desperate to avoid.

“Hey, angel,” Soren’s voice broke through the fog, gentle but laced with a quiet urgency. He was watching Lex with a subtle intensity, his eyes narrowed in that way that told Lex he’d noticed every single one of those small coughs, each barely-contained gag that Lex had tried to swallow down. “Still with us?”

Lex realized Soren must’ve said something to him, or asked a question, and Lex was too wrapped up in his head to process it. He nodded slowly, but Soren didn’t say anything else, just shifted slightly closer, his presence a steady, grounding force that somehow eased the tension coiled in Lex’s stomach, if only by a fraction.

Lex managed a weak smile, hoping it might pass for casual, as though the nausea wasn’t clawing up his throat, as though he could ignore the uncomfortable ache pressing in on him from all sides.

But as he opened his mouth to say something, another cough slipped out, harsher this time, and he had to cover his mouth, his hand flew to his mouth instinctively, fingers pressed against his lips as he tried to keep the bile down, his face paling as he felt a faint, acidic burn on his tongue.

Soren’s hand was there in an instant, reaching out to brush Lex’s hair back, a gesture so gentle, so instinctive, that it sent a rush of warmth through Lex’s fevered haze. He felt Soren’s fingers graze his temple, steadying him, and Lex knew, in that moment, that Soren understood—had probably known long before Lex had admitted it to himself.

“Oh, Lexi,” Soren murmured, his voice calm, a quiet strength lacing his tone. “You’re not feeling good, are you?”

Lex swallowed, forcing a weak chuckle, his voice strained as he tried to brush it off. “It’s… I’ll be fine. Just… something in my throat,” he managed, his words barely audible, laced with a tremor that betrayed him.

His stomach twisted again, a sharp, insistent reminder that he was fighting a losing battle, but he clung to the excuse, hoping it might somehow make it easier to ignore.

But Soren didn’t let go, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s shoulder, his arm in such a way it held Lex’s hair down along his back, but the hold was a subtle reminder that he didn’t have to pretend, not here.

“Lex,” he said softly, his tone a gentle nudge, his fingers brushing against the back of Lex’s neck in a way that was both comforting and steadying.

Lex closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping as he finally let go of the thin pretense, his stomach churning with an intensity that made his head spin. He could feel the nausea creeping higher, settling in his throat, the burn unmistakable, and he knew, in that moment, that there was no stopping it.

Ksenia, noticing the quiet exchange, looked up from her notes, her eyes widening as she took in the paleness of Lex’s face, the way his hand was pressed tightly against his mouth. Without a word, she reached for the trash can, bringing it over just as Lex’s stomach twisted violently, the nausea surging with a force that left him breathless.

“It’s okay,” Soren murmured softly, his voice a steady presence beside him, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s back. “Lex, babe, you’re going to be sick, but you’ll be okay. Just breathe—I’m right here.”

Lex barely had time to brace himself before his stomach heaved, his body giving in to the sickness he’d been fighting so hard to ignore. The nausea hit him in relentless waves, each one dragging him under, and he felt Soren’s hand on his shoulder, a steadying weight that kept him grounded, kept him from slipping into the tangled mess of memories that threatened to pull him down.

He gasped, his breathing shallow and ragged, his fingers clenching the edge of the trash can as he fought to keep his balance. Soren’s hand moved gently to the back of his neck, his fingers warm and reassuring, and Lex leaned into the touch, letting it anchor him through the worst of the nausea.

“You’re doing great,” Soren whispered, his voice soft, a quiet comfort in the haze of discomfort. “Just let it out. I’ve got you.”

Lex’s chest tightened, a mixture of relief and vulnerability washing over him as he let himself lean into Soren’s support, his mind still clouded by the ache in his stomach and the memories he couldn’t quite shake.

For a split second, Lex thought the nausea was dissipating, but the sudden small gasp and equally intense wave of acid that splattered in the trash can told him he wasn’t that lucky.

He could hear Ksenia’s soft footsteps nearby, her presence a quiet reassurance, and he felt a faint sense of gratitude that she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t asked questions or looked at him with pity.

When the nausea finally eased, leaving him hollow and exhausted, Lex slumped back against the couch, his head hanging as he tried to catch his breath. Soren was still there, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s back, his touch a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to carry this on his own.

“Hey,” Soren murmured, his voice gentle, a soft warmth that cut through the lingering fog. “You okay?”

Lex nodded weakly, his throat raw, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yeah… just… wasn’t expecting that,” he managed, his tone laced with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle, as though he could somehow downplay the intensity of what he’d just gone through.

But Soren didn’t push, didn’t ask for explanations. He just offered Lex a faint smile, his hand moving to brush a few strands of hair from Lex’s forehead, a quiet gesture of care that left Lex feeling both comforted and exposed.

“Happens to the best of us,” Soren replied, his tone light, a subtle reminder that he wasn’t judging, that he understood.

Lex managed a faint smile in return, his chest tight with a quiet gratitude he couldn’t quite put into words. The memories of that tour still lingered, casting shadows over his mind, but here, with Soren and Ksenia by his side, he felt a strange sense of relief, a warmth that eased the weight of his discomfort.

Ksenia offered him a water bottle, her expression softened with an understanding that only a close friend could offer. “Just take it easy, yeah?” she murmured, her voice a gentle reassurance.

Lex nodded, taking the bottle with a shaky hand, his gaze flicking between Soren and Ksenia, the quiet warmth in their eyes grounding him, reminding him that he didn’t have to hide, not here. And as he took a sip of water, feeling the coolness soothe his raw throat, he let himself breathe, let himself be cared for, if only for a moment.

The initial wave of nausea left Lex feeling hollowed out, his head spinning, his skin clammy and cold beneath the fabric of his hoodie.

His breathing was shallow, each breath a careful, measured effort to keep the nausea at bay, but he could feel the sickness digging in deeper, a weight that settled heavily in his stomach and chest, pressing in on all sides.

Soren stayed by his side, his hand resting on Lex’s shoulder, his presence steady and calming, but Lex could barely focus, his mind clouded by the fever that had begun to build, making the room feel stifling, oppressive.

Ksenia was there too, her gaze soft with understanding, but Lex could feel the tightness in his chest growing, a creeping anxiety that wrapped around him, suffocating in its intensity.

His fingers clenched around the edge of the stool, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself, tried to find some anchor in the midst of the spinning room. The memories of Silver Lining hovered at the edges of his mind, a familiar specter that lurked just beyond his vision, pressing down with a weight that felt as real as the fever and nausea churning inside him.

He could remember the dimly lit backstage rooms, the way his body had felt weak and uncooperative, the hollow, aching sensation that came from nights spent fighting his own exhaustion and anxiety. The burn of liquor, the rush of everything else. And every time, the inevitable crash that came.

“Lex,” Soren murmured, his voice a soft, grounding presence, pulling Lex back from the edge of the memories. His hand was still on Lex’s shoulder, warm and steady, and Lex could feel the concern radiating from him, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone. “You’re not feeling any better, are you?”

Lex sighed softly, shaking his head as he tried to push down the nausea, the fever, the anxious knot that seemed to have taken root in his chest.

“It’s just… dizzy,” he managed, his voice a weak whisper, barely more than a breath. He could hear the strain in his own words, a quiet, familiar edge of fear that he hated to admit, even to himself.

“You always get dizzy when you throw up,” Soren said, trying to be reassuring but knowing he probably fell short. He pushed Lex’s hair behind him and carefully rubbed Lex’s back. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m going to lay down for a bit,” he continued, his gaze dropping as he tried to avoid the concerned looks from Soren and Ksenia. “Just need to… let this pass. You two should keep working. I’ll be back as soon as things… level out.”

Ksenia exchanged a brief, uncertain glance with Soren, her eyes flickering with worry, but she didn’t press, just nodded slowly, a small, reluctant acceptance of his words. Lex could feel the tension in the room, the way his own unease had bled into the space, turning it from a creative sanctuary into a place where he felt exposed, vulnerable.

Soren’s hand lingered on his shoulder, a quiet protest that didn’t need words, but Lex gave him a weak smile, his gaze steady, trying to convey a reassurance he didn’t quite feel.

“I’ll be fine, Soren,” he said softly, though even he could hear the tremor in his voice, the edge of anxiety that threatened to spill over.

Reluctantly, Soren let go, his hand falling away, though his gaze never left Lex, his worry palpable. “Alright,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a gentle concern that made Lex’s chest tighten. “But if you need anything, you let us know. Don’t try to… don’t keep it to yourself, okay?”

Lex managed a nod, but he couldn’t bring himself to say more, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He turned, the room spinning slightly as he pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself against the wall as he made his way toward the bedroom. His vision blurred at the edges, and he had to grip the doorframe to keep from stumbling, his legs weak beneath him, the fever and dizziness making it difficult to stay upright.

Once he reached his room, he closed the door softly, sinking onto the edge of the bed as he let out a shaky breath, his head falling into his hands.

The quiet of the room settled around him, a heavy, suffocating silence that amplified every ache, every shiver that ran through him. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he tried to gather himself, but the nausea surged again, sharp and relentless, a wave of discomfort that left him gasping for breath.

He pressed his hand against his mouth, willing the nausea to pass, but his stomach was stubborn, twisting painfully, and he could feel the bile rising, a harsh reminder of the times he’d been in this exact position before. Memories of the tour blurred with the present, the sickness overlapping, until he could barely tell where one ended and the other began.

He could remember sitting alone in tiny, dimly lit hotel rooms, his body wracked with nausea and exhaustion, the hollow ache in his chest growing heavier with each passing day. He had fought through it, kept the facade intact, hiding every symptom behind forced smiles and laughter, even as his body crumbled beneath the weight of it all.

Now, he was free of that—no substances, no constant dread of falling apart in front of everyone. But the habit of hiding, of masking every discomfort, ran deep, a defense that had become second nature, even now.

He pressed his hands against his temples, feeling the heat of the fever pulsing beneath his skin, a reminder of the vulnerability he couldn’t quite shake.

He lay back against the pillows, pulling the blanket over himself, hoping the warmth would ease the chills that had settled in his bones. But even as he closed his eyes, trying to find some measure of comfort, the anxiety gnawed at him, a quiet, insidious fear that whispered he was back in those dark rooms, back to a time when he had no control over his own body or mind.

The fever pressed down, making his thoughts heavy, his breathing shallow, and he curled into himself, his fingers gripping the edge of the blanket as though it could shield him from the memories that surfaced with each wave of nausea. He wanted to be strong, to push through, to prove that he wasn’t the person he’d once been, that he wasn’t broken by the memories that haunted him.

Time blurred, each minute stretching into an eternity as he lay there, feeling the fever pulse through him, the nausea twisting in relentless waves. He could hear faint footsteps outside the door, soft, cautious sounds that he knew belonged to Soren, but he kept his eyes closed, hoping to feign sleep, hoping to keep Soren from seeing the state he was in.

But the footsteps stopped just outside, a pause that hung in the air, and Lex could feel the weight of Soren’s concern pressing against the door, a quiet, unspoken question that lingered in the silence. He could picture Soren’s expression, the gentle worry, the warmth in his gaze, and part of him ached to let him in, to let him offer the comfort that he knew would ease the weight on his chest. But the habit of hiding, of pushing through alone, kept him silent, his chest tight with the quiet fear that he would somehow drag Soren down with him.

-

Lex drifted in and out of a restless sleep, the fever pressing down on him like a heavy blanket, pinning him to the bed with its relentless heat. In the dimness of his room, time lost all meaning, and he felt trapped in the haze of sickness, caught between waking and sleeping, the fever blurring the edges of his thoughts until he couldn’t tell where reality ended and memory began.

Every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of the familiar objects in his room—the posters on the walls, the soft light filtering through the curtains—but they seemed distant, removed, as though he were watching his life from somewhere else, somewhere feverish and surreal.

When he finally opened his eyes, he felt a fresh wave of nausea roll through him, sharper and more insistent than before.

His stomach twisted painfully, and he shivered, a sudden chill spreading through him that made his skin prickle beneath the layers of his hoodie. He tugged the blankets closer, his fingers shaking as he tried to hold onto the warmth, but the chill only deepened, sinking into his bones.

His throat was raw, his head pounding with a dull, relentless ache that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was closing in around him.

Everything felt wrong. His head hurt, he was absolutely freezing, and yet he could feel his long hair sticking to the back of his neck and his cheek. He wouldn’t be able to tie it up, but he could push the wet hair off his skin.

He pushed himself up, the room spinning as he sat up, and for a moment he had to close his eyes, willing the dizziness to pass. His breathing was shallow, each breath a careful effort, as though he were afraid that any sudden movement might tip him over the edge.

He could feel the nausea building, a sick, twisting sensation that left him lightheaded, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it down much longer.

Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled toward the bathroom, gripping the wall as he moved, each step an effort to stay upright. His vision blurred at the edges, and he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, a cold, clammy sensation that made his skin crawl.

He barely noticed the faint sound of footsteps behind him, too focused on the overwhelming nausea that threatened to spill over, the sickness pressing in with a force that made his head spin.

As he reached the bathroom, a familiar hand settled gently on his shoulder, grounding him just as the nausea surged, sharp and relentless. He felt himself lean into the touch, desperate for any anchor, any sense of stability, but the sickness was too strong, too insistent to ignore.

His stomach heaved, and he barely had time to brace himself before he was hunched over the toilet, his body giving in to the sickness with a force that left him breathless. He heaved, hard, whatever was in his stomach coming out and splashing sickeningly into the water.

Soren stayed beside him, one hand resting lightly on Lex’s back, the other gently holding his hair out of his face. His touch was warm, steady, a quiet reassurance that kept Lex grounded, even as his body betrayed him, each wave of nausea dragging him under.

Between the heaving breaths and the sickness that left him gasping, he could hear Soren’s soft voice, murmuring quiet words of comfort, a gentle reminder that he wasn’t alone.

“Easy, get it all up…” Soren told him, and Lex’s body was happy to oblige. IN fact, the next heave was so hard, backed by a heavy wave of sick, that it knocked Lex right to his knees.

But the fever was thick in his mind, clouding his thoughts, and he felt a faint, creeping panic settle over him, an echo of guilt and fear that he couldn’t shake. The memories of those nights on tour—nights spent hunched over in small, dimly lit bathrooms, the bitter taste of regret heavy on his tongue—flooded back, and he couldn’t stop himself from spiraling, the familiar shame rising up like bile.

“I didn’t… I didn’t do this,” he whispered, his voice shaking, spitting into the toilet, barely audible over the sound of his own breathing. His hands were trembling and he could feel the anxiety tightening in his chest, making it hard to breathe. “I’m not… I’m not high, I swear, I’m just… I’m just sick. I didn’t do this.”

Soren’s hand moved to his shoulder, his touch steady and reassuring, and he could hear the gentle concern in his voice as he replied,

“Lex what..?”

“I’m not.. I didn’t… I promise I didn’t…” Lex spoke, fragmented and panicked before heaving again.

Soren filled in the blanks, sighing softly and carefully pulling Lex’s hair out of his face, “I know, Lex. It’s okay. You’re just sick—it’s not anything else.”

But the words barely registered, the fever making it difficult to hold onto the reassurance, and he could feel the panic building, a weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating. His breath hitched, his vision blurring as the room seemed to close in around him, and he clenched his fists, trying to push back the memories that crowded his mind, the images of nights spent fighting himself, fighting his own body.

“It’s… it’s not that,” he repeated, his voice a desperate whisper, as though saying the words might make it true. “I didn’t… I didn’t do this to myself.” His hands were shaking, his chest tight, and he felt another wave of nausea roll through him, sharper this time, as though the panic were fueling the sickness, making it worse.

Soren’s voice was soft, calming, a steady presence that cut through the haze.

“You’re okay, Lex,” he murmured, his hand rubbing gentle circles along Lex’s back. “You’re just sick, that’s all. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Lex could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, a quiet desperation that he couldn’t contain, the weight of his own guilt pressing down, heavy and relentless. He wanted to believe Soren’s words, to trust that this was just a simple sickness, nothing more, but the memories of that tour, the shame that had haunted him, were too deeply ingrained, a scar he couldn’t erase.

His stomach twisted again, a cold, clammy sensation spreading through him, and he shivered, feeling the chill settle in his bones. He leaned forward, his body tensing as another wave of nausea hit, and he felt Soren’s hand on his back, a steadying warmth that kept him grounded even as he fought to hold himself together. He heaved, again. He never ate much, couldn’t eat much actually, and yet it felt like he was purging an entire buffet’s worth of food.

“It’s… it’s not like before,” Lex whispered, as he caught his breath, his voice breaking, as though saying the words might make it true. “I’m not… I’m not drunk or high, I just… I don’t know why I feel this way, but it’s not that. I was fine this morning… It’s not…”

“I know,” Soren replied softly, his voice unwavering. “I believe you, Lex. You’re not alone in this. I’m right here, and you’re going to be okay. You probably just caught the bug I had over the weekend…”

The warmth in Soren’s words cut through the fog, a small, fragile comfort that settled over Lex like a blanket, easing the tightness in his chest. He closed his eyes, his breathing still shallow, but the quiet reassurance in Soren’s voice grounded him.

But the fever was relentless, the nausea unyielding, and as he opened his eyes, he felt a fresh wave of panic wash over him, his hands clenching the edge of the sink as he tried to steady himself. His vision blurred, his thoughts a jumble of fear and shame, and he could barely hear Soren’s voice over the rush of his own heartbeat, the quiet terror that lingered just beneath the surface.

“I didn’t… I didn’t do this,” he whispered again, his voice a faint, desperate plea, as though saying the words might banish the memories, the guilt that had haunted him for so long.

Soren’s hand stayed on his shoulder, a steadying presence, his voice gentle as he replied, “I know, Lex. You’re safe here. You’re going to get through this, okay? I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Lex’s chest tightened, a small, fragile sense of relief settling over him, though the fear still lingered. He spit, trying to rid his mouth of such a foul taste.

“Got it out for now?” Soren asked, and Lex nodded. He was sure he wouldn’t throw up any time soon, and now he was miserably hot. As if he could feel his fever. He felt something brush over his mouth, the toilet flushed.

“Okay, here, I’m just grabbing your hoodie, nothing else,” Soren said, trying to keep Lex from panicking more as he helped his fiancé pull off his sweatshirt, tossing it aside. “How are you feeling? Still panicking?”

Lex hesitated, curling in on himself, “Not… not going to be sick… really fucking hot…”

Soren gently kissed the side of his head, “I know angel, I’m sorry. Here…”

Soren stood, grabbing a rag and running it under cold water, pressing the damp cloth to Lex’s face, “Better?”

Lex nodded, soaking in the sensation. It was relaxing and shocking in a good way. Soren wrapped an arm around him, using his other hand to press the rag to different spots on Lex’s face. Lex closed his eyes, leaning into Soren’s touch, letting himself be anchored by the warmth, the steady comfort that cut through the fever and nausea, grounding him in the present.

“Just breathe Lexi,” Soren said, “You’re going to be just fine…”

[l4ndojpg]

Whumptober 2023, Day 27: Scars

fandom: criminal minds | characters: spencer reid, luke alvez, penelope garcia | ship: pre spencer reid/luke alvez, but can be read as platonic | trigger warnings: past self harm, past drug addiction | content: case fic, post prison spencer, autistic spencer, spencer is uncomfortable in his body, luke helps | word count: 1.6k.

“Jesus Christ, it’s fucking boiling,” JJ says, fanning herself with her hand. “Don’t they have AC  in this place?” 

“Just asked,” Tara grimaces, sitting down next to her at the table they’ve occupied and pulling a case file toward her. “It’s broken. Getting fixed tomorrow.” 

The team all groan. 

“Okay, I know we’re all uncomfortable,” Emily says, pulling her hair off her neck and into a ponytail, “but we’ve worked in worse conditions. Let’s get to it. The quicker we gather a profile, the quicker we’re out of here and back on our air conditioned jet. Rossi, Tara, can you guys head to the first crime scene? Luke, Spence, can you take the second one?” 

“Sure,” Luke says, and Spencer nods. He’s been back at the BAU after his stint in prison for almost a month now, and he’s been doing well, all things considered. But ever since they touched down in Miami this morning, he’s gotten quieter and quieter. He seemed fine on the jet, and as they head out to the car in silence, Luke begins to worry that something’s going on. 

“Hey man, you good?” Luke asks as they slide into the SUV. Spencer nods, relief washing over his face when Luke turns on the AC. 

“Yeah, sorry. I was just hot in there,” Spencer replies, smiling at Luke reasonably convincingly. Luke lets some of the worry alleviate, but things still don’t seem quite right. He decides to let it go for the moment. 

“Holy shit, I know right?” he says as he starts the car and backs out of the station parking lot. “You think with a station this big they’d at least have working AC.” 

They pull up at the first crime scene, a house on the outskirts of the town they reside in. They both heave a sigh before exiting the cool car into the sticky hot air, and head out to the back lawn where two bodies, the couple who own the house, have been murdered beside the pool. They introduce themselves to the officers, and Luke goes inside with one to inspect the house. Spencer agrees to remain outside and scan the gruesome scene in front of him. 

When Luke comes back outside fifteen minutes later, Spencer is pale and dripping with sweat. He looks like he’s close to being sick. Luke gestures toward the house, which is air conditioned, and Spencer nods vaguely. They move inside together, into the living room, where the officers have now all vacated. It’s just the two of them, and Luke turns to face Spencer, scanning him concernedly. 

“You okay?” 

“Just hot,” Spencer mumbles, sitting down on the couch and wiping his forehead. He stares down at the carpet, and Luke sits down next to him hesitantly. 

“Yeah, you should take off a layer,” he says. “Everyone else is in t-shirts. I think I have a spare one in my go bag, back in the car-,” 

“No thank you,” Spencer says quickly. Luke doesn’t miss the way his teammate immediately tenses up when Luke suggests removing a layer. He frowns. 

“I know it’s not really your style-,” 

“I said no,” Spencer cuts over him firmly, still looking down. His foot taps rapidly against the floor, leg bouncing. He brings up a hand to brush his hair off his forehead and exhales tiredly. Luke stays silent, trying to figure out what to say next. He knows Spencer’s most comfortable in long sleeves, but he can’t figure out why the man would rather get heat stroke than remove a layer. He makes a decision, standing up suddenly. 

“Garcia’s calling,” he lies. “Have a drink of water while I take this.” It’s a bad lie, but Spencer is clearly too uncomfortable to notice. He nods vaguely, and Luke moves into the next room. He calls Penelope, and she picks up after two rings. 

“What’s up, newbie?” she says, bubbly as ever. 

“SOS,” he says, “I think something’s wrong with Reid.” 

“What?” she says, voice high and concerned suddenly. “What’s happened? Is he okay? What’s going on? I-,” 

“I can’t explain if you keep asking questions,” Luke rolls his eyes, and she shuts up. 

“Sorry, sorry. Please. Talk. We need to help our boy genius.” 

Luke explains the situation, and Penelope is unusually quiet as he does so. When he’s finished speaking and she still hasn’t said anything, he says, “well?” impatiently. Penelope sighs, and after a moment, she speaks. 

“You know about the Hankel case, right?” 

Luke grimaces, remembering what Emily and Rossi told him about the kidnapping case and Reid’s addiction in Mexico four months ago. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. 

“For years after, he didn’t wear short sleeves. Even once he’d been sober forever, and we all knew. He didn’t want any of us seeing the track marks.” 

“But they’ve surely faded by now?” 

Penelope sighs. “Use your brain, newbie. What happened in Mexico?”

“I don’t-,” then it clicks. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” she says sadly. “Ugh, I wish I was there. I wish I could wrap him up in a hug and tell him it’s all gonna be okay.” 

“You wouldn’t want to hug here, trust me,” Luke half jokes. “It’s so fuckin’ hot.” 

“I wouldn’t care,” she says stubbornly. “Oh well. I’m not there, so it’s your job to talk to him.” 

“Uh,” Luke says nervously, “Shouldn’t Prentiss do it? Or JJ? Or Rossi? Or literally anyone other than me?” 

“I think he’d rather it was you,” Penelope says shrewdly. “He opens up to you in a different way.” 

“I guess,” Luke says uncertainly. “What should I say?” 

“You’ll figure it out,” Penelope says, “Emily’s calling, I gotta go! Good luck!”

“Wha- Garcia!” but she’s already hung up. Luke growls and shoves his phone back into his pocket. 

Okay. It’s fine. He can do this. He’s not really a talk-about-your-feelings guy, but he’s pretty sure this is the only chance they’re going to have on this case to talk privately before Spencer gives himself heatstroke. He also thinks he knows exactly what to say. It’s going to be an uncomfortable situation for both of them, but if it’s going to help Spencer… 

He sighs and re enters the living room. It’s clear Spencer hasn’t moved. His leg continues to bounce anxiously, and his head remains in his hands. He looks up when Luke sits down next to him again. 

“We should get back to the station,” he says, and Luke nods. 

“In one sec,” he says. “I just wanted to talk first.” 

“Okay,” Spencer says, discomfort clear in his voice. “About…?” 

Luke takes a deep breath and lifts up his shirt just above the waistline, and pulls down the hem of his jeans just below. Spencer stares at him like he’s crazy. 

“See these?” Luke points at several faded scars that litter his hip. Spencer stares for a second, then nods. “Yeah. Rough, I know. I did ‘em a long time ago. It was a real messed up time in my life.” 

“You-,” Spencer swallows. He can’t seem to take his eyes off them. “You did this? To yourself?” 

“Yeah,” Luke says, letting his shirt drop back down. He’s surprised at how easy it was to show his scars to Spencer - they caused him so much anxiety for such a long time. “I did. And you know me - I love a one night stand. But for a while there - after I finished serving the Rangers - I couldn’t bring myself to let anyone see. It felt like letting them see right into my brain or my soul or something. But it’s been a minute. And I got through that dark period of my life. I don’t exactly show them off, but I don’t mind people seeing them as much these days.” 

Spencer is silent. Luke can’t read his expression. He hopes he’s not messing this up too badly. 

‘Point is,” Luke says hurriedly, “I know you’ve probably got some too. Scars. I don’t pretend to know what you’ve been through in the last few months, Reid, or even in the years before I knew you. But I do know that no matter what, I’d never judge you based on what you may or may not be dealing with under all these layers. And neither would anyone else on the team. We’re a family, you know.” 

“I know,” Spencer says softly, making eye contact with Luke properly for the first time throughout the conversation. “Thank you for showing me.” 

“‘Course,” Luke says. “What can I do to make you feel better about shedding a layer or two? You’re gonna get heatstroke if you keep this up much longer.” 

Spencer swallows and blinks back obvious tears. “You don’t have to do anything else. That was perfect.” 

“It was?” Luke says in disbelief, but Spencer’s already pulling off his sweater and rolling up the sleeves of his button down. He rubs his arm subconsciously, then holds it out to Luke. 

“You don’t have to-,” 

“It’s fine,” Spencer says quietly. “I want to.”

Luke looks down at Spencer’s arm. In the crook of his elbow are three circular, faded pinpricks. They’re so close to gone Luke has to squint to see them, but he understands it probably doesn’t feel that way to Spencer. 

“Thank you, Luke,” Spencer says, and Luke can already see most of the tension melting away from his body. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you right now.” 

“Tell Garcia that,” Luke snorts, and Spencer smiles for the first time since they landed in Miami. “She thought the only way to make you feel better was to give you a hug.” 

“I love her, but I would’ve hated that in this heat.” 

“That’s what I said!”

[canvascryptid]

Minister: God told us not to pray to false idols, and we know Statues don’t apply to Us- he means the Real stressors of today like Money or Sex or Drugs

His broke femboy son: high and kissing the knee of the Aphrodite statue on campus

[toitlselfindulgenz]

Sometimes i think if I could make portals i wouldnt even walk to the corner store for my munchies snack and i think Casey would have a similar thought process

[phocids]

how to explain to my parents that the only thing im worried about with surgery is enjoying the painkillers too much. like im not worried about my nipples falling off or something nearly as much as i am about relapsing

[neuroticboyfriend]

back at zero but who's counting

[the-doggy-diaries]

hello everyone i am moving back in with my parents after living away from them for nine months ... they are absolutely insane to me i have already had really shitty stuff happen and we have not even picked up my stuff from my house ... but at least i will be living rent free and i will be able to save up and try again

[shmingleping]

It's always when I don't have what I want that my veins actually work.

[maraeffect]

ketamine is. different. what the fuck is going on.

[ikkan]

me @ me: can we uhhh never do that again????

[bakurapika]

when i take all my meds at once (in the manner prescribed, but also in one gulp because i'm manly), i more slowly swallow The Restricted One (stimulant in the morning for adhd, ambien at night for insomnia, i promise one does not cause the other). i let it like dissolve, so i have the taste in my mouth, so I know i took it

I just tried to down a bunch then realized i wasn't sure where the ambien was??? tryina stick out meds on my tongue to see the shape/color.

and yes... i had cheeked it. fooled even myself

[ghostlyschizophrenic]

tw: mentions of weed and psychiatric medications, medication misuse, effects of medication misuse

i know it's not healthy that i need get high on ativan and weed so often to be able to cope with life, but it is quite fun being so out of it that your memory isn't as great and you can reread a bunch of fanfiction you've written and be like DAMN IM ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD AT THIS

[apollolewis]

I know that there’s parent who deny ever doing drugs or even smoke weed even though they did. My dad is not one of those parents. He’s always told my sibling and I since we were old enough to understand that he used to do drugs. Hell my dad was a hippy. Although we kinda grew up knowing about drugs and drug abuse because a lot of people on my mom’s side are former addicts and alcoholics. My mom saw her brother over dose once when she was under 10 years old so these stories were are my version of anti-drug PSAs and they were a lot more effective.

[fenixburned]

also I screamed at Achilles about this earlier but I want to elaborate: after watching this show 100 times I noticed a little detail: when Simon talks about the booze with his father in the first episode he says it‘s not for me. I don‘t drink. & during the party scene we actually don‘t see him drink either. which makes so much sense?? we never learn any details about the past, but we know that Micke is an alcoholic & the fact that they all went no contact & seeing how uncomfortable Simon is during every interaction clearly points to a history of abuse. so most likely he is both a victim & witness of abuse & that surely played a role in him deciding not to drink at all, after seeing what it turned his father into & how it destroyed the family.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Or Someone Finds The Lid.

Pairing: Yandere!Gojo x Reader x Yandere!Geto (JJK).

Word Count: 8.0k.

Commissioned by the very lovely @elsecrytt.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Prolonged Captivity, Severe Infantilization, Forced Deepthroating, Double Penetration, Wildly Unhealthy Dynamics, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Geto Suguru has an Oral Fixation, Gojo Satou has a Mommy Kink, and Nonconsensual Drug Use. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

[Part One]

“I just don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

It had to be close to the hundredth time you’d in the past week, in the days since you woke up in a distressingly pastel bedroom, hostage to your two always worryingly possessive, but only recently deranged boyfriends. You knew, more concretely, that it was around the eleventh time you’d spouted that exact line today and the fourth time in the past hour, and as always, you were answered with a sympathetic glance, a patronizingly sweet smile. You could only be thankful it was coming from Satoru, this time. Suguru would’ve been much more condescending.

“Because we love you.” Another common sentiment, purred with just as much enthusiasm as it had been the first time you’d heard it, or the twelfth, or the forty-seventh. “And because you look good in pink.”

You sighed audibly, and Satoru pretended not to notice – only pulling you that much closer and resting his head on your shoulder. You were quickly learning that personal space, like many prior luxuries you hadn’t known to enjoy, was a right that Satoru and Suguru could revoke at will. Currently, your body was folded against Satoru’s – your back slotted against his chest and his legs spread on either side of you, the chain still attached to your ankle spread out over the mattress and the handheld console he was only partially focused on balanced on your lap. You tried to treasure the opportunity to stare mindlessly at a screen (a special privilege, considering your usual means of entertainment consisted of crayons, elementary-grade chapter books, and a plastic tea set), but for whatever reason, watching Satoru play Animal Crossing for three consecutive hours was just as under stimulating as it had been pre-kidnapping.

“That’s not a real answer.” You nudged your elbow into his chest, and when that didn’t work, pushed at his arm, just trying to get his attention. Yet another perk of your newly assigned position in this relationship – Satoru and Suguru had never made an exceptional effort to listen to you before, but now, you might as well have been speaking another language. “This is just—It’s just been so much, and it’s all so frustrating, and I don’t—”

And, just like that, you were tearing up – your vision going foggy as you struggled to hold back tears, to swallow down the whine building at the base of your throat. It was less that you’d been crying more easily and more than you were always on the verge of tears; your anger and frustration and confusion constantly at their peaks, just waiting for an excuse to spill over and leak out. Immediately, Satoru dropped his console, cooing softly as he scooped you up and turned you around. You moved to hide your face, but he was faster, more determined – his hands cupping your cheeks before you could swat him away. You weren’t crying yet, not really, but he took pains to hum and kiss away the few tears that escaped despite your best efforts. It was alarming, that crying was the only thing that consistently got them to hear you out. You tried not to think about the implications of that when paired with the pastel-pink aesthetic and the overall toddler-adjacent treatment.

“I’m really frustrated, ‘toru,” you repeated, melting into his hands. There was another coo, another peck to your forehead, before you went on. “I just— I need to know why you’re doing this. You can tell me that much, can’t you?”

“I’ve already told you, baby. It’s because we—” You cut in with a miserable, heart-breakingly pathetic sniffle, and Satoru pouted, shaking his head. Still, he broke quickly enough. “Look, you know that Suguru and I had it kinda rough before we met you, right? When we were growing up, I mean.”

Vaguely. You knew that Suguru’s parents died while he was in high school, that it’d been some kind of freak accident, but he didn’t like to talk about it. You’d met Satoru’s family once, but ‘met’ might’ve been the wrong word for it. Really, you’d sat in the antechamber of an estate the side of a small shopping mall for a little over an hour, answering questions asked by a woman who hadn’t introduced herself before being informed that, while you were not deemed a suitable partner for Satoru, you also weren’t dangerous enough to be worth the effort it would take to actively keep you away from him. Most of the time, you just tried to pretend that neither of your former partners, current captors had any immediate family.

Reluctantly, you nodded, and Satoru rewarded you with another kiss – this one to the corner of your jaw. “I know you probably don’t get it, but me and Suguru – we care about you, we care about you a lot. And the world’s a really, really dangerous place. If something happened to you out there…” He trailed off, laughing airily. An arm looped around your waist, pulling you into his lap, his chest. Instead of trying to resist, you curled against him, burying your face in his shirt as he rubbed slow, small circles into the small of your back. “You’re better off here. Getting to keep you all to ourselves is just a bonus.”

You wanted to scream, to bash your fists against his chest, to point out that they were the only people who’d ever isolated, assaulted, or kidnapped you, but he was doing what you asked him to, and the worst thing you could’ve done was give him a reason not to be as generous in the future. “…I don’t understand why you had to do—” You nodded towards your clothes – a set of bright pink cotton pajamas dotted with strawberries – then the rest of the room. “—this, though, if you’re trying to keep me safe. Couldn’t you have just… not?”

Another laugh, this one more sincere. “That part’s just for us.” This time, when he squeezed you against his chest, he didn’t let go until you were squirming against him, struggling to breathe. “Suguru does tend to let the roleplay get a little out-of-hand, but it really does help. There’s just something about seeing you all sweet n’ dressed up, surrounded by cute, soft things...” He trailed off with an airy laugh. “Makes me feel… secure, y’know? Like we’re keeping you safe.”

Something thick and jagged caught in your throat. “…this was Suguru’s idea?”

If he heard you, then that was a question he wasn’t interested in answering. “I meant the other part, too.” And then, with a slightly longer, more lingering kiss to the apex of your throat. “You look really good in pink.”

You felt it a second later – a familiar shape pressing into your ass, already worryingly stiff. You pulled away from him, your disgust too reflexive to hide. “…it gets you hard to see adult women dressed like first-graders?”

“No, princess.” A pause, a sudden nip to the side of your neck. “It gets me hard when you dress like a first-grader.”

Thankfully, before you had time to start to unpack that, you heard the bedroom door open and glanced over your shoulder to find Suguru leaning against the frame. Concern was written clearly across his expression, but it dulled to affectionate exasperation when he saw Satoru wiping away your non-existent tears. “I thought I heard a struggle,” he explained, unprompted. You hadn’t put up much of a physical fight yet, but they were both clearly concerned you would – the literal chain around your ankle was evidence enough of that. “Is it time for the little princess to take her medicine?”

You seized up at the mention of your ‘medicine’ – sedatives administered in the form of tiny, heart-shaped pills that left you exhausted and disoriented for hours at a time, if they didn’t knock you out entirely. It was what they’d used the night they’d taken you, and Suguru seemed to like to pull them out whenever you cried, or screamed, or did anything they should’ve known to expect from an acclimating victim.

To his credit, Satoru didn’t jump at the opportunity to drug you into oblivion. Not this time, at least. “She got a little overwhelmed. I took care of it.”  You slumped against him, letting yourself relax. That was your mistake, really. Maybe you should’ve had more realistic expectations, too. “But,” he went on, pushing another, sloppier kiss into your neck. “She’s still pretty fragile. A few hours off probably wouldn’t hurt.”

It was awful – how easily they could talk about you like some distant, abstract subject, how quickly they seemed to forget you were capable of listening when not addressed directly. With a smile, Suguru moved forward, resting one knee on the edge of your mattress while Satoru held you in place – keeping you from scrambling back as far as your chain would allow. You tried to grit your teeth, to keep your mouth shut, but Suguru only clicked his tongue, cupping your face with one hand while pressing something small and chalky against your pursed lips with the other. “Darling,” he drawled, infusing as much syrupy condescension into the pet name as was humanly possible. “You remember what happens to bad girls who don’t do what they’re told, don’t you?”

Instantly, your heart dropped. You remembered.

Driving your nails into your palms, you unlocked your jaw and hesitantly opened your mouth. Suguru barely waited for your lips to part before shoving the pill past your teeth and down your throat, keeping two lingers lodged in your airway even as you sputtered and gagged around him. It was less that you swallowed his pill and more that you would’ve had to choke down anything he all-but force-fed you, but whatever you called it, Suguru was satisfied – drawing back with a pleased hum only to tap his saliva-coated fingers against Satoru’s lips, instead. You shut your eyes, but it wasn’t enough.

The last thing you heard were the wet, stomach-turning noises of Satoru’s affection before everything went fuzzy.

~

You only really acted out once – about three weeks in, when the initial adrenaline was starting to fade and the slow, vicious dread of prolonged captivity had just begun to set in. You weren’t allowed to leave your windowless, ambiently lit bedroom, and by end of the first week, time had turned into something viscous and unforgiving, the endless hours only broken up by visits from Satoru and Suguru. It was hard not to be constantly on edge – unsure if you’d been alone for hours and minutes, simultaneously dying to see them again and hoping you never would. It was hard to tell what they were thinking, when you were so caught in in your own spiraling thoughts to try and guess at theirs.

Speaking of – their dynamic had become a little clearer, even if how things had spiraled out of control so quickly was still lost on you. You and Satoru had always been the dominant personalities in your relationship, with Suguru as the calming presence that leveled the two of you out, setting arguments and keeping you from tearing out each other’s throats. Now, though, the roles were reversed. Satoru was happy enough to spend most of his time treating you like an oversized, particularly uncooperative stuffed animal; something to cuddle and coo over, but not necessarily train or expect to reciprocate. Suguru, though…

Suguru had expectations.

“I need you to hold still, love.”

Suguru’s fingers brushed over your spine as he fiddled with the complex array of buttons lining the back of tonight’s nightgown. You’d seen your closest, knew they must’ve spent a small fortune on dresses and shoes and accessories, but Suguru still seemed to prefer you in sheer, cotton nightgowns and lacey lingerie and humiliatingly childish loungewear – nothing you would’ve been able to wear outside of home, even if you’d put it on willingly. It was a blessing that Suguru and Satoru were as busy as they were – Satoru with his classes and Suguru with his religious group. Most of the time, you’d find Suguru’s chosen outfit on the foot of your bed and be trusted to dress yourself. Most of the time.

Just not tonight.

“Someone’s a little antsy.” It was Satoru, this time, as unhelpful as ever. He was sprawled across your bed, toying idly with your chain while you sat in front of a vanity on the other side of the room, deliberately avoiding your reflection in the tri-fold mirror. “You should’ve let me play with her in the tub. Then, she wouldn’t have the energy to squirm.”

You felt your face burn. As if being forced to drink out of sippy cups and color with crayons wasn’t enough, bathtime was quickly becoming one of your most unbearable daily trails. Suguru always made sure things stayed above-board, but having to watch Satoru fuck his own fist while Suguru lovingly dictated where, when, and how roughly to clean yourself wasn’t much better than the alternative.

“Absolutely not. You’re too rough, and the last thing we want is for our princess to get bruised because you can’t wait another half an hour.” Fenagling the last button into place, Suguru straightened his back, sighing contentedly. “Can you turn around for me?”

Biting down on the side of your tongue, you shifted on the velvet-cushioned stool, your back pressing into the edge of the vanity’s counter as you faced Suguru. You’d made a point of not looking at yourself, but you could imagine what he saw – a thin nightgown clinging to your damp skin, your posture shrunken and your eyes downcast, every part of you made to seem small and helpless. If the feeling of his gaze burning into you wasn’t telling enough, the overwhelming delight audible in his voice would’ve given him away in a heartbeat. “Satoru, you have your phone, right? I want a picture. And—oh.” Your eyes darted in his direction just in time to see him pull a stuffed animal from one of the larger stacks; a large, white rabbit teddy, its button eyes an overly familiar shade of blue. He held it by its ears as he handed it to you. “Hold onto this for a second, love.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. You were in a bad position. You were in a bad place. You needed to be careful, and yet, when you finally managed to say something, you could only seem to spit out the one thing you knew he wouldn’t want to hear. “I… I really don’t want to take a picture right now, if that’s alright.”

To his credit, Suguru’s didn’t falter, his grin only wavering slightly. “Love,” He paused, sighed. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to.”

“I know, but—” Your breath hitched in your throat. Really, it was a miracle you weren’t already crying. “Please, Suguru. Not right now.”

His expression darkened, and yet, the gentle sigh that slipped past his lips was nothing short of tender. Still holding the rabbit, he reached out – catching the lace of your nightgown’s collar with two fingers. For a second, he just played with the delicate fabric, careful not to damage it.

Then, before you could think to react, his fist was around your neck and you were being slammed into the vanity.

There was enough force behind the collision to splinter the wood upon impact, to knock the air out of your lungs and seed an awful knot of blinding pain in the back of your head. You gasped, but it was too late – his fist tightened around your throat and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move save what it took for your hands to find his and dig your nails into his wrist, his forearm, his knuckles, whatever you could reach. You never would’ve been able to pry him off, but you didn’t need to. He released you as abruptly as he’d lunged, and without his support, your body dropped off of the vanity’s now-dented desk and onto the carpeted floor, your dress falling into a limp heap around you. You were too shocked to cry, to sob, to scream. Suguru and Satoru had kidnapped you, dehumanized you, isolated you, but neither of them had ever hurt you. They’d never—

Except, that wasn’t true, was it? They had hurt you. The first thing Suguru ever didwas hurt you, bending you over his knee the second you disobeyed him, and Satoru helped.

For your own sake, you decided to consider this an escalation, a new development. Something neither of them would’ve been capable of, back when you still considered them your Suguru and your Satoru.

 You also decided, still for your own sake, that you couldn’t afford to think about this any longer. Suguru was already moving on, lowering himself to your height, pouting as he raked his fingers through your now-disheveled hair and evaluated your newly wrinkled dress. “I’m sorry, princess. I must’ve lost my temper. I know you must be upset – having your pretty outfit ruined and all.”

He waited a beat, then asked, “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

If you hadn’t been so scared, you might’ve slapped him. Instead, you just bit down on your bottom lip and mumbled an unsure “I… I’m sorry?”

“For what, exactly?”

“For—For talking back, and making you angry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, love, I know. You would never mean to do anything like that.” He was still holding onto that fucking rabbit. You felt its velvet-soft material brush against your leg as he placed it, almost carefully, on the floor next to you. “I’ll tell you what – there don’t have to be any pictures. Why don’t you take your medicine, and we can allgo to bed?”

“No!” It was a purely automatic response, as reflexive as lashing out and latching onto his arm. When you realized what you were doing, you pulled away with a jolt, forcing your hands back into your lap and staring wide-eyed at the floor. “I mean, I’m sorry, I just—” You swallowed harshly. “Isn’t there… uh, another option? Please?”

Suguru opened his mouth, but Satoru cut in before he had the chance to answer. “Think it’s time to break out her pacifier, Suguru?”

You perked up. No part of you wanted to suck on a piece of plastic for the entertainment of your captors, sure, but it was better than the alternative. Fuck, you were having trouble of thinking of something that wasn’t.

Suguru seemed to like the idea, too. He shot Satoru an appreciative smile before pushing himself to his feet, before turning his attention back to you, eagerly waiting for your next bout of psychological torture.

It was only when he reached for the waistband of his sweatpants that you realized your mistake.

You might’ve protested – or, whined, at least – but the back of your skull still ached, and you could still see Satoru smirking in your peripheral, and he was already forcing his boxers below his hips, already curling a hand around the shaft of his cock. Disgustingly, terrifyingly, he was half-hard; his bloated tip flushed a darker shade of red, beads of arousal leaking from his blunt head and dripping down his shaft. Your thoughts seemed to waver, then fry, then blot out altogether – like a video game glitching in the middle of a cut scene. Maybe you should’ve just sat still for the fucking picture after all.

“The poor thing looks so startled,” Suguru cooed, glancing to Satoru. “Why don’t you lend her a hand?”

You were vaguely aware of Satoru moving, shifting, pushing himself off of your bed and crouching behind you. His thumb pushed past your lips and hooked your lower jaw easing your mouth open with as little grace as you had remaining dignity. You tried to bite down, obviously, but Suguru took hold of your hair and pulled – the sharp spike of pain immediately dispelling any thoughts of disobedience. “He’s helping you,” Suguru chimed, his voice taking on a cloying overtone. “You’ll have to thank him properly later on. When your mouth isn’t full, I mean.”

It wasn’t, but that changed quickly. Suguru was kind enough (or cruel enough) to move slowly, easing the head of his cock past your lips first, letting it sit on your tongue as you fought not to cringe against the bitter, musky taste. Satoru pulled his hand away as Suguru eased another inch into your mouth, then another, then another – letting out a rough groan as his tip hit the back of your throat with more than half of his shaft to spare. You fought the urge to gag, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You’d given him head before, but it’d always been on your own terms, with Satoru waiting on the sidelines to bail you out if you ever got tired of choking on your boyfriend’s stupidly big dick. Now, though, Satoru didn’t seem to want to do anything but breathe down your neck, and you doubted your consent was a factor either of them would stop to genuinely consider.

Ultimately, your enthusiastic cooperation proved unnecessary. Suguru kept his fingers tangled in your hair, his blunt nails biting into your scalp as he manually bobbed your head – slowly, at first, then faster, with enough force to leave your jaw sore after less than a minute of being split around his shaft. Saliva and pre-cum drooled from the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chest and onto your nightgown, but if Suguru cared, the feeling of your throat convulsing around him was enough to warrant a momentary lapse in decency. “T-that’s it,” he muttered, mostly under his breath. “Good, good girl. See what happens when you’re well-behaved?”

You felt Satoru shift behind you, his hands skirting over your back as he skillfully undid the buttons Suguru had spent so much time fussing over. A pair of large, velvet-soft hands grazed over your waist, then your sides, before reaching your chest and cupping your tits – kneading the soft tissue like a pair twin stress balls fitted perfectly to his palms. “She looks better already,” Satoru laughed, thumbs swiping over your nipples. “You’re gonna thank mommy for being so nice with you, right?”

Suguru snorted. “I’m mommy?”

“Mhm. ‘cause you’re so pretty and you take such good care of our little princess.” He nudged you, propping his chin on your shoulder. “Go on, baby. Tell mommy how much you love him.”

You choked something out – more of a desperate whine than anything coherent – and Suguru threw his head back, cursing silently as his pace turned from sloppy to erratic. His cock battered into your throat with every thrust, your air supply constantly somewhere between minimal and nonexistent. It was only as the outskirts of your vision started to fade that Suguru hissed, gritting his teeth as he dragged your head into his hips, your nose pressing into his pubic bone and his cock so far down your throat, you could practically feel him in your lungs. A sudden twitch, a groaned exhale was all the warning you received before you felt something hot and thick fill your throat, your mouth, your diaphragm. He held you there for a moment, then another – savoring the sound of your fractured whimpering all-but drowned by his cum – before letting you go, watching through half-lidded eyes as you collapsed into Satoru’s waiting arms.

You lurched forward, moving to spit, to get him out of you, but Satoru’s hand was already covering your mouth – determined to keep Suguru’s taste on your tongue for that much longer. At the same time, you felt something small and soft being dropped onto your thighs, heard the shutter of a camera above you. Rather than trying to look at Suguru, you let your gaze fall to your lap.

Or, rather, the perfectly white, perfectly posed rabbit now resting peacefully on top of it.

~

It was two months before the chain came off – meaning, before Suguru and Satoru were happy enough with either your behavior or their security to let you roam freely (with heavy supervision, of course). It went without saying that you were ecstatic. You could barely sit still while Satoru undid the shackle, barely listen while Suguru told you their plans for the night – dinner and a movie marathon, not totally dissimilar to something you might’ve suggested when you still had the authority to be making suggestions. It didn’t matter. You were just happy to be doing anything, especially if it meant you got to leave that godawful room.

You only realized that you’d still been picturing your old apartment when you stepped out of the bedroom an abruptly realized you weren’t in an apartment at all, but a house – two stories with every window looking out onto a fence so tall, you would’ve had to be on the roof to see over it. It was decorated sparely, with what few shelves there were littered sporadically with Satoru’s gundams or parts of Suguru’s ongoing trinket collection, but minimalism was an appreciated change compared to the ongoing sensory nightmare that was your bedroom. You gawked at every empty surface, every plain white wall as Suguru herded you to the kitchen, where Satoru was busy plating what looked like udon. The seating arrangement was strange – there were only two chairs at the dining room table, but you were too caught up in your own euphoria to care. You grabbed a bowl and a pair of chopsticks, fell into a seat, and—

“Sweetheart,” Suguru started, his voice somewhat strained. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh,” You glanced at your bowl, abruptly confused. “Eating? I think?”

“Almost, but not quite. I guess I can’t blame you for not knowing.” He rounded the table, coming to stand at your side. You tried to get up, but it only took a hand on your shoulder to stop you. “Even something as simple as using utensils can be dangerous for little ones like you. Me and Satoru will be feeding you by hand, from now on.”

It was strange, really – how many little deaths you could die before going numb to it. It was terrible, how many times you could hear one of the two men you loved most in the world say you were more incapable than a literal child before it all just turned to static.

You wondered, distantly, if Suguru was offended that you didn’t engage with this part of him more willingly. It was clearly sincere, if fucked-up, and if he’d ever bothered to ask, you probably would’ve agreed to try it – not that you would’ve had much of a choice, in the later stages of your relationship. It was different for Satoru – as long as you were trapped and at his mercy, he’d be happy. Suguru wanted something… different, more complex. Suguru wanted reliance.

Suguru wanted to break you down.

“If you say so.” You heard your voice, felt your mouth moving, but you weren’t talking. “Can I… um, would it be alright if I asked for something, first?”

Suguru’s satisfaction was almost palpable. “Of course. Anything for you.”

“I think I’d like to take my medicine, now.”

Suguru answered quickly, but not quickly enough. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Satoru reach for the cabinet above the stove before thinking better of it and glancing over his shoulder, as if to make sure you hadn’t seen. It took everything you had not to react as Suguru responded.

“Of course,” he said with an airy laugh, nearly purring. “Not right now, though – we’ll wait until it’s closer to your bedtime. Try to focus on dinner.”

You only nodded eagerly, smiling sincerely for the first time in weeks.

~

It took two weeks for you to get your hands on their pills (you stole two, just in case), and three more to convince Satoru that a field trip – his description, not yours – wouldn’t be that big of a deal, not if you kept it short, not if Suguru didn’t find out. He’d always been ecstatic when you visited him at his university (a historic private school, so unlike the local community college you’d gone to, the one you missed with all your heart), and besides, what was worst that could happen? He wasn’t going to let you out of his sight, and the students were still on winter break. You could even wear your old clothes, just to make sure you didn’t attract attention. It’d just be the two of you, all alone in his office, with hours and hours and hours to kill. Really, how could it possibly go wrong?

You waited until you reached his office to slip both stolen pills into his coffee. He’d barely gotten his belt off before the effects kicked-in, but still, you waited until he’d been reduced to a drooling, half-conscious shell of himself before making your escape.

You’d been right – his campus really was deserted. You hurried past dark lecture halls and empty offices as you rushed in a direction you hoped would lead to an exit, glanced out of windows that looked onto lifeless courtyards as you thought about what to do next. The police weren’t an option. They hadn’t hurt you, not in any way you’d be able to prove, and even if you had the evidence, Satoru was rich, and to the law, there was no greater proof of innocence. You tried to think of phone numbers, of addresses, but you hadn’t had many friends before meeting Satoru and Suguru, and they’d made sure to whittle that unimpressive number down to zero over the course of your relationship. You cursed under your breath, even though there was no one around to hear you. You should’ve taken Satoru’s wallet after he passed out. You wouldn’t have been able to use to his cards, but it would’ve been nice to—

You rounded the next corner, then froze.

At the end of the hall, like an omen of death granted human form, stood Suguru.

You took a faltering step backward before breaking into a full, heart-pounding sprint. Suguru wasn’t close, but he was close enough. He let you get all of three steps away before fist curled around the back of your shirt, his muscular arm wrapping around your midriff, trapping you with as much effort as it might’ve taken to lift a kitten by its scruff. Still, you thrashed, struggled, fought – throwing your elbow into his stomach and kicking at his legs as he lifted you off the ground entirely, pinning your body against his chest. He wasn’t supposed to be here. You were told he’d be at his shrine today, all day, with a thousand little things to do that’d keep him distracted until you got away. This wasn’t fair. He wasn’t supposed to be—

“Calm down,” he muttered, his voice distant, cold. “You’ll only make this worse for yourself.”

Immediately, you went still. It was a vague threat, but it was a threat, and Suguru had never threatened you before.

Or, you didn’t think he had, at least. It was getting so hard to tell, after everything they’d done to you.

He didn’t sigh, or shake his head, or speak again. He only lowered you back to the ground and, after taking your hand in his, led you back down the vacant halls, past the abandoned classrooms, and to the door of Satoru’s office. He paused outside of it, his dark eyes falling to you in a way you could only describe as void-like. You had to wonder why you every thought you knew him.

“You were trying to…?”

He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. Reluctantly, you nodded, and Suguru turned away from you, shouldering open the office door.

Satoru was on his feet, but only barely. He was supporting himself on the corner of his desk, his pale face flushed red and his clothes noticeably disheveled. At some point, he’d lost his sunglasses, and you watched his sky-blue eyes go wide as Suguru crossed the threshold with you following shortly after. “Suguru, princess.” His voice was weak, breathy. You could only imagine how you’d sounded strung out on their sedatives. “How far did she get? She caught me off-guard, but—”

Suguru let go of your hand and closed the distance between him and Satoru. You heard the sharp crack before you could process what he was doing – saw Suguru raise his hand and Satoru’s head snap to the side without ever linking either action with the other. Even Satoru, always so resilient, took a moment to recover, his expression going blank as Suguru spoke, unphased. “If you ever leave me, I’ll break your legs so badly, you’ll never be able to walk again.” You didn’t have to wonder if he meant it. It didn’t matter if he meant it. The words alone left shaking too violently to move, let alone run. “And if you do anything to help her, I’ll gut you alive.”

Your eyes darted to Satoru, to his visibly swollen cheek. Somehow, he seemed even more flushed than he had seconds before, his eyes half-lidded and his lips slightly parted. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought he looked—

Oh, god.

You should’ve gotten away when you had the chance.

Of course, things only got worse when he opened his mouth. “Yes, mommy.”

“Get on the couch and lay down. It’s not like you’re good for anything else, right now.”

“I will, mommy.”

He obeyed mechanically, collapsing onto the well-worn sofa that sat against the far wall. You’d always thought it was too big, too bulky, especially in such a confined state. When you asked Satoru why he bothered to keep it, he’d just laughed and claimed he liked to keep his guests comfortable.

You doubted you counted as a guest. Then again, you doubted you were going to be very comfortable, either.

Suguru glanced over his shoulder, his lifeless stare boring into you. “Straddle his waist and help him undress. You did this, so you’ll be taking responsibility.”

Fear was a surprisingly strong motivation. You were scrambling onto the sofa before you had a chance to think, planting a knee on either side of Satoru’s hips as you fumbled clumsily with his shirt. For his part, Satoru was either incapable of or unwilling to help you – a distant, careless smile soon painting itself across his lips as he watched you struggle. When he did move, it was only to bring a hand to the back of your neck and drag you downward, his mouth crashing into yours. It was less of a kiss and more of a sloppy attempt to choke you to death with his tongue, but Satoru still groaned as you separated, his face immediately finding the crook of your neck. “So glad Suguru got you back,” he slurred, nuzzling into you. “He’s so hot when he gets all jealous like that.”

You were only half-listening to him, already distracted. Suguru had moved, too – kneeling behind you, his hands finding your hips and dragging them into the air. Your skirt was pushed up to your waist, your panties to the side, and just as abruptly, three of Suguru’s broad fingers were pushed into your cunt. You whimpered at the sudden, borderline painful intrusion, but Suguru only scoffed. “Be grateful you’re getting this much prep. It’s already more than you deserve.”

That didn’t do anything to stop the pain, though. Suguru was merciless – sheathing his digits to the knuckle, spreading his fingers apart, making it clear that he wasn’t doing this for your pleasure, even if he didn’t seem to be getting much out of it, either. You tried to shut your eyes, to grit your teeth and bare it, but any attempts to ignore reality were swiftly cut short by the feeling of his unoccupied hand coming down on your ass with enough force to bruise. “Did I say could stop?”

He hadn’t, but Satoru was making things difficult – keeping you slotted against him as closely as you could. As Suguru’s fingers fucked into you, you managed to get an arm between your body and his, for the waistband of his jeans down just far enough to earn a satisfied grunt from Suguru. Strangely, the worst part wasn’t the strain in your cunt, or the heat of Satoru’s cock pressing into your stomach, but the feeling of Satoru’s wide, toothy grin pressing into the side of your neck – tangible proof of his euphoria. It was awful – just how clearly he was enjoying this. At least Suguru had the decency to go blank.

It was too much too suddenly with too little build up, but Suguru knew your body and, more damningly, your body knew him. Barely a minute had passed before you felt arousal stain the inside of your thighs, before the sound of his digits plunging into you took on a distinctive wet quality. You let your head lull into Satoru’s chest and dig your teeth into your tongue, willing away any embarrassing noises that would’ve added to your ongoing degradation, but if Suguru cared, you couldn’t tell. He soldiered on with that brutal, unyielding pace, ignoring your clit entirely in favor of beating his frustration directly into your pussy. Really, it was a miracle you felt anything at all. Well, anything beyond pain, anyway.

It was only when you tensed against Satoru, when you finally let a single, fractured moan slip past your haphazardly sealed lips, that Suguru abruptly stopped; pulling out of you before you could fully process what was happening. You glanced over your shoulder, misplaced disappointment softening the harsher edges of your fear, but Satoru was quick to catch your chin – redirecting your attention back to him. “Where do you think you’re going, princess?” he asked, rocking his hips into yours. “You’ve gotta stay on my good side too, remembered?”

As if you could forget.

Behind you, Suguru glowered. “I’ll deal with you when we get home.” To Satoru, and then, to you, “Do it. Make sure he doesn’t cum.”

Your instructions were clear, albeit unappreciated. Satoru let you straighten your back, his hands kneading at your thighs as you picked yourself up and, as mindlessly as you could, aligned the head of his cock with your entrance. You wanted to move slowly, to give your abused cunt time to adjust, but Suguru proved uncharacteristically impatient; taking you by the shoulders and spearing you on Satoru’s cock before you could so much as consider protesting. You went stiff, your brain too busy trying to make sense of your sudden fullness to order your body to move, but Satoru didn’t seem to mind – only tightening his vice-like hold and bucking into you from below, his cock battering into the deepest, most vulnerable part of you without the slightest trace of concern.

You were too startled to make noise, but Satoru had always been so much louder than you, so much more eager to pour out his every little thought. “She’s so fucking tight,” he breathed, grinding into you. “Been ages since I had her on top of me, too. Almost forgot how—” A slight gasp, a pitchy whine, “Almost forgot how pretty she could get, sitting on her daddy’s lap.”

Your sight blurred, and a few seconds later, you realized you were crying. Suguru didn’t respond, but you heard fabric shifting, felt one of his hands disappear for a moment before returning, now on the center of your back. With more force than he really had to use, he shoved you back down, pressing you flat against Satoru as he maneuvered himself behind you. Space was limited, availability even more so, but still, it wasn’t until you felt the head of his cock press against your stuffed slit that you realized what he was doing.

“N—no,” It was almost impressive, just how quickly you abandoned what was left of your pride. You tried to pick yourself back up, but Satoru was a snare – an arm looking around your waist while the other found your hip, holding you still for Suguru. “Please, you can’t, it’s not—It won’t fit, and—”

And, just like that, Suguru was pushing into you, bottoming out in a single thrust. As his hips pressed into your ass and he let out a quiet, almost inaudible groan, you could only wonder if either of them had ever really loved you.

There was a lapse – more for their sakes than yours – before Satoru started moving, already acclimated. “Such a good girl,” he drawled, grinding into you, seemingly unhappy unless he and Suguru were both fully planted inside of you. “See? It’s not that bad, right? I knew you’d be able to handle it.”

But you couldn’t. Tears streamed down your cheeks uncontrollably, hitched sobbed and agonized moans trickling past your lips every time either of them moved. Suguru sucked in a shuddering breath, then planted a hand on the small of your back, thrusting into you sharp and deep – his movements a stark contrast to Satoru’s. The stretch along was unbearable. Even on your best days, you’d struggle to take either of them to the hilt. Taking both seemed fantastical, implausible, fatal. It was genuinely surprising that you weren’t already dead.

It was doubly as surprising, then, that it felt so good.

 Most of it had to be your own fried nerves trying to make the best of it, to get you through this as quickly and as painlessly as was possible. You weren’t in control of anything; not your hands as they clawed blindly at Satoru’s chest, not your hips as you bucked pitifully into Suguru, and certainly not your cunt as it clenched even tighter around the cocks splitting it open. Satoru let out an airy laugh, two fingers dropping to your neglected clit. “It’s okay, baby, you deserve to feel good too,” he gushed, pushing lazy circles into the small bundle of nerves, drawing out yet another miserable sob. “Told you she’d like it.”

“She’s not supposed to,” Suguru grunted, digging his nails into your waist. Still, that didn’t stop him from burying himself inside of you, his cock twitching against the walls of your cunt. You couldn’t be sure what it was – the fullness, maybe, or the overstimulation, or your own desperation to just get this over with – but your vision burnt white, your body convulsing against Satoru’s as you came undone around them. Satoru followed shortly after, digging his teeth into the curve of your neck as he pumped something searing and vileinto you. Suguru let out a rough, throaty growl – throwing his head forward and hilting himself entirely inside of you. You shook your head, pleading silently, but he didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to notice, and even if he had, you doubted it would’ve been enough to stop him from cumming inside of you, from ensuring that no part of you was left uncorrupted.

There was a short period of numb, thoughtless stillness – filled only by Suguru’s panting, Satoru’s mindless cooing, and the absence of your voice. Suguru shifted, and for a second, you panicked, convincing yourself that there was more, that he wasn’t done – but he only pulled out of you, fixing his clothes with his eyes focused pointedly on the point where your cunt was still stretched around Satoru’s cock, where it leaked and drooled onto Satoru’s lap. You weren’t so resilient, letting your eyes fall shut and slumping against Satoru.

For the very first time, as you lost consciousness, you felt the smallest, tiniest, most microscopic spec of relief that, at the very least, you wouldn’t be responsible for cleaning yourself up.

~

“Stay in the car. I’ll call when it’s time for you to bring her in.”

The ride had been near-silent, only occasionally interrupted by an odd comment from Satoru or a hissed warning from Suguru. Suguru drove while Satoru held onto you in the back seat, keeping you gathered in his arms, his jacket draped loosely over your shoulders. Satoru only nodded as Suguru let himself out, making no move to follow. Whatever this was, they must’ve already talked about it while you were blacked out.

You waited until Suguru had disappeared into the house before speaking, your voice hoarse and unsteady. “He hit you.”

“Mhm. You did a number on my chest, too.”

“But—” You cut yourself off and started over. “He hit you.”

He flashed you a smile, as careless as it was dismissive. “What do you want me to say, baby?”

“That this insane. That he’s insane.” You crossed your arms over your chest, curling into yourself. “You can leave, Satoru – we can leave together. All we’d have to do is—” The air hitched in your throat, but you managed to snarl something out. “—fucking go.”

“And why would we want to do that, exactly?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

Satoru laughed, the sound breathy and light. “Because,” he said, nuzzling into your hair, “Suguru loves me. He loves us. You should know that – after today, especially.”

You opened your mouth, but shut it just as quickly.

This time, you had a feeling that he’d given you the only answer he was going to.

The next few minutes passed slowly. Satoru kept himself occupied, pushing slow, lingering kisses into your cheek and neck, while you stared mindlessly out of the window, trying to savor the last minutes of sunlight that you’d have for a long, long time. Eventually, Satoru’s phone buzzed. He didn’t even bother to check it before gathering you up in his arms and carrying you inside. You expected him to take you back to your bedroom, with its stuffed-animal lined shelves and bright pink walls and polished silver chain, but instead, he turned down a hallway you’d never seen before, into a bedroom that was distinctly not yours. Suguru was waiting for him, standing in the doorway to a dark closet. The edges of his lips quirked upward when he saw you. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest thing you’d gotten to one from him all day.

Satoru placed you next to him, and your attention turned back to the closet. Any clothes or shoes had been cleared out to make room for a single, silver dog crate, nearly big enough to stretch from one wall to the other. The bottom was padded with a light pink blanket that you recognized from your bed, and a white rabbit plush had been left in the far right corner. A deadbolt hung, undone, from the open kennel door.

You might’ve broken down entirely, if you hadn’t been so devastated.

Suguru’s voice was deafening and serene, as beautifully composed as it was unspeakably terrible. “Get in, love.”

��I’m not—”

“You should probably listen to him,” Satoru cut in, placing a hand on your shoulder. “This is just about the nicest thing he suggested.”

You swallowed, your heart failing to beat. Out of some ancient, primal, preservatory instinct, your body moved towards the crate, falling to its knees and bowing its head to fit inside. The kennel was big for a dog, not for a person. You had just enough room to huddle against the farthest wall as Suguru slid the door into place, the deadbolt locking with a sadistic click.

“It really is a shame,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I was hoping you could be our darling princess for a little longer, but I’m sure you’ll make a much better bitch.”

Satoru helped him back to his feet, and together, they retreated back to the closet door, Satoru casting one more lovesick smile over his shoulder as he shut the door behind them, leaving you in total, endless, solitary darkness.

Your wretched sobs echoed off the barren walls as you finally started to cry.