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3-2-whump · 4 months ago

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You Told Me It Had Stopped

Hi again, everyone! Ready for more pain and angst? (I wasn't asking!)

So hard to believe we're reaching the end of this story! With only five more chapters to go after this one (unless I cram in more story at the last minute), things are only gonna get crazier from here, but hopefully, it'll be just as satisfying as the last few chapters.

Shoutout to my amazing beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz , this chapter would not be what it is without them!

This chapter will have links within it referring you to previous chapters. If you have not read In Vino (et Venenum) Veritas or Tying Up Loose Ends, I'd highly suggest you give those a peek

TW/CW: slave whump, intimate whumper, manipulative whumper, emotional angst, prostitution, dehumanization, blackmail, referenced noncon, forced to watch (though not in the traditional sense)

“GOAL!” the announcer’s voice rang out over the laptop’s speakers.

Nico and Khaled cheered in unison as Portugal secured its place in the quarterfinals. Nico wrapped an arm around Khaled to hug him close, but a flash of purple from Khaled’s shirt collar stopped him.

Khaled sensed the change in atmosphere immediately. “Wait, what’s wrong?” he asked, his smile waning slightly.

“Is that a hickey?”

The sounds of cheering from a stadium half a world away were forgotten as Khaled’s smile dropped completely. He instinctively tried to adjust his shirt collar, but Nico grasped his hands in his own before he could. “Is that a hickey?” he asked again, tone serious.

Khaled nodded as his eyes turned downwards. Nico let go of his hands, frowning all the while. “I thought it had stopped,” he said, letting the disappointment creep into his voice. “You told me it had stopped, Khaled.”

“It did stop,” Khaled answered, eyes still downcast. “But then… it started up again…”

“I thought he was paying you to be his executive assistant-”

“Oh he is,” Khaled replied tersely, “and he’s paying me for this too.”

Nico faltered. “But, how –why –how could you?” Nico told himself the anger he felt was supposed to be for the Boss, and that he was misdirecting it at Khaled, who was already going through so much already. Though, if he was being completely honest with himself, his anger at Khaled wasn’t that misdirected. He was so, so tired of being lied to. “Fuck the money, why would let him do it again?!” he demanded.

“Why would I let him do it again? Do you think I have any choice in this?”

“No –yes –wait, no?” Nico shook his head. “I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is, you could’ve turned down the money, couldn’t you?!”

“Like fuck I could!” Khaled argued. “Are you the one saving up for his freedom? Don’t talk to me about money, Nico!”

“What good is money and freedom when it means losing your self-respect, and your friendship with me, Khaled?!”

Khaled made an exaggerated snort. “Some friendship we have! Remember when you took me out drinking, and I got so drunk I told you everything?”

Nico cringed at the memory, and more importantly at what came after. Khaled noticed his discomfort right away and dug his claws in deeper. “And do you remember when the Boss paid you off to keep silent about me, and you fucking took the bribe?”

“He was holding my tuition hostage-”

“Your tuition –he’s holding me hostage!”

“-That was not a bribe!”

Khaled ignored the minute distinction. “It still hurt, you know!” And then, he locked eyes with Nico. “My first and only friend since I was stolen to this awful place turned his back on me, and all I asked myself was why wasn’t I good enough, why wasn’t I worth defending!” Despite the black flames of vitriol in his eyes, Nico could see a faint, vulnerable sheen of tears.

“Wait, shit, no-” he began to apologize. The damage was done as Khaled shoved his coat on and walked to the door. Nico belatedly reached out his hand. “I’m sorry, Khaled! I didn’t mean to hurt you like that! Come back-”

“Go fuck yourself!” Khaled cried. “It’s not like you want to be friends with someone who sells themselves, anyway,” he murmured angrily as he let the door slam behind him.

Nico was left all alone with his regrets as the game played on his laptop in the background.

Three days after they had that argument, and Khaled had not seen Nico for lunch since. That was entirely expected though. He had hurt his friend immensely, and, three days later, he was still no closer to coming up with a sufficient apology for what he’d said. He decided to at least add the new mark to his log, although he regretted not being able to snap a covert picture of it to add to his records. He ducked into his backpack’s inner pocket to retrieve his flash drive, where he made it a habit of storing all evidence of Khaled’s abuse for future reference.

It was not in the inner pocket.

Well, maybe it’s in the bottom of my backpack? Nico reasoned. He methodically took out each textbook and groped around the bottom, shining his cellphone light down there, too.

It was not at the bottom of his backpack.

Where is it?! Nico tore through his backpack, searching it thoroughly, even so much as to turn it upside down and shake it. He checked every desk drawer again and again, and emptied every pants and jacket pocket. Still no flash drive.

A chiming sound from his monitor signaled an email, a high priority one at that. Nico paused his tearing apart of the guard shack to view it.

One (1) new message from The Boss

Nico clicked it.

Looking for something? Meet me downstairs to retrieve it.

It was succinct, yet it elicited so much dread. He gulped.

As if crossing the parking lot late at night in the dead of January wasn’t creepy enough, Nico stood at the top of the stairwell leading to the infamous T & I cellar, feeling the winter’s chill even inside the brick and mortar walls of the mansion. Even from the top of the stairs it smelled like dried blood, and the dimness of the room below made it look as if the stairs descended into an abyss. He steeled his nerves and descended into the abyss, step by concrete step, painfully aware of how much noise his shoes made in the quietness of the empty building.

Even though he had seen the T & I cellar in the security footage, Nico realized nothing compared to being down there in person. Dusty, red bricked walls arched into a curved ceiling where two overhead lamps dangled unlit like limp, long dead jellyfish. The fireplace was concealed behind a large white sheet, stretched taut and glowing bluish white over the expanse of the wall. The opposing wall still boasted its rack lined with various instruments of torture out in the open. In the middle sat one large table with scratch marks furrowed into its edges, and large mottled stains of red that could be traced down to the concrete floors below. Nico thought he would be sick just looking at the bloodstains alone. There were chairs pulled up to that table, though, one of which was occupied by the boss Don Costa himself, looking mighty smug in the dimness of the room. Near the edge of the table was a projector and a laptop, operated by Khaled, who stood silently beside the table bearing his own bloodstains as if he weren’t affected at all. His dark brown eyes flitted to Nico once, possibly just to confirm he was there, before resolutely fixing back onto the laptop and projector in front of him. Nico couldn’t blame him for being mad at him still.

“Nico Clemenza,” Don Costa greeted, breaking the tension between the two friends, “do you have any idea why you’re here?”

I’m not in trouble, I’m not in trouble, I’m not in trouble -am I? Nico thought. That tone of voice and the whole context of meeting in the T & I cellar certainly seemed to contradict that. “You have something that I’m looking for, sir?” He didn’t mean for it to be asked like a question, but right now he wasn’t sure what the safe answer would be.

“That’s right,” his boss affirmed, smirking condescendingly. “I got a little tip-off from Bennie and Michael last weekend that you have been rather cagey about a certain flash drive.”

Dad and Uncle Mike? The last time Nico had seen them was when he’d just visited home last weekend. He had gotten into an argument with his uncle over Khaled’s treatment, and he had pushed his dad out of his room when he’d asked about the flash drive labeled ‘Saved Footage’. Did they go through my stuff when I wasn’t there? Did they find the flash drive and snitch on me?! He knew the oath of loyalty these men had taken, but the betrayal by his own family still hurt.

“I asked Khaled about it, but my poor pet didn’t seem to know what it was for, either,” the boss continued. “So you can imagine how he reacted –how both of us reacted, when we plugged it in and saw all that saved footage.”

Nico’s face paled in horror, eyes widening as he realized how years-worth of Khaled’s torture saved to his personal device must have looked out of context. He quickly turned to Khaled to beg for his understanding. “Khaled, I can explain, it’s not what it looks like!” he protested. His friend finally turned toward him, delicate lips downturned into a slight frown. “I don’t know what he told you, but please, believe me, I can explain!”

“Oh, we know what it looks like,” Don Costa sneered. “It’s funny, I always wondered why you were so interested in my slave, but now it makes perfect sense!” He laughed as Nico’s jaw worked up and down, sputtering in a pathetic attempt to verbally defend himself. Khaled meanwhile stayed still as a statue, focusing only on the laptop screen in front of him. “I could just get you your own once you graduate, you know, like as a graduation present. You don’t have to lower yourself to befriend mine.” He tilted his head toward the projector. “So, here you were, playing at being friends with my pet while stealing away all those moments caught on film the whole time, whether it be for your own pleasure or-” The older man raised his eyebrows as a mischievous sharpness glinted in those cold gray eyes. “-Maybe you’re uploading them somewhere for the pleasure of millions?”

Nico choked a little at the baseless accusation.

“But, whether you’re saving them for your personal spank bank or uploading them to a porn site, you are still called down here for violating your NDA,” Thomas concluded. He whipped out a stack of papers and dramatically slammed them onto the table, the impact echoing a bit in the otherwise silent room. Nico eyed the stack of papers warily. When he first started working for Costa Insurance, he did what anyone else would and skimmed the document for the right places to initial or sign. Now, as a nearly completed law student, he recognized the weight of the consequences that violating an NDA would lead to.

“Go on, have a seat.”

Nico approached the table like a death row convict on the way to his execution. He lowered himself into the chair and stared down at the document before him, thumbing through its pages as he now read every word. He obviously must have taken too long, as the man seated in front of him cleared his throat impatiently as he murmured, “Page eight, paragraph B.”

Nico flipped there. “There shall be no extraction or publication of client’s names, addresses, accounts, or other personal information outside the grounds of Costa Insurance,” he read aloud.

Before he could ask for an explanation, Don Costa turned toward his slave, who had remained silent throughout the whole thing. “Khaled, play February 9, 2018.” Khaled typed into the laptop almost robotically as he brought up the footage from the specified date. There, projected on the makeshift screen for all three viewers in the room to see, was footage of Khaled lying naked on the ground with his hands tied behind his back, a silk tie wedged into his mouth, and Jaime’s boot on top of his head. Nico recognized it from the Key Game era.

“See, there,” the boss pointed out, referring to a desktop screen in the peripheral of the video.

Nico scoffed. “But you can hardly even read that!”

“Nevertheless, there is sensitive client information on that computer screen that cannot leave these grounds.” He nodded toward Khaled. “September 24, 2018.” Khaled obeyed, his face a calm mask of detachment as he pulled up another video of his own tortures. The next scene featured Khaled, on his knees, sucking off Nico’s uncle as he and the Boss talked business. “There, on the coffee table,” Don Costa directed him. The list of phone numbers was slightly more legible than the previous leak of sensitive information. A pit of dread opened in the bottom of Nico’s stomach. How many more of these videos coincidentally contained sensitive information in their periphery? Were they placed within the camera frame on purpose?

“Khaled, November 21-”

“I get it, I get it,” Nico objected, palms raised up. “I fucked up, I get it. So, what do you want me to do about it, sir?”

Don Costa’s mouth upturned into a sickening grin. “Easy! Destroy the flash drive, take down whatever videos you posted, and, should this data leak come to bite us in the ass one day, take full responsibility for it and resign,” he explained.

Destroy all the evidence? Nico gulped. He wasn’t keen on losing years’ worth of documented human rights abuses, but he also didn’t want to deal with the threat of litigation.

“What are you willing to give to see Khaled happy and free, as he should be?” Julio’s question haunted him. Nico summoned his courage to look the bastard in the eyes. “And if I refuse?” he asked.

Khaled visibly perked up, shooting a questioning glance at Nico’s rare moment of defiance. Meanwhile, the smile dropped off Thomas’ face. “Then I reenact every single thing I’ve done to Khaled that you’ve saved on that little flash drive of yours,” he threatened. Khaled’s attention focused back onto his master, and although Nico may have imagined it, the young man trembled. “You have years’ worth of footage, and the night is still young.”

“You’re bluffing,” Nico replied, ignoring the certainty in his mind that this man was not bluffing. “You nearly killed him last spring when you carved his back open! Are you really going to take that risk again?”

The boss merely shrugged. “He survived the last time, why not?” he asked nonchalantly.

Khaled’s face paled, taking on a sickly color as his trembling worsened. Nico folded. “Okay, okay, fine!” The last thing he wanted to see was Khaled getting tortured and knowing he could’ve stopped it. Nico thrust forward a reluctant but outstretched palm. “Give me the flash drive, and I’ll smash it right here,” he promised.

Khaled breathed an almost-imperceptible sigh of relief, but the boss stopped him just before he could unplug the flash drive. “Wait, before you smash it, I just gotta know…” He smiled conspiratorially at Nico. “What part was your favorite?”

Nico waited patiently for the phone on the other end to pick up that night, drumming his fingers against his desk as he overlooked the city from his bedroom window. Eventually, the repetitive ringing was replaced by a very loud Pitbull remix, followed by a heavily accented “Alvarez Auto and Motorcycles, what do you want?”

“Yeah, can you tell me my status on my radiator hose? Did you use a 9-mm wrench?” Nico asked, well-practiced in the Juicio Divino code by now. The person who had picked up the call fell silent, the music thumped on in the background, and eventually a new voice carried over the phone.

“What are you calling me for, I told you only to call me if it was an emergency!” Julio yelled. There were light shuffling sounds, and then no background music at all, an indication that Nico’s partner in crime had moved to a more private place to talk.

“We need to try to kill him again,” Nico explained, getting straight to the point. “Things are getting worse on my end.”

“Worse, what do you mean worse?” Julio’s breath hitched a little. “Does he know you’re working with me?!”

“No, he –he found my flash drive,” Nico explained. “Made me destroy it. That’s four-ish years of evidence, gone.”

Julio went silent for a couple seconds before coming to the same conclusion. “You’re right. We need to kill him again. And this time, I won’t miss.”

“We won’t miss,” Nico corrected. “We’re in this together, partner.”

The static-y sigh on the other end of the line made Nico’s heart do something weird and tingly. “Yes we are,” Julio conceded. He hung up. Nico brought the phone down from his ear and caught his own reflection in the window. He was smiling.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

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#whump writing #slave whump #intimate whumper #manipulative whumper #emotional angst #prostitution whump #blackmail tw #tw dehumanization #referenced noncon #forced to watch trope

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begtopush · 8 days ago

Text

The Cult Breeder

Word count 2980

Tw: Dark Topics, kidnapping, pushing baby back in, hard birth,descriptive birth, cult vaguely referenced

The cruel captor smirks wickedly, his eyes glinting with malicious glee as he sees Emily suffering in the throes of labor. He leans in close, his putrid breath hot against her ear as he whispers in a sinister tone.

“Aww, listen to you moan and cry, you pathetic slut. You want this baby out so badly, don't you? Too fucking bad.” He chuckles darkly, trailing a finger along her trembling jawline. “I'm in charge here, remember? You don't get to make demands.”

He steps back, folding his arms across his broad chest as he watches her writhe in agony, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. “Beg for it, whore. Beg me to help you deliver this bastard child. Maybe if you grovel enough, I'll consider it.” His laughter echoes through the room, cold and merciless. “Go on, entertain me. I'm all ears.”

“Please" she whines out weakly but it was not nearly good enough for him and makes him a bit mad with her lack of effort.

The captor's grin vanishes, replaced by a scowl of anger and disappointment. He grabs Emily's chin roughly, forcing her to meet his icy stare as another contraction wracks her body.

“Please?” he sneers, his grip tightening painfully. “That's all you've got? Fucking pathetic!” He shakes her head like a rag doll, his fury mounting. “You think a meager 'please' is enough to make me lift a finger to help you?”

He releases her roughly, letting her head thump against the wall as he steps back. He begins to pace the small cell, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete floor. “I should leave you to suffer, you ungrateful bitch. Let you scream and wail until you pass out from the pain. That's what you deserve for your half-assed begging.”

He spins on his heel, jabbing a finger at her as he leans in close once more. “You want this baby out? Then beg like you fucking mean it! Beg until your throat is raw and your lungs burn. Beg until I believe the desperation pouring out of you. Only then, and only if I'm feeling generous, will I even consider letting you push this brat out of your worthless body. Now fucking TRY!”

She groans "please god pleaseee” the contraction building again making Her whimper trying to grip onto the chain to squeeze it.

The captor's eyes narrow as Emily's groans reach a desperate new pitch, her voice cracking with the anguish of her labor and his cruel torments combined. He leans in closer, his face mere inches from hers, his breath hot and noxious against her skin.

‘Please god pleaseee…’ he mocks in a high-pitched, whorish imitation of her voice, his lips curling in a sneer. “Still not good enough, you miserable slut. You want the big man upstairs to hear you? Then fucking SCREAM IT!”

He slams his fist against the wall beside her head, making her flinch and cry out in fear and pain. His eyes burn with sadistic fury as he growls, “Beg me, you fucking CUNT! Beg me to end your suffering and deliver your bastard spawn. SCREAM my name until it's the only prayer you know. Until the echoes of it are seared into your goddamn soul!”

He grabs a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head back and forcing her to meet his wild, deranged eyes. His face is a mask of cruel intensity, his voice a vicious snarl.

“DO IT, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! BEG ME LIKE YOUR FUCKING LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW SCREAM! SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY HOPE YOU HAVE IS IN MY FICKLE MERCY!”

She begs and whines for a bit but he still isn't satisfied she tries to disobey him and push she lets out a yelp as he forces something in to stop the descent and locks on a chastity belt so she can't push as she screams.

The captor's eyes blaze with rage as Emily's feeble attempts at begging still fail to satisfy his sadistic cravings. He watches in disgust as she tries to disobey him, attempting to push the baby out on her own. A vicious sneer twists his lips as he hears her pathetic yelp.

In an instant, he's on her, one hand clamping over her mouth to stifle her cries, the other grabbing a Length of coarse rope. He forces her thighs apart, his calloused fingers roughly shoving the rope between her legs and tying it tightly around her upper thighs, just below her swollen belly.

He cinches the makeshift chastity belt with brutal force, cutting into the soft flesh of her thighs until she whimpers into his palm. Satisfied with his handiwork, he releases her mouth and admires his cruel creation with a wicked grin.

“There, now you won't be trying to disobey me anymore, will you, you stupid fucking cow?” He chuckles darkly, giving the rope a sharp tug that makes her gasp in pain.” You want to be a stubborn bitch? Fine. But you'll suffer for it.”

He steps back, folding his arms as he watches her writhe against her bonds, her belly throbbing with the need to push. His grin widens as he sees the desperation and anguish etched into her features.

“Keep fighting it, whore. Keep resisting me. It'll only make your suffering that much sweeter.” He laughs cruelly, relishing every second of her torment. “You're not going to birth this brat until I allow it. Now, beg. Beg like you fucking mean it, you pathetic cunt. Beg until the only word you know is my name!”

“PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE” she cries and screams begging his name for 3 hours as the head pushes against the belt just to make no progress.

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic glee for three interminable hours, relishing every second of her desperate, anguished begging. He listens to her voice grow hoarse, her pleas becoming more and more frantic as the pain of labor consumes her. But still, he remains unmoved, his heart as cold and hard as the concrete walls of her prison.

Only when her begging reaches a fever pitch, when her words dissolve into incoherent, pain-wracked wails and cries, does he finally deign to respond. A wicked, triumphant grin spreads across his face as he leans in close, his putrid breath washing over her.

With deliberate, agonizing slowness, he reaches down and unties the cruel chastity belt binding her thighs. He drags it out, letting the rough rope scrape against her sensitive skin, making her flinch and whimper.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity to the suffering woman, he tosses the belt aside. He leans in even closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispers in a voice dripping with mocking gentleness.

“There, there, my pet. You've begged so very prettily. I suppose you've earned a small reward.” He chuckles darkly, his hand coming to rest on her swollen belly, feeling the tightness of her uterus as it prepares to push.

“Push, you fucking slut. Push this bastard out. And remember, you only get to scream for me. Now, PUSH!”

She pushes and screams it wasn't long before she gets the head out she screams out "OH GOD PLEASE IT HURTS" this pisses him off he's not God he said she could only scream for him. He comes up to her gripping the head and with deliberate slow movements he pushes the head in very slowly as she screams and begs.

The captor's eyes blaze with fury and outrage as Emily screams out her desperate plea to a higher power, completely forgetting his cruel command. A vein throbs in his neck as he fights the urge to strike her for her disobedience. Instead, he leans in, gripping the newborn's head with deliberate slowness, his fingers sinking cruelly into the soft, vulnerable flesh.

He glares at her, his voice a low, menacing growl as he forces the baby's head back inside her with agonizing slowness. “YOU WANT GOD TO HELP YOU, BITCH?” he snarls. “THEN PRAY TO THE ONLY GOD WHO MATTERS HERE!”

He grinds the baby's head against her cervix, making her shriek in agony as he continues to force it back inside her. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING THAT HURTS?” she cries. His other hand comes up to wrap around her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make breathing a struggle.

“I am your god now, you fucking whore. The only one who can grant you mercy or suffering. And you just pissed me off.” He leans in closer, his eyes burning into hers with sadistic intensity. “Now, scream for me. SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY WORD YOU KNOW. SCREAM IT AS I FORCE THIS BRAT BACK INSIDE YOU. SCREAM IT LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW PUSH, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! PUSH HARDER! PUSH LIKE YOUR VERY SOUL IS ON THE LINE. BECAUSE WITH ME, IT FUCKING IS!”

"STOP STOP DONT OWOWOWOWOW" She screams trying to close her knees on him her hands still chained above her head forcing her into a standing position as he's slowly forcing the head into her body.

The captor's eyes widen with vicious amusement at Emily's desperate screams and futile attempts to close her knees, to protect herself and her unborn child from his cruel ministrations. He chuckles darkly, a sound that sends icy shivers down her spine.

He leans in closer, his grip on the baby's head never wavering as he forces it even deeper, making Emily wail in agony. “Stop? Don't push it in? Oh, I don't think so, you pathetic slut.” He snarls, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.

He uses his free hand to grab her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave livid bruises. He forces her leg open wider, exposing her most intimate places to his ruthless violation.

You don't get to tell me what to do, whore. You don't get to make demands. He grinds the baby's head harder against her cervix, drawing a blood-curdling scream from Emily's throat. “I decide when this baby lives or dies. I decide when you live or die. And right now, I decide that you're going to take this brat back inside you, whether you want to or not.”

He starts to push the baby's head back in with brutal force, ignoring Emily's desperate screams and pleas. His eyes glint with cruel, twisted amusement as he watches her suffer.

“Fight it all you want, bitch. It won't change a fucking thing. You belong to me now. This baby belongs to me. And I say it goes back inside your worthless cunt until I say otherwise. NOW STOP STRUGGLING AND PUSH, YOU FUCKING WHORE! Push this brat back where it belongs, or I'll make you fucking regret it!”

But her respite is short-lived. He reaches for the discarded chastity belt, his lips curling in a wicked grin as he holds it up, letting her see the cruel device that will once again deny her the right to push her baby out.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear. “You want to play the stubborn bitch? Fine. You can earn the right to push this brat out. But you're going to fucking work for it.”

With brutal efficiency, he forces her shaking legs apart and shoves the belt between them, cinching it tight and cruelly around her thighs. He grins at her whimper of pain and protest.

Next, he reaches up and unchains her wrists from the restraints above her head. She massages her red, aching wrists as he grabs her roughly by the arm and hauls her to her feet.

He drags her stumbling and groaning form out of the small cell, not caring about her labor pains or the baby's desperate need to be born. He forces her to walk, to move, as he marches her through the house.

He sets her to work, making her clean, making her scrub, making her cater to his every whim and demand. All the while, he watches her with a cruel, mocking smile, enjoying her anguish.

“Clean this fucking toilet, you disgusting pig.” He growls, shoving a scrub brush into her hands. “Keep begging if you want to, but you won't push until I say you can. Now fucking work, you worthless cunt. Work for your brat's life!”

She cries and begs pushing every contraction just for the head to reach the belt and recede again making her cry “PLEASE LET ME GET IT OUT PLEASE"cries screams

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic amusement as she stumbles through the house, her belly heavy and aching, her body wracked with the pains of labor. He listens to her pitiful begging and crying, his name falling from her lips like a broken mantra between each agonizing contraction.

He forces her to clean every inch of the house until it gleams, until not a speck of dust or dirt remains. All the while, he hovers over her, criticizing her every move, demanding perfection and punishing any perceived shortcomings with cruel words and harsher actions.

Finally, when the house is spotless and Emily is exhausted and shaking, he drags her back to the bedroom and throws her onto the bed. She lands hard, a grunt of pain escaping her as another contraction seizes her, the urge to push overwhelming.

The captor watches, his eyes glinting with wicked anticipation, as Emily's body instinctively starts to push. He sees the baby's head begin to crown, stretching her poor abused flesh to its limit.

He leans in close, his lips curling in a smirk of cruel satisfaction as he growls, “Damn, I put a big one in you, didn't I? And I'm not sorry. Not one fucking bit.”

He reaches down, his fingers sinking cruelly into the flesh of Emily's inner thighs, spreading them wider as she screams and pushes against her bonds. “You want this baby out so badly, don't you, you filthy whore? Well, keep pushing. Keep screaming. Let me hear how much it hurts. Let me hear how much you need me to give you permission to birth this fucking brat!”

She pushes screaming as the head crowns “IT BURNS OH IT BURNS SO BAD GET OUT GET OUT” she cries

The cruel captor throws his head back and laughs, a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the room as Emily screams in agony, her voice raw and hoarse from her labor and begging. He grins down at her, his eyes alight with sadistic glee as he watches her writhe and push against the burning, stretching pain of her cervix yielding to the baby's passage.

He leans in closer, his breath hot and foul against her face as he snarls,” ‘OW, OW, OW, IT BURNS?’ You think that hurts, you pathetic slut? You haven't seen anything yet.” His fingers dig harder into her thighs, his nails leaving livid red welts in her soft flesh.

He watches, enraptured and cruelly amused, as the baby's head pushes out a little further with each of Emily's agonized screams and pushes. He reaches down, his fingers sinking into the baby's slick, compressed head as it emerges inch by excruciating inch.

He chuckles darkly, his voice dripping with mocking sympathy. “Oh, you're doing so well, my pet. Your body was made to be bred, made to be used for pleasure and pain. And I'm going to use you for so much more.”

He leans in, his teeth sinking into the fleshy part of her shoulder, biting down until he tastes blood on his tongue.” Keep screaming, my lovely little fuck toy. Let me hear how much it hurts as this big, beautiful baby destroys your pussy on the way out. You've earned it. Now, PUSH! Push this brat out and maybe, just maybe, I'll go easy on you. Maybe.”

She pushes and the head pops Out with a squeal she doesn't stop though she just keeps pushing “GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT” she was so delirious

He watches with sadistic fascination as Emily pushes with all her remaining strength, her face contorted in agony, her voice raw from her screams and cries. With each push, her body strains and convulses, her muscles taut and trembling as they work to expel the large baby from her tight, abused channel.

Sbee can feel the baby's head emerging further with each contraction, stretching her cervix to its limits and beyond. Emily's screams reach a fever pitch as the burning, searing pain of the baby's head crowning becomes too much to bear.

With a final, agonized scream that echoes through the room, Emily pushes one last time, pouring every ounce of strength and willpower into that final, desperate effort. And then, with a gush of fluids and a rush of relief, the baby's head slips free, followed immediately by the broad, sturdy shoulders.

The captor catches the baby as it emerges, lifting it up and holding it aloft, letting Emily see the fruits of her labor. He grins down at her, his eyes wild with cruel triumph.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear as she collapses back onto the bed, exhausted and shaking. “Look at what a good little breeder you are,” he growls. “Breeding a big, strong boy. I'm so fucking proud of you.”

He sets the baby down roughly on the bed beside her, not caring about its cries or needs. His attention remains solely focused on his broken, defeated prisoner as he sneers down at her.

“You did well, whore. You've earned a small reward.’ His grin turns wicked, his eyes glinting with dark promise. “I think it's time to start working on giving me a little girl next. What do you say, my pretty fuck toy? Ready to be bred again?”

#birth kink #giving birth #birth denial #fpreg #hard birthing #labor kink #preggophilia #painful birth #pushing baby back in #dark topics

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bloody-cupcakes · 9 months ago

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Yandere/dark Tenth Doctor x reader; he helps you celebrate your birthday

Tw: yandere/dark content, soft yandere, threatened force feeding (it doesn't happen though), implied kidnapping/Stockholm syndrome, gender neutral reader, the Doctor uses affectionate pet names such as star, angel, and love, brief swearing, referenced past hypnotism/mind control

A/N: it's my birthday and I happen to share it with none other David Tennant himself so naturally I had to write something a little dark with the Tenth Doctor in order to celebrate 🥳🎈🎂

The bed dipped down beside you as you tried to play it off like you were still asleep. "Happy birthday, star," the Doctor softly cooed in your ear, gently shaking you as you laid there. Obviously he figured out you were faking. "It's time to get up so I can give you your gift."

You pressed your face closer into the pillow and let out a defiant huff. "I don't wanna," you whined quietly, almost too quiet for him to hear. As much as you might've enjoyed your birthday before, you'd recently been dreading its approach due to the circumstances you found yourself in.

Part of you had hoped that maybe he wouldn't remember, and then you could say you didn't remember either if it ever came up in further conversation, but unfortunately you had no such luck. You didn't even question how he knew it: at this point you didn't want to know where he got any additional information that you didn't willingly give up.

"I said, it's time to get up." His tone was a bit more forceful than before; it made you gulp nervously and sent shivers down your spine. "I don't want to have to repeat myself again, understood?"

"Yes, sir," you responded obediently, your voice sounding timid and meek as you slowly sat up in the bed. "I'm sorry." You stuck your bottom lip out and widened your eyes, trying to make yourself look as innocent and unsuspecting as possible, something you knew he always fell for.

"I guess I'm just a little upset that I won't be getting to spend today with my family." It could very well have been a bold faced lie, but he didn't need to know that. It wouldn't matter, anyway. You knew he wasn't going to take you back home, but at the very least you were hoping for some sympathy, which you got.

"Oh, angel..." His voice went back to its usual soft spoken tone as he pulled you onto his lap, his brow furrowed as his eyes filled with concern. "I know you miss them, love, but I can't take you back. You know that. Besides, this is your home now." He gestured to your room inside the TARDIS, one that he filled with items he'd taken from your old place.

Against your better judgement, you cuddled up close to him on his lap, nuzzling your face into the side of his neck. You inhaled the scent of his aftershave, something that you thought you'd always hate when he first took you. Now, though, it provided you some much needed comfort whenever you were feeling down.

"I'm going to go get your gift, okay? I'll be right back." You made a soft noise of protest as he slipped you off his lap and back onto the bed, watching as he got up and left the room. Pouting, you crossed your arms and just sat there, waiting for him to return.

The Doctor soon returned, carrying a plate with a large slice of birthday cake on it. He chuckled upon seeing the grouchy look on your face. "I told you I'd be right back." He walked over and took a seat back on the bed, setting the plate down in front of you. "Boy, you must've missed me an awful lot, hm?"

You stuck your tongue out to show you didn't appreciate his teasing. "Careful, otherwise your face is going to freeze like that." He picked up the fork and stuck it in the slice of cake, breaking off a piece before holding it up. "Look, I got your favorite."

Knowing exactly what he wanted, you kept your mouth shut, refusing to eat the piece of cake on front of you. If you were in a better mood, then maybe you'd be fine with it. After all, you'd grown used to him feeding you, even if it was a tad bit degrading.

But today was just not the day for all of that. You couldn't be sure exactly what time it was, as there wasn't a clock in your room, but you were fairly certain he'd woken you up just past midnight . Honestly, the nerve to not even let you sleep on on your own birthday.

"I don't want any. I'm not hungry," you mumbled as you looked down, not feeling brave enough to meet his gaze, even if you were openly defying him by refusing the "gift" he'd gotten you.

"Very funny, star. I woke you up early, so now you're going to be a brat and refuse to eat your cake," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes at you. "Look, would you just eat it? It's only one slice, love, c'mon now."

"No. I said I don't want to," you blurted out in frustration, glaring at him. The moment his eyes darkened, you felt your blood run cold, realizing you'd made a mistake. "I- I'm sorry, I'm just a little tired-"

Your poorly made excuses were cut off quickly by the Doctor's harsh tone. "I don't care how tired you are, do you hear me? We are going to sit here until you eat every damn bite, if I have to force it down your throat."

A loud whimper of fear escaped you at his scolding tone, causing him to let out a sigh as he recognized he'd gone a bit too far. "Love, I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to be so rough sounding with you," he gently reassured you as he shifted closer to you on the bed.

Deciding it wasn't worth it to fight him (despite how much you really didn't want to be held), you allowed him to pull you onto his lap for a second time. "I'm sorry, angel. I didn't mean to upset you in that way," he spoke in a low and soothing voice while wrapping his arms around you.

"You were mean," you choked out as your eyes began to fill with tears. Although it was ridiculous to believe, especially with no proof, you always thought he'd done something that made you much more emotional and sensitive than you used to be, just so he could have the chance to comfort you.

(Technically your suspicions weren't all that far off, as he'd asked a favor from his best enemy back when he first took you. He figured that maybe if you were more docile and submissive it'd be easier to make you stay with him, so he convinced the Master to hypnotize you in an effort to change the chemistry of your brain and make it so you'd be dependent fully on him. Of course, you didn't know any of this, though it wouldn't have surprised you even if you did.)

"I know I was, love, and I'm sorry." He reached over and moved the plate, resting it on your thigh as he picked up the fork again. "Just eat this, then you can go back to bed, okay? I promise." The offer was certainly tempting, and the cake didn't actually look (or smell) that bad.

"Okay," you sniffled in a small voice, opening your mouth just enough for him to stick the fork in. The taste of the buttercream frosting hit your tongue first, the silky smooth texture followed by the fluffiness of the cake. The Doctor smiled in delight as he watched you eat it.

"Good, good. There you go, see? I knew you'd like it." He broke off another piece from the slice and held it up to your mouth again, feeding you in almost the same manner a mother would to her child. "You're doing so well for me, star, I'm so proud of you."

You felt your face heat up in a blush at his praise, humming happily as you continued to eat. His words of encouragement pushed you to keep eating, even if you weren't really that hungry to begin with. A full belly and an empty plate later, you were finally done, licking your lips clean of icing.

"See, that wasn't so bad, now was it?" He placed the fork on the plate and set them both down on the bedside table. "Did you enjoy your gift, star, hm? I thought you might like it, seeing as that's your favorite."

As you were still savoring the final bites of the slice of cake, you nodded your head eagerly. He grinned in response, glad to know you'd liked it. "Good, I'm glad." Noticing there was some icing smeared on your upper lip, he leaned in and dragged his tongue across it suddenly, an action that left you both shocked and flustered.

Laughing at your reaction, he gave your lips a quick kiss before saying in a low and suggestive voice, "I'm sorry, angel, I just couldn't resist. You looked too sweet not to taste for myself."

Too embarrassed to say anything, you turned and buried your face into his chest, which only caused him to laugh harder. "Oh, star, you're always so easy to tease." He ran his hand up and down your back in a comforting fashion, smirking playfully.

A soft yawn could be heard coming from you as drowsiness started to overcome you. "I'm really tired, can I go back to sleep now?" You asked in a sleepy mumble, looking up at him with eyes that were droopy as an effect of being woken up in the middle of the night.

"Of course you can, love. I won't keep you awake any longer." He pulled the covers over top of you before flicking off the lamp beside the bed. Pressing a loving kiss to your head, you could hear him faintly murmur just before you drifted off to sleep: "happy birthday".

#a birthday gift I wrote for myself that I'm deciding to share 🥳#doctor who #tw yandere #dark fic #doctor who x reader #dark doctor who #doctor who fic #yandere doctor who #tenth doctor #yandere tenth doctor #dark tenth doctor #tenth doctor imagine #tenth doctor x reader #10th doctor #10th doctor imagine #10th doctor x reader #david tennant x reader

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chiefdirector · 1 year ago

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Remembering | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

tw: some suicidal thoughts referenced (one sentence)

-----

“What do you know about your case worker, Kade Sullivan?” Grey said, still keeping his gaze on (Y/N) despite her looking away and back through the glass to watch Tim questioning Diaz. “We believe that he may have had some involvement into how Regina Diaz got to a position to leverage both you and the department.”

“Right. I never really saw Sullivan. He stayed away from me. I met him once, maybe twice. He likes to keep a professional distance.” She slowly answered.

Grey lifted his coffee cup up and took a small sip. “You’re a good judge of character, (Y/N). Did anything seem off about him? I know it was a while back but anything helps.”

“He seemed a bit odd, nervous even. But I put it down to him being paranoid about the operation. I mean it can’t be easy for these caseworkers to not have consistent contact with their UC’s.”

“What do you mean? Did you not check in with him daily?”

“No.” (Y/N) said, looking down. Now that she said it out loud, it was strange that Kade never requested to check in with her and Williamson often. “He wanted weekly check-ups. He never said why though.”

“Is there anything else? At all because the more you can remember, the less leverage Regina will have to bargain with us.”

“I’m sorry, Wade. I really am. I can have a look through some of my journals from that time, I think Tim kept them.”

Grey nodded his head. “Please. I guess it’s now down to Tim.”

-----

“Hello Officer Bradford, I’m glad to see you back in here again after your break. You kept me waiting for longer than I had hoped.” Regina said, posed as a wall of confidence as she had done during every other talk with the detectives. “I found it rather rude.”

“Not my problem.” Tim retook his seat opposite her. He had stepped out when Regina had started to get irate with him, he needed her as calm and rational, well as rational as a drug queen-pin could be, before he could get anything viable from her.

He remembered the day he had arrested her, how helpless and frightened she seemed. She was backed into a corner, but now she had a fighting chance and by God did she know it. “You wanted a deal. Let me say this one more time. Tell us about Kade Sullivan and I’m sure the District Attorney will be nicer to you.”

Regina smirked. “No. I have something you want. So I lay out the terms. You know what I want after our… exchange but I want something first. I think that is only fair, considering your situation.”

“My situation?”

“Oh you know. How (Y/N)‘s being back in LA will cause some problems for you and your colleagues.” Regina watched, laughing softly as Tim’s face twisted in confusion. “You really think that just because I’m sitting in handcuffs that I wouldn’t follow through on my threat.”

“Whatever it is, call it off. Now!”

“How about you do something for me first, Officer Bradford. Quid Pro Quo.”

“Fine. What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me how it felt two years ago when I forced (Y/N) to vanish. How it felt to lose your wife and not being good enough to find her.”

Of all the things he expected her to say, this was one of the last. He had thought that she would have asked to walk free, or a reduced sentence at the least, but she just wanted to relish in his pain.

She wanted to know how numbing it felt for him to filter by day to day, his reason to carry on with each day painstakingly stolen from. She wanted to enjoy the powerlessness he had felt when each lead led to another heartbreaking dead end. She wanted him to be reminded of each day, and how they got more and more painful as time went past. Her demand was a reminder of the nights he would drink himself to sleep because that was the only way he could close his eyes and not see (Y/N) face in his mind.

It was a reminder of how he couldn’t look at daisies without crying, or enjoy music, or find a purpose. It was a reminder that he had become a hateful shell of who he used to be, and that even though she was back with him, he didn't know if he would ever get that piece of his former self back. It was a reminder of how he planned for an easy way out for himself if the grief got too bad.

Regina wanted to remind Tim that she had taken it all away before, and that she could take it all away again. And she wanted him to admit that.

“So, Officer Bradford. What will it be?”

Tim launched himself up so he could lean down on the table and over her, “You should know how I felt. It was probably the same way you did when your husband died when the LAPD raided one of his warehouses. I was there that day. I took him, so you took her. But I got my wife back, but your husband is still six feet under.”

“How dare you!” Regina screeched, as she rattled in the chains, trying to find her way out of the cuffs. For the first time since she had been arrested, she lost her well maintained composure.

Tim took a step back from the table. “Thank you for cooperating. Prison transport will be here for you soon.”

“But what about our deal?! You won’t know what's coming without me.”

“I think we’ll be fine, Ms. Diaz,” Tim kept his back to her as he stopped at the door “because we now know that we were being hunted, so now we can prepare. So, thanks for the heads up. Enjoy prison.”

As soon as the door shut behind him, Tim leant against the door, trying to make sense of what had happened. Surely she was bluffing, they could monitor her calls and her visitation to try to not allow her to give any command, but if she was as intelligent and conniving as she had presented herself to be, she would find a way around it.

As he heard Grey and (Y/N) exit the observation room, he pushed himself off the door. Grey held himself strong, not showing any panic or concern at this stage, but his eyes darted in thought, clearly going over the possibilities of what could happen now. (Y/N) presented herself similarly, except her tell was the fiddling of her wedding band. She used to play with her engagement ring, but due to the dangers of the job and the possibility of it causing harm when in contact with a perp, she quickly replaced it with a plain wedding band, identical to Tim’s.

“So what now? You don’t really believe her, do you?”

(Y/N) moved to place her hand on Tim’s arm. “I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“Then it’s settled,” Grey said, “We hope for the best and plan for the worst.”

Part Ten | Part Twelve

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags: @xceafh @kmc1989 @buba424 @salty0cracker @iamasimpingh0e

Tags are open :)

#tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford imagine #the rookie #the rookie imagine #chiefdirector #bottom of the river

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disgutinggirlreads · 4 months ago

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MY FAVORITE (LONG) FICS - Wincest Edition

I will not be placing them in any specific order. Also, a long-fic in my definition is anything above 50k words.

Pine Sweat by Goshen (applecrumbledore)

Sam watched Dean hack up firewood with his hatchet. The magically-induced heat wave had his shirt soaked with sweat.

“Did you ever have a, uh… experimental phase?” Sam smacked his lips, trying to think of a diplomatic way to phrase it. “That kid—by which I mean you—has been staring. At me. Kind of a lot.”

(Sam and Dean get sent back to 1996 and go on a hunt with their teenaged selves. The kids don't know who they are.)

This one is so sweet and funny and the plot is so good!! I usually don't go for time-travel stories, but that's a comfort one for me, I really love teenage Dean and Sam in this one.

10 chapters (105,324k words)

TW: Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death (brief), Mild Gore (not many TW, that's a mostly wholesome one)

To Sound The Depths by Pendragony

Dean has always set aside his needs, repressing his instincts for the sake of Sam. Sometimes he thinks he doesn’t even know how to be an Omega any more. When the brothers pose as a couple to investigate a spate of drowned Alphas, Dean starts to get back in touch with his Omega self. But when the heat is on, will Dean still be able to protect Sam?

a fake dating ABO AU that I love so much. Fake dating for a case is one of my favorite plots in Wincest fics.

15 chapters (66,460k words)

TW: Slight Dub-Con, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Attempted Sexual Assault

Suave & Complicated by OldToadWoman

Sam and Dean discover a useful, little, magical artifact. No one is forcing them to do anything. No one is going to die if they don't. They don't even feel a strange compulsion. But… it would be really helpful if they powered up the magical stone… and… all they have to do is kiss.

This one is so damm funny. It seens almost like a crack-fic, but the plot is good, and the smut is still hot. Dean is so oblivious in this one, poor dumb thing lol

11 chapters (56,923k words)

TW: Canon-Typical Violence (it's just a really wholesome one)

The Truth In The Lie by flawedamythyst

Sam and Dean pretend to be gay lovers while they hunt a monster on a bus tour of Nova Scotia.

Another fake dating for a case. Also, that was the first wincest fic I've read!

13 chapters (62,264k words)

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence (only TW's is what usually already happens on the show, soooo)

Kill The Lights by silver9mm

Less than a minute had passed since Sam had killed the guard and then five more people. This man’s speech had lasted maybe twenty seconds, but Sam had been separated from Dean for three hundred and sixteen days and nine hours, which made the total time of his life without Dean nearly five complete years, and the thought of listening to this fucker talk for one more second instead of getting his brother and getting the fuck out was unendurable.

I think that's the darkest wincest fic I have read so far. This one wins the most-fucked-up-fic-award in this post. It's really hot, though, and I really enjoyed this one.

35 chapters (143k words)

TW: Extremely Dubious Consent,Rape/Non-con, Bad BDSM Etiquette (really bad guys, lol), Unhappy Ending, Implied Bestiality (really only implied, there's no graphic scenes)

#wincest #sam x dean #samdean #wincest fic #my favorite fics

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gremlinmodetweeker · 2 months ago

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Hope is in Buns, Life is in Stars, Promises in Vain (Pt. 2)

I did promise to put up part two today. I am keeping to that promise. I am not a monster, I assure you. This part is much much shorter, but I think it adds some important stuff.

Again, Executioner Konig is the au I put the most effort into. I plan to make it into a published work some day. I hope you all enjoy what is an essentially free first draft of a novel/graphic novel.

Please feel free to share this work (with credits) because this is the fic I'm most proud of.

Part 1

TWs: mentioned forced homelessness (no weight to the threat, your aunt is just mad), pregnancy referenced (not happening... yet.)

Wordcount: 3.5k out of 11.7k

Art from This Post

Hope is in Buns, Life is in Stars, Promises in Vain (Pt. 2)

It didn’t take long before The Axe was guiding Hunter to stand outside your home.He hopped down and tethered her to a fence before he turned to help you off Hunter’s smooth back, guiding you with one hand in your own and the other on your waist. You giggled when he kneeled so you could use his thigh as a footstool.

“You don’t have to kneel in the dirt for me, silly,” you giggled.

“It’s the right thing to do,” The Axe shrugged, a bit giddy to still be talking to you.

“You know,” you smirked up at him as he guided you to the front door, “if I didn't know better, I’d think you were a nobleman, what with how fine you’ve treated me all Densis’s-watch.”

The Axe stiffened slightly before bowing his head, “I only learned how to treat a woman from the teachings of my father.”

“And was he once a nobleman?” you asked.

“I am from a long, long line of Criah’s folk,” The Axe answered sadly.

Your face fell slightly at the memory of his family’s struggles before you perked up again, “Well, he was a perfect gentleman if that’s how he treated the women in his life. You’re lucky to have learned from him. I’m lucky you learned from him! I mean, it’s nice to see a man who doesn’t balk at the concept of chivalry, despite his class.”

The Axe looked away bashfully, but he let you through the door. When you watched through the fogged window, you could see him practically skip over to Hunter before leaping up onto her back. As the final fingers of night released the purple and blue bruised sky, The Axe rode off into the distance.

Once he was out of sight, you scurried up to your bed and buried under the covers. You grinned gleefully as you replayed the events of the Densis’s-watch over and over in your mind. The buns, his words, the promise, it all tickled you so. You felt a bubbling yellow glow warm your body from the tips of your toes to the ends of your hair. You were completely abuzz with giddy excitement.

You only managed to sleep for at most a watch before you were woken by the sounds of metal pots clanging and children cheering from downstairs. Evidently, breakfast was well on its way. From the smells of it, it was something spiced and nutty.

You joined your family downstairs swiftly, not wanting to miss out on any of the morning’s breakfast before the day began. After all, it was the fuel you needed to be able to work the entire day. You needed every bite you could scarf down to take on the day ahead of you.

Your aunt eyed you carefully when you stepped into the kitchen.

“Looks like you’re up bright and early,” she muttered as she spooned ladles of porridge into your cousin’s bowls. From the smell, it seemed like she’d added some of the spices from the traveling merchants and some berries from the previous turning-time to the mix, giving it a warm and homely smell.

“I had a rough time sleeping,” you told her as you went to help by her side, “went out for a walk at one point.”

“I noticed,” your aunt clucked her tongue, “and in this turning-time? Goodness girl! You could’ve caught a cold out there!”

“Oh hush your fuss,” you chuffed as you set out to prepare a jug of juice, “I’m just fine.”

“Mama! I want more kayomberries(17) in my porridge!” the youngest, Georgie called out as he banged his spoon on the wood table.

“We’ll have to wait for next Chaos’s-turn for more of those,” your aunt huffed, “we went through the last of them a few days ago.”

“But that’s so far away!” Georgie whined.

“Mama, we haven’t run out of rosers(18) though, right?” Anna, the eldest asked. Her little brown eyes made your heart melt each time she looked at you.

“I’m sure we have some,” you immediately turned to look through the pantry for her.

Your aunt huffed, “You’re giving her some? Just like that?”

“Why not?” you asked.

Your aunt glared at Anna, “Well, what’re you supposed to say when you want something?”

Anna squeaked, “Oh! Um, may I please have some rosers in my porridge?”

Auntie nodded, “That’s better.”

“Well,” you chuffed, “since you asked so nicely, how can I say no?”

Harry, the second oldest boy, frowned and crossed his arms behind the table, “Mama, Georgie didn’t say please. Why are you getting mad at Anna?”

Your aunt grunted as she pulled the pot up to place it in the center of the table, “Didn’t matter if Georgie said please at all. He wasn’t getting any!”

Georgie crossed his arms stubbornly as the other four kids laughed at him. Even you couldn’t help snickering at how he put out his little brown lip in a pout.

“Look, Georgie,” you offered, “if you really want kayomberries, you might be able to ask nicely for some from your teacher.”

“Miss Bess? Why?” he asked.

“She works a lot with the winter preparation guild,” you explained, “she often has access to the town stores. She’s responsible for the rations, so maybe, if you ask her really nicely, she might give you some.”

“Oh don’t go giving him ideas,” your aunt grumbled.

“Why not?” Anna asked.

“She’s a rations master!” your aunt explained as she set to cleaning out some pots on the stove, “she can’t just give out rations willy nilly! If anyone could just go up and ask whenever, we’d never have enough rations for winter!”

You sheepishly nodded your head, “Okay so, about what I said Georgie?”

Georgie nodded brightly, his loose dark curls bouncing around his face.

“Don’t ask for extra rations,” you grimaced.

“But you just said I could!” Georgie whined.

“Didn’t you hear your mama?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh…” Georgie sighed, “yeah…”

“And that’s that,” your Auntie snapped, ending the conversation immediately.

The rest of breakfast was spent trying to stop Harry from flinging spoons of goopy oats at Helen while Anna helped feed Georgie. Meanwhile, your aunt brought you aside to the blazing oven, out of earshot of the children.

Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked down at you, “I noticed The Axe’s rations are missing.”

You slunk down immediately.

Your aunt glanced around nervously at the children, then faced you with a ferocious look, “I don’t want you seeing that man, but I can’t stop you. Your uncle said as much. But if you get hurt?” she bared her teeth in a growl, “you’d best not expect a lick of help from me. I warned you plenty, and that’s enough help from me.”

You opened your mouth but were quickly cut off.

“He’s a dangerous man, young lady,” your aunt continued, “and I’m telling you that it’s in your best interest to cut contact while you still can. He’s not even really a man. He’s an animal. A beast. Men don’t kill men like that. Not a good one, anyways.”

“But he’s not an animal!” you spat back under your breath, “he is a good man!”

Your aunt threw up her hands as she whirled around, “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know what you did with him during last Densis’s-watch, but whatever it was it can’t be good. That man is evil. And if you come back in a few weeks with a swollen belly, well, you might as well be out on the streets for all I care!”

“But auntie, if you just met him-”

“If he steps one foot over our doorstep,” your aunt sucked in a lungful of air, “oh I don’t even want to think about it. What would your uncle say? Oh you haven’t even thought about him at all, have you?”

“Why doesn’t uncle like him? He knows The Axe! He knows he’s not a bad man!” you retorted.

“Your uncle is too soft-hearted and you know that,” your auntie snapped, “you and him are too much alike for your own good! You know, if it weren’t for your uncle, I’d be beating your backside until next Hollinwake! But he said to let you be,” she held up a finger, “but you make one wrong step? I’ll have you bent over my knee like a seven-cycle girl!”

You winced at the lashing, but felt strangely vindicated despite it. If your auntie wasn’t going to stop you, this gave you more leeway than you expected. It wasn’t much, but anything was better than sneaking out at night. If nothing else, maybe you could get more time with him at the church. Surely your guardians couldn’t oppose to you meeting on holy ground, now could they? Of course, being under the stars brought a certain intimacy, but the walk to his place wasn’t safe during Densis’s-watch. It was a wonder some vandal hadn’t accosted you out in the woods, prowling as they were of infidels and scoundrels.

When breakfast was over and you’d eaten your fill after sending the children to school, you carried a bowl of the spiced porridge upstairs to your uncle.

For the first time since he’d fallen ill, he was sitting up in bed to greet you when you walked in.

“Ah! Good to see you this waking watch!” your uncle cheered from behind his round golden spectacles.

“Uncle! It’s good to see you up in bed!” you smiled at him.

“It’s good to be up,” your uncle chuckled as he took the bowl of porridge from your hands, “soon enough I’ll be back on my feet, don’t you worry. I know your aunt’s been worried sick about me.”

“I hope to see it,” you said as you sat on the stool by the bed, “but your right. Auntie’s been going crazy without you around to help.

Your uncle hummed as he tucked into his breakfast with a smile, “Your auntie is a good woman.”

“She’s a woman alright,” you huffed.

Your uncle brought his thin brows together on his round face, “Oh? Did you get into an argument with her today already? I thought she might wait a bit before bringing it all up…”

You raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, “You knew there’d be something between us?”

Your uncle quietly stirred his porridge and said, “Well, I know she doesn’t approve of you seeing this new man.”

“You mean The Axe?”

Your uncle cringed into himself, “Yes, that’s the one.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back as you crossed your arms, “I don’t understand. You know he’s not a bad man, right?”

“He’s not,” your uncle admitted quietly.

“So then why are you so against it?” you huffed.

“Well…” your uncle said slowly, “he’s an executioner. He’s not a man blessed by Halax’s light. He’s in the shadow of Criah and Densis. It’s just not right for someone like you to be seeing him.”

“But you don’t treat the morticians nearly half as cruelly and they follow Criah,” you pointed out.

“The morticians deal with the already dead. They don’t go adding to the pile,” your uncle glared at you, “and it doesn’t help that… Well… He’s just a weird man. He’s not normal.”

“Maybe not, but he’s not a bad man,” you insisted.

“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. I don’t know, and quite frankly I don’t care to know. All I know is that he’s quiet when he takes his rations. Doesn’t talk to me much, I don’t talk to him too much either,” your uncle said firmly, “and that’s how I like it! The less I deal with him the better. But now,” your uncle shook his head, “now you’re off trying to see him after dark! I heard you going down those stairs during Densis’s-watch, and I know you were out for a good few watches. I know you were with him. As soon as your auntie told me his rations were gone, I knew, and I told her about it. She was mad, but that’s not the point!

“The point is, I know you think you’re young and that you’re capable of taking on the world, but don’t get your wings clipped by falling into the wrong crowd so early, okay? I already deal with you being friends with those strange women in town, but now this? You’re going to bring a bad name to this household if you aren’t careful!”

You stilled. You hadn’t thought of the household the entire time you’d been out with The Axe.

“Think of my kids,” your uncle sighed, “think about them growing up connected to this. I don’t want shame on their heads before they’ve even gotten an education under their belts. Who will teach them a trade? Who will take them on as journeymen? Who will go on and marry Anna and Helen if they hear about you sneaking around with the local executioner?”

You bit your lip and turned away, “I’ll be careful about it.”

“I know you’re thinking about yourself,” your uncle reasoned, “I was the same way when I was your age. Your aunt had just come up from the south. She was new and different in the village and her father was a strange man with strange ways. Once his business was taken over by those bastards, people started to really turn against her.. People said horrible things about her all the time. They took one look at her skin and made up their minds, but I went out of my way to get to know her, and it’s turned out well for us! I do understand your desires to see someone for who they really are, I do.

“But you came into this family a long time ago. When your mother died and your father went galavanting off wherever (I don’t care), I took you in. You’re my family, I’d do it time and time again. I will never, ever regret that,” he pushed his spectacles down his nose to look over them at you, “you also can’t go ruining my family name. Our family name. There’s other people on the line here. It’s not just you going out on your little adventures like your father.”

You shamefully looked down into your hands, hanging your head in shame. The comparison to your father stung particularly harshly.

Your uncle grunted as he leaned over to put the empty bowl of porridge on a side table and then leaned back to look at you. He frowned and rubbed his graying beard.

“But I’m not telling you no.”

You glanced up at your uncle’s soft face.

“If you think he’s not that bad, so be it. Your aunt tried to tell me to stop you from going off with the first man you’ve shown interest in, but you’re a grown woman finding her place in the world. If it’s by his side? So be it,” your uncle shrugged before his face fell into a cold glare, “but we won’t be with you. I can’t bring my whole family down for you. I took on enough shame bringing you in, I don’t need to ruin my children’s lives before they’ve even begun.”

“So if I choose to be with him…”

“You’ll have to do it alone,” your uncle concluded for you.

“But… Can’t I at least visit?” you asked with a trembling voice, “I mean, won’t we still be family?”

Your uncle laughed and lightened, “Of course you can visit! But not in public. In public I can’t be seen near you if you go off with this man. I can’t have you working here, either. You’ll need to find your own place in the world if you go off with The Axe. I love you, but I can’t protect you from what the others will say.”

You frowned and nodded. You hadn’t fully considered what life would be like alongside The Axe. If what he said about his life was true, it’d be a lonely life indeed.

“Do what’s best for you,” your uncle finished his advice, “and do what’s best for us as a family. Think of your cousins before you go off dancing around together in public.”

You blankly looked down at your hands.

“It’s a lot to think about,” your uncle offered you, “I don’t envy your positon, but I’ve been there before. I dealt with this with my parents when I chose your aunt. If you want to be with him, you have to know the consequences.”

The consequences. What a terrible way to phrase such a thing. The thought of having to call a life with The Axe a series of ‘consequences’ only put further weight on your shoulders. The thought of dragging your entire family down with you sombered your spirits. Going down the stairs to breakfast you had been light as a fly. Now, sat in your uncle’s rocking chair, the weight of the world hung on your shoulders.

“I’ll think about it,” you told your uncle as you slowly rose to your feet.

“I’m not like your aunt here; I’m not telling you no,” your uncle reminded you, “I’m telling you to be careful. And look, he’s just the first man to catch your eyes. There might be others!”

You smiled faintly, “I will be. I’ll think about it.”

With that, you bid your uncle a good wake and left to go down to the kitchen where your aunt was already prepping another long day of baking.

“Well?” your aunt raised a dark eyebrow.

“I spoke to him,” you said, “and… It’s a lot to think about.”

“Is it now?” your aunt snorted sarcastically.

“I just hadn’t factored everything in,” you admitted.

Your aunt watched as you tied an apron around your waist and set to roll up your sleeves. She eyed you irritably as you washed your hands, then stood before her with a determined look.

“You’re still going to see him,” she said, flat as the fields around you.

“I am,” you replied, equally dry in tone.

Your aunt rolled her eyes, “If I fall into the gutters because of this, you’re out on the streets. Hell, you heard me earlier, if you get knocked up by that man you’d best pray he’ll let you move in with him!”

You nodded as you set to measuring the dry ingredients, “I know.”

“And if anything happens to any of my kids-”

“I won’t let anything happen.”

The steel edge of your voice had your aunt faltering briefly. She paused her work, then let a small smile grace her sun-worn features.

“Good girl.”

With that, she finally looked away from you and turned to her own recipe.

You worked quietly, diligently. Your aunt didn’t comment when you increased the yield of the recipe by a couple of extra buns. You didn’t comment on how she sighed whenever she thought you didn’t see her looking at you. Neither of you yielded, but a certain respect was bridged between you both that day, hammered out of stubbornness and a common interest in the five young children currently walking to school.

You wouldn’t dare say it, but a part of you found a new level of respect for your aunt. She was a strong woman, born of the hot sun and cool breeze of the beaches of the south and brought up as a young woman to work with her merchant father in the north. She had the complexion of the south, she had the temperament of a surly boxing beetle(19), and she fought tooth and nail for every single thing she’d managed to nab since her father’s business was taken over by vandals. She fought long and hard over the years, and you’d both be damned if one upstart niece from a broken home was going to take away everything she’d scrapped together since losing everything she’d ever had.

You made a mental promise to ensure that you’d ensure that your family never came in harms way because of your relationship with The Axe. You swore upon your soul.

Kayomberries - Little lime green berries in clusters of four to ten. Grow only at the very beginning of Chaos’s-turn. Can be dried out for spices or food additives. Add a notably citrusy taste to foods.

Rosers - Little red flower buds that add a floral taste when added to stews and stocks. In such wide abundance that some consider them a (tasty) weed.

Boxer Beetles - A colourful iridescent beetle with a hard carapace and a powerful demeanor. Known for its stubbornness and refusal to back down. Often used to pull plows or to do hard labor in difficult conditions. It has poor eyesight, average smell, but has excellent tremor sense. Cannot fly due to the heavy weight of its armoured carapace (which is sometimes harvested and used as light armor in militias). Despite its small size, being not even a meter tall and less than two meters in length, it’s known as a microbeetle. It’s one of the few microbeetles that is used for hard manual work and not kept as a family pet. Omnivorous.

Konig Dump

Alternate Universes

Part 1

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blue-likethebird · 28 days ago

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As a big horror movie fan, there’s an easter egg in the most recent episode of tadc that I wanted to go over because it’s a fairly obscure reference.

So when Jax gets sent to the shadow realm with the training video (begins around timestamp 12:18 of episode 4), he’s forced to watch this segment where Gangle’s masks flash on screen while a weird little jingle plays:

And I’m 99.9% certain this is a reference/homage to Halloween III: Season of the Witch, where the main villain’s plan is to use magic to kill children wearing the Halloween masks his company sells when the tv segment that activates the spell airs. And the tv program that activates this spell? It looks exactly like the Gangle mask video, right down to the creepy looping jingle and the flashing lights:

(This movie is absolutely batshit and I’m definitely not doing it justice with that attempt at a description, so here’s a link to the film’s Wikipedia page with a more detailed plot summary, and here’s a link to the scene I believe tadc is referencing in this bit. TW for: flashing lights, harm/death of a child, rotting food (the pumpkin mask), insects, spiders, snakes)

Now I’m not sure who on the team decided their hit animated indie horror webseries needed to reference one of the most brutal kills in the controversial failed attempt to shift the Halloween series from a slasher saga to an anthology-style series, but whoever it was: I see you and I appreciate you

#bluebird.txt #the amazing digital circus #tadc #horror movie tag

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dirtytransmasc · 1 year ago

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[mild tw for marital rape/forced 'consent' its only referenced a little, but it feels necessary to mention it]

imagine Alicent only standing up for herself when Aegon is in the picture. Imagine her talking her son to her chambers cause he's fussy and won't go down for bed and was asking for his mum, and she has him tucked close, blissfully asleep, and Viserys calls for her.

she knows she can't refuse, but she tells the servant he had sent to make him aware of Aegon's state. he still demands that she be brought to his chambers and that the babe go back to his nursemaid. she looks down at her baby, who's now woken due to the disturbance, who is staring up at her with soft tired eyes, a little yawn escaping him.

she doesn't want to go, she doesn't want to be forced to take her husband, to pleasure him at her own discomfort. she doesn't want to leave her son, to have him sent back to bed where he will remain restless and in the care of someone who is not his mother. she had never want to refuse more than she did in that moment.

she hesitates, her facade falters. Aegon is still looking up at her as tears well up in her eyes. he quirks his head at her, fingers reaching for her cheeks as if to comfort her. with a sudden conviction, she takes him in her arms, rising from the bed, requesting a robe and a blanket. when her servant looks at her in question, she clarifies that she will be taking Aegon with her and does not wish to rouse him in attempts to dress him. they look at her with shock, but don't voice the concern written on their faces.

they bring her Viserys's favorite robe. Alicent recognizes it from her time with Rhaenyra and Aemma. she's worn it before, Viserys has made sure the servants bring it to her every time he requests her. she hates the way it feels against her skin, knowing why he makes her wear it. she wraps aegon in his blanket, soft and royal blue, his hands beginning to play with its golden tassles as she tucks him inside her robe, pressed to her chest with care.

even as fear bites at her heels, anxiety churning her stomach, she walks to Viserys's chamber with her held high. she knows she is only asking for her husband's wrath; she knows she should just obey him, but she just can't. her son will not suffer a sleepless night and horrid following day all because her husband feels the need to use her body once more. he will not suffer at his father's hands tonight, even if she has to endure Viserys's anger for it.

she enters her husband's chambers, finding him in bed, in a white night gown, clearly ready to use her; he was never subtle when he asked for her, not even the first time.

she pauses in the doorway, pulling back the robe slightly, making him aware of Aegon's presence. she watches his face fall, barely muted anger. she holds onto Aegon tighter. part of her fears he may hurt her for this disturbance, but more of her fears he will hurt Aegon on her behalf.

"I told the damned servants to take him," his voice is warped and cruel, just an angry scowl of sorts.

"Aegon is not well, dear husband... I could not leave him," she admits before he can say anything else. she puts her foot forward as a mother, hoping to claim mercy from the man who made her one.

he mutters something in response, not quite loud enough for her to hear. she has a feeling she is grateful for that.

"what was it you needed, my dear?" she tries to sound sweet and kind, in attempts to abate his anger, "I'm sure I could still attend to it."

"you know what I wanted," he yelled. it had been the first time he'd truly raised his voice to her. she couldn't help but gasp, stepping back one step, than two, stopping when Aegon began to fuss, curling around him instead.

"Please Viserys, the baby." she ducks her head down to press her against his whispy white hair. her son his huffing, as if about to cry, and she's sure if she could see his face, his little cheeks would be red and his eyes would be crinkled and wet, his lip puckered. she begins to rock him slightly, still afraid to move.

"your'e dismissed," he grunts, but his tone gives it away. she knows he doesn't mean it, the if she leaves she will be in more trouble. she questions staying, calling a servant to take Aegon and giving him what he wants, but decides against it. he would not come before her son, not now, not ever.

"I'm sorry, my dear, another night, when I do not have Aegon to tend to," she forces some cheer into her tone, "he is still so young, so helpless. he needs his mother. I'm sure you understand?"

"he is not the only one in need of you." he had not lost his anger yet. not even for the sake of his son.

"yes, of course. forgive me. only he is not as understanding as you, my love." that wasn't the truth, Aegon was more kind and understanding at a year old, than viserys was in all of his years. "I will leave now. I am sorry for the disturbance."

she pauses for a moment, waiting for her husbands reaction. when he doesn't lash out at her, she breathes a quiet sigh of relief, feeling as though she has evaded a great beast. her heart calms in her chest, slowing from its fluttering and her stomachs stops its dizzing ache. she questions turning and running, fleeing from his presence before he can change his mind, but knows better.

she hurries to his side, eyeing him all the while, each step calculated, avoiding cracking any eggshells, until she is close enough to kiss his cheek. he allows it, and gives Aegon grace when he reaches out for him, letting him play with his finger a moment, before pulling it away, not even turning away fully before sneering. she takes that as her cue to leave, this one being much more genuine than the last.

"goodnight dear husband." he says nothing. she takes Aegon's little hand, waving it slightly, "say goodnight Aegon."

her son tries to imitate her, though unintelligible, as a toddler would. she continues to smile and coo at him even when his father ignores him, not letting him feel his father's scorn, quickly turning towards the door and back to her own chambers.

the second the door is close she feels herself sag, she would have fallen to the floor right then and there had there not been kingsgaurd watching. instead she holds her head high once more, walking calm and steady, like a queen should.

Aegon settles his forehead against her collar, giving a great yawn against her skin. she smiles at him fondly, kissing his brow, earning a tired little giggle from him. it hits her that he is unaware of the trouble he just saved her from. she feels equal parts relief as she does terror; she hopes he never knows, never understands, but is so so thankful for it none the less.

the second she steps into her chambers she pulls of the robe, setting it aside carefully despite the pain it brings her, respecting the memories it carried. she pulls back the covers before smothering her and her son amongst them. he's quick to curl against her, quite tuckered out after their harrowing adventure, even if he was unaware of its true weight. she herself still wanted to cry, but was similarly too tired to keep her eyes open for another moment. tomorrow, she tells herself, tomorrow will be difficult, but tonight you have your son, tonight you have a chance to rest.

so she does, she holds him close, tracing fingers over the gold threaded patterned of his blanket, feeling the shifting of his chest as he breathes and the tickle of his hair against her neck. all is well in that moment. she drifts to sleep at the thought.

#omage to Aemma's robe that we see alicent wearing in episode 3 (I believe. it was when she was helping bathe viserys)#cause I know he made her wear it cause he's a monster #this is set prior to Helaena's conception. aegon is tiny. and alicent is still naive to the true extents of viserys's abuse.#especially to the fact that despite all of the love she holds for her children and how badly she wishes to always pick them first #his abuse and the stockholm syndrom that follow it will turn her against her children. aegon in particular.#maybe not against. but acrid and foul. her pain overtaking her love. she still tries so hard to protect them though. if you get what I mean #its otto's fault too and they should both die #anyway #I'm just in my feels with these two #we didn't get enough scenes of them together especially when they were both young and I wanted to give alicent a moment were she fought bac #she refused to give him what he wanted. she chose her child over him. she stood up for herself and what she wanted.#she earned that moment #I know she was choking through those “my dears” and “my loves” but she had to for formalities sake #angst in the front fluff in the back #even if the fluff is laced with angst #letting alicent be soft and love her son #I needed it #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #alicent hightower #anti viserys i targaryen #pro team green #hotd #house of the dragon #I love them your honor

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ooihcnoiwlerh · 9 months ago

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New chapter is up for my Feyd-Rautha/Reader fic. I'll provide the AO3 link here: And I Don't Want Your Heart - Chapter 3 - ooihcnoiwlerh - Dune (2021) [Archive of Our Own]

But if you'd prefer to read it here I can provide it under the cut. As you can imagine, there are trigger warnings for this fic in general as well as this chapter.

TW: arranged marriage, forced marriage, dubious consent, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced incest, heavy violence, first times, rough sex, blood kinks, and of course Feyd-Rautha who is his own walking content warning.

If you haven't read my fic yet I do recommend reading the prologue and first chapter to get what's going on. It's all on AO3.

CHAPTER TWO: THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN DREADING

“It’s time, Na-Baroness.”

You turn to look at her. She keeps her head down. “We need to get you to your bedchambers to prepare,” she adds.

You take a breath. He and everyone else need you to be living and healthy at least for the time being. You’ll be able to manage whatever happens tonight, you tell yourself.

You give a small nod, reach for your goblet, and finish the contents in three big swallows before setting it down.

Your mother sees you get up and her eyes widen just a fraction. You smile at her as you make a detour to wish your family a good night.

“I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast,” you tell your parents. Afterwards all off-world guests will be going home, and you’ll have to deal with the fact that this desolate killing field of a planet is your home now. You try not to think about how you probably won’t be seeing any of your family again until the next wedding or funeral as you give each of them a crushing hug. When your younger sister hugs you back, you wonder if she’s thinking about her future, if she’s terrified that she’ll have an even worse match.

“You look beautiful, Y/N,” Father tells you as you pull away from his embrace. When he looks at you, you can tell he’s thinking, I’d give anything right now for you to have been born a son.

“Thank you, Father,” you tell him, thinking, Come on, now. You can’t put me up to this marriage in the first place and then act as though I’m going to my execution. You need for them to have hope that you’ll be okay. One of you has to believe that I can get through this.

You sense the Baron watching you. You can feel his distaste at the open sentimentality but he doesn’t say anything, so it seems that he’ll allow it. How kind of him, you think bitterly.

When you start to move past them your mother tugs at your wrist one last time and you turn to face her. She doesn’t say anything, so you end up speaking for her.

“It’ll be alright,” you say softly, taking her hands.

She almost smiles, then swallows. “I should be the one saying that to you,” she says. You just give her a small smile of your own and kiss her cheek. You end up letting go of her hands first, but it takes only the first tug for her to relinquish yours. You resume your trek out of the Great Hall when you reach the head of the table and stop, remembering one last obligation before you go.

You need to pay your respects to the Baron first and it makes you hesitate. You don’t want to talk to him, don’t want to look at him, don’t want to even think about him. His nephew strikes fear in you, but there’s a kind of revulsion that the Baron inspires that is tangible even as you can’t quite explain it. Even if you didn’t know his reputation as a bloodthirsty warmonger that makes your father seem like a pacifist by comparison, even though you’re sure that there’s more you haven’t discovered yet, even with the limited interactions you’ve actually had with him, he makes your skin crawl. You step forward, eyes downcast, incline your head, and dip into the deepest curtsy you can manage in your gown.

“Thank you, Baron, for your gifts, your kind reception, and your hospitality,” you tell him.

After a pause he seems to think you’ve expressed an adequate amount of gratitude and says, “May you continue to please my lovely nephew,” he responds, voice low enough that your family won’t hear but the people next to him will. He knows that you know what he means.

Contempt and shame war within you. You refuse to look up at him. “Yes, Baron,” you manage, face flushing. Your hands shake. You rise and turn away. Idrisa’s there within arm’s reach to escort you out.

It’s a long stretch of silence to get from the Great Hall to the Harkonnen private chambers, but neither of you know quite what to say that you’d be willing to risk anyone hearing.

She guides you back into your bedchambers. Once there, you stand in the middle of the room, frozen and useless. “Will he want me in this?” you ask after a moment. You picture him tearing the fabric of your underskirts, maybe slicing your bodice with one of his hidden blades. It’s easy to picture him desecrating a symbol of your union. It’s also easy to picture him simply pulling down your undergarment, bending you over the nearest flat surface, and debasing you as you’re still fully clothed.

Idrisa shakes her head. “The Na-Baron had some specific requests. He’d like you out of this,” she says. “I’ll help you.”

She’s so gentle with her touch and the meticulous way she undoes your bodice and arranges your skirts that it unnerves you rather than soothes you. It’s such a contrast to how you’re certain you’ll be touched as soon as you leave these chambers that you tremble at her fingertips.

“It’ll be alright,” she says softly. “You and the union between the Houses is too important for him to seriously hurt you.” You don’t miss the disclaimer of ‘seriously’. You have nothing to say to that, only watching as she sets the gown back on the mannequin it arrived with and turns to you, in just your boots and undergarments.

You sigh and take care of your boots and the stockings underneath as Idrisa reaches into your drawers for a chemise and robe.

“He wants you to take off your undergarments,” she says over her shoulder.

“Of course he does,” you mutter, working on those next, stripping down bare. “For ‘ease of access.’”

“It’s not an unreasonable request,” Idrisa says mildly, taking your discarded clothes and handing you the chemise to put on. “We’re almost done.” She sets down a pair of slippers for you to step into and gives you your robe before taking a step back and taking inventory of you. She tilts her head and bites her lip.

“Hair down, I think,” she says. “Your make-up held up well, so we won’t need to reapply anything.”

“We could, you know.” It’ll buy me some time to collect myself. Although that isn’t entirely true; you’ll still be just as nervous an hour from now as you will be five minutes from now, and you both know it as Idrisa quietly arranges your hair into a style she thinks your groom will find suitable.

His chambers, as it turns out, are just next door. “Thank you,” you tell her when you get inside. It’s a large room, as austere as all the other rooms but the limited furniture within it is of high-quality. A black armoire against the opposite wall with dressers and a desk and chair to match, and then of course the bed.

It’s a massive four-poster with a steep headboard. You can’t help but notice rings and hooks lining each bedpost. You don’t think you’re ignorant by any means, considering your overall lack of experience, but you’re not sure what they could possibly mean. In the next room you can faintly hear the sound of running water.

“The Na-Baron is finishing up in his bathroom. He’ll be ready for you in just a moment,” Idrisa tells you, before reaching for your robe. You instinctively move away, wanting the barrier between your skin and the suddenly oppressive air of an unfamiliar room.

She holds on, undeterred, to your sleeves. “The Na-Baron said that he would have his wedding gift already unwrapped and in bed waiting for him,” she says apologetically.

You think of your father’s words from days ago (“oiled and trussed up before being thrown into his bedroom”) and take a breath before shedding the robe and stepping out of your slippers yourself. You don’t look at Idrisa as you raise the chemise up and over your shoulders before tossing it to the floor and once you’re completely bare try to cover yourself with your arms as you take a few steps back. It feels dumb; she’s already seen you naked and so will the man on the other side of the bathroom door in just a minute, but you want to hold on some semblance of modesty in this unfamiliar room.

Idrisa looks away as she picks everything up. “I’ll leave you to your privacy, then,” she says.

“I’ll be nearby,” she adds, folding your clothes and setting them on the dresser and the slippers on the floor just beside it. She glances over at you one last time as if to say, Good luck, before turning and leaving. The door clicks and you’re left in silence. The water stops.

Better get moving, then, you think as you stare at the bed. You wonder briefly what such an intimidating piece of furniture has seen over the years, and you’re honestly not sure how to present yourself once you reach it. Do you lie on your back, like you’ve been told, is the civilized, kind manner in which to take a bride?

You think of the way your groom prowls, the way he kills. He’s barely civilized and he’s certainly not kind; the animalistic way he moves and looks at you suggests that he’ll fuck you like an animal too, on all fours and without preamble, but the idea of getting into that position, of presenting yourself to him in such a way, makes you wince the moment you imagine it.

So you compromise and settle on your side, facing the bathroom entrance where he’ll soon emerge.

Your heart races as nearly a full minute ticks by before the door opens and Feyd-Rautha emerges, as naked as you are.

You try to stay composed and keep a sense of demure composure about you as you take inventory of him and what is meant to go inside of you tonight. He is indeed smooth everywhere, and half-hard. You digest the fact that even without a full erection, he's larger than the limited sample size you've witnessed. You think that it’s kind of funny that he looks more powerful naked than he does in his armor, or even in his undergarments but to your relief he’s also as unarmed as he can possibly be. And if this is to happen, it is a comfort knowing that it will be with a man whose body you find beautiful to look at.

His eyes drift over yours, mapping everything as he takes his fill,of the rest of your body. “Have you ever taken a man inside of you?” he asks.

You shake your head and try not to let your nerves get the better of you as you wonder how much this is going to hurt. He sees the fear in your eyes, though, as he crosses over and slides into bed alongside you without another word. Your breath hitches, your heart pounding. Not for the first time he makes you feel like a rabbit in a field. It’s hard to reconcile that and the excitement within you; perhaps it’s adrenaline.

He slowly angles you to lay back as he props himself above you. Your pulse thuds in your ears and you hear your own gasp as if it’s coming from somewhere else.

There’s a moment he’s looming above you, and you’re caught between fear and a growing heat between your legs, your nerves on end, before you surprise the both of you. Without allowing yourself to think about it you lean up, cup the back of his head and pull him into a kiss. This much you’ve done before, anyway. You hope that it’ll help ease you into everything else.

It catches him off-guard, which gives you a brief sense of satisfaction, feeling like the playing field has been leveraged, before he kisses back. He seems to like it, the hint of a challenge, and responds in turn by deepening the kiss and pressing his tongue into your mouth. After a moment’s hesitation, unsure where to put your hands, you find that trailing them along his arms and back feels right.

For the first minute it actually feels nice. Then the first brush of the tip of his cock against your stomach makes you gasp. You can feel him filling out the rest of the way and try not to look down. It won’t help settle your nerves at all to see just how large it is when fully engorged. The soft skin of it bumps against your bare stomach again before he shifts his legs so both are between yours, forcing you to spread your thighs around his hips. He breaks the kiss and watches your face as he shifts one hand from beside your head to between his legs, taking himself in hand.

You clench your thighs and gasp, heart racing. Without thinking you give a small cry when he guides his cock along your slit. You feel stupid for it; he’s not even inside of you yet, but you can feel yourself seize up.

He pauses, as if trying to gauge something. Then he releases himself to slide his fingertips between the apex of your thighs instead. Your chest heaves as you think about how you’re the only one who’s ever put a hand there, and even then only a few times. You have enough time to think that you’ve never felt more helpless in your life before he brushes his fingers along your slit, all the more sensitive for the lack of hair, and then brings a thumb to the bud between your legs you only discovered for the first time a few years ago by accident. He circles his thumb lazily, watching your stomach clench and your lips part in a gasp. You shut your eyes, the intimacy of it already more than you could’ve anticipated.

“Look at me,” he says sharply, and you force your eyes open. He tilts his head ever so slightly as his thumb presses down and your hips arch up. You hold onto him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you bite your lip, trying to breathe normally. He blinks as he takes in your reaction, his gaze traveling from your face to your hips before moving his hand, shifting his fingertips to your entrance.

The press of one finger inside of you is a stretch, unfamiliar but not unpleasant once you adjust to the feeling of being penetrated for the first time, and you want to look away, embarrassed at just how exposed you are to this man but as soon as you do, he repeats, irritated that he’d have to say it again, “Look at me.”

Your eyes snap back to his. He curls his finger inside of you and your mouth falls open in a silent cry, your stomach clenching, and he tilts his head slightly, pulling his hand back to add a second finger alongside it, and this time the burn of it’s just a little too much. You try to pull your hips back, face pinched in discomfort, and he gives a frustrated exhale as he tries twisting his fingers, only to get the same reaction. He pulls his fingers out, and seems to think about what to do next.

He glances down at your chest, at your stiffened nipples, and lowers himself down onto his forearms, his head down to your breasts, teeth and tongue scraping against one, then the other. As you whine and cradle the back of his neck you wonder if this is like a game for him, trying to see what noises he can pull from you where, and doing what, as he travels from one part of your body to another. You try to collect your breath as he stops, traveling lower, his body sliding almost serpentine along the length of the bed and you can’t help but watch the muscles in his back and shoulders.

You briefly notice that there are old scars there that you hadn’t been able to see properly in the semi-darkness of the fighting halls. They look like lash-marks that span from his shoulder blades to the tops of his buttocks. But that’s the last coherent thought you have before Feyd-Rautha’s face disappears between your spread legs and you cry out, back arching at the first contact between his mouth and your lower lips.

You were expecting and fearing a lot tonight but hadn’t accounted for your groom licking your newly-shaved privates. It’s shocking enough that it takes you a moment to understand how nice it feels. You pant and squirm, your moans pulled out of you with each swipe of his tongue along your slit, each flicker of it against your bud.

“Oh!” you manage, incapable of saying anything else as your thighs shake and you wish he had hair that you could bury your fingers in as he laps at you.

When the heat of it really starts to build and your whines start sounding more desperate, the very core of you slick along his lips and tongue is when he stops. It’s all a means to an end and as far as he’s concerned he’s done more than enough to prepare you.

He ignores your whimper of protest as he pulls away and props himself up above you again, taking inventory of your flushed face and chest, your parted and kiss-swollen lips.

Good, you’re ready, he seems to think. He lines himself up, and your breath hitches as you shut your eyes.

“Keep ‘em open,” he says immediately, and you relent, gazing up at a pair of eyes that glint nearly silver, pupils wide.

The blunt head of him is wide, and you realize that the preparation, his fingers and tongue, weren’t enough to ease the passage. He’ll tear you open. He watches your face and the growing panic in your eyes and presses forward.

Fear is the mind-killer. It is the little–

The first press of him knocks the air out of your lungs in a sob. You lurch up, clutching at his back as your inner thighs clench around his sides as he thrusts in the first couple of inches. You squirm around him, shifting, hoping to get unstuck like you’re a worm on a hook. He just pushes in deeper with a grunt, his hand clutching your hip to keep you still so he can bury himself within you the rest of the way.

It hurts, you want to protest, as if he can’t tell already. As if he doesn’t enjoy how he’s skewering you onto him.

You’ve been in worse pain than this. Remember when you broke your arm when you were nine? If it weren’t for the fact that you’ve never felt more vulnerable in your life to the most frightening man you’ve ever met who–you hope–is now fully inside of you, you’d almost laugh.

Virgin sex: not as painful as breaking an arm.

You dig your nails in. Feyd-Rautha gives a breathless laugh and a sharp thrust that has you crying out and digging your nails in deeper.

“Does my little pet want to get her claws in me?” he says, the first time he’s spoken in several minutes. You try to relax your hands, just gripping onto his back. “I didn’t say ‘stop,’” he adds.

He likes pain, the Reverend Mother told you.

Well, alright, then.

You grit your teeth and scratch down the length of his back. He groans, a rumble deep in his chest before pulling out nearly to the tip of him and pushing all the way back in again. It helps, in a way, the feeling of reciprocating the pain. The difference is that you’re barely tolerating it, but he’s enjoying it. He seems to like the pressure of your kneecaps digging into his sides, the nails down his back.

Curiosity strikes and you reach up and pull him down close enough to bite down on his collarbone and he gasps, hips stuttering for a moment, a moan pulled out of him before he resumes thrusting into you with deeper rolls of his hips.

You’re not sure when the moment happens that you start to adjust, the sting of it fading to a sore stretch. You still feel impossibly full, but the ache of it feels like a minor tear, not like you’ve just been split in half.

It’s soon after that he draws the first real moan out of you since before he entered you and it gives you pause; the stroke of his hips had been just right, you’d tilted yours in just a way that actually felt good in a way that tugged at your insides. After a moment he tries again and you can’t help but make the same noise, holding onto him as the push and pull of his thrusts finally starts to feel right, like an act that’s natural rather than a punishment.

It’s then that he pulls out, and you yelp in shock; you were only starting to get adjusted to having him inside of you and he hasn’t spilled his seed yet. You barely have time to understand what’s happening as he flips you onto your front and hauls you up, grabbing your hips.

It feels like another invasion, the angle tighter. You won’t be able to hold onto him or take your pain out on him. You scramble to get your forearms under you as he well and truly starts fucking you. You hadn’t realized that he’d been holding back at all.

You do realize, though, that he not only tolerates your hair but likes it, when he wraps your tresses around his hand and sharply tugs like your hair’s a harness. You can’t help any of the desperate noises that you make, shaking, as you’re repeatedly pulled back onto his cock. The heat of tears builds in your eyes as you lower your head, only for him to tug it back by your hair.

You give another cry, which spurs him on. Pleasure, pain, it seems like it’s all the same to him so long as he can keep pulling desperate sounds out of you. He speeds up, goes harder, the snap of his hips against your ass loud to the point of obscene within the echoes of his room.

And then you feel it, warm and viscous inside of you as he gives a choked moan, grunting as he thrusts into you one last time and holds still, his hands still on your hips. You gasp, freezing, before moaning even though you're not entirely sure if you like the sensation of it or not.

You feel him pull away from you and twist onto your back, your legs bent to avoid colliding with him, as he kneels on the edge of the bed and wipes his bloody cock off on the sheets.

You catch your breath as you bring a hand against your forehead, trying to think.

It’s done; you got through it.

He turns to look at you, at your parted lips, your breasts rising and falling as your breath evens out, your inner thighs where a small smear of blood remains, and wordlessly brings a thumb to the tacky skin there.

You blink, eyes widening as he looks you in the eye and licks off the already-drying blood. He tilts his head, still looking between your legs, when his fingertips slide against your slit, collecting both a little blood and a dribble of his seed that leaked out of you. Without a word he settles back over you and brings his fingers to your lips.

You try to think about what he’d want from you at this moment, and all that comes to mind is to mirror him. You try to shut out the part of you that feels revulsion at the sight and the smell and part your lips.

You can’t look away from him as he presses the calloused pad of his thumb on your lips and pushes further, onto your tongue. You want to flinch away at the salt of your blood mixed with the viscous salt of his seed, but with his other hand he cups your jaw. His movements could be seen as gentle and if he were a different man this act could be seen as intimate, but no, not with him. He’s trying to humiliate you, you’re sure. Because he then says, quietly, “Close your mouth,” and you hesitate, face heating up with shame, before you do.

For a moment you want to pull back and spit the mixture back out into his face. There must be a flicker of that want in your eye because he tilts his head in a silent challenge.

Go on. Try it, he seems to say.

You want to, but you do the opposite, the new goal to be to catch him off-guard again. You force yourself to taste the residue from both of your bodies off his fingers. You lick delicately around the digits and watch his eyes widen just a fraction. You do it again, slowly, realizing that you’ve surprised him again.

He pulls his fingers out, his full lips parted.

“Don’t swallow,” is all he says before crushing his mouth against yours.

You didn’t think you were ignorant, but you don’t fully understand what this is, what it’s called, why he’s enjoying it so much. It’s a tool you think you might have but don’t have any frame of reference for and aren’t sure how to use as he groans as the liquids merge between you in a desperate open-mouthed kiss. You just know that you’re learning enough to keep him interested. He lays fully against you, and you have enough time to think that his chest feels nice pressed up against yours before he reaches in between your legs to feel the puffy, bruised apex where he’d buried himself.

Is he already getting aroused again?

You get your answer when he flips you onto your stomach for the second time and pulls your hips up just enough for him to settle behind you. For a moment you lurch forward, away from his grip but of course he pulls you back. Alarm sets in. I need time. I’m still recovering from the first time you split me open. You hear yourself whine as he slides his rapidly-stiffening cock in between your tender folds as if to plead for his mercy. He doesn’t grant it, moaning at the desperate sound. You realize that he’s working himself the rest of the way in his own hand before pressing it back up against you and pushing inside of you in one sharp thrust.

In some ways it’s easier; you’re sufficiently stretched out at this point to take him inside of you, and the combination of blood and semen’s added second and third coats of lubrication.

But then he’s rougher; there’s no preamble, no brief moments of letting you adjust to the intrusion. He goes hard and fast on your torn and bruised insides, and this time he doesn’t say a word. All you hear are beast-like grunts as he pulls you onto him.

Just finish. Please just finish and get it over with, you think as your cries become hoarse, and then nothing more than pathetic whimpers. That in itself seems to spur him on, how much he’s wearing you out and taking you to the very limits of what you can handle.

You collapse the rest of the way onto your front, panting and sweaty, and you shut your eyes when you can sense he’s almost done, shuddering as his thrusts become more erratic and he finally–thankfully–comes, filling you up a second time and you could cry with the relief of it.

He holds on for a moment, as if trying to make sure as much of him as possible stays inside of you as he settles down, his front against your back, his breath against the nape of your neck. And then he pulls out and you wonder if this is how it feels when a person who’s just been stabbed feels the knife leave their body right before you sense him turn and fall onto his back against the sheets.

You remain on your front, the side of your face resting on your forearm as you just don’t have it in you to move again. You just hope that Feyd-Rautha’s finally done for the night. You turn your head to the other side to look at him and confirm.

His penis looks a lot less intimidating when it’s soft and resting against his thigh. You watch his chest rise and fall and briefly think about running a hand over it, and long the ridges of his abdomen even as you can’t say you’re proud of yourself for the instinct. He just seems almost docile now, reclining on his back, after he’s rutted inside of you twice. It's almost like wanting to pet a sedated dog that had been trying to bite you. You watch him raise one leg slightly, enough to bend his knee, and you notice more scars along his inner thigh that are even paler than the rest of him. They don’t look recent, but not as old as the ones on his back.

He turns his head and looks at you, and reaches out, bringing a hand to your backside, lazily caressing a cheek before bringing his palm down in a hard smack. He smirks at how the soft flesh jiggles and at your responding yelp.

“It was right there,” he says by way of explanation. You’re tired enough that you can’t help but snicker as you keep your head pillowed on your forearms and try to focus on the softness of the sheets under you rather than the unrelenting ache between your legs. You look at each other, him likely surveying the damage as you catalog him in what is probably the closest he ever gets to a relaxed state.

“Can you stand?” Feyd-Rautha asks after a moment.

You’re not entirely sure you can move your legs. “In a moment, maybe,” you admit.

“Then take a moment,” he says. “Then you can call your girl to take you back to your quarters.”

You get up on your forearms to get a better look at him. “You’re sending me away?” you ask. You don’t mean the hurt tone in your voice. Not that you even want to stay the night, but his dismissal feels insulting. You’re the one whose insides are sore and bleeding, after all. Is he not even going to give you more time to recover and just relax here? Maybe kiss you one last time?

“It’s more practical if I do,” he says. “I’ll be up a few hours before you tomorrow.” His tone is so matter-of-fact that any trace of intimacy over the past couple of minutes dissipates into thin air and you remember who you’re with.

“Right.” You look over at your clothes on the dresser. You wince at the effort, but turn to your side and sit up facing away from him. You can feel his stare burning into your back.

You wince as you sit forward and try to get your limbs to coordinate with you as you shift your legs.

You look down at the sheets and wonder if Feyd-Rautha’s going to have someone come in to clean them immediately after you leave.

No, you realize. He’ll have someone come in to put down new ones, certainly, but he’ll be holding on to the bloodied sheets. They’ll serve as a trophy, proof that he deflowered the heiress to the House of Y/H.

You don’t look back at your new husband as you get up, shakily at first, needing to hold onto the bed to stabilize you.

You need to walk gingerly, and the feel of Feyd-Rautha watching your discomfort makes it worse. You feel tears build again, this time from anger. You think to yourself that you might’ve been able to handle everything else tonight better if he were a little kinder to you afterwards, and gave you something to temper the roughness as he’d prepared you beforehand. And here he is smugly watching the pain you’re in because of him, congratulating himself on how he wrecked your virgin cunt.

This is fucking undignified. I’m part of a Major House, too, you think as you pull on your chemise and step into your slippers. Finally you’ve decided that you’re not going to let this insult pass and turn to him. He’s sitting up, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped loosely around them as he watches you and that somehow makes it even worse. “Is this amusing for you?” you demand, thinking, Of course it is, you stupid girl. He and his kind get off on this sort of thing.

He looks neither embarrassed nor smug, but leans forward a little as he considers you. “You did well tonight,” he says.

“Thank you, Na-Baron,” you say coldly as you reach for your robe.

“I like it when you call me husband,” he adds, and you glance back at him. “That’s what you should call me when we’re alone together.”

You look at him a moment longer. You realize that this is just about the closest he can get to being kind to you, at least tonight. Whatever tenderness he’d shown when he first touched you was to serve his own purpose. Now that he’s taken what he wants there’s nothing else to give you. It’s not even intentional cruelty on his part, you don’t think. It’s just the absence of everything else.

With a resigned sigh you pull on your robe and give him a curt nod. “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, husband,” you tell him, pad over to the door, and open it just far enough to see Idrisa standing post just outside. You head into the hallway and shut the door behind you without another word or glance backwards.

“How much of that were you able to hear?” you ask her.

She tries to spare you. “The walls are thick, Na-Baroness,” she says, and you’re even more grateful for the short distance to your chambers than you’d been before.

At your bedside you notice that there’s a jug of water and a glass, then beside them a dish. You head for it to inspect closer and it turns out there are two small white tablets. You turn to look at her.

Idrisa shrugs one shoulder. “Part of the benefits of being promoted to your attendant,” she says. “I felt it would be safer to take precautions and assume you’d need pain relief after…” she trails off, realizing there is no polite way to say getting fucked hard for the first time by a man who delights in your pain and just repeats, “after. I spoke with a Healer who agreed that it would be safer to plan for that.”

As you reach for a tablet she adds quickly, “I wouldn’t take more than half if I were you.”

You pause, the tablet to your mouth. “Why?” you ask.

She hesitates. “I wasn’t sure how severe your pain would be afterwards,” she says. “I really didn’t know how to predict so I requested two tablets. Looking at you now, half a tablet should suffice.”

You look down at the dish and then back at her. Just how badly did you think tonight would go for me? you want to ask, but then realize that there are some questions you don’t actually want answers to.

You smile at her in gratitude, snap the tablet in half, and wash it down with the offered water. “Will it help me sleep?” you ask.

She inclines her head in the affirmative. “Now let’s get you cleaned up and ready for bed,” she says.

“It’s alright. I can handle the rest myself,” you tell her.

Her brow furrows and she frowns. “It’s my duty to look after you,” she says.

“I understand, but right now I need to be alone,” you tell her.

She looks nervous, as if her dismissal is some kind of failure on her part and something for which she’ll be punished later.

“You’ve done a great job,” you tell her. “But the best way to take care of me tonight is to let me do this myself.”

“Whatever you wish, Na-Baroness,” she says finally. “Good night, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

……………..

You pad over to the bathroom and a minute later find yourself sitting on the edge of your bathtub with a warm, wet towel in one hand as you inch up the hem of your chemise with the other.

You wince at the first press of the towel against your tender skin. You don’t want to look directly at the damage, wishing you still had hair down there to obscure some of it. You shut your eyes as you wipe around your inner thighs. You wipe directly between your legs and the sharp bite of the pain makes you briefly double over. After a moment you look down at the used towel; there’s not as much blood as you thought, as it feels like it was spilled out of you, but you’re going to have to wring it out and start over if you want to feel clean. Maybe you won’t feel clean again.

The reality of it all hits you, sharply, and you feel like you’ve been stabbed and a part of you realizes that the worst is yet to come.

For the first time since finding out you would be linked to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, you break down and cry.

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune part 2 #feyd-rautha harkonnen #feyd-rautha

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serickswrites · 1 year ago

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Hey it's been quite long I haven't asked, can you please write about what Caretaker would do with whumpee everyday when they are both in the icu room while Whumpee recovers from injuries.

Absolutely, I can write this! (And I haven't forgotten to finish your other request, it's just marinating so I can finish it, lol).

Please enjoy!

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced wounds, referenced forced to watch, referenced restraints, hospital, unconsciousness, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Caretaker stared down at the healing wounds on their wrists. It was either stare there, stare at the wall, or stare at Whumpee. And they'd been staring at Whumpee for the last few hours and couldn't take anymore. It was too hard.

They could barely swallow around the lump in their throat when they thought about the only thing they walked away with from their time with Whumper were these scars on their wrists from the rope rubbing. While Whumpee walked away with much worse.

Whumpee hadn't woken since they slipped into unconsciousness as Caretaker ran to the ambulance with them. Hadn't woken since EMTs worked tirelessly to save their life. Hadn't woken since arriving that the hospital and being ripped away from Caretaker and into emergency surgery. Hadn't woken since Caretaker was guided into the ICU room where they lay, tubes coming out of them in various places.

Caretaker had been powerless to help Whumpee. Had been powerless to do anything except watch Whumpee suffer at Whumper's hands. Watch Whumpee grow weaker and weaker. And finally watch Whumpee succumb to unconsciousness.

They were still powerless and could only watch.

The nurses were kind and assured Caretaker that Whumpee's body just needed some time to heal. That being in a coma helped. That the medical team felt it was very likely that Whumpee would wake again.

The waiting was killing Caretaker. They dragged their gaze up once more so they could stare at Whumpee. Stare at the consequences of their failing to stop Whumper. Stare at their consequences of failing to save Whumpee sooner. Stare at their world that was slowly crumbling.

Caretaker took Whumpee's hand in theirs. "Please, please forgive. I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. I need you. Please, Whumpee. I'm so sorry."

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw referenced wounds #tw referenced forced to watch #tw referenced restraints #tw hospital #tw unconsciousness #hurt/aftermath #hurt/recovery #queue

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thesolaireslawyer · 5 months ago

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I Can't Love You

TW- Slight Nsfw, Cursing, jealousy, MENTION OF SH!, regret, referenced rejection, Cheating? WC- 1236 AN- Enjoy. Hope it was worth the wait

One person can only have one soulmate. That’s what the rules say.. That’s what should be possible. So why did Asher have a matching tattoo with Milo? His best friend. The one he knew better than anyone. Milo already had his mate. Why was he matching with him? Why was he cursed like this? He wanted nothing but the best for his friend. The one he wanted to love.. The one he wanted everything with..

Yet he was forced to watch him be happy with someone else. Someone who also shared the same tattoo. Someone who loved him just as much as he did. Is it wrong he wanted to be in their spot? Is it wrong he wished that was him? Wanting to hold him when he’s down. To kiss his bruises when he’s hurt. To slowly undress him and tell him everything he loved about his short stature

To imagine his body, under him.. Making all those noises.. Those thoughts were taken away by the one he was with. The one he called sweetheart. The one who had all his heart. He wanted to be his sweetheart. He longed to be them. And all he was forced to was watch from the sidelines. His heart burned, every time he saw them together.

The marking they shared burned every time he saw them together.

Asher grabbed his shoulder. He wished the mark would disappear. It was a constant reminder of what he couldn’t have. A reminder of what he lost. He wanted to rip it off. Maybe if he scratched his skin raw enough it would disappear. He wanted to disappear.. What was the point if he couldn’t be with the one he was meant to be with?

But that's not how it works it just stays. It would never be that easy and he knew that. He let go of his shoulder. No point in beating a dead horse am I right? If there was no point in beating one why did it hurt so much? His best friend had found the love of his life. And here he was crying about it. Why couldn’t he be happy for him?

Why did loving him hurt so much? The man he grew up with and slowly fell in love with. Maybe if he just said how he felt all those years ago. That night Milo asked to speak to him. Why was he so concerned with what the others would think? He would’ve been happy. He would’ve had Milo.. His soulmate. Fuck what everyone else thought.

But he was a kid. Who’d rather hurt his best friend than deal with the consequences of dating inside the pack. and there was no changing the past. He is only learning to deal with the consequences that came from the choices he made. And he was supposed to be here for his friend. It was their housewarming party.

He knew how important something like this was to him. He never had the stability for a place like this. And this was a big step for him. He needed all his friends to be here with him. And his.. Mate. Asher could feel his heartbreak as he referred to them as his mate. He moved his head from the steering wheel. He was already here, he just needed to drop off the gift; come up with some lame-ass excuse, and leave. And cry on the way home. He couldn’t be like this every time he wanted to see Milo. he reached into the back of his truck to grab the gift.

The gift itself was wrapped in dull purple paper with an oddly placed matching bow. However, the gift itself was a photo. The photo was taken just before Gabe's death. They even got the resident troublemaker to join in. It was a nice photo a happy photo. The frame surrounding said photo was a hand-carved hyacinth frame. Painted black to hide any mistakes made.

As if Asher's bandaged ring finger didn’t state that enough. The gift had come from a place of regret and selfishness. Though Asher would never admit it to himself. He opened the door to his truck as he was making his way towards the door. He didn’t see David’s car anywhere. Guess he didn’t get here yet.

—

Milo looked around. Where did ash go? He just saw him. He went around asking the guess asking where Ash went. But no one knew.. Maybe he stepped outside? If that’s so no one here is good at finding any fucking body. He sighed and walked outside. Lo and behold nothing.. He should have known inviting him was a bad idea.

Maybe part of him hoped he had moved on. Hoped he had grown, and found someone else. But Asher can be stubborn and so could he. Milo took a seat on the porch, Asher was always good at hiding his true feelings but never that good. The longing glances.. Short-sighted glares. It doesn’t take a genius to see he was still in love. Still in love. Still in love with his technical soulmate..The one person whose heart he broke.

I Can’t Love You

Those words still haunted his dreams. Even in the happy relationship he has, there are nights when he can’t help but wonder what he and Asher could have been. What their relationship could have been if Asher didn’t say those words? He would get to wake up to the image of Ash every day. And comfort him through his worst.

But he doesn’t get that option. Asher made that choice for him… no they both were screwed over when the universe gifted them these magical scars. He placed his hand on his chest. The marking that's supposed to tell you that’s your person. The one you grow old with, the one you can hold in the cold. Undress in the evening. To place kisses up and down their body.

And he wanted that. With asher.. He loved his sweetheart but his heart would always belong to Asher. The one he fell for first. The one he couldn’t love. The one he would have waited for. The one he would still wait for. But for now, he was content sitting on the sidelines. He’d wait till Asher came around. Even if it meant ruining what he had now.

He knew that they knew. They knew they would never have his heart. Maybe a little but never fully. And he hated that he let things get this far. But there was no point now. They had a home together. They slept together. They killed a shade. They survived the worst night of their lives together. They did everything he wanted to do with Ash. well maybe not the worst night part.

But his point stands. He will never love his partner as he loves much as he loves his true soulmate. And maybe that made him a bad person. No.. that made him a bad person and he knew it. He let go of his chest. He had a party to get back to. Maybe when the time is right.. He’ll take that last risk. Forget what he had. And run into his arms, and just kiss him so hard. But for now, he can’t do that. All he could do was tell himself

‘’ I can’t love you.. Because loving you hurts too much. ‘’

#redacted audio #redacted milo #redacted asher #soulmate au #soulmate trope #redacted sweetheart #redacted david #can you tell where my hyper fixation went?#it got nicer towards the end #redacted darlin

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savemeafruitjuice · 3 months ago

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Tickletober Day 14- Lose

This is a 2003 fic!

Lee: Mikey

Ler: Raphel

TW!: SWEARING!

This has spoilers for early season 4 of the show! It has a major plot point referenced, so beware if you haven't watched that far yet!

"Mikey, if I hear ya say that one more time."

The youngest giggled, racing ahead of his brother, and leaping skillfully to the next rooftop. "Say what? I'm just stating the facts. We totally shredded Shredder!"

Raphael groaned, accelerating enough to make the jump across buildings, and charged at the orange-themed turtle. He flung himself at Mikey, latching onto the back of his shell and taking the both of them to the ground. "I warned ya-.."

Mikey screamed as he was thrown to the ground, covering his head and torso with his arms just in time to avoid being smacked face-first into the concrete. "Raph! What the shell, man!"

The elder grunted an "oops", glad that Leo and Don weren't out on patrol with them, or he'd never hear the end of it about 'safety'. He sat on his brother's legs, tugging his arms out from underneath him to pin down with his knees. "Don't act like you're Mr. Innocent ov'a here. You've had this coming ever since we beat the Shredder f'er good."

Mikey was plunged into a fit of laughter, letting out a shriek as his ribs were drilled into. Oh how he wished his shell covered the sides of him too...

"AAAHAHAAH! Buhut- Hehe lost sO BAHAAD!"

Raph huffed, digging his fingers almost roughly into the grooves of the younger's ribcage. "I know. I was there, Mike. I think ya need a lesson about losin' y'erself.."

The nunchuck-user pulled desperately on his hands, but the weight of his brother kept them pinned. He kicked his legs out, feet slapping on the roof below the two, cheek smushed against the concrete. The elder reached lower and squeezed his brother's side, smirking at the shrill laughter it elicited. "What? 'S not like I'm hurtin' ya. What're ya getting so worked up about?"

Mikey shut his eyes, shoulders bouncing from the force of his laughter. He gasped for breath, writhing underneath his big brother. "NAHAHAH- STOHOP IHIIT! hic! RAHAHAPH! STOHOP! SNRT-"

Amusement lit up the sai-user's eyes at the noise, and he pressed a little harder into the soft flesh of the younger's side. "What was that, huh? Ya tryin' ta tell me somethin'?"

Mikey's laughter went silent for a second, before coming back full force. He bucked and squirmed, trying to push his brother off of him, to no avail. "FAHAHAACK! NOHOT THEHEHEERE!" He shrieked as hands tickled at his hips, and tried to kick at the other.

"I don't give a flyin' fuck, alright? I told ya how many times to shut up, only for ya to keep yappin' about the Shredder losin'. 'Til ya decide to stop talkin', I ain't stoppin'." Mikey let out a high whine, jolting around and cackling. "IHI CAHAAN'T! SNRT- RAHAPH, IT HA- hic! TIHIHICKLES! PFAHAH!"

"Are ya gonna stop?"

"YEHEHE- OHOKAHAHAY! SNRT- OKAYOKAY IHI'LL STOHOP! IHI SWEHEHEAR!"

"Say it."

Mikey cackled, pressing himself into the hard ground as much as he could to evade the tickling. He snorted loudly, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. Raph was definitely the roughest tickler in the family, there was no doubt about that.

"HAAH! IHI- IHI'LL STOHOHOP! I'LL STOHOHOOP! SNRT- PLEHEASE, RAHAHAPH- HEHEHELP!"

Damp eyes squinted open when the tickling didn't stop, meeting what was probably the most complacent face he'd ever seen. "Nah, this is too much fun. Sorry, little brother."

"RAHAAPH! IHI HAHAHATE YOHOUAHAH! HAHAH!"

-----

They're such brothers- I love '03 so much! ♥️ 🧡

#tickletober 2024 #tickletober #tmnt tickle #Tmnt 2003 tickle #Lee Mikey #Ler Raph

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lilacthebooklover · 1 year ago

Text

Dehumanization

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Hatchetfield Universe (Starkid) Character(s): Paul Matthews Rating: Teen Word Count: 3795 Summary: After the events of 'Hey, Melissa!', Paul is left reeling. He leaves hospital and returns home, plagued by memories of all that transpired during the worst week of his life, and makes a call to the person he cares about more than anyone else. TWs: Dehumanization, referenced kidnapping/captivity, graphic description of murder, panic attack AO3 LINK

Paul returns home after the worst week of his life with a fractured skull and wide open eyes, alert and straining for any sight of danger. He’s hypervigilant, his fingers trembling uncontrollably as he unlocks his door, a shiver running down his spine.

He fumbles with each of the locks, sliding them open one by one as his heart pounds and his blood rushes in his ears, this is his only chance and Ted’s barking at him, they’re going to come back and she still has that taser and he needs to get out, he has to, he can’t stay here to be treated like a–

His house is silent. It puts him on edge. Hers was too, forbidden as he and Ted were from making a sound most of the time. He considers putting on music, then remembers he lost his phone when she abducted him. He’s going to have to buy a new one, he realises morosely, and maybe that’s not what he should be focusing on amidst all this but at least it’s a distraction from the chaos inside of his head.

There’s a fog over his mind, clouding his thoughts, making everything dim and blurry and he doesn’t remember what happened, where he is, and he can’t move his arms, it hurts when he tries, and his brain is swirling with a million far-away thoughts when she walks in and–

He swallows thickly, mouth dry as a desert. It should be nice, to be back, but all he can feel is a creeping sense of trepidation. He’s safe here, he has to be. Paul’s being irrational. He clutches his coat– he has a coat, of course he does, it’s cold and he’s a person so he wears clothes. He wants to eat something, but feels queasy at the very thought.

She watches him while he eats, her presence a looming force that demands he comply, and Paul’s never been one to blindly obey but he doesn’t have a choice, the outline of that taser follows him in her shadow and he has to eat, his stomach is simultaneously twisting in hunger and squeezing at the thought of eating this mulch–

He goes to the fridge. It would be silly not to. After all, he’s hungry, so it makes sense that he should get himself food. He recoils at how out-of-date some of his food is, reminding himself to clear it all out later. Right now, he needs to eat. He focuses on that, on the task at hand, rather than the anxiety suffocating his lungs. There’s a yoghurt pot in there that hasn’t expired yet, so Paul takes it out, the tub feeling like ice against his fingers. He gets a spoon, sits at the table like a person , opens the yoghurt and tries to eat it. His hand won’t move, frozen above the pot as he weakly wills it to move , but he can’t, he’s shaking and tears are forming in his eyes and he’s pathetic , but he can’t get the spoon to budge an inch.

He’s kneeling, the kitchen tiles below him hard and cold, and he’s reaching apprehensively out towards the disgusting food offered to him when sizzling, white-hot agony pierces through him, it’s not as high a voltage as it could be but it hurts , and she’s reprimanding him and reminding him of his place, and his arms feel like jelly beneath him as he lowers his burning face to the bowl, he’s never been as humiliated as he is right now as the sickening, slimy substance brushes against his lips–

Paul gives up eventually, gives in as he always does, and makes his way upstairs. Paul’s not particularly brave, or particularly confident, or particularly stubborn, or particularly anything , really. Not like Emma is, with her unkillable fire and mischievous smile. He’s just… Some guy, who works at an office and happens to have been the unfortunate object of affection of his deranged colleague. He’s nothing special.

He can still feel her hands in his hair, gently stroking his head as she hums absentmindedly to herself, it’s a song from some musical or the other and he hates it but there’s nothing he can do about it, nothing he can do but sit there docilely, glancing over at Ted’s jealous glare and thick metal bars, and he’s lucky, really, that his plan worked, that he still has his fingers, that she– she likes him, but some days he can’t help but wish he was in Ted’s place instead because there’s something inside of him, something disgusting and wrong and inhuman , that almost likes the attention, and he’s so, so scared that he’s going to actually end up as a–

Lamenting his lack of a phone once again, Paul makes a mental note to buy a watch at some point, but knows he’ll probably forget. Even so, it’s nice knowing that he could buy a watch if he wanted to, he has the option to go to the store and buy anything he likes. He can leave the house whenever he pleases, dressed in whatever he pleases, and spend however long at Beanie’s as he pleases. He’s a person, he has control over what he does. He is Paul Matthews, and he is a person.

She calls him a silly kitty when he tries to leave, giggling lightheartedly like she isn’t pressing tens of thousands of volts of electricity into him, it must only last a few seconds but to him it feels like an eternity, he writhes behind the barrier to the world he’s been taken away from, and it’s torture knowing that he’s so, so close to people who could help him but he has no way to contact them, he’s powerless to do anything but quiver and lie down and submit like a–

Bones aching and body cold, Paul decides he wants to lie down. He opens the bedroom door and shivers, a sort of detached numbness washing over him as he lays eyes on his bed. The sheets are pristine as always, he likes to keep a tidy home. Everything’s familiar, exactly how he left it. It should have been comforting. Instead, it makes Paul think about just how easy it was for her to make him disappear. Nobody would’ve even guessed he was gone, but Paul’s hazy gaze stays focused on the bed, mouth still dry as a desert as his heart flutters in his chest.

Her bed is pink, and he finds himself surprised that there isn’t some sort of cat print across it as he crawls on, bowing his head and tensely curling up at the edge of the bed, arms encircling himself in a pitiful attempt at comforting himself, and she’s climbing in the bed and smiling that awful, wicked, happy smile of hers and she tells him to lie at the foot of the bed like a– like– and Paul’s left waiting, petrified, because she’s still got the taser and he’s got no escape, he’s still reeling from the aftershocks earlier on, and she truly believes he’s a–

Paul shakes his head and slams his door shut a little too loudly, backing away as the numbness spreads out from his chest until he’s sliding to the floor. His body shakes, there’s something hot running down his cheeks that he can’t stop. He’s supposed to be safe , everything’s supposed to be okay now that he’s escaped. But his lungs burn and his head spins, and he can’t breathe as he thinks about that bed, that house, about her , and his pupils dart around frantically, fruitlessly, in search of something to concentrate on.

He has to get away, he has to leave but Ted didn’t let him and now they’re both stuck and Ted doesn’t regret a thing, Paul’s locked in a cage as she shakes her head disappointedly, trapped behind silver bars and forced to watch as they approach Ted, who eagerly awaits his ‘treat’, then suddenly there’s the glint of three razor-sharp knives and they’re slicing forward, plunging into Ted’s stomach, mutilating the flesh as Ted screams , and Paul can’t do anything, he’s locked away in a cage meant for an–

His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He’s not there. His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He is a person. His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He works in the CRRP Office Building. His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He has control over what he does.

Blood splatters everywhere and Paul suddenly realises why she has a wooden floor, the scarlet stains gleaming against its shiny surface, his head’s spinning and his eyes wide and horrified as he watches, he can’t look away as the knives keep stabbing into Ted’s already lifeless corpse, the girls grinning sadistically, madly as Paul shrinks away, terrified, because that’s Ted lying there, a bloodied heap, Ted who he’s known for years and just got killed , oh God, if he hadn’t tried to leave then Ted would still be alive, what has he done –?

He’ll have to go back there, to the office, Paul knows. Nothing will ever be the same, not when Ted’s dead and Freddie’s gone back to the FBI and she’s gone. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to look any of them in the eye with the knowledge of what he’s done. He’s a monster. He submitted. He tried to escape. He got Ted killed. He nearly got Bill killed. He might have killed one of those girls, he doesn’t know. He feels sick.

He retches into the toilet after the first time he eats the cat food, his stomach churning in protest as bile stings the back of his throat and Ted laughs behind him, a barking, humourless, bitter thing that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and she’s gone out and Ted hates him, hates him for not opening the cage again because he’s a coward, he can still feel the shock running through every one of his nerves, he’s helpless like this–

How’s he going to face Emma again? She’ll be disgusted with him, Paul knows. He blew off their date and ignored her calls, went home with her without telling Emma a thing and hasn’t spoken to her since. He needs to fix things. Paul trudges over to his landline, slowly tapping in Emma’s number. It rings for a long while, then goes through to voicemail. That’s– that’s fair. He ignored her, after all, and hates himself at the reminder. He hesitates, then dials again, waiting.

He’s at her feet again, kneeling silently as she threads her fingers through his hair for what feels like the millionth time, it’s an almost domestic image if he ignores the collar around his neck or the taser in her pocket or the whole situation, really, and he stares ahead vacantly as he tries to delude himself into thinking this isn’t so bad, she likes to have him by her side when she’s working or playing on her phone, though he’s below her, of course, and she’s nattering away to someone but he knows what will happen if he speaks, knows he’ll be cut off by that blackening pain if he so much as opens his mouth because she knows, she always knows, she’s always watching–

“Hello?”

…Emma answers.

Paul freezes, cold sweat prickling the back of his neck as he opens his mouth and gapes, soundlessly, like a fish. This is stupid. He’s stupid. He needs to respond , but it’s like he’s been turned to stone, stricken and speechless.

It echoes through his brain, sinister and horrifying, and she knows this is his fault, and he's to make not a sound, Puss because he doesn’t want to get another dog killed, does he?, of course he doesn’t, he remembers the squelch of metal in flesh and the screech of a car slamming to a halt, he remembers the screams and the whimpers and the cries and the smiles and the pain, and he’s not allowed to talk, no, he’s not a person , is he?

“I swear to God, if this is some sort of prank call–” Emma’s voice breaks through his frantic thoughts. She sounds more ticked off than ever, and Paul isn’t quite sure how to discern his emotions at having heard her again.

“Hi, Emma,” he says, voice cracked and quiet. And she hangs up faster than he can blink.

He’s in the hospital, alone for the first time in what feels like months but can’t have been that long, surely, but he doesn’t wear a watch and his phone is gone for good and the only thing around him is white walls, new walls, and there’s a throbbing in his skull but it’s far more preferable to the turmoil of her taser, he’s lying in a bed and that initially makes him panic, he remembers what she did to him, what she made him do and he panics, and he’s alone again and he doesn’t quite remember what happened and he might actually be free but he doesn’t dare to hope, waiting with shallow breaths and the potential to be human again–

He calls her again. And again. And again.

“You just don’t know when to give up, do you, Puss?” She asks teasingly but she doesn’t want an answer, it’s hardly like Paul could offer one where he is now and he refuses to accept that he’s lost, refuses to accept Ted’s claims of having tried every escape, refuses to give up his humanity in this place because he’s only pretending, he’s not really a cat, he’s a person and he’s going to prove it, he needs to prove it–

Emma finally picks up again, a torrent of insults and cusses pouring out of her lips, and Paul can tell that she’s hurt. His heart aches.

“Emma, I’m sorry ,” he finally manages to get in when she pauses for breath, and there’s silence for a moment. He hardly dares continue, clenching and unclenching his white-knuckled left fist rapidly. “For– for not calling you. Please, I promise , I can explain.”

He’s back there, trying to justify himself to a woman who thinks he’s a monster, there’s wire wrapped taut around his fingers and it hurts like hell, pins and needles run through his hand and metal digs painfully into his skin, he only has one option left before five of his limbs are permanently severed off, so he opens his mouth and hates himself and lets out a pitiful, choked–

“I know exactly where you were,” Emma tells him sourly, throwing in another cuss for good measure afterwards. “With your new girlfriend, huh? You could’ve at least answered one of my texts to tell me you were busy.”

“What?” Paul breathes, shocked. He feels the blood drain from his face, his hands are shaking again as he tries to wrap his head around what she’s said. “Emma, she kidnapped me.”

Rope, chains, cage, collar, door, there’s always something confining him there, keeping him trapped and helpless to her whims, he’s just a pet within these walls, there’s no way out because he let her bring him here, he offered to drive her here and he told her about the worst thing he’s ever done, but not even his experience with Spot as a kid haunted him as much as this does, as much at the constant degradation and dehumanisation does because now he’s nothing, he’s just a pet –

“She– we were– Freddie–...” Paul trails off miserably. “It’s a long story.”

“Try me,” Emma says harshly on the other side, and maybe she isn’t so angry at him anymore but he finds himself flinching anyway.

“Freddie’s an FBI agent,” he begins slowly, voice shaking. “Freddie from my work. And M– she’s part of some sort of… Serial killer group? So Freddie was tracking her. But then he attacked me and she showed up and fought him off, and he attacked her back but he’s always been a sleazeball and what he was saying really didn’t paint him in a good light and oh God, I’m rambling, I’m sorry, but I sort of… Choked him. Until he passed out. And we may have… Um… Tied him up.”

Freddie’s there at the hospital telling him everything, showing off a shiny blue badge and shiny white teeth, no longer looking like Ted 2.0– oh God, Ted – in the slightest as he talks, and Paul is finally safe but he sure doesn’t feel like it, he’s a hero but his mind says he’s a monster, Freddie wants to shake his paw but Paul doesn’t– he’s not– he isn’t a pet , he can’t still be a pet even now he’s free, he just can’t and he can’t leave again, his body doesn’t cooperate when he tries to move and he sinks down in defeat, shoulders hunched as he feels a sharp jolt of pain ricochet through his skull and he’s hit with a million memories at once, of darkness and burning and screams and the slam of a bus against his body as he races out, he doesn’t care if he dies at this point, he can’t stay there anymore–

“I wanted to see if M– M… She was okay, so I took her home,” Paul recounts, grimacing at the memory. He can’t even say her name. “I– I told her some stuff, she was furious with me and I found Ted in her closet, and he didn’t have any fingers , Emma. He’d been in there for days. And she knocked me out and tied me to a coffee table and when I woke up, she tried to cut off mine as well.”

He feels the wire be pulled taut, this is really happening, and he tries to plead with her but he scolds and shouts at him, calling him a bad dog and he’s so, so confused and scared and he never expected this to happen, he was just worried about her after Freddie attacked her, he doesn’t want to be here and she’s shouting, raising her voice in a way that she’s never done before and how is it that he’s known her for years but has never once heard her shout, she’s glaring at him with the sort of despisal that runs bone-deep, she wants to hurt him and it’s working, oh God is it working–

“She… She had a whole thing about dogs. She hated them. So I, um…” Paul feels his face flush red in embarrassment because it’s stupid , Emma’s going to laugh at him and he’s going to remember it all over again, he already knows it’s all his fault. “Pretended to be a cat. So I've- I've still got all my fingers, and I'm still... Alive.”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Emma tells him, sounding thoroughly overwhelmed with the new onslaught of information. Paul can’t help the apology that slips through his lips. He hasn’t been allowed to talk in so long, now he can hardly stop himself. “She told me you two were dating. She said you were moving to Clivesdale! And yeah, I probably should've guessed something was up because it’s Clivesdale, but I figured you’d just sort of… Gotten sick of us, I guess.” Emma sighs through the phone line, sounding a mixture of remorseful and bitter. “Of me. So I believed her. She said you were in her… Bed…” Emma’s voice comes to a stop. The silence is heavy. Paul can’t breathe. They wait, neither one of them wanting to shatter the fragile quiet that’s washed over them. Finally, Emma says, tone frantic, almost pleading , and isn’t that an unfamiliar sound? “Paul. Please tell me she didn’t…”

And he’s there all over again, there are hands in his hair, on his skin, and he isn’t allowed to wear clothes because clothes are for people and he’s not a person, he’s a pet , she makes sure to remind him of that every single day, and he tries to behave, really, he does, but he can’t do anything but obey when she commands him, it’s his job to make her happy and this is better than the taser, it has to be, it’s not every night, after all, and he can’t handle the shouts and the disappointment right now, he’s far too hot and something inside of him’s about to snap but he doesn’t do anything about it, he can’t, and she’s pleased as she smiles lovingly at him but he doesn’t smile back, he can’t, there are tears in his eyes but she doesn’t care as she just keeps–

Paul’s silence is enough of an answer. On the other side of the line, Emma curses lowly. Emma knows about the crush she had on him, and Paul feels compelled to apologise again because he really, really does want something with Emma but now he’s ruined it. He could’ve been hate-watching Workin’ Guys or whatever it was called with her that night, maybe he would’ve finally asked her out then. Instead, he came across Ted in a wardrobe, faced a taser to the back and a week of torment. But he’s a person. Emma cares about him. Emma cares.

“Look, Paul, you– you don’t have to explain everything now, okay?” Emma says, breaking the pause once again. “I… I get the gist of it, and I get that it's not your fault. Is it okay if I come over to your place?”

Paul jolts out of his spiralling thoughts, something blooming in his chest again. Emma’s not mad at him. Emma’s asking for his opinion. Emma’s treating him like a person. “Okay,” Paul agrees softly, because he does want that, and even if the thought of answering the door makes his stomach swirl, he hates the idea of being alone when he could be with Emma just then even more. “...I missed you.”

“I’m on my way,” Emma informs him, and there’s a jangle of keys in a lock that instinctively sends blood pumping rapidly through Paul’s veins once again. “...I missed you too.”

She finishes the call, and Paul sits down for a while by the landline, staring ahead. His name is Paul Matthews. He is a person. He works at CRRP Office Building. He has control over his decisions. And right now, he’s decided that he wants to see Emma again. In the silence of his house, a sob finally managed to escape his throat, simultaneously freeing and terrifying all at once. Once he’s started, he can’t stop, feeling like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.

His name is Paul Matthews. He is a person. He’s home.

#bad things happen bingo #paul matthews #starkid #team starkid #hatchetverse #hey melissa #nightmare time spoilers #nightmare time #paulkins #the hatchetfield series #emma perkins #tgwdlm #starkid fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #melissa starkid #ted spankoffski #bad things bingo #emma tgwdlm

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