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holylulusworld · 2 years

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Heavenly Creature (2) - Mistakes

Title: Heavenly Creature - Mistakes

Rating: Mature

Summary: A stranger saves you from an unfriendly encounter. Is he a knight in shiny armor?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers

Warnings: heavy angst, language, hand around throat, non-sexual choking, kidnapping, threats, hostage situation, non-consensual injection/drug use, mentions of past medical procedures, hurt & comfort

Word count: 2,4 k

Divider by @firefly-graphics

A/N: Part 2/3

<< Part 1

Heavenly Creature masterlist

“Buck, I think we got the wrong girl,” a third voice says as you drift into darkness again…

“Fuck’s sake, Buck. Stop! You can’t give her more of this shit,” you drift in and out of consciousness. Your eyelids flutter open, only to fall close again. Your tongue is glued to the roof of your mouth and your body feels heavier than it should while you struggle to even lift your hand off the thin mattress you are lying on. “Tony told you to not give her more.”

“She’s fighting the drug, or else we would know everything about her role within Hydra. I know it was her, Steve. I remember her face clearly. I know this woman is the one working at the lab.”

“Hmm…smells good,” your head lolls back as Bucky tries to convince his friend you are one of the monsters using him as their tool. “Mommy, can I have pancakes?”

“Buck, she’s barely awake. You pumped her full of the drug and she still didn’t tell you anything about Hydra. Tony ran a background check while you tried to press the truth out of her. She is a librarian for years. There is no connection to Hydra. What if you are wrong?”

“This can’t be! She has the same eyes and hair. I remember her voice and scent,” Bucky hovers over your trembling form to get a closer look at you. “It must be her. I know it.”

“Buck, you were drugged most of the time at that lab. They wiped your memories too. All the others had a past with Hydra. She’s a small-town girl. Y/N came to New York to live with her aunt after someone shot her parents.”

“Her parents?”

“Yeah. Dr. Y/M/N and Dr. Y/F/N Y/L/N got killed at their house. Y/N slept at her best friend’s house that night. That’s why she survived. Her parents weren’t so lucky,” Steve closes the manila folder in his hands. “Buck, I don’t think this is the woman we are looking for. She’s too young.”

“No. It’s her. I just know it. Give me a bit more time and I can prove it. She will admit all of her sins, Steve.”

“No more drugs,” Steve warns. “You are going to kill her if you give her more. We all agreed to bring Hydra down with all might after—”

“After our little private war,” Tony walks into the room, sighing as you start to stir. “I agreed to help you find all of them, not to torture innocent girls. Your friend shouldn’t cross another line.”

“Bucky, let us check on her past again. Don’t do anything until Tony and I are back. I can’t let you hurt an innocent woman.”

“Good. You’re finally awake,” your brain feels a little fuzzy as the man holding you hostage leans over your body. You can feel his eyes on you but are too tired to open your eyes. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

“I don’t know,” it’s too hard to lift your head so you just lie on the thin mattress and pray this nightmare will end soon. “I miss my mom.” In times of need or whenever you are having a hard time, you miss your mother the most.

“What did you do for Hydra?”

“I don’t know Hydra.”

“What did you do to me?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m losing my patience here, doll,” you don’t even flinch when he slams his metal fist into the mattress next to your head. “Answer my damn questions.”

“I did,” you slowly blink your eyes open to look at Bucky. He’s panting heavily. His hair falls in his face, and he looks like he’s about to explode if you don’t give him what he wants. You just can’t. There is nothing to admit.

“Did you inject the drugs? Did you wipe my memory? Did you abuse me?”

“Abuse you?” repeating his words you weakly lift your hand to touch his cheek, but he slaps it away, making you wince. “I would never abuse you. You’re so pretty. A heavenly creature...”

“What was your job? I want to know everything,” he growls now. “I will break every bone in your body if you don’t start talking right now.”

“I’m a librarian,” you sniffle. “I hand out books, Sir. I never worked for Hydra, please. I heard about Hydra for the first time in classes, and later in the news. I don’t work for them. I never hurt anyone, please.”

“Stop lying, doll,” he grabs your shirt to bring your face close to his. Bucky swallows thickly as you start to cry. “Give me something to work with. I know you weren’t one of the big bosses.”

“Please. I didn’t hurt you.”

“I will kill you if you don’t stop lying,” your eyes wide and fearful you look up at Bucky as he pushes you back onto the mattress to straddle your thighs. His metal hand wraps around your throat and you fear this is the end. “TELL ME THE TRUTH! What about your parents, or your friends? Do they know about Hydra?”

“My parents worked at a lab,” eyes rolling back in your skull you are close to losing consciousness once again. “I was scared when they took me with them to show me their lab.”

“Your parents,” Bucky releases your throat to cup your chin roughly. He forces you to open your eyes again. “Stay with me. I need to know more about your parents.”

“Hmm…I wanted to play but daddy took me with him. His friends weren’t nice,” you murmur as his nose brushes over your cheek. “They had guns. Mommy said it’s alright.”

“Guns? Where? When? Doll, tell me everything,” he’s so close to getting answers he barely recognizes he started to cradle you in his arms. “Please.”

“…I don’t know,” you nuzzle your face in his neck. “Daddy said it’s a game. He put a scarf over my eyes, and we played hide and seek until we were at his lab. It hurt…hurt so bad..”

“Hurt? What hurt? Who hurt you?” he carefully shakes your body to force you to open your eyes again. “Doll, stay with me. I need to know more. Who hurt you?”

“Daddy said it will help a little boy. I wanted to help him,” darkness welcomes you once again and Bucky can only hold you in his arms. He won’t get answers tonight. Maybe he’ll never get answers from you.

“Looks like Y/N’s father was one of Hydra’s top scientists. Her mother, though. We don’t know how she fits in the picture,” Bucky nods as he watches you stir in your sleep. “Did you even listen? You were right, Barnes. I can’t believe I didn’t find out about him sooner.”

“She was a child,” Bucky lowers his eyes to not look Tony and Steve in the eyes. “Y/N told me about her father and mother. They brought her to the lab. She said it hurt, and that there was a boy she wanted to help.”

“We should dig a little deeper, Tony,” Steve watches his friend run his hand over your head. “I think, it’s necessary to find out more about her parents. Maybe she was involved in all of this.”

“I said, she was a child,” Bucky yells. “It can’t be her. I was wrong, Steve.” You slowly blink your eyes open, whimpering as Bucky opens the handcuffs holding you to the bedframe.

“Buck, what are you talking about? You said Y/N was the woman at the lab,” the blonde splutters. “We believed you.”

“I remember now,” stroking your cheek, Bucky tries to silently apologize for all the things he did to you. He sighs as you lean in his touch. “She wasn’t one of the people at the last lab.”

“But you do know her, right?” Steve presses on. “Buck don’t tell me you lied to us. Do you know what we risked bringing all the remaining members of Hydra down for you?”

“I think I saw her at one of the other labs around twenty years ago,” Bucky licks his lips as you move a little closer to listen to his words. “She played with a doll. I-I don’t know much about her.” He whispers.

“She was a child?” Tony asks as you sniffle silently. “They brought a kid to the lab. What kind of parent would do such a thing?”

“Y/N sat on a chair, watching me. I watched her play for a while, and she smiled at me, but then…she screamed as the doctor took another blood sample,” Bucky grunts. “I tried to break out of the chair to help her. I didn’t make it, but the girl ran to me and held my hand, telling me everything is going to be alright.”

“That’s why you remember her eyes, hair, and scent,” Tony concludes. “Jesus, Barnes. We could’ve killed the poor girl. You better get your brain checked again.”

“My memories are torn. I confuse things sometimes,” you look at Bucky, feeling calmer as he starts to stroke your hand with his metal fingers. “She held my hand, and I held hers. I confused my memories of her with the ones of the woman abusing me…”

“Buck, we all need a break. Let Bruce and Dr. Cho check on the girl. She needs food and sleep too. I can bring her to the medic bay, and you get some rest. Maybe we didn’t do too much damage and she can go back to her life.”

“No,” you grasp for Bucky’s hand as he wants to leave the bed. “They will hurt me again. Please don’t go. Please—”

“Shit. How much of the stuff did you give her?” Tony doesn’t like the way you cling to your kidnapper. “She shouldn’t be so relaxed close to her kidnapper.”

“I think she suppressed the memories of her parents and the lab. Now that Bucky opened Pandora's box, she will remember every painful moment of her childhood.”

“Daddy where are you?” waking from yet another nightmare you jolt up on the bed. At first, you believe you are at home, in your bed. But, to your disappointment, you end up face to face with the stranger kidnapping you. “No. Please…”

“Doll,” you scramble away as Bucky tries to touch your cheek. “We need to know more about your parents and the lab.”

“Why did you bring me here? Please stop hurting me. I’m a librarian,” you whimper. “I don’t know anything.”

“My mind doesn’t work as it should. I confuse things, people, and events. I remembered wrong. You were there, at one of the labs, but you are not the woman hurting me.”

“No,” you violently shake your head. “I don’t remember you.”

“Doll, I need you to remember what happened when your daddy took you to the lab,” he softly says. You don’t want to remember your past or the things your parents allowed the doctor to do to you.

“No, please no.”

“Don’t you want the people hurting you to get punished? Let me hurt them for hurting you,” he softly says, shushing you when you’re about to cry. “Doll, tell me what they did to you.”

“I-“ you choke out a sob. “Please don’t force me to remember. I don’t want to remember, please. They are gone for so long. I don’t want to think about them.”

“You have no reason to help me. I understand if you hate me,” Bucky brings you into his arms to cradle you again. “But help me to bring them all down.”

“My parents died a long time ago. All I remember is my life with my aunt,” hiding your face in Bucky’s chest you fight the memories wanting to flash up in your mind. “I don’t want to think about my childhood.”

“You talked about a boy. Do you remember his name? Maybe he was with you at the lab,” he softly whispers, hoping you will tell him more about your parents and the lab. “My memories are unreliable. They wiped my memory and drugged me. Help me, please.”

“Mommy said I can come with them one day,” you clutch his shirt and choke out a sob. “I was so, so happy. I hated to be alone in the big house and play with my dolls all alone. I missed them when they were away.”

“That’s good, baby doll. Take your time,” he presses a soft kiss to your hair, humming as you clutch his shirt a little tighter. “What else do you remember?”

“Everything,” he feels his stomach drop as you start to cry in his chest. “The first day they brought me to a doctor. They ran test after test. Blood, urine, my hair…I don’t know… I hate needles since that day.”

“What about the boy? Did you see him too?”

“A boy?” closing your eyes as you enjoy Bucky’s warmth. You shouldn’t feel safe in your kidnapper’s arms, but you do. It confuses the hell out of you, though. “I don’t know. I only remember the doctors, nurses, and my parents. Mom cried sometimes.”

“Buck, we should stop for today. She looks exhausted, and-“ Steve sighs as you wrap your arms around Bucky. “I don’t get why she clings to you.”

“I remember you, soldier,” Bucky stiffens in your embrace. “That’s your name, right?” you lift your eyes to meet Bucky’s stormy blue ones. “The others called you like that. You were there the day they wanted to hurt me again. I cried and you were there.”

“You held my hand,” he whispers. “I held yours.”

“After that day, mommy refused to bring me back to the lab,” you whisper. “A few weeks later they got killed.”

“Did she say anything about the boy?” Steve wants you to have a break, but you are too afraid to let go of Bucky to even recognize Steve’s presence.

“Daddy said I’m his ‘lil angel,” you continue. “He wanted me to save a boy. He called him James. I don’t know more about him. I never asked questions. Sorry.”

“That’s good, Y/N,” a warm hand touches your shoulder as you wreck your brain to remember more from the days at the lab. “Buck, we should bring her to the medica bay now. She needs a rest.”

“They said he’ll die if I do not give him my blood. Daddy wanted me to make him strong again,” it’s a struggle to keep your eyes open. You close them and rest your head against Bucky’s shoulder. The drugs still influences your body and mind. “I wanted to save him, soldier.”

“James,” Bucky nods as his friend furrows his brows. Steve inhales sharply as you repeat the name over and over again. “Do you think what I think, Buck?”

“I’m afraid so…”

>> Part 3

Tags in reblog.

#Heavenly Creature - Mistakes #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #angst #tw: kidnapping #tw: non-consensual drug use

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boxfullaturtles · 12 days

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Donnie + gagged and/or drugged

If he ever gets out of this chair, Donnie's going to cut out Kendra's tongue so he doesn't have to hear her stupid voice anymore.

She's spent the last ten minutes gloating and rubbing it in his face that she has him tied up and at her mercy. He's given up interrupting her because the banter's gotten boring. And his wrists are starting to hurt from the bindings holding him to the chair.

"--which means we obviously need you and your dumb brothers out of the way for a while," Kendra's saying, pacing in front of him as she preaches, "So in a few minutes we're gonna have a visitor. They're gonna give me a shit ton of money...and we're gonna give you to them. Don't worry, they take care of exotic animals, I'm sure you'll be fine."

That makes his temper flair, "Animal!? ANIMAL!? I am not some pet! This is human trafficking!" He snarls, wrenching against his restraints.

"It might be...if you were human," Kendra laughs, cruel and nasty and cold. Jeremy looks smug. Jase is nowhere to be seen.

Donnie snaps his teeth in frustration and decides he doesn't want to stick around to play her game anymore. His markings flicker as he calls his mystic powers to the surface. Constructs are clicking into an array of guns around him when a needle bites into his elbows. It breaks his concentration and he whips his head around to glare at Jase, who'd snuck up behind the chair while Donnie had been preoccupied by Kendra.

Fuck.

There's an empty syringe in his hand. Donnie's heart pounds in his chest as his gaze snags on it. He looks up sharply at Jase, who won't meet his eyes, and then turns to stare at Kendra.

"What did you do? What was in that?"

"You need to be less...bitey for our client," Kendra says with that mean smile of hers, "Rellaaaxxx, it'll make you feel good, Von Ryan. It'll be the best trip you've ever had."

Panic is making his breath come faster. Drugged. She's drugged him. And he swears he can feel it surging through his veins, his frantic heart pumping it through the rest of his body. He's never done hard drugs; he and Leo had the curious bit of weed every now and then but even that was a rare thing, done only in the confines of secrecy and solitude when they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would not need their wits about them for several hours.

"Kendra--" Donnie chokes on his voice. This is ludicrous. It doesn't feel real. Sure, the Purple Dragons have tried to kill him and his brothers half a dozen times, but they're too stupid and incompetent to actually do it.

But now Donnie's tied to a chair, at their mercy, and he--

His head feels strange.

The room has started tilting like the deck of a ship. (He’s never been on a ship at sea. He's never been to the ocean.) He sways, rocks, his body is loosely connected by sinew and bone, wet meat and hot blood. Inefficient and easily damaged.

He doesn't like this. It's weird. Everything's wrong.

The world groans and vibrates with movements and sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. His own breath whistles down his throat and he can feel the creak of his lungs expanding balloons, pushing his plastron, stretching his flesh, muscles flexing and contracting, organs settling, blood racing--

Fingers dig into his face, tilt his head up, and he blinks against the lights. There's someone leaning over him, bigger than Kendra. A stranger. Donnie whines, feels the sound vibrate in his skull (he can count the vertebrae in his spine and so can Leo). His eyes roll. The stranger's touch is poison ivy; it makes his flesh itch and burn. He tries to pull away but they tighten their hold, grinding into his jaw bones. There are voices but he can't remember what sounds words make and he only catches a few things.

"-------old did you------------looks young---------"

"----teen I guess------never asked."

The stranger's thick fingers pry Donnie's mouth open, running a clinical finger over his gums and examining his teeth. He lets out a garbled wretch. He can taste the atoms that make them up, every place they've been sticking to their filthy hands, smearing dirt inside his mouth (stop stop stop stopstopstopstoptstop). But he doesn't have the strength to resist or even spit the horrid flavor out. He's floating a million miles away. There are stars in his bloodstream.

Hands leave heat trails over Donnie's arms and down his plastron. His gear is peeled away, the bindings removed. Some distant part of him screams to run, but his body and mind giggle and remain boneless rubber.

"----like this or------"

"----bites-------dose of some-------"

His body jerks, slumping forward. Someone's trying to pry the battleshell off his back and he lets out a high pitched keen that pops in his own eardrums.

("Don't be afraid, little Hamato...")

No. No no no no nononononono--

("You are not alone.")

Violet neon light erupts around him, blinding and avenging.

The world turns with rapid click click click click click.

A blaze of noise. He's dropped, the stranger's hands are gone. He hits the floor and he can hardly breathe, his head spinning in a million different directions, trickling into electrical outlets and clambering up grounding lines.

He's spread so thin...

...what was his name again? (where are his brothers?)

There's something sticky and warm on his hands. On his chest. It smells like iron. Metal and heat and something grinding to a halt. A dead engine. Ozone.

No one's touching him anymore.

The universe has gone quiet.

#oops this one got longer than i meant it to ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#what's more fun than drugging your character?#drugging your character and letting their powers go haywire in a panic #tmnt angst prompts #rottmnt #donnie #sage writes turtles #tw drugs #tw non consensual drug use

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its-elvie-innit · 7 months

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my question is why does cucurucho- or rather the federation- want all qsmp players to take pills that make them happy, of all things. The experiment has another variable introduced, and whatever they expect from the players is screwed up and unreliable information now

The obvious answer is wanting them to be easier to control, or less sad about the eggs I guess, but long-term? What's their goal? And I mean seriously, not just what they want from the players, what are the feds goals with this?

If this is an experiment, what information are they trying to learn? what information would they even get. from 20-30 drugged up players. Its obviously not their original intention otherwise they would've started people off like that, or initiated it sooner I guess? So either it's multiple experiments theyre using the previous test subjects for (lines up with the new qsmp players being released relatively recently- new people, new experiment) or they're panicking and needed to come up with a solution for the depressed parents to prevent them from going insane (in the wrong way) and did this on the fly, realized/confirmed it worked and started deciding who they would give it to. OR or, they're not actually planning on giving the happy pills to everyone on the island and it's a clever ruse. Or maybe something pac made up. And that forever expects because man he just feels sooooo good. :'(

those aren't all the options my brain has come up with (many more are running around in my mind, all of which I'll most likely forget by morning) but it's just not a viable option to act like this is a reasonable or expected action from the Federation

#mcyt #qsmp #q!forever #q!pactw #the federation #tw drugs #tw drug mention #tw non consensual drug use #tw drug use

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silvershewolf247 · 3 months

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Tearing at the Seams (2)

Andy Barclay could handle a lot of things. He could handle dying. He could handle not eating for a month when this started. He could handle being force fed with a funnel when he refused the food Chucky brought him. He could handle being cut open. He could handle the freezing cold winter. He could handle a hot knife pressed against his skin. He could handle cigarette burns. He could handle the stench of the bodies Chucky piled in the room. He could handle the fucking gag. He could even handle Chucky bitching about his shambling marriage.

But under no circumstances could Andy Barclay let Chucky into his mind. When Chucky announced his plans, Andy thought he was having a nightmare. For the 15 years he spent waiting for Chucky to come after him again; whenever he had a nightmare, a panic attack, tried to drink away his childhood, spent the night with a gun pointed at his door, or got a dollar store birthday card from Chucky, he had one comfort. And that was that Chucky gave up on possessing him. He might kill him, it might be a brutal, long, and painful death. But it would be just that, death. It would end, and so would he. But now Chucky wanted him to live, and Andy had never been more scared of him.

Andy had done his best to keep it hidden. He knew how desperately Chucky wanted him to be that scared little six year old again. And he wouldn’t let that happen. And he wouldn’t let him possess him. Whatever it took, he’d stop him. He had tried to talk his way out of it. And when talking was taken away from him, he tore his wrists raw and bloody trying to break the restraints. That’s when he tried the ones on his legs.

When he tried to pull his leg back against the restraint, he ended up pulling his whole body up. And banging against the bed frame, when he came back down. It hurt like a son of a bitch, and testing the strap only made it worse. It was undamaged. But he noticed a warm feeling trickling down his leg. He looked and sure enough, his leg was bleeding again. He wasn’t sure if he tore many stitches, but he’d definitely done something. And Chucky couldn’t use his body without one of his legs.

He spent every waking moment after that tearing his leg open and screaming to cover up the noise that was making. That was until he heard Chucky coming back down. He was quiet for a moment, hoping he’d go back to ignoring him. Then he tried screaming, hoping it would drive him out of the room again. And when neither worked he just focussed on trying to stop him from looking at his leg, or at least ruining it before Chucky had a chance to stop him. Chucky eventually got frustrated and just grabbed his leg.

“Oh you little shit,” he was clearly frustrated, but he also sounded almost amused. Andy didn’t have time to consider that much before Chucky jammed a needle into his side, and he found himself passing out again.

He wasn’t sure how long ago that had been. He felt more groggy than the last time, but he didn’t know if that meant he was under for more or less time. All he knew was that Chucky was somewhere nearby.

“Well look who finally woke up.” Andy squeezed his eyes trying to blink away the last of his drug induced sleep. Something was wrong, something was different. The gag was out again. But that wasn’t it. Andy looked at his side, not expecting Chucky to be looming over him. Then he looked at his leg. He figured Chucky had repaired it. It was wrapped in gauze stained with his blood. And while he didn’t look at it that much, he couldn’t imagine his leg being bandaged was something that would throw him off. It probably wasn’t even the first time it happened. It was so painful that he hadn’t even noticed getting stitches. That’s when he realized his leg didn’t hurt anymore. Not in the slightest. He tried to move it, it didn’t budge.

“How you doing buddy,” Chucky asked, patting his leg. Nothing. It didn’t even feel like it was part of his body, just something next to him.

“What did you do,” Andy asked, his voice sounded so tired, weak, it felt pathetic.

“What did I do? What did you do? You did quite a number on yourself champ, lucky for you I caught onto it before you tore open more of your stitches,” Chucky said, his tone physically paining Andy. Andy cringed at his voice

“Don’t worry, sport. Doc was already here. You only tore a couple of stitches, Mixter was able to patch it up, not even going to set back your recovery,” Andy didn’t have the energy to hide his devastation.

“You’re a real lucky guy aren’t you Andy,” Chucky continued.

“Why can’t I feel my leg?,” Andy asked, he hated the weakness in his voice almost as much as he hated the mockery in Chucky’s.

”Oh, well I realized it had been kind of inconsiderate of me not to give you pain killers when we stitched you up. It must have been very painful for you. So I talked to Mixter, and she got you something to help with that.” Andy looked at his leg, wincing.

“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll make sure to give you something everyday, so you don’t have to deal with that,” Chucky answered. Andy closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“Now unfortunately they’ll leave you a bit tired and you won’t be able to move that leg. But don’t worry, once we get those stitches out,” Chucky gestured to himself, “I’ll make sure to help get that leg back to 100%.” Chucky finished, patting Andy’s leg again.

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

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ironandglass · 2 years

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Angle of Approach - an Arcane/The Expanse Au - part one

Dedicated to, @of-the-argonath because they are 🎵 SIMPLY THE BEST 🎵 Tag List: @angxlictexrs @insomniac-silco-maniac

Silco in space x female medtech reader. You do not need to have seen/read The Expanse for this fic to make sense, IT'S SILCO IN SPACE! . This AU features Arcane characters blended into the The Expanse Universe (of course they are all belters). IT'S SILCO IN SPACE! ✨️

TW: Silco is a jerk, power imbalance, power dynamics, humiliation, exposure, drug use, medical procedures, syringes, drug administration.

Angle of Approach

The sublime vision of space stretches all around the tiny ship, making it seem like nothing more than an inconsequential grain of sand in the grand scheme of the endless pool of stars. Brilliant gaseous nebulas and brightly twinkling distant suns watch over the little vessel as it makes its way past, not unlike a lone ant crawling through the desolate and inhospitable desert.

A gentle orange light slowly begins to glow, dim and faint, like the first breath of a sunrise, through one tiny window.

“Good morning, the time is zero four hundred hours Earth Standard Time” You hear the serene female AI voice as it gently beckons you awake.

“We are on approach to our destination, Ceres Station. Estimated time of arrival, three days and seven hours.” The state of the art artificial intelligence m0113 adds helpfully.

Stirring from your slumber, you lay there in place with your eyes still sealed closed for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply.

You bend a heavy arm up to wipe your face and it creaks at the elbow and shoulder joints, long left unused while your body lay motionless, carefully preserved and monitored within in your stasis pod for the last six months while you slept, undreaming.

Your eyes feel crusty and dry under your hands but rubbing your face helps you slowly wake up, slitting your eyes open to a gentle warm orange glow specifically designed to help your body feel more awake.

You lay there taking a few deep breaths, extending your awareness around your limbs, slowly stretching and testing to be certain that your meat suit was in working order after being on the shelf for so long.

Sitting up was always the tricky part.

You take it as slowly as you can, using your arms to support yourself while pushing gently into an upright position. The vertigo still came hard and fast though and the nausea trailed in, hot on its heels.

You twist over just in time to heave a mouthful of acidic bile over the edge of the cryo pod. Panting with the effort and feeling the burn lacing your throat.

“Please take a moment to gather yourself before attempting to stand up” The AI suggests.

“Thanks.” You rasp dryly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You hear the door of your tiny quarters chime a soft alert that someone was about to enter. The automatic door whooshes gently open and you listen as footsteps curl slowly around the floor behind you.

“Ah, slow to rise I see.” Comes a deep smokey voice from behind you.

“Yes Sir” A flicker of annoyance courses through you that someone would breech the sanctity of your cryo recovery. Everyone knew it was a rough and deeply vulnerable process. It was cultural taboo to greet someone this soon after being thawed.

Your irritation is immediately given away by your quickened heartbeat and spike in cortisol levels displayed on the monitors overhead. So you promptly slip off the monitoring halo from your forehead while trying to keep your skull as still as possible, not willing to set off another vertigo attack.

You sit up a bit more and try to turn your head, painfully slowly. The orange light had slowly brightened during the time you had woken to light the room. More and more clearly, illuminating a tall, lean man before you.

Your bleary eyes clock his rank first, ornate gold wings adorning either side of his suit collar and your brows furrow in trepidation.

“Captain?” You acknowledge, gaze finally slipping up to his face, eyes widening slightly at the shocking scar carved from his lip up over his left eye to the forehead. Where the damaged eye should have been white, it was dark wet black, like a void. The Iris a burning orange ember that almost seemed as though it might be lit from within. It was in sharp contrast to his other undamaged eye, white and cold blue, now watching your reaction closely and slowly narrowing in displeasure.

You steel yourself, disappointed that you let yourself flinch at his disfigurement so obviously, right to his face. Way to impress the new boss.

He turns to pace towards the other side of the room, near your baggage stow and desk area.

“Normally I’d give my crew members more privacy during their reanimation protocols but I’m afraid I’m in need of your professional assistance sooner than intended.”

With your interest now piqued you sit up too quickly and the nausea slams your vision across through a nauseating repetition of planet rocking torture. The world seems to be shaking violently and you hurl another mouthful of bile over the opposite edge of the pod. Body contorting violently with the effort as you heave a few more wretched mouthfuls of burning vomit on to the floor.

“Hmm” he hums in disappointment at your display, striding around, carefully avoiding your most recent deposit as he opens a cupboard near the head of the stasis pod.

“Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo” he pronounces.

“Top of the class” you mumble from where you hunch, frozen in fear of moving your head and setting off another attack.

He was correctly describing your condition, a lucky percentage of spacers enjoyed the side effect as a direct result of cryostasis. Being inanimate for so long caused small calcium carbonate crystals to dislodge from a part of the inner ear and be suspended in the fluid that would normally maintain your equilibrium and balance. So then when you move, the tiny crystals sloshing around causes hell.

“My brother used to suffer from BPPV on defrost” he explains, digging through the thaw kit within. You hear a gentle clink as he loads a vial into an injector.

“Hold still.” You startle slightly at the purring voice suddenly so close to your ear, letting your shoulders go slack to show your compliance. He carefully slides your hair off your neck leaving tingling trails of awareness where the warmth of his fingertips had grazed over the sensitive skin.

Your thoughts on the intrusion are interrupted by a sharp sting as the syringe presses into the skin of your neck and a dose of Phytoprochlorperazine rushes into your system, drawing a cool, grateful exhale from you as it flows across your body in a cool wave.

“Give that a few minutes.” He advises, resting the injector gun carefully back in its cupboard.

“You trying to steal my job?” you jest, hired on as the ships medical technician you barely expected the captain himself to be administering your medical treatment.

You slowly chance a look up to catch his reaction, catching a momentary small, taught smirk.

“I don’t think I have the correct temperament” He confesses, seeming more like a private joke with himself. Folding his arms behind is back he strides lazily back around the pod.

“Your bedside manner could use some work.” You blurt before you can stop yourself.

His head whips that fiery gaze back on you, eyes narrowing coldly, better reign in your smartass comments.

“Noted, I’ll leave you to your own devices in future.” He quips back, taking a seat at your desk pulling a small box from his inner coat pocket and laying it out before him.

“I need some assistance with this when you’re ready please.” The way he words it is polite but his tone is scathing and you feel it rasp your nerves.

“Copy that, Sir” You acknowledge, swinging your legs slowly over the edge of the bed and trying to stand up in one smooth movement. Despite the medication, it’s too much, too fast. Your vision darkens and your head spins. You feel yourself slipping downwards but it feels dreamlike till you collide with the cold metal floor sheeting.

Blinking a few times in your collapsed heap, you push yourself up, tilting your head to see him, unbothered, watching you with an impatient scowl. The expression implied wordlessly that you were inconveniencing him by collapsing so dramatically.

“Did you lie about your qualifications?” He spits, as if you were failing a job interview.

Too bad you were deep in the outer rings now, approaching the Kuiper belt. A bit late to fire you.

“No Sir, I’m just not used to being so rudely awakened.” You jab back in frustration. Headache pulsing through your temples and zinging behind your eyes.

He scowls down, not moving a muscle to help you as you push yourself back up to standing. You take a few heavy steps with stiff legs as blood rushes around your lower limbs in a sensation like pins and needles. You lean your weight heavily on the table across from him with one hand panting slightly with the effort of your exhausted, stiff body.

“Now, what can I do for you today?” You ask in your best customer service voice with matching dead eyed smile.

He shoots you another dark look before his eyes flick down and you follow his gaze to the ornate wooden box, inlaid with shell and brass in a beautiful, complex design. His hands move surprisingly elegantly as his spidery fingers purposefully lift the lid, withdrawing two peculiar small brass contraptions. Your watch inquisitively as he pushes them together with a gentle click of some hidden mechanism before placing down what now looks like it could be a small gun or a strange type of syringe.

You inhale a gasp as he withdraws a glowing purple vial of shimmer and loads it into the back of the contraption, twisting it into place.

Your eyes, wide with shock, flick up to meet him smirking playfully at you.

Shimmer was a highly illegal and heavily regulated substance in the belt. If any was found on the ship it could result in horrible legal consequences and a record that would ground you from legitimate spacer work for life.

“This” he explains, rotating it carefully in his hand as if to display it. “Is the only thing that treats the infection in my eye.” It glows ominously and you suddenly feel like taking this assignment was a huge mistake.

“I need you to use this device, to inject it directly through my pupil, into the vitreous humor.” He explains, holding the device out for you to take.

You stare at it dumbly as it lay in the hand of your captain, as if to spite you. Panic seizes you and your mind races through the potential consequences of this simple request. This could cost you your career as a medical technician if it was to be revealed you’d administered shimmer to any patient, under any circumstances. The UN medical board had a hard no tolerance policy on the substance. Despite it definitely having some medical value under the right circumstances, shimmer had become a horrible street drug, and with its stained reputation it had foregone any chance of reputable use in legitimate medical science.

“Well?” He says calmly, but you feel the urgency of your long hesitation bearing down on you. It wasn’t an option to refuse the captain, who had hand picked you from a selection of candidates for this admittedly lucrative and cushy assignment. If he left a bad review on your file, it would marr your reputation just as badly. You were screwed either way.

He knew it too, the bastard had you perfectly cornered between a rock and a hard place.

Your eyes flick back up to his and they bore into you with the weighty expectation of a man who was used to wielding his command. His field of authority seemed to wash over you, bending you to his will and superior rank.

“Understood, Sir” you whisper hoarsely, reaching slowly for the contraption.

His smirk is deeper this time, wrinkling the edges of his blue eye in victory over your resigned submission.

The only betrayal of your annoyance is a single exhale through your nose as you walk to his side to administer the dose.

“Don’t sulk, it’s entirely unprofessional.” He chides and you shoot him a flash of fiery annoyance that he seems to thrive on receiving.

You flinch when his hand brushes your own suddenly, once again surprising you with his intrusive, gentle touch. You watch carefully as he explains the mechanism within the contraption and how to fire the plunger.

You nod your affirmation and lift the device towards him before he grabs your arm to still you with a pointed look.

“Understood, Sir.” You confirm through gritted teeth.

So he was going to be one of those Captains. Spectacular.

“Continue” he says, leaning back in the chair so his head was tilted back, giving you an easy shot.

The anxiety coursing through you as step in closer to seek out the correct angle of approach is entirely too distracting. You try for a moment before conceding that you need to be even closer to do this properly. Trying to maintain professional conduct and ignore the warmth of his side pressed against you as you finally find the right angle, setting the device in place and pulling the trigger.

The spring loaded syringe delves at speed, deep into his eye and barely half a second later he lurches forward violently, pushing you backwards against the desk in what seem to be throes of violent agony.

Oh no, this can’t be right, you must have done it wrong, your heart is pounding in your chest.

Leaning against the desk knee to knee with the captain, you gawk in blatant awe of his anguish as he writhes, clenching his teeth with his thin lips drawn back in a savage snarl. Like a wolf you think to yourself. Noting how the wayward strands of hair that had dislodged themselves from his rigid, swept back hairstyle, added to his wildness.

Slowly the hard breathing is less and less, and his muscles begrudgingly unwind from their seizing to relax over his bony frame.

With a final sigh he finally leans back into the chair, reaching into his suit for a handkerchief that he uses to dab at the thin trickle of purple liquid that had slid from the injection sight.

He sweeps a look towards you and you suddenly realise your proximity, registering your own discomfort at having both your knees interlocked with his and extract yourself carefully to the other side of the desk before he can regain his composure fully.

“How often…” You trail off as he pockets the handkerchief and sets his spidery hands to work dismantling the savage contraption.

“Once daily if I’m to fend off the progression of the bacteria successfully.” He answers smoothly, sweeping a hand up through his hair, setting it back in place.

“Did I-“

“You did it perfectly, the side effects are quite… dramatic unfortunately but that was not your doing, I assure you.” He waves a hand at you as if to dismiss you.

You’re not sure how to proceed for a moment, but you’re too rattled by the experience to argue the point that this was your quarters. So you dip your head in awkward show of respect and trail through the side entrance to your medical bay, closing the door behind you.

You catch your reflection in the glass of one of the medical storage fridges and your heart drops down into your gut.

Groggy and discombobulated as you were from cryostasis, you’d completely forgotten that you were only wearing a small white crop singlet and white underwear.

Diving towards the cabinet containing the medical gowns you rustled up some decency and pulled one on with shame fuelled haste before flopping, mortified, onto the soft lounge bay built into the side of the room.

Your first day was not going as intended.

✨

—-

Thank you for reading. <3

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corgiqueen14 · 2 years

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

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

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

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

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lildevyl · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 5: Ransom Video

DSMP Superhero AU Phoenix Rising

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

TW: Kidnapping, Ransom Video, Nonconsensual Drug Use

Part One Here

Part Three Here

Part Four Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your choice, Heroes.”

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

*******

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

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

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queenofdenest · 2 years

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Title: in the mouth of trauma (is silence not an act of violence too?) Fandom: Hetalia Warnings: creator chooses not to use archive warnings Relationships: Est & Liet & Lat Characters: HWS Est, HWS Liet, HWS Lat, HWS Rus, others mentioned Tags: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Non-Consensual Drug Use, Aftermath of Torture, Psychological Torture, Psychiatric Torture Aftermath, Victim Blaming, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Dissociation, Disordered thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Mental Instability, Historical Hetalia, Soviet Union Era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Mentioned Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Past Attempted Suicide

Summary: it's time to leave behind everything they have done to him, but how does one begin to heal when the wounds no longer cover his body, just his mind?

AO3: the link to read it on ao3

A/N: So I'm going to be honest, I never thought that the first fic (Isolation) would have a sequel but when I sat down, my brain really said that that story was not done yet. I don't know yet how far I'm going with this, so far there are two more fics set during this time period that are much less *gestures at everything involved in this fic* then this, but those will definitely not be done this month, maybe next month. Though I'm actually hoping to have some happier things to share soon.

I do warn to please look back at the tags as every single one of those are mentioned throughout the fic - unlike with Isolation, I can't give paragraph specific warnings as basically every paragraph has a triggering content in it. Like this fic is more than a tad bit darker than the previous fic, sorry. That being said, I have listed every single tag I believe needs to be there, if there is one missing please nicely let me know. If you need to take a break while reading this, may I lead you to video of mine.craft yt Go.odTimes.WithSc.ar being hilarious?

All mistakes are my own, my beta is asleep so they haven't read this over for me. Information is at the bottom as it always is for my historical works.

Lastly, title is from Blythe Baird – “Pocket-Sized Feminism”, no real reason besides I really like it. Prompt is from Fict.ober 2021, "You have no proof". dedicated to my beta, who's asleep right now, who talked with me about this fic, and to my mother who read the ending to tell me it didn't suck.

Last warning, this fic is dark and to please read the tags.

____

The sun is setting when he’s dragged out of the room – fear in his stomach as they grip his arms roughly, leading him down the hall to the shower rooms.

He hates the shower rooms.

He never used to mind the shower rooms or what they represented – group showers – but ever since he was dragged to one after that tortuously long car ride, thrown to the grimy floor in a building he assumed was abandoned, and all but tortured by the soldiers who seemingly took great pleasure in what they were doing, he has had trouble with them. It’s like they no longer represent the idea of being equal with the other people in there*, instead they are the place where bad things happen.

He hopes that’s not what’s going to happen now.

Not again.

He knows he wouldn’t survive it; his body is weak and tired. The doctors have been raising the dosage of the medication* they were giving him; they wanted him far too docile. And while his nation physiology did wonders to get rid of most medications quickly, even at doses that would incapacitate or kill a human, he was being given doses every few hours. He knows it’s been absolutely annoying the head doctor – the man had threatened to force a bottle of poison down his throat, as if somehow he controlled how his body worked.

Higher and higher dosages and more pills forced down his throat by a maniac and those who appeased him.

He forces himself back to the present, to the soldiers, and tries to even his breath out as rough words are tossed from one and another, their meaning lost on him in his terror. They must be chatting about what they plan to do to him, of what is going on – and if he focuses, he knows that he could understand the words, but there’s a part of him doesn’t want to.

It’s sometimes easier to live in the world where he can feign ignorance; any question they might ask him is in vain if he lets his mind wander away from him to times where things were much easier. To times where the terror is no longer lurking.

He takes a deep breath as the door swings open, the sound of another patient – victim – screams from somewhere in the building as he is thrown into the room, the memory from the first time this happened echoing in his movements.

Get in there!

He is, for once, thankful that they had taken his glasses when he was moved into this particular place; they had made a horrible sound as they had hit the grimy floor once before and he has no desire to hear that same clink, especially since he can hear in his head the sound of throaty laughter and footsteps moving closer to him -

Didn’t hear me, did you traitor? I said get up!

Rough hands grab him once more, “Up, up,” they say, the Russian words falling quicker, “We have no time for this, get up.”

They aren’t shouting. Their words are harsh and demanding, but they’re not shouting and so he manages to bring himself back to the present, to help himself to his feet. More hands touch him and he lets himself be directed to the first open shower, staring at it in fear. He knows how this goes.

“We are right out the door – don’t try anything, we will know,” one of the men says, dark eyes piercing as he points to the entrance. “Shower quickly, shower thoroughly.”

Let’s get this evidence off you, not that anyone would believe a fucking traitorous bastard such as yourself.

(he didn’t believe himself either)

He feels himself nod and watch as they leave the room, doors swinging behind them. Part of it feels that his mind goes with them, sliding out the flesh he’s been placed in and following them across gleaning white tiles, past a set of weak doors, to stand and wait until he’s done with the directive given to him.

It still leaves the body behind though, and he knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, he’ll be forced to by one of them: the last thing he wants is more hands touching him.

Even if the hands that hurt the most has long since been gone, he can still feel haunted by them; still feel the burn of bruises forming against skin that has grown weak since his first capture – the time when he was young, not the one done by the brutes manning the Soviet army.

His shaking hands drop to his clothing, sea green eyes darting towards the door for a brief second before he starts with the buttons on the shirt. He doesn’t look at his body after the shirt is gone, instead his eyes go distant as he stares at the tiled walls, hands dropping to his pants.

He had been a fighter once*, he thinks as fearful hands shed the last protection he has on him.

Most saw him as a homebody and he is – he’d never argue that he was most at home among his people; farming, learning, living, breathing in the fresh air, but when war had brought itself to his doorstep, he never backed down. He met challenges with a straight back and a fierce strength that had won him many battles and many scars. He had been set against bigger nations, more powerful then he’d been and been told to give up, submit, things would be easier if he did, and he had told them that he was never going to bend, never going to break, and he had never done so.

And yet – right as the water turns on, the sound of the pipes creaking from all around him; the water, lukewarm at best, spraying against his bruised flesh, he feels like breaking now.

He knows he can’t, whatever is going on will need him to carry that same strength that he had carried as a child, but the fragility of his mind after these long months – years, possibly – keeps him flitting between the nation he once was and the man who learned to keep his head down to avoid anymore trouble than his existence already brought him.

He grabs for the soap in front of him, the filthy looking bar slimy between his fingers, slimy against his bare skin. Not that he needs it to feel slimy, but it does it’s job as best as it could. Dirty water sits for a second at the drain before being sucked away, disappearing forever.

Come here, I swear it’s like you live to disappoint – get in the bath already, can’t have the doctors asking questions if you show up looking like a cheap whore.

(the doctors don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, don’t care)

His nails bite into the soap as he grips it hard, two deep breaths in, two deep breaths out.

I don’t want to share my traitorous bitch.

(lieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslies)

The shower shuts off, there’s a towel sitting on the broken sink and he reaches for it, forcing himself to focus on the story of the broken sink and not that monster’s words. He doesn’t remember who told it – either Dmitri, who was there for expressing disappointment in the current regime, or Linas, who was there because his father had spoken out against the Soviets but who lied to protect the old man – but it was one of them who told him in whispers late at night through the gaps in the solitary wing’s broken walls the story of the broken sink.

It wasn’t particularly interesting, he thinks as he swipes away the moisture on his skin. Mostly he had listened because he had been down there for over two weeks and his voice had all but disappeared from singing and screaming for far too long. It was, though, a sign of what kind of behavior was tolerated there.

A nurse enters a clandestine relationship with a patient. She uses the shower room as it’s the easiest place to clean up and she knows the schedule of her fellow nurses so can tell when will be safe to take her patient lover there to interact. A doctor, one who had been trying to court her, found out one day and decides to do something about it. He decides he will kill the patient and to do so, lures the poor addled man to the space on a night she’s not supposed to be working. While waiting for the other, he rips the pipe from the sink and hides near the door, ready to kill the other when he walks in.

And walks in the other man does but with the nurse. The doctor was shocked and drops the pipe, but in his rage at seeing them together, he kills the patient anyway, bashing his head against the sink, over and over and over again, until the porcelain breaks and bleeds.

While this is happening, the nurse has run off to get help, fear overriding all sense she has as she worries for the man she loves. She returns with help but it’s too late for the patient and the doctor, who is covered in blood, coldly turns to the guard she had brought and tells the man, “The nurse here has been colluding with this patient to kill me – I overheard their plan and decided to act before either could get me.”

He is believed. The nurse is sent away, left to die in whatever painful way they want her to in a gulag somewhere. The doctor continues to work there. No one cares; not about the nurse wrongfully convicted, not about a patient sent there for mental problems being murdered by a man meant to help him, and definitely not for a doctor with blood on his hands and not a shred of guilt in his soul.

He has internalized that lesson here – no one cares about any of them – and it’s been proven far too often as every day passes.

A soldier walks in right as he’s putting his underwear back on and it takes all he has to hold back the urge to cover his body with the towel, to shy away from this man who looks more a child than an adult. But hold it back he does, instead staring at the man as fabric is thrust towards him. Russian is spoken, his brain still far away in another world.

The soldier looks back towards the door before licking his lips and saying, “Clothing, for you,” in a language* he’s not heard from anyone not him in far too long.

Estonian.

His language.

He reaches for them, the sight of his glasses calling to him and the fabric familiar as his hands clenches around them. “Thank you,” he says carefully in that same language.

He’s not scared of what will happen if a nurse or doctor hears him. He’s spoken it far too often for someone who’s been punished for doing so. It – along with the dozen or so other languages he knows – have been the one thing that has comforted him through everything, and while he’s not thankful for having to learn them how he did, he is thankful he did learn them.

The solider – a boy no older than 20 – gives him a smile, as if he’s done something good, and nods again, motioning to his hands. “Please, hurry,” he says, in Russian this time, before turning and leaving.

Despite the thankfulness that comes from hearing his own language from another's mouth after being removed from the two other nations who spoke enough of it to keep him from going crazy, he’s still uneasy; he’d be stupid not to be. He still has no idea what is going on. This was nothing like how they moved him from the first facility to this one – that had been done through drugging him and him waking up in a moving vehicle, his eyes blinded and his hands tied again.

The soldiers, the same from when he was first taken from Mister Russia’s manor, had laughed at his panic.

“Look at the traitor – scared of what might happen.”

Still, he does what he’s told, dressing in the clothing given to him, his glasses first. They look familiar, like something he owns back at Mister Russia’s home, but he can’t see how they could’ve gotten them. To go there and ask for some, or even to go there and grab any clothing, would be tantamount to admitting that he was taken somewhere where his other clothing was either damaged or gone – it’d be admitting something.

Which, he knows for certain, they did not – would not – want to do.

He had yelled it over and over again at the first facility. They had no right to do what they were doing – there were laws* that they had to listen to when it came to people like him, they would be in trouble. Of course, as time puttered by, he had come to the realization that no, they wouldn’t. For that to happen, he’d have to be willing to bring everything to the other nations.

Something that he did not – would not – want to do.

Looking at himself in the cracked dirty mirror, he presses his hand against the starchy feel of the button up shirt sleeves; to the softness of the sweater vest, the stiffness of the pants. He’s even got a belt – for a flash of a second he wants to wrap it around his throat and one of the pipes that line the ceiling – and it’s surprisingly easy how he falls right back into comfort as he coils it around his waist and buckles it.

He looks normal.

It feels weird.

The boy soldier comes back, smiling as he does so. “Ah, Mister Russia said you would like those – your brown haired brother wanted to give you a different outfit but what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets.” His Russian is not as rough as the others are. In fact, he can, for the briefest moment in all of history, pretend not to hate the language, but for him to pretend that it still doesn’t grate at his skin like a serrated blade being drawn down his skin on it’s side, would be a lie that even he can’t speak.

“Mister Russia?” His – Eduard’s – Russian is perfect as always: he’s always been gifted orally.

You’ve got such a talented mouth – makes sense for a traitorous little bitch.

Linguistically talented.

For the most part, it’s been a blessing as no matter how much he argues that he will refuse to learn a new language, the nations who have held his land have followed the same script when it comes to forcing him: refusing to speak to him in any language not their own, refusing him books that aren’t in their language, refusing him time spent on his own land or among his own people, ignoring him should he speak any language that is not the one they were trying to force upon him. He knows that, for most of them, it was never done maliciously, but he still resents them for it*.

He’s always hated that his language was considered lesser by some; hated that he was expected to learn while they were not.

But that’s bygones – thoughts he uses to distract himself from the terror that he’s been living in. Sometimes late at night he would pretend to argue with nations from his past about it, going over words out loud in the slurred state that he was often left in until he felt like he had properly argued his point.

“Yes, Mister Russia is demanding you home,” the boy solider says, who motions to the door behind him, “We have been sent to do so.”

It takes the air out of his lungs for a moment to hear that. He knows that going home does not mean going back to his country but instead back to Russia’s manor home, and yet he feels the slightest bit of happiness. He hates the idea of going back there – the representation of Russia was not a sane man; history had taken it’s toll on him and he took it out on others* – but it was better than waiting every night to see what torture befell him.

Tell me, are all nations weak like you?

“Why?” It falls out of his mouth before he has the ability to tamp down on it; kill it before it kills him. Especially when he knows the answer – what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets – that will come.

There’s a shrug before, “I don’t know. We were told to get you, bring you to Moscow where you will wait for Mister Russia to pick you up. That’s it,” is said. And like good soldiers who do not question what their orders are, here they are.

“I’m ready then.”

____

If he expects that they’re going to walk him out like he was brought it – dragged by his underarms, blindfolded, clothes a mess, thrown to the ground like a piece of trash they wanted nothing more than to get rid of – then he’s mistaken. Instead, the boy soldier calls for his fellow soldiers, men who look older and as if this job is beneath them. One stands in front of him, one stands in back, and then one on each side.

It’s like he’s being protected but he knows the truth: it’s so that he has no thought of running, no way to try if he even wanted to.

Eduard flinches as the doors to the building swing open, the bright light of the sky burning his eyes a bit. There are two small cars sitting in front of the stairs, the head doctor whispering to another soldier near the passengers’ side of one of them.

He wants nothing to do with whatever conversation is happening, the head doctor is as cruel as the soldiers from before, but as a thick manila folder is passed between the two men, he wishes he could hear what is being said – perhaps it is about him and his mental state.

Perhaps it’s about the drugs given to him that have started to wear off and what they did.

Perhaps it is about the harm that has befallen him while in their care – a soldier who took too much liberties whenever he had the chance, the male nurses who slammed him up against walls and forced his mouth open to push pills past his lips, a female nurse who pinched him whenever he would doze off during the day as she didn’t want him to ruin his sleeping pattern.

Perhaps it is about the other things that even in his thoughts Eduard will not mention.

Whatever it is, the soldier has it packed away in a locked briefcase before Eduard has even approached them, the quartet of solemn faced men marching him slowly.

“Ready?” The man asks and, by the way the others nod their head, it’s obvious that he is the one in charge of it all. “Good, get in the car.”

The door is opened for him, the boy soldier slides in first and Eduard takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he follows. His body wants to shake, the last time he was in a car like this was -

I bet you like being surrounded like this – all helpless and needy.

“Are you okay?”

He wants to scream – wants to laugh – wants to take the knife from the belt nearby and stab until he feels better – but instead he nods and lies like he’s been taught to do since his country was taken from him and his people, “Yes, thank you.”

He’s polite even when he doesn’t want to be.

“Good, soon you will be home.”

It’s not his home, sits snugly on his lips. He had said that once to the Russian nation and received a backhanded slap for it, along with a long, long lecture about not being respectful enough. Eduard had felt he was being respectful, especially given that that time around, he hadn’t added any poison to the taller nation’s drinks.

Instead he says nothing, holding back the flinch that threatens his body once one of the other soldiers slides in to sit next to him. He can’t reach any of the doors, he can’t escape, he can just stare off in the distance and disappear from this world as he learned to do while locked up in solitary.

The driver in front – the soldier that was talking to the doctor – starts the car in silence, a quick bark of orders done too quick for Eduard to focus on translating to the other soldiers, before they’re off; the psychiatric facility nothing more then a minor stage piece in his personal history.

He should feel something, he thinks as they leave what had housed him behind and he’s able to see where he was being held. He should feel anything but all he can think is about how nice the little wooded areas look as they bypass them; how even if he hadn’t been blindfolded on the drive up, he still wouldn’t have been able to see anything with how late he had arrived.

So, in that case, for what other reason then but to make him feel helpless, did the original soldiers have him blindfolded and tied up, knelt on the floor between their clothed legs like a common whore?

But even with that thought, he can’t force himself to feel anything else but a solemn ache in his bones.

He’s just tired.

He wants home – his real home – and to hear his language as he goes about his everyday. He wants to hide away somewhere no one would ever look and pretend he doesn’t exist anymore. He wants to set himself upon the international stage and scream about what they have just let happen, and at the same time, he wants nothing more than to sew his mouth shut and never speak a word to anyone about the crimes committed against his person; against the other patients in the places he was sent to, against his fellow nations left behind in that manor.

He can’t do that though. To sew his mouth shut would be to prove to the psychiatrist who said he had gone crazy right, and they weren’t correct. He was fine – he would be fine, he would be fine and he was going to be fine. He had to be fine.

The definition of fine is different for them all though and Eduard – Estonia – is unsure what it means for him.

He knows how he’s been expected to act by those who’s owned his land, as every single other nation had different expectations of him, and he’s knew what it meant when he had his own bosses recently, and he just barely remembers what it meant the years before his country got taken, but none of those times has moments that come even close to now.

To the fear and loathing he feels.

To the memories that come and go as they please, as if they had etched themselves sharply against his skin and nary a touch would inflame them, jolting him back to the when.

To the sickness that settles in his gut at the idea of not rebelling while at the same time screaming at the idea of rebelling.

He feels hands on him at all times, hears the senseless roar of static in his ears when he loses focus. If he stops to listen for a second, he can hear the footsteps that echo as they walk down hallways, back and forth, back and forth. He feels desperate for something to distract him while at the same time fearful of being distracted by what may come.

If what they had wanted had been to permanently unsettle him, then they have succeeded, because for the life of him – and what a long life that is – he cannot seem to believe that there will come a day when he is not haunted by this; not hopelessly followed from home to home, room to room, city to city, space to space, by the violence that has damaged him so completely.

Damage that, for many reasons, he will have to carry by himself, because who could he even tell?

(He’s not telling, he promises, he would never!)

Who would even believe him?

(No one, he’s heard it all throughout this ordeal. No one would believe him – no one would listen to him – no one would care.)

The thought of telling Mister Russia barely flits in his brain before he’s batting it away. The other nation would not care, in fact, Eduard – Estonia – is sure he can actually hear what the other nation would say if he spoke of the abuse he has suffered at the hands of the other’s men. “You deserved it. You should not have been trying to betray the family. Now you have learned your lesson, are you going to be good now?”

You’ve brought this on yourself.

(pleasestoppleasestoppleasestop)

He internally shudders at that thought.

No.

Out of the question.

(Not that there even was a question – because he’s not going to tell, he swears, he would never.)

Eduard – Estonia – would never tell Latvia, it would traumatize the younger-looking nation and after spending most of his whole (imprisoned, captured) life with the other, the last thing he wants to do is put more of a heavy burden on the poor boy. Latvia has enough trouble, Eduard cannot add more.

No one cares where you are.

No one cares that you aren’t at Mister Russia’s house – it’s like nothing has even changed. It’s because you are not important. You are nothing but a traitor – no one misses a traitor.

And that goes for Lithuania too.

His relationship with the other is still slightly rocky after their fight from a few years ago, when Lithuania had first found out that Eduard – Estonia – was hoarding illegal books and pamphlets. He had been worried about what might happen to him should he be found out; what Mister Russia would do, what the Soviet government might do. Eduard had just told the other that he’d be fine, the worse that could happen was he got on Mister Russia’s bad side for a bit and had to spend time apologizing a lot; things that he basically did whenever he was caught speaking his own language.

“The government can’t touch us and it’s not like they’re going to be nicer to our people if we don’t join in on these protests,” Eduard had said while Lithuania had shaken his head, worried nonetheless.

He has no doubt that the Lithuanian would be horrified by what has happened to him, if he were to speak about it, but he also knows that Lithuania has his own troubles in the form of his abhorrent admirer that is their captor.

(And in that same vein, perhaps the other would, silently, blame Estonia for what befell him. The other had warned him, had expressed worry after worry after worry, and in his utter arrogance, Eduard – Estonia – had just waved him off. Perhaps if the other learned, he’d say You deserved it, I told you so, it’s your own fault, what did you expect them to do? And Eduard would have to live with those words coming from the mouth of his own friend (brother) for the rest of time.)

Even if he didn’t, what kind of person would he be if he forced his own problems onto someone already so troubled?

Not a good person, he hears in his head, the voice of his main tormentor echoing words he had spoken during late night torture sessions and early morning sessions. You’re not a good person at all. A weak nation, a bad friend, a terrible person. You get what you deserved.

Bile rises. His stomach clenches.

Deep breath in.

One.

Two.

Three.

Shaky breath out.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Out.

The soldiers in the car don’t notice – or don’t care – which is nice after the incessant watch he had been placed on while in the facilities. He supposes it makes sense to watch him so severely. They had him marked upon arrival, as someone who could, without a moment’s notice, seek to harm himself, even when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Before they had placed him in the protective care of the doctors and nurses of the Soviet Psychiatric field, he had never once thought about harming himself.

Now it’s a fight to ignore those thoughts.

There was no one, he returns to his previous thoughts, no one in that house he feels comfortable telling. Whatever lie that has been used to excuse away his absence is the lie he will give when asked, as soon as he finds out what it is.

“Look.” The boy solider grabs his arm to get his attention, one gloved hands pointing out the window.

Estonia-

–Eduard, a name passed to him by a brother that betrayed him and held onto after said brother had disappeared out of sentimentality; a name that had been spoken by destruction in the forms of humans trying to get him to break, hoping that he would crack as their own nation had done; a name that he doesn’t really connect to but refuses to leave behind because has he not left behind enough nations to the tide of time—he mourns for the representations of nations that had once existed but who’s existence was not long enough for them to be properly recorded in time—that he wishes to hold onto something from a nation that had once been kind to him?*-

–looks up briefly and sees a city rising from the dusty horizon.

How long has he been in his own thoughts?

Long enough that the drive has passed him by and the city of Moscow looms into view. Long enough that the fear that had been abated by his senseless thoughts comes back in it’s fullest to sit like lead in his stomach, bile displaced and rising to his throat.

He forces a smile. “Moscow?” He asks even though he knows the answer.

“Yes, we are almost there,” says the driver, his accent rougher then the boy soldier – and how long will he stay a boy soldier, he wonders. Maybe he becomes a soldier, no longer a boy, after he has used force to detain a person, following the lies gifted to him by whoever is in charge. The first time he drags a person through the streets, leaving them bloodied? Will he stop being one after his first, but not last, murder? Perhaps he will commit a rape beforehand, signaling to his fellow soldiers that he is a man who can force himself onto anyone he wishes as long as he wears the colors of his army.

Estonia doesn’t have any fairy tale ideas of what war looks like; he sat in the woods with his men trying to fight off an army of stronger opponents, watching them die and suffer, trying his hardest to help where he could, but that doesn’t mean he condones the acts that he knows are committed. Once, war had been ugly, nasty, dirty and drawn out but eventually over – now it’s the aftermaths that people struggle to move on from.

Still, he banishes the thought and instead decides to focus on getting his thoughts together. He can’t keep disappearing into his own thoughts – if he is going back to Russia’s house then he’ll not have the same amount of time to do so anymore, and if he wasn’t truly going back there, then it would probably look better if he was able to pretend he’s still at his best.

He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath in, and like all his people had said back when he was a child nation and the looming threat of the crusades sat like an ugly shadow on his doorstep, locked everything that was not helpful away until he could unpack it at a later day.

____

When they arrive at a building, they speak quickly and roughly to each other, their words sliding from their lips faster than his slightly addled brain can keep up.

When they arrive at the building, the driver – commander? - says that they will be waiting in front of Mister Russia’s office there. He says that he expects Estonia to be on his best behavior because they have no clue how long it will take for the other nation to show up.

When they arrive at the building that decides his fate, Estonia is done packing away all the mental anguish, the trauma, the horror, the terror, and he notices that they are treating him as if he is a child who might wander off if not properly retained.

It’s demeaning.

“I’ve sat through more boring things than you can think of, I’ll be fine,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, as they exit the vehicle. The words are much nicer than any of the biting (tearing, searing) words he wants to say. “If I do get too bored, I’m sure I’ll be able to find some way to entertain myself.”

The commander does not find him charming.

They make sure to walk in the same group formation as before; only this time, they follow like little rats the driver with his slow gait and commanding eyes. The walk to the building is slow, tension in his body rising sightly as he waits for something to change – for them to grow angry like the first set of soldiers that brought him somewhere or for them to rush him into a room and begin beating him – but nothing does and they enter the building.

There’s barely anybody, he notices as they walk through corridors and up a flight of stairs, nobody but them. It’s unnerving to think of being in a building with just these men, but it gets more unnerving as they come to a stop in the middle of a corridor two flights up, where a small retinue of others are standing in the way. It’s a small group, four men versus their six, but the way those men stand is just wrong. It’s as if there is nothing weighing down their shoulders: they stand proud and smug.

The head soldier – the driver, the commander, the rough and angry and too tired to still be here man – sighs to himself, mutters “What the fuck are they doing here,” under his breath, and squares his shoulders as one of the men in the other group comes to stand in front of them.

“We are here to take the representative of the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic* to speak with our boss,” This man says, as he approaches. His voice is honeyed, hoarse, and full of warning as he comes to a stop in front of the commander, his arms held behind him. He gives a little nod to the other soldiers before his gray eyes zero in on Estonia. “We will be holding onto him until he is picked up by the USSR.”

His hands form fist, the threat under those words are there, he knows it, and he can see the commander frown. Hopefully the commander won’t let him be taken by these people, but Eduard doubts there is much he could do if they do decide to leave him with them. Logically, a dark part of his brain goes, it’d be easier for them – not having to deal with two nutcase nations.

“No.”

Estonia blinks. His brain is quiet for once as he takes in the sight of the soldiers steeling themselves for a fight while the other group looks at each other in confusion. He understands their thoughts, they are the type of men that one does not say no to, no matter who you are, but the commander does not seem to care about their place in the pecking order and stands plainly in place. But it cannot be that simple, Eduard thinks as the room falls into silence. You can’t just say no.

“What?” The man asks, frowning himself. “We have orders -”

The commander gives a bark of laughter, harsh like the wind against the skin in the middle of winter in poorly dressed clothing and all of the thoughts of how this man seemed weary fades as his true form comes out. His shoulders shrug as he grins slightly, “We were given orders by Mister Russia himself, to keep our eyes on this representation until he, himself, arrived to pick up the ESSR.”

He wishes they would stop referring to him as ESSR - it’s not his name, it’ll never be his name, he wants nothing to do with the farce of a name – but still, he holds himself stationary as those around him decide his fate, as he has been taught to do.

“Our boss-”

“I do not care about your boss,” the commander says, eliciting murmurs from the other men. Their boss must be very important that the words the commander says are met with such disbelief “I only care what my nation has asked of me – he has asked me to stay nearby the ESSR, to deliver the ESSR directly to him upon his arrival, and to then accompany them both back to the manor in which they reside.”

The other man frowns. It feels antagonistic, the way he does so – as if he’s weighing his options on just shooting the commander in order to get rid of him.

Estonia, for a second, feels his heart stop. He doesn’t care for anybody in the hallway, but the idea that he might become at mercy to these sharp angry men, with no one to stop them from whatever they want with him: he feels sick.

Again.

A door opens, bringing the rising tension to a standstill as a secretary exits the room right behind the men, her shoes clacking on the tiled floor. She takes one look at the soldiers and the unnamed men and frowns. Blue-gray eyes narrow as they meet his own, either she’s surprised that there are more people than she expected or she thinks he looks bad. Nevertheless, she shakes her head before she speaks, “He’s ready to see you,” right to him, ignoring the others around.

He’s been spoken at for the past however long he’s been held, but barely spoken to – a few times he’d have a human prisoner to interact with, but those times, were far and few in-between – so for a moment, he can just stare at her before the boy soldier pushes on his shoulder, alerting him back. He gives a nod to her and looks to the commander. “Hopefully I’ll only be a few minutes so you don’t get in trouble with Mister Russia,” he says with a slight smile he doesn’t feel.

The commander gives a short nod before directing his men to stand with their backs against the opposite wall, and Estonia follows the secretary into the room.

His stomach drops upon entry. He’s been here before and he knows it – the memories from that first night echoes in his brain as his feet force him to continue forwards, to the chair sat right in front of him. Estonia doesn’t know the name of the human in front of him, doesn’t know what position in Russia’s government he holds, but he knows that this is the man from that night all that time ago. This is the man that condemned him to two different mental facilities and a long period of torture*.

He lowers himself into the chair, eyes immediately drifting to the ground as he remembered the last time – how he had looked this man straight in the face and been violently assaulted for it. He wants to look up, to let him know that the nation of Estonia has not broken, but even the thought of it brings a shiver to his spine. Still, he takes several steadying breathes before he does let his eyes drift upwards, hiding his fear the best he can as he waits for anything.

“It has been a year and six months since you darkened my office door, do you understand what that means?” He asks, his nasally voice echoing through the room. Estonia doesn’t even get a chance to answer before the man continues, “It means that there will be questions about where you’ve been – do you know what you say?”

Of course he doesn’t, but he knows that whatever the answer is will be the furthest from the truth that they can get.

“You have been helping us with secretarial work; updating paperwork, helping with computers, things of that nature,” The man continues on, hands clasped on his desk, smarmy smile planted on his face. For a second, the man pauses before leaning close and speaking, “We have been very good to you while you’ve been with us; no harm has come to you.”

His breath leaves his body as his eyes widen slightly, staring at this man in disbelief. That lie would work if everyone he interacts with for the next hundred years are idiots, of which his neighbors are not. Some of them are self-centered, but none of them are so self-centered as to be able to believe no harm has come to him when he looks as he does. “No one will believe that.” It comes out without meaning to, just as his slip up did (kill it before it kills you) and the official’s face falls, ever so slightly.

“You have no proof,” He snarls, slamming his hands on the desk and standing, his chair hitting something hard behind him. Estonia flinches as he reels back, eyes closing as he waits for a physical attack. It takes the official a second to calm down before he’s forcing his fake smile back on his face and sitting back down. He clears his throat before he continues, “You must realize that you do not have any proof whatsoever of where you have been, whereas we, if questioned, can produce much evidence of you being in the locations we have given.”

Falsified evidence is not evidence.

“Of course, I worry for your mental state if you truly believe whatever it is you are imagining you have been through. Surely you do not need a stay in a psychiatric facility to help you remember the past year?” Eduard’s heart constricts in it’s cage made of his ribs. It’s not even a hidden threat. The man leans in conspiratorially, his smile dropping. “Because, between just us, I have not heard the best things about those facilities. My colleagues have spoken how they are trying to fix the rampant abuse that seems to breed in those locations but I am sure we can find you somewhere safe if you were to stay in one, yes?”

It’s a verbal slap in the face; an openly cruel one.

It takes him a second to gather his thoughts. Or well, the one thought that he keeps repeating in his head. “I won’t say anything,” he says after a moment. The man seems to wait for a second and Estonia knows what he wants, but all he can manage to say is, “Not that there is anything to say.”

This seems to ease the room a bit but still the official sits still.

“Because, I’ve been-” He can’t lie like this. He can’t say the lie given to him. It sits on his tongue, heavy as the feel of sopping wet clothes, weighing you down in the water. “I’ve been well.” He manages after a second.

The man smiles, nodding slightly as he grabs some papers off his desk. “Good, remember that if someone asks.” The pages are shuffled in his hands before one makes it way to the empty desk space in front of Estonia. “Now, can you tell me about this?”

Estonia stares at it for a second, his emotions haywire. It’s nothing more than a typed page of words, but it’s the words – inflammatory, anti-soviet words – that scream at him. They’re the reason he was sent away, they’re the reason he suffered.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.” It’s his voice, he knows it is, but it doesn’t feel like it. “I’m sorry.”

This is a lie, much bigger than the one this man wants him to tell to others, but it’s a lie he’ll die with. The man who wrote that has two kids and a wife and takes care of his mother as his father was killed during the war and Estonia will never speak his name.

The man hums and places down another page of words – this time written by a man who left his teaching position in a university when the communists came to power and who survives life on bad humor and copious amounts of liquors – and asks, “How about this one?”

“No.”

The man’s face sours as he nods his head, placing down another one, and another one, and another one. “And these?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Is his palms sweating and his heart rapidly beating in his chest? Yes. But that doesn’t change that fact that he will not sell out his fellow dissidents.

Narrowed eyes meet his and for a second, he wants to speak out of fear, but instead, Estonia pulls in on himself, allowing a moment of weakness in hopes of that being the thing that forces this man away from him. It doesn’t though and he slams his hands on the desk again, moving to stand.

The door opens.

“Now what do we have here?”

Once upon a time, Ivan’s voice was the one that haunted his nightmares – the abuses that he suffered at the Russian nation’s hands plagued him still – but now other voices take that place and all he feels is a sense of bitter relief at the sight of the other nation. Better the devil you know, his brain supplies for him as he watches the government official straighten up and force a smile onto his face.

“Ivan!” The man greets, walking around his desk to stand right next to Estonia’s shoulder. A hand finds its way to rest on him, squeezing lightly. “You were supposed to check in with my secretary.”

Russia’s smile grows, eyes narrowing as he moves one step forward into the room. The man moves back a step, his hand falling from Estonia’s shoulder before Russia moves forwards again. “I didn’t want to,” he replies, head tilting and shoulders shrugging, “I will be taking this one now.”

The man stops smiling, swallowing a gulp of air before he says, “I’m afraid, sir, that we still have a bit more to discuss.”

“I don’t care.” Russia lays a hand on his shoulder and Estonia takes a moment to deep breath instead of flinching. Reactions make the other nation interested and Estonia has not survived his house with the least amount of trauma – which is not saying much – by showing his interesting reactions the other. “Stand up.”

Stand up or I’ll break your legs!

A hand yanking on his hair. Curses are shouted. Get on your knees bitch.

“Up, up, Estonia, we have places to go.” Russia’s childish voice cuts through the thoughts in his head, the ones trying to slink their way out of the box.

He pushes down on them, closing his eyes before he moves to stand up. Once standing, he straightens his shoulders ever so slightly and tries to force himself back into his normal around Russia. “Yes, Mister Russia, sir,” he says after a second.

There’s a dangerous look upon the other nation’s face and even though it is not directed towards him, Estonia can recognize this for what it is: a power play. It’s not the first time the Russian has fought with his government in this passive aggressive way, but it is the first time that another nation has fallen into harm because of it. Well, that and his own arrogant stupidity.

“We are leaving now,” Russia is saying, his voice sickly sweet. “I’m sure I will see you in a few weeks, Yuri.”

The man – Yuri, a name that rings some kind of bell in Estonia’s head – nods and moves to sit right back down. “Of course,” is said in fake cheer, “I look forward to our conversations.”

Russia turns without saying anything else, Estonia takes one last look at the man – he has a name now, his brain tries, but forever he will only remember him as ‘the man’ – and the stern look that has fallen across his face speaks more words than their previous conversations did.

He will be watching, waiting for Estonia to take one step out of line to drag him back here. Estonia didn’t break how he wanted him to and this man will try for a second time at some point in the future.

It chills him to the bones.

____

The drive back to the manor is shorter than he remembers. It seems that as soon as they get in the car, they are halfway there.

Logically, Estonia knows that’s not true, but he barely remembers any of the drive until Russia is telling him how much Lithuania and Latvia has missed him. A warmth blooms in his chest as Russia says, “Poor little Latvia has worried nonstop even after I told him of your employment as a secretary – you left so suddenly,” that he can even ignore the dig at the lie he’s replied with multiple times already.

It seems the Russian knows that he’s lying but is waiting for him to say it instead of confronting him on it.

Estonia is thankful for that. He knows that eventually it will come to a head, but he has much more practice at hiding his troubles than Russia has with patience, and so he believes that he will be safe for a while longer. Which is good, because with the fear he holds tight in his body, being confronted about everything is not a thing that he really wants to deal with at the moment.

“You will have the rest of today to settle yourself,” Russia was saying, his voice far more relax than Estonia figured he’d be knowing he was being lied to. “I expect you to help around the house though tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He’d need something to keep his mind off his thoughts. “Thank you, Mister Russia.”

A hum, but otherwise, the conversation is dead.

Which is fine for the Estonian. There are no more words that need to be said between them – theirs is not a relationships marked by the tentativeness of scraping past injuries yet a willing eye towards their future, instead it is a sinking ship upon which the captain has chained his men to the mast to await their watery grave. There is no comforting words to be given between the two of them; no apologies for governments overstepping, or trying to incite mass protests, or the past deeds they have done against each other. No sense in looking for forgiveness or anything more than surface level interactions.

The car pulls into the driveway by time Estonia thinks to open his mouth to ask about the others – is Miss Ukraine doing well? What about Miss Belarus? Has Prussia driven Lithuania to murder yet? - and all his questions disappear as he spots Lithuania and Latvia standing next to the open door.

There are bags beneath their eyes but the relief in them outshine anything else.

Estonia waits until Russia opens the door for him, letting the other nation walk ahead like he knows to do. It takes everything he has – and the slimy feeling in his gut – to resist the urge to wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. He’s not one for hugging usually, but he wants the comfort that comes from such a hug.

“Welcome back, Mister Russia,” they greet, a smile on their faces. For once they don’t look as forced. “Welcome back, Estonia.”

“Lithuania, Latvia.” He nods his head in greeting. His eyes meet Lithuania, the all knowing older brother figure, and he knows that Lithuania knows that he is not alright and if Lithuania knows than it’s only a matter of time before Latvia knows.

Russia is speaking though, giving them directions, and Estonia barely listens to a single word he’s saying. Instead he’s cataloging the other two in his mind. It’s been so long and the only mention of the two while he was gone was vague threats towards them and his tormentors telling him how little they missed him.

Lithuania looks as if death has visited him every night; the fatigue in his body is so noticeable that Estonia is worried immediately. The other never lets anyone see him this tired – not unless he can’t help it. The way his body seems to sag even as it’s standing straight makes him wonder what sort of harm has befallen Lithuania while he was gone.

Latvia is, at least, only trembling, but there is something beneath the surface of his eyes that that worries the Estonian. It’s anger, directed straight at Russia. Whatever has gone on while he was gone has brought an emotion to the Latvian that Estonia did not know the other could feel. Of course, he knew that Latvia could feel anger – everyone could, but he truly believed that Latvia’s other emotions were too weigh over by fear and trauma.

“Anyway, go, go,” Russia says, cutting into his thoughts as he pushes on Estonia’s back. The Estonian holds back a hiss as the other nation continues, “Remember, I expect you all to be ready to do your duties early in the morning.”

“Of course,” they all manage to say at the same time as the Russian leaves to go elsewhere in the manor.

The first words out of Lithuania’s mouth as soon as they are alone, Latvia attaching himself to Estonia’s midsection, are, “What did they do to you?” and for a second, Estonia pauses in his movement to welcome the hug, unsure of what to say.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something, either the truth (he promises he won’t tell, he’ll never tell) or the lie, when Lithuania shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, we’ll deal with that later, let’s just get you safe.”

Not comfortable, safe.

Estonia nods. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel that again, but he knows that as long as they are living in Russia’s home, he definitely won’t. There is no safety in a place you cannot speak about – no safety in a place you were forced to come to. There is no safety in a place where you will be watched until you mess up – and Estonia knows himself, he will mess up at some point. He will begin piecing himself back together tomorrow and sometime in the future he will misstep and he will be dragged right back in front of that man to answer for it.

The only way to not be is to let this silence him; let this be the only warning he needs to keep himself in line.

But he can’t, he thinks as he’s lead through the house and towards their shared bedroom. In silence, there is some quiet acceptance that this is what it is now and Estonia, bruises fading, body aching, soul shattered, cannot accept this.

He refuses.

____

Additional Notes: Anyway, sorry for the dark fic yet again, seriously hoping the next thing I have for you guys is a lot more happy. I've got like 80% of a happy fic finished but like the last bit is kicking my ass.

Historical notes && information:

*Takes place literally right after Isolation *Being naked in literally so many other places are not as sexualized as it is in America, and like group showers/saunas/nude beaches are all fine because it's like the great equalizers - which like I get but at the same time I don't really want to see anyone nude ever so *shrug* *There's far too many medications for me to list but like just pick a benzo that was in production during that time and you'll have what I was thinking of. *Ten thousand percent little baby Estonia fought against the Nordics during their viking era (bby!Est as a little sea faring child who just wants the vikings to piss off is a thing thank you for coming to my ted talk) and everything and one day I'll write a fic for that, but like look through their history, Estonians really fought a lot - their resilience in the face of occupation is truly admirable. *This kid's the product of an Estonian mother and a Ukrainian father and honestly only exists for this one series fic. *I have talked about this before and I'll talk about it again, there's got to be some kind of agreement between governments, otherwise any goodwill is immediately shattered. I mean, I'm not politician (I have morals) but I am a person and if I found out that the gov of another nation tortured my nation, I'd have no desire to see any sort of friendship grow. *What is is with occupying governments deciding the native languages are icky and like banning their usage?? Especially since the Estonian language is so pretty??? It's literally like lilting and pretty and !!!! But anyway, historically, Estonian was not considered pretty by all those occupying nations and was either outright banned or just not considered important over said occupying nation's own language. As stated, I don't think the nations who owned Est was doing it maliciously - unlike their govs - but more so in a practical, lets not rock the boat, sorta thing. *There is enough evidence in the manga/webcomics, anime, and other supplemental material that states that Russia was volatile towards the Baltics while they lived with him, ergo Trauma. *This entire paragraph is a headcanon. First bit, 'a brother that betrayed him,' according to an Estonian history book I have, prior to Livonia joining the whole religious thing, ancient Estonians saw them as a (kinda) brother nation, afterwards not so much. (Really sold out a family relationship for a place to live (for legal purposes, this is a joke)). Secondly, "left behind enough nations to the tide of time", there were quite a bit of nations in that area that have come and go: Courland, Semgallia, Ingeria, etc, and I know they most likely don't show up because Hima-papa hasn't done research on them/gone that deep, but I like to think that they probably just faded after a while. Lastly, I don't think some nations got to choose their own name. Like I'm not going to get into it here, but the name Alfred was only really popular in America from the late 19th century to the 1930s, so why would America have that name if it wasn't given to him by the reigning country - Britain? Anyway, I, especially, believe in the way of Est & Lat that they were named by Prussia & Livonia and since human names aren't that important, they just went a long with it. I got more thoughts, but this is already long enough. *Name given to Estonia during the Soviet period. We don't like -∞/100. *This man is/based after Yuri Andropov, the real life chairman of the KGB during the time this fic is taking place. He was really really a bitch who "sought the destruction of dissent" and was lead the way in committing people to psychiatric hospitals for dissidence. I don't know if I have to put allegedly here to avoid any troubles but like it was written about and everyone knows so fuck this guy.

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friendlylifecherry · 7 months

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Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Super Dangan Ronpa 2, Dangan Ronpa Series Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Soda Kazuichi/Tanaka Gundham, Soda Kazuichi & Soda Kazuichi's Father, Soda Kazuichi's Father/Soda Kazuichi's Mother Characters: Soda Kazuichi, Soda Kazuichi's Father, Soda Kazuichi's Mother Additional Tags: Thriller, Yandere, Kidnapping, Drug Use, Needles, Everyone Needs A Hug, Attempted Murder, Assault, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Delusions, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 5 of Tumblr Ask Series Summary:

This was written over the course of 2 years through private asks on Tumblr between CrazyNekoChan and I

Concept: It's been just Kazuichi and his dad for pretty much Kazuichi's whole life. Turns out, there's a reason for that.

#danganronpa #kazuichi souda #minor soudam #thriller #yandere au #non-consensual drug use #tw kidnapping #tw non-consensual drug use #tw yandere

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yandere-daydreams · 7 months

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Title: Needlework.

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

Pairing: Yandere!OC x Reader.

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

Word Count: 1.2k.

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

Every stitch took exactly fifteen seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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mochiroreo · 2 months

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And I will fuck you like nothing matters

Dark!reader x Rafe Cameron

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you’re awake!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t forget to smile.”

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