#ALSO AM NOT DRAWING ALL THE SCARS ON SCRAP TRAP FUCK YOU
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i want the scrap animatronics to be idiots, like villains in cartoons that just speak their plan outloud and laugh while theres thunder in the background
inspo
#scrapp baby#scraptrap#lefty#fnaf#calicoart#calico.exe#animatic#five nights at freddy's#ffps#pizzaria simulator#do i add micheal in the tags#he apears for like 5 seconds max#nah i wont#I MISPELT SCRAP BABY AND I DONT WANNA ERASE ALL THE TAGS#scrap baby#THE LAST PART IS A VENT BTW i did not know what to do in the end#if you couldnt tell#scraptrap is amongus imposter /j#ALSO AM NOT DRAWING ALL THE SCARS ON SCRAP TRAP FUCK YOU
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Indebted 3/?
Slow-burn mirage/caustic fic.
Warning: Mentions of blood and gore
(Part One | Part Two)
—–
Mirage didn’t learn whether or not Caustic had survived long enough to get retrieved until hours after he’d been loaded onto the dropship himself, his own injuries treated, suffering through the celebrations of the victors. Much more obnoxious when you weren’t the one celebrating. Oh well. Heading back to his own room to nurse his bruised ego – and berate his short-comings as per routine – he spotted the trapper hunched over his workbench once more. There was no glass vessels or instruments this time, just a scattering of notebooks, sheets of paper, and pens. He was serious about taking notes... He was dressed more casually too – no heavy protective gear – just a loose t-shirt and slacks. Bandages crossed his arms and dotted his neck and what little of his chest was visible. Undoubtedly, there were more than a few stitches hiding under there as well.
This time Mirage couldn’t help but dip into the quiet room, lingering in the doorway with poorly veiled curiosity. Seeing the man alive chased the thoughts of self-deprecation from his mind. He could feel a flutter of nerves in his stomach, but he wasn’t about to let the trapper scare him. Not now. It was a rare sight to see the scientist in ‘civilian’ clothes – even his gas mask was stacked neatly atop the rest of his equipment. Caustic seemed more... vulnerable now. As Mirage entered the room, the trapper had glanced up from his work, his eyes shining with a curiosity of his own.
“Well, well, well, someone looks like they’re on the mend,” Mirage noted with an easy smile, giving Caustic an appraising once-over. The man looked pretty good – considering the condition he’d last seen him in. Looks good in other ways too... In his more relaxed attire, it was easier to see just how the trapper managed to be such a force to be reckoned with in the ring. “What can I say, I am a miracle-worker.”
Without his mask, Caustic’s expression was easier to read, but still not easy to decipher. His eyes narrowed, but his mouth twitched into a faint, suppressed smile. Was he happy to see him? Putting down his pen, he rose to his feet stiffly, giving out a little hiss as he moved his bandaged limbs. Passing under the dim light of the lab, Mirage could see the mosaic of purple-blue bruises spreading out from beneath the white cloth. The medical crew on the massive carrier were some of the best, but some things would always take time to heal.
“Elliott Witt, I could count on one hand the number of competitors I’ve met as foolish – as wantonly reckless – as you,” The trapper approached slowly, his hand jerking up to touch gingerly at his abdomen. His words were sharp – angry. Mirage felt his stomach sink, but as Caustic stepped closer, his expression softened and he let out a defeated sigh. There – again – was the ghost of a smile on his lips. “But here we are, your gamble paid off. I find myself in your debt again.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Mirage joked with a chuckle, resting a hand gently on the trapper’s less bandaged shoulder. Caustic glanced at the offending arm, but did not shrug it off, his eyes returning to Mirage’s face after a beat. His cheeks hurt from the grin that had spread across his face. Probably look like an idiot... “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to start breaking rules for you in future matches,” Caustic explained, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing Mirage suspiciously. “Your help was appreciated, but I’m not going to risk drawing the Syndicate’s ire for your sake.”
“Whaaat? No no no, that’s not what I’m getting at. Come on, I can win these matches blindfolded or with a hand tied behind my back or... uh maybe just ignore the fact I just lost...” The thought of cheating hadn’t even crossed his mind. Mirage felt his cheeks flush slightly – that was a little naive. “Look I like this comar-... camra-... camaraderie...? Y’know this little team-up we got going here. And – aha – anything that makes you less likely to stab me in the back is just really, really great – for me... you know...”
Caustic had to stifle a laugh at that. The smile that broke his usually grim expression almost made Mirage do a double-take. It felt like seeing a solar eclipse. From his experience, when the trapper smiled it meant someone was getting eviscerated or someone set off one of his traps or some other disastrous event. This... was different.
“Why would I bother with such pointless subterfuge? The belly of an animal is where it is most vulnerable,” Caustic’s eyes flashed with amusement as he mimed plunging a knife into Mirage’s stomach, making the younger man flinch instinctively. “But you were correct, we do make a pretty good team.”
“See and here I was thinking this was going so well. Almost got through a whole conversation without an implicit threat... That would have been just really... peachy,” Mirage put his hands on his hips, pouting jokingly. His heart had skipped a beat when the injured man had thrust his arm forward. Careful, right? But the trapper was still smiling slightly and he couldn’t help but smile back. Caustic’s joke reminded him of another reason he had poked his head into the lab in the first place. “Speaking of our squishy underbellies, how’re you uh, holding up? Must have been a lot of stitches, y’know, for your guts.”
“The medical team did their best to clean it up and fix my admittedly sloppy work, but it may be some time before the scar fades,” Caustic replied almost sheepishly, lifting his shirt to reveal the echo of his grisly experience in the arena. The wound – now closed with heavy surgical stitches – had split his abdomen just below his ribs. A thick layer of slightly stained gauze covered most of it, but in the gaps Mirage could see the raised and discoloured skin of the partially healed tear.
“Wow – I mean, yeah it looks better than it did, but... Geez, you’re not the only one getting sloppy. Maybe you should hit up Ajay for a second opinion...” He mused as he leaned forward slightly, one hand on his chin. He could feel bile rise in his throat as he recalled the sight of Caustic’s organs spilling out onto the brilliant yellow vinyl of his protective suit. Along one side of his abdomen – several inches from the mass of bandages – bruises formed faint tessellations of blue and purple and maroon. Without thinking, Mirage reached out, fingers just barely grazing the delicate patterns. His skin felt hot, burning even, under his touch.
“Don’t.” Caustic barked as he snatched Mirage’s hand away, reacting in a fraction of a second. Startled, the younger man glanced up at the trapper’s face, his stomach already knotted with embarrassment. What was he thinking? Caustic’s eyes were wide, his expression a mix of surprise and anger, his cheeks flushed beat red. When their eyes met, he glanced away and dropped Mirage’s hand, taking a step back. “It’s... still sore. I should return to the med bay to get the gauze changed actually...”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Mirage stuttered, trying to apologize. Caustic interrupted him with a gesture of his hand, shaking his head as he slipped past him, taking a few steps toward the doorway. In the light streaming into the room from the hall, his silhouette was imposing. The younger man felt his heart drop to his stomach. He’d fucked this up again. But as the trapper turned back toward him, he could still see the faint hint of pink in his cheeks and a softer expression on his face.
“Thank you for stopping by Elliott, but I should get this redressed,” The anger in his voice had cooled and as he said his name Mirage felt his heart give a little jump. “Don’t worry, even without the visual reminder of a scar, I’ll remember: I owe you.”
With that, Caustic slipped out of the room and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Mirage alone in the tiny lab. For a few moments, he stood – slightly bewildered – in the dim room. A heavy quiet settled into the ship in the scientist’s absence. Then, somewhere down the metal hallways, he could hear someone laughing. Appropriate.
“I think that went well.” Mirage said meekly to no one. Right?
Stepping into the dim foyer of the bar, Mirage felt like he was letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Not quite as fancy as the Paradise Lounge where he’d used to work, Purgatory was smaller, dustier, and a little bit grimier, tucked away in the outskirts of Solace City’s entertainment district. But it felt like home. It was empty at the moment – temporarily shuttered as its proprietor went off to charm fans and sow chaos, but over the next couple days the regulars would filter back through, people would hear he was back in town and the place would be bustling again. Throwing a switch, the dim overhead lights flickered to life, illuminating the vacant canteen with a hazy blue glow. Cobwebs had gathered on the bottles behind the bar and as Mirage ran his hands along its smooth surface, he could see a film of dust on his fingertips. He would probably spend half of his first day back cleaning and getting it ready for patrons, but taking in the familiar sights – his bar, the cluttered tables, the ancient dartboard in the back – brought a smile to his face. Home sweet home.
—–
A set of narrow stairs at the far side of the room led up to a soft and sunny loft, nearly as small as his room on the Games’ dropship. Like its counterpart, this room was also cluttered – every surface covered with blueprints, electronic scraps, prototypes, and photographs. But not photographs like the ones in his other room. Almost none of the pictures filling the frames on his shelves or pinned to his workbench had Mirage in them at all. His mother, his brothers, the friends he’d made during his time at the Games – Ajay, Octavio, Makoa, and the rest – their smiling faces stared back at him as stepped through the doorway.
Tossing his duffle bag of clothes onto the floor next to his bed, Mirage let himself fall limply onto the mattress. The warmth of the setting sun filtered through the slotted windows of the loft, casting golden stripes across the bed. Lying tangled in his blankets in his own bed, the faint smell of alcohol, oil, and soot filling his lungs, Mirage felt his heart swell with the feeling of relief. He’d made it home yet again. Rolling over, he stared up at the ceiling, watching particles of dust drift listlessly through the still air until his eyelids grew heavy. His work could wait till tomorrow...
Sitting on his bedside table was a small notebook, well-worn and filled with scrawled notes. Sticking out of it like a bookmark was a photo of Mirage, an enigmatic hunter, and a grumpy, but faintly smiling scientist.
Saying goodnight to the last smiling, stumbling patrons, Mirage closed and locked Purgatory’s front door and set to work cleaning up for the night. Music that was once pounding was softened to a low and sombre melody as cups were washed, tables wiped down, and the floors swept. There was always a dreamlike feeling to the atmosphere of the bar, the coloured lights casting a mottled mess of shadows across the floor and catching the dusty air like thin and fragile ghosts. The ethereal quality was even starker after close. In the after-image of the raucous crowd, the empty bar felt that much quieter, that much colder.
—–
One of Mirage’s decoys stood against the bar, juggling phantom glasses and grinning mischievously, its silvery eyes scanning the room blankly. In a few minutes, it would wink out of existence and Mirage would be all alone again. That was fine, right? Tomorrow, everyone would be back and they’d all get drunk together and have a great time... Just a few more days and he’d be back on the dropship again. A different kind of good time, a different kind of crowd.
The warmth of his secluded hide-away beckoned Mirage upstairs. Humming quietly to himself, he leaned carefully around the bar to help himself to a glass of shimmering liqueur. Somehow, he doubted the owner would mind. As he collected a clean glass, he noticed that someone had left a small package underneath the end of the bar, tucked carefully behind a stack of clean cloths. Momentarily forgetting his drink, Mirage pulled the box from its hiding place and examined it cautiously. In the dim light of the main floor, it was difficult to see, but the package appeared featureless. No name, no postage, nothing. Not suspicious at all. Leaving the bottle of alcohol abandoned on the bar, Mirage carried the curious box upstairs to his workbench.
Under the bright lights of his work area, he carefully slit the seal on the box with a penknife. It had to be for him, right? It was his bar... But there had been no courier, no delivery MRVN – if it was from a fan surely they would have wanted to give it to him in person... Mirage swallowed stiffly, his shirt slightly damp now from sweat. Still holding the knife in one hand, he carefully slid open the package. Despite his growing fears, nothing leapt from the box. No poison gas, no spring-loaded switchblade – nothing. Sitting on top of a bundle of bubble-wrap was a small note, folded in half. Finally setting down his knife, Mirage took the piece of paper and unfolded it carefully. In small neat print at the top of the page, it read: “Don’t worry, I didn’t include anything dangerous. This time.” The rest of the small page was taken up by the letters “I.O.U.” in comically large block letters. Mirage felt his stomach do a little flip. Had he been there tonight? He definitely would have noticed him...
Putting aside the note, he fished the bubble-wrapped object out of the bottom of the box. Whatever it was, it was fairly small and light, wrapped in several layers of protective film. Peeling away the plastic, Mirage was surprised to find an absolutely pint-sized Wingman model heavy pistol. Now free of the plastic wrap, it fit neatly in the palm of his hand. He cradled it carefully, like a fragile glass figurine, although he knew it was sturdier than that. Finely detailed, the miniature gun had an oddly familiar gold, black, and red colour scheme and a small chain attached to the grip. Etched onto the cylinder of the tiny model was the word Mirage.
Sitting back in his chair, Mirage marvelled over the small gun – turning it over in his hands, running his fingers along the grooves and divots of the tiny details. With the note, there was no mistaking who it was from. If he had a mirror in his room, Mirage would have been able to see the way his face had flushed red as he examined the gift. Instead, he ignored the way his cheeks felt uncomfortably warm, his eyes flicking over to where his uniform lay sprawled on his bed, awaiting last minute repairs.
He could squirrel it away into one of the many drawers of his workbench, where he kept other items he’d collected during his time at the games – including broken knives, a flyer’s tooth, and one small black gas mask. However, that hardly seemed fitting for a genuine gift. Pulling his belt from the mess on his bed, he fastened the chain of the miniature revolver to a metal loop on one of his pouches and carefully tucked it inside. What’s one more good luck charm? It wasn’t any different from his pins and other decorations... right?
#apex legends#caustic#mirage#apex caustic#apex mirage#elliott witt#alexander nox#mirage x caustic#miragstic#fic#my fics#caustage
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Daniel Michaelson: Mine
(for @whumptober2019 day 26, prompt: Abandoned. Used some of these incrdibly creepy dialogue prompts from @untilthepainstarts to get some inspiration for this one!)
“Deep breaths for me, Red. In through the nose… repeat after me…”
Daniel breathes in through his nose, a deep breath that expands his lungs as far as they will go, pushes them against his aching side where the rib has never healed right. He focuses on the twin spikes of pain that string him between his neck and his ribcage.
“Now, say, ‘no one wants me but Abraham.’”
Daniel holds his breath as he speaks, “N-no one wants me b-but, but Abraham.” His fingers are curled over his thighs, digging fingernails into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
He does not think about the barbs jabbing into the thin skin of his neck where Abraham has wrapped the wire around and around and around it. He does not think about the rib that will never be right again. He does not think about the way the backs of his hands ache still, or the little pain of the skin worn raw underneath the iron cuff.
He does not think of any of these things.
He thinks only of the oxygen he holds inside his lungs, of it pouring into his bloodstream, carried to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes.
“Hold for five counts…”
He holds, feels the tension inside of himself, lungs full of air beginning to protest, waits as Abraham counts.
“One… two… three… four… five… Now exhale and say, ‘No one will ever want me but Abraham’.”
He lets the air out through his mouth, careful to do it slowly, the way Abraham wants him to, repeating his words in a low, unresisting voice. “No one will ever want me but Abraham.”
“Inhale…‘I have been abandoned by my family’.”
“I have been abandoned by my family.”
“Good. Hold for five… exhale. ‘No one is looking for me.’”
Hold for five. Then, in the same low voice, “No one is, is, um, looking for me.”
One of his friends once dragged him to yoga, in the life he’s not supposed to remember, in the life he has been told to forget. They did an exercise where they breathed just like this - only without Daniel kneeling with a man’s hands dancing over his neck and his face, without the wire wrapped around his neck, without the bruises and the burns and the scars and the pain, without everything in his world boiled down to doing whatever it takes to be exactly what the fucking monster wants him to be.
He can’t picture Abraham doing yoga. The image is too ridiculous.
“Inhale. ‘I have been abandoned here.’”
“I have been abandoned here.” Lungs full of air, his aching rib, the pain in so many places he cannot quite tell which wounds are new.
“Good. Hold for five. Exhale. ‘No one will ever, ever find me here.’”
Daniel hesitates, then forces the words out on his exhale, hearing them shake. “No-… no one will ever find me here.”
He has to be good.
“That’s it.” Abraham’s voice is so soft, and he hates him so much, and he can do nothing but kneel, and wish Nate would finish and come back from checking the traps, and obey.
“Good boy, my little Red. That’s my good boy.” Abraham moves one hand to ruffle through his hair, mussing it up affectionately. “You’re nothing. No one wants you but me, not now that you’re my good dog. If you even tried to go back, they’d just kick you back out. At least here someone cares about you.”
Yeah, Nate, not you, you asshole, you-
No. Be good.
His face burns - he can never get past the humiliation of it, the tears that threaten every time Abraham says it again - but he says nothing, only waits to be ordered to breathe. His racing heart begins to slow, unwillingly - he can feel it stutter-skip inside his chest, pounding out of rhythm, trying hard to panic again.
He cannot panic. He had a bad day, that’s what started this, and he’s not allowed to have bad days. He’s not allowed to panic over the fact that he’s going to die here in the woods. He’s not allowed to be terrified of the reality that one day Abraham is going to hurt him so badly he can’t come back from it - or a wound will get infected - or maybe they’ll leave him down in the cellar and next time they won’t come back.
He’s not allowed to realize that he’s sort of relieved at the idea that all this pain and humiliation and the way the scum layered on his skin from what he is forced to do will never, ever scrub clean… that it might actually end.
His heart starts to beat fast again, and he wills it to slow, he wills it, but the finger pressed against his pulse feels the sudden uptick in speed, and Abraham clicks his tongue against his teeth in disappointment.
Daniel’s heart freezes in fear at the sound.
“You’re not focusing, puppy. Try again. In through your nose…”
“R-Right, I’m sorry, Abraham, um, give me a sec, I, I just-”
“Sssshhhh. Puppies only say what their owners want them to say.” Abraham grabs the end of the barbed wire and yanks hard, pulling it even tighter around him, and Daniel whimpers, just a little, in the back of his throat.
He nods, frantically, just to show he’s listening, even though it forces some of the barbs in even harder, and he feels the first trickles of blood down the side of his neck.
Be good. Try harder. You can do this. Try again.
He tries again, tries to really truly focus this time, to be good. He can feel the texture of the braided rug under his knees, his toes just digging into the dip between two sections. He has it all memorized, every single inch of color that the previous owner of this cabin had so carefully woven together from scraps of fabric.
“Good. Inhale. ‘I love Abraham and want to be good.’”
In through his nose. “I love Abrah- Abraham… and I want to be good.” Voice strained with holding the air but also with hating every word out of his own mouth.
Hold for five.
“‘I have been abandoned by people who no longer want me.’”
Exhale. “I have been abandoned by people who no longer want me.” Cold fingertip pressed against his pulse to feel his heart slow once more, cold fingers along his jaw on the other side, a thumb pressing so gently into the notch dug hard into the skin there, where the line of his jaw is now broken, just like the rest of him.
“Inhale. ‘I am a very good puppy. I want to be good.’”
“I am a very good puppy. I want to be good.”
“Hold for five. Now exhale. ‘No one else will ever want me.’”
“No, no one else will e-e-ever want me.”
He manages to keep his heart placid, beating slowly, even as the words sink under his skin, leave him feeling lost, like a child who wandered away from the campsite and was never seen again and no one even bothers to report him missing.
Abandoned here, to live and to hurt and to die under Abraham.
No one’s looking for him.
No one cares.
“There. Better this time. Good job, Red.”
It’s a little harder to breathe, with the wire tighter around him, but he manages to keep himself calm, to not focus on that extra bit of effort to get the oxygen he needs. He focuses on being good, and he can feel the air change around him, the slight hint of warmth when Abraham is truly happy with how well he’s done.
If he opens his eyes, all he will see is Abraham - he’ll fall into the ice-chip eyes, he’ll tumble and he’ll drown in them and in that smile, the only one left in the world who still wants him - so he keeps his own closed, for as long as he’s allowed.
“You know,” Abraham says softly, lovingly, and Daniel shudders in disgust and fear but he doesn’t - can’t - pull away from the hands that insistently prod at the scar on his jaw, push into the pulse along his neck, and he lifts his chin a little more to try and escape the pressure without flinching.
He keeps his breathing slow and even, just the way Abraham wants him to.
Abandoned here with him, to be his good dog and hope that eventually he’ll get tired of me and kill me. Left here alone. No one is looking.
They’ve all given up by now.
“I really don’t think you know how good you’ve got it, with me,” Abraham says thoughtfully, trailing a fingernail along the top line of the wire, curving around the front of Daniel’s neck. He gets a bit of Daniel’s blood on his finger, and Daniel keeps his eyes closed, but he can hear Abraham suck the blood into his mouth, and fights back bile that tries to take what little room in his throat he can currently fill with air.
It cuts into the awful thoughts that he can’t quite fend off on his own, shatters the spell he was under in a sudden burst of rage.
How good I’ve fucking got it? How much unscarred skin is even left now, you piece of shit?
Daniel digs his fingernails even harder into his palms, shifts just slightly where he kneels on the floor. The chain attached to the cuff around his ankle scrapes, just a little, and he stills himself again. He gives no sign of the fury that lights him up inside, the hint of himself that still remains, that wants something better than just to be good.
You fucking monster, I fucking hate you, I’m a person, I’m a human being, I am more than the puppy, I am more than this.
“I kn-know, Abraham,” He says, hating himself for how small and weak his voice is now, thinner as he keeps his slow and careful breathing, trying to speak around it, to speak in a way that won’t move the skin of his throat and force the barbs in any further than they’ve already gone. “I know how good it is here.”
I used to be more than this.
“Do you, little Red? Do you really? I mean, my God, at least I actually want you. Do you think your family’s still looking for you?”
Daniel knows the answer Abraham wants to hear - and it’s the answer that wakes him up at night, that leads to the bad days he’s not supposed to have, when his future is one long stretch of moments just like this and nothing more. It’s the answer he makes him speak, over and over, as he breathes carefully and slowly on command. “No,” He says softly. “I know they’re not looking for me anymore. N-no one wants me.”
“That’s right. That’s my good boy. You’ve been abandoned, haven’t you?” Abraham pushes his thumb against the side of one of the barbs, forcing it hard into his Adam’s apple, and Daniel coughs, jerking back unconsciously to try and escape, then freezing himself in place. “Ah ah ah, little puppy, you don’t pull away from me, do you?”
“N-No, I’m sorry, I can, I can do better-”
Abraham presses again and then time Daniel manages to hold himself still, gasping a little, his eyes flying open to stare up into Abraham’s, wide and pleading, just the way the monster wants him to look. He can feel the warmth of the blood welling up, and as Abraham leans in Daniel tilts his chin up and back obediently, baring his throat for Abraham to move the barb just a little to the side, the awful wet heat as he tongues the wound and licks up the blood.
“Good boy,” Abraham breathes into his skin.
Daniel barely catches the way his stomach wants to flip and churn and throw up what little he’d been given for breakfast. Somehow, he holds himself still. Somehow, he holds back the tears in his eyes, keeps them glittering there so that when Abraham pulls back, pale lips stained red, he sees the tears that tremble and threaten to fall but not the sight of Daniel crying.
He likes the tears, but he hates it when Daniel cries.
He has to thread the needle of submission and despair - give the monster what he wants and maybe he won’t hurt him so much today. Try harder. Be good.
Pray that Nate finds enough game in the traps to get weighed down and come back quickly. Pray that Nate comes back fast, to interrupt this, to stop it before it goes too far, before Daniel is consumed by it, before he is lost in the pain and Abraham’s hands.
He feels his heart trying to beat fast again and presses his lips together.
Focus.
Be good.
Breathe through his nose - hold for five - out through his mouth - hold for five. Ignore the ache in his neck and the blood on Abraham’s lips.
“I’m so glad you decided to come here with us,” Abraham murmurs, icy fingers carding through his hair, sliding around behind his head. Abraham pauses, considering, and Daniel feels himself tense, knowing what’s coming. “So glad you understand now that this is your family. I own you, don’t I? What do we say, Red?”
Daniel swallows. The cold fingers graze along the back of his neck, making him shiver, finding the first bumps of his spine. “We, um, we say…” His voice trails off. “We say…”
Abraham leans down, kissing his cheek as his thumb presses at one of the barbs again, opens a new wound, a new droplet of blood to lick up and redden his mouth with, twisting his fingers into the wire collar to Daniel closer to him, smiling at the gasp of pain as barbs jam into the skin at the back of his neck now.
“Who do you belong to?” He whispers into Daniel’s ear, pressing his lips there, smearing blood Daniel can feel cool and start to dry.
He shivers, struggling to keep his breathing calm now, and Abraham chuckles, a thick sound deep in his throat. Daniel knows that Nate cannot come back fast enough, not this time.
“Say it,” Abraham says, and pulls on the wires again. “Say it, Red. Who do you belong to?”
“You.” No one wants me. “I belong to, um, to you.” No one is looking.
“Again.”
No one will ever find me here.
He’s been abandoned here, and Abraham and Nate are all he has left, and Nate is out checking the traps and won’t come back fast enough to get between he and Abraham, not this time. He keeps his head tilted back, the pain of the barbs mixing uneasily with the pleasant shiver as Abraham kisses his neck, just over the flutter of his pulse.
He forgets his focus.
He forgets how to breathe.
No one is looking.
“I belong to you, Abraham,” He says, and knows that it’s true, knows deep inside of himself that it doesn’t matter what happens now - he’s never ever going to get free. “I b-belong to you.”
“Good. Don’t you ever fucking forget that you’re mine.”
#whumptober2019#no. 26#prompt: abandoned#whump#intimate whumper#creepy whumper#tw: blood#tw: noncon touching#tw: noncon kissing#tw: reference to past assault/violence/torture#barbed wire#collar#pet whump#dehumanization#controlled breathing#conditioning#Daniel Michaelson's story
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