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caribbean1989 · 11 days

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Stage Fright - a Baby Lasagna fanfiction

Who: Marko Purisic / Baby Lasagna Request: maybe smt where you work for esc and marko has a panic attack before going on the stage and your there for him calming him down and stuff. just angsty with lots of comfort. Requested by: anonymous. Word count: 2010 Warnings: contains descriptions of panic attack / anxiety / stage fright. Lots of angst, but also some comfort 😇

A/N: I usually write footballer imagines and fandom whump, so writing something like this is quite new to me. Hope you'll like it, let me know what you think of it 😇 If you want me to write more like this, you can always make a request through my Asks 😉

This story can also be found on my AO3 account, here. For more information on my Baby Lasagna fanfics, see this masterpost.

At your job working backstage at concerts and events, you were one of the people making sure everything went smoothly backstage, and that the performers had all they needed. This month you would be working at the Eurovision Song Contest.

Today was the biggest day of all: the final. You felt confident. Everything had been rehearsed endlessly, the semi-finals had already gone well, and you had built up a good relationship with most of the performers and their entourages.

It was a nice group of artists this year, but one still was your personal favourite: Baby Lasagna. At first you were drawn to the Croatian candidate because of the rather unusual name, but you quickly learned he went by Marko off-stage, and was somewhat different from the other participants. He was a flamboyant personality on-stage, which proved to be the complete opposite of how his personality was off-stage.

You didn’t need long to see Marko was actually rather shy, could be very insecure, and was humble and polite. There was a cheeky side to him as well once you got to know him better. You liked that about him, and, without actively trying to, you already formed a rather close friendship with him in only this short time of working together.

That was why you immediately knew something was wrong when you found Marko sitting alone on the day of the final, huddled away from everything and everyone. He sat amongst crates of sound equipment, on the floor, in a dark corner of the backstage maze, hugging his knees. His hands were clamped so tightly around his legs that his fingers had turned white, and he trembled like a leaf in the wind. Marko had chosen a spot far from the foot traffic from and to the stage, hidden even from his own entourage, and it was a small miracle that you stumbled upon him like you had.

"Marko?" You lowered yourself onto your haunches in front of him, but mindful to keep enough distance between yourselves so not to frighten him or make him feel more uncomfortable.

He looked disheveled, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, and surely not in control of his emotions. In this moment he was not the extroverted Baby Lasagna, he was introverted Marko. The eccentric costume he wore on stage was replaced by regular jeans and a black hoodie. The make-up wasn’t applied yet, which might be a good thing, because you saw the tears on his face. The haunted look in his eyes scared you, worrying you even more about his well-being.

Suddenly your mind went to a line from the song he was performing with here this week.

My anxiety attacks.

Whilst Rim Tim Tagi Dim had people dancing all over the world, you couldn’t help but notice its darker meaning, too. And it clicked into place for you now. That line about anxiety wasn’t just a line. It actually held truth for Marko, and the proof of that was right in front of your eyes with him having a serious panic attack.

"Marko?" You repeated softly. His gaze flickered to you, but he didn’t acknowledge your presence in any other way. "I need you to talk to me," you nudged carefully. Marko swallowed hard. He made every effort to get himself to speak, but couldn’t. The words he meant to say got involuntarily silenced on their way to his mouth, and, finally, he just sadly shook his head. Fresh tears fell as he rested his forehead on his knees, shrinking even more into himself.

Your heart broke for him. It was hard to believe you only met him a week and a half ago, with how much you already cared for him.

Marko shivered in his hoodie. His breaths became even more rapid and shallow, accompanied by the occasional wheeze or whimper. He was losing more and more control over himself with every heartbeat of his racing pulse. Where first maybe only his hands had shook, there now wasn’t a muscle in his body that wasn’t shaking. He raised his head and looked up at you again, this time really seeing you.

Marko’s lower lip trembled, and it took effort, but finally he got some words out. "Help me…" "I’m trying," you answered helplessly. You wanted nothing more than to help him, take him out of this panic attack, but you really had no idea where to begin. "Do you need me to bring someone from your team over?" "No!" Marko nearly jumped a foot into the air at the mere idea of that. "They don’t need to see me like this. I’m a mess, I…" "Calm down, calm down," you tried to ease. "We can do this. You and I, we can get you through this."

Having suffered from panic attacks yourself, you suddenly remembered what your sister used to do for you to get you to calm down. "Marko." You got his attention. "I want to try something to help you calm down. Are you okay with me touching you?" He still was in the height of his panic attack, with fear wild in his eyes, but he still nodded his head. He wasn’t sure what you had in mind, but he trusted you.

You scooted closer to him, fully sitting down on the floor by his side. Marko trembled heavier than ever and he was truly hyperventilating now. Tears sparkled in his eyes, but he gave in to you. He wanted for you to offer comfort and take him out of this anxiety.

"Close your eyes," you said softly. Marko hesitated for just a second, but slowly closed his eyes. He didn’t know you for that long, yet you felt secure and safe to him. "Whenever you’re no longer comfortable with anything I’m doing, you need to tell me," you insisted, "and I’ll stop immediately." Marko gave you a strained nod, but he surrendered to you.

You moved slowly, making sure not to make any unexpected movements which would cause Marko any more fright. You placed one of your hands flat on his chest. Only now you realised how heavy this panic attack actually was for him. His chest heaved and trembled under your hand, and now that you were closer to him, you heard the whimpers that were hidden in the wheezes of his breathing. With your other hand you picked up his wrist, gently pressing two fingers against the pulse point. As you had expected, his heart was racing.

"I need you to focus on my hand on your chest." You kept your voice as calm and serene as possible. Marko dipped his head once, eyes still firmly pressed shut. "Whenever I press into your chest, I need you to breathe in through your nose, and try and press my hand away with your chest," you instructed, "when I release the pressure, you exhale slowly through your mouth." Marko wanted to speak, show you he had understood, but he found his words once again stolen from him by the panic attack. Instead, he dipped his head once again, but it was all the confirmation you needed.

You slowly and gently pressed the palm of your hand a little firmer into his chest. Marko took a shaky breath. He did his best to get his lungs to fill properly and get his chest to give counter-pressure against your hand, but couldn’t quite manage. "It’s alright," you eased him, "take your time. Just focus on the rhythm of the pressure of my hand and try to breathe with that." You felt how Marko was really trying to, but also how he wasn’t succeeding yet. His inhales were broken by shudders, and his exhales disrupted by sudden and involuntary gulps. "That’s it," you encouraged anyway, "easy does it."

Your hand never left his chest as you gently applied pressure and released it, with Marko doing his utmost best to get his breathing to fall in sync with it. You spoke soft encouragements, yet the silent moments in between were filled with Marko’s quiet whimpers. It didn’t matter to you how long it would take, you would help Marko through this.

---

Eventually, you sat with Marko like that for well over 30 minutes. There was no reason to rush anything. Soundchecks for the grand finale of tonight wouldn’t be starting for another few hours, so you gave him all the time he needed to pull himself out of this panic attack.

Marko’s pulse had returned to a regular, calm rhythm, as had his breathing. His trembling had subsided, but he sat beside you looking worn out from everything he had just gone through.

You gently let your hand fall away from Marko’s chest for the first time again. You kept a close eye on him, but he was able to keep his breaths calm by himself now. "Open your eyes," you said softly. Marko slowly did so. Even though the area where you sat was dimly lit, he still squinted at the light. He ran slightly trembling fingers through his silvery hair, before he finally looked up at you sitting next to him.

"I’m sorry about that." Marko sounded tired. "No need to apologise." You shook your head. "May I ask what happened?" "This happened." Marko chuckled wryly, motioning his hands to the area around you. "I’ve never performed at an event of this magnitude before. And… well, my stage fright took the better of me, I guess. It does that sometimes."

The airiness with which he spoke of his stage fright was pitiful, almost like it was the most common thing in the world for him. "But it doesn’t often get this bad, I reckon," you said sympathetically. "No." Marko sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair once more. "It doesn’t usually lead to a full-blown panic attack, and certainly not like this one, but, apparently, big stages lead to big anxiety." A dark chuckle followed. "That’s not even remotely funny," you scoffed. Marko gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I’m used to it by now."

He shifted his body, grunting softly as he stretched his cramped legs out in front of him. He leaned his head back against one of the crates behind him and glanced up at the ceiling for a moment.

"But what you did really helped me." He spoke after a few seconds of silence. "I’m not quite sure I would have gotten through this one on my own, so I’m really grateful." You shrugged. "I’ve got a bit of experience with panic attacks as well, I’m afraid. So I know how bad they can get."

Marko’s gaze slowly shifted back to you. "Yourself or helping someone deal with it?" "Myself, unfortunately." You sat back into a more comfortable position, too. "Some events in life leave more scars than you can imagine," you added darkly. "I’m sorry." Marko shortly rested a hand on your arm in support. "What I just did with you, my sister used to do that for me whenever my anxiety flared up," you explained, "it always helped me through it, so…" You let your voice trail off. "Well, tell her it’s a good technique." Marko winked lazily. "And I’m glad you’re the one who found me just now. Thank you." The sincere thankfulness was in his voice and in every fibre of his being.

The two of you talked for a while longer, before Marko slowly hoisted himself back onto his feet. He looked steady again, ready to go, and a glimpse of the extroverted Baby Lasagna shone through the cracks again.

"Will you be alright?" You stood back up, too. "Yes." Marko nodded confidently. "I know it sounds strange, especially after what you’ve seen just now, but it feels like I needed to get this out of my system in order to be ready for tonight." You chuckled, glad to see the sparkle of joy back in his eyes, instead of the sparkle of tears and panic. "Come see me if anything threatens to overwhelm you again." Marko nodded gratefully. "I sure will."

#baby lasagna #marko purisic #marko purišić #baby lasagna x reader #marko purisic x reader #baby lasagna imagine #baby lasagna fanfic #baby lasagna fanfiction #marko purisic imagine #marko purisic fanfic #marko purisic fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #eurovision #eurovision 2024 #eurovision fanfic #sarahspostsbabylasagna

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ro-sham-no · 28 days

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Sam’s wall breaks, and he won’t stop screaming.

it's his birthday so you KNOW i had to whump my boy

It’s been two days and fifteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

Blood droplets fly out of his mouth with wracking coughs as he chokes on hurried inhales, mucosal spit gumming up his trachea.

It’s been two days and sixteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

The only times he’s been silent in the last two days and seventeen hours is when he’s unconscious. The first bout - four hours and twenty-three minutes of silence - Dean’d just clocked him in the jaw when it was clear Sam was going to scream himself into involuntary suffocation - diaphragm and abdominal muscles locking up from the abuse. Dean knocked him unconscious for those four hours and twenty-three minutes, after six hours of his weeping and gnashing of teeth.

By the time he had woken up, Dean had shots of sedative and they were two hours into a twenty-eight-hour drive to Bobby’s - if nothing else, Dean’s efficient. Sam didn’t take notice.

And if the sounds he won’t stop making can be described as screaming, then the sounds he makes when Dean has to touch him while he’s awake can only be described as a death wail. Wailing and scrambling to get away from Dean with a fervor that earns them both violent shades of bruises.

It’s been two days and twenty hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

During the drive, whenever Sam’s anguish would escalate back into hair-tearing, along with beating his fists against his arms and thighs and threatening to bash his head into the windows of the Impala, Dean would pull over to force another dose of sedative into him.

The sounds he makes while Dean tries to subdue him… Well, even in the most remote location on their route, Dean was afraid the farmer whose house they could just barely see in the distance would be able to hear. It had to have been at least three miles away, with how flat the land was, and Dean was still worried that someone would hear.

Sam won’t stop screaming, and his screams are deafening- except when he’s unconscious, from the shots Dean gives him, the screaming is just in Dean’s mind. A haunting kind of tinnitus that rings in Dean’s ears, just as nauseating as the real deal, but a touch less heartbreaking.

He only allows himself to sleep for the first few hours of Sam being down for the count, despite the catatonic state that seemed to have taken over him. Dean wasn’t about to risk Sam waking up without him. They sleep together in the car, in the weeds and the bramble off of back roads, hidden from view. Baby’s paint has never been so scratched up.

It’s been two days and twenty-three hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

They’ve been at Bobby’s for the last twenty-four of those, trying to hold back on the sedative, because god knows they can’t keep it up forever or Sam’s heart is liable to just straight up quit, so they’ve been rationing it. Walking the nerve-wracking line between acceptable amounts of incomprehensible human suffering and causing an overdose that could just kill Sam, for good this time.

On the 72nd hour - that’s two days and twenty-four hours, or three days and zero hours, or 4,230 minutes and zero seconds, or 259,200 seconds and -

It’s been three days and zero hours, and Sam is awake, but he stops screaming.

And on the third day he will be raised…

Dean rushes over to check on him, but Sam is still breathing, heart still beating, body still holding itself upright, and he’s stopped screaming.

Now, though, two lines of salty tears trail down his face. For all his hysteric shrieking over the last three days, through all the rocking and swaying and the occasional distinct syllable of “no” over and over again, he hadn’t actually shed a tear, until now.

It’s been three days and zero hours and Sam’s tears are silent.

He’s staring far off into the distance - into the wall that’s four feet in front of him - and he is silent. Even his gasps are inaudible. No sniffling, not a single huff or quiver of breath. Just tears.

It’s been three days and zero hours and two minutes and both Dean and Bobby are in the room now, staring at Sam with undisguised fear-horror-confusion.

They stare at him and he begins to shake. Lightly, at first, but it grows. It always grows. Sam is silent, and he’s shaking, and his eyes stream tears with the consistency of a downpour, and Dean moves back in front of him. He’d stepped away to yell for Bobby out the door when it looked like Sam would live after his abrupt descent into silence. Dean steps back in front of him and reaches out to touch Sammy, and now Sam’s not silent. A three-minute silence and now it’s broken by Sam scrambling backward with a gasp that’s really more of an inhaled moan of fear, hastening back so far that he pushes off of the bed he’d been sitting on.

He crashes to the floor, out of Dean’s reach even as the man leaps forward with a cry of, “Sam!”

But Sam’s flight had been too fast, so he crashed to the ground and has now fallen silent again, but Dean can’t tell if there are still tears because Sam has wedged himself into a ball in the crease between the floor and the wall, form-fitting his back and ass over the baseboards hard enough to bruise. He’s hiding his face in his knees, still trembling, but still silent, so Dean can’t tell if the tears have stopped. He isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.

Because now it’s been three days and five minutes, and Sam’s curled up in sublimation.

He’s crammed against the wall, his knees are up in front of him, spread only far enough to shove his head between them - but down quite far, uncomfortably so, contorted - but his hands aren’t curled up like the rest of him. Instead, his hands are held out around his legs, stretched around them and then upward, palms out like he’s receiving something sacred. Or like he’s giving it away.

It’s been three days and six minutes and Sam is trembling in sublimation.

The room is silent, Dean and Bobby don’t know what to do, but he isn’t hurting himself and he isn’t screaming so they wait him out.

It’s been three days and thirty minutes, by the time anything happens.

At first, Bobby thinks it’s the creaks of his house. At first, Dean thinks it’s the creaks of his soul. They’re both wrong, they realize, as the sound is actually coming from Sam, but it reverberates in such a way that it’s equally loud from every corner of the room. Dean wonders, faintly and somewhat hysterically, when Sam learned ventriloquy.

It’s a low but resounding utterance, indistinguishable at first, but becoming more distinct with every syllable, losing its eerie ambience and beginning to actually come from Sam as its focal point. Whatever Sam is saying, deep into his chest in a tone that aches, becomes clearer, but neither of the other two men can understand it.

Sam’s palms are still held up in front of his shins. His head is still shoved between his knees, and he’s still trembling. He finishes his recitation but doesn’t fall silent. Instead, he switches to a language that Dean realizes with a jolt that he can understand the words, seconds before Bobby realizes it, too.

“Pater noster, qui es in שְׁאוֹל, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in שְׁאוֹל et in terra.”

A sickening aura falls over the room as both lucid men hear the exceptions to the otherwise familiar prayer. “On earth, as it is in שְׁאוֹל,” Sam had said. Sheol, the subterranean final resting place. The pit. “The place of no return, the land of utter darkness and deep shadow.”

Hell.

Our Father who art in the pit of utter death and darkness…

It’s been three days and one hour by the time Sam finishes his contritions.

By then, he’d recited that first chant in the same unknown language twice more, alternating it with the Latin rendition of the Lord’s prayer.

Hallowed be thy name…

Dean has a gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what that other language is.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in שְׁאוֹל, the deep shadow.

The cadence, the tone; they’re the same. Distorted by the foreign, guttural tones of the other language, but they cut through Dean with the same taste. Sam is repeating the same thing over and over again, just in alternating tongues. The familiar Latin combined with the unfamiliar, grating timbre of the other.

The repugnant language of the wretched Divine.

Those accursed, winged beasts, just like the one his brother, his Sammy has been locked up with for an earth-year. And who knows what that timeline looked like, in the depths? Nothing sears in your mind quite like the crushing realization that virtually no real time has passed when you return from it, Dean remembers. The rock constantly lodged in the base of Dean's chest, taking up space where his lungs are supposed to go, which screams out, your pain was never real.

Did time distort further the further down you went in hell? Was Dean’s 40-year stint a mere blink in the face of the time Sam had been locked up with that thing that did this to him?

The only reason Dean’s stomach isn’t on the floor in front of him is because his stomach is empty, the pervasive ache of the last few days locking it up tight. Sam has been screaming and Dean hasn't been eating, but he's never been less hungry in his life.

It’s been three days and one hour and Dean’s been crying for every single second of them.

The wailing and screaming had gouged at him, in that way little baby's cries gouge at unsuspecting figures passing by, striking that deep, maternal cord within them. The same way little toddler-Sam’s cries had always gouged at Dean. The same way, too, that not-so-little teenaged Sam’s sniffles into his pillow that he thought were muffled had always gouged at Dean.

If the screams had been gouging at him, this reverent recitation was gutting him. Viscerally, like a fish being pulled sharply off of a too-big hook that it had somehow managed to swallow down too far. Catch and release turned into a pitiful horror.

But it’s been three days and one hour, now, and Sam’s finished his latest round of the Lord’s prayer - Latin this time - and he’s fallen silent again.

His hands are still held out, despite how bad it must make his shoulders and wrists ache with the tension of his stillness. Before Dean can think to do anything, though, Sam continues, but he breaks the pattern. Instead, his voice is much shakier now, and he starts to plead, the only term applicable to the tone of voice Sam has taken on: wretched, and full of supplication. Pleading, in Latin still,

“Elohim, Messiah - Please take this temptation from me. Please, as you have so graciously promised, benevolent Savior, tempt me not with this Sin of the Flesh. I am too weak, Father. This temptation is too great and I cannot bear it.

Temptation? Father?

The formal tone rankles. The self-deprecation vexes. The use of Father to refer to the most foul being to ever walk above and below the earth seethes and horrifies. Dean is rankled. Dean is vexed. Dean seethes, and he is horrified.

“Take Him from my sight, יהוה, keep me away from His fraternal presence, please, Lord. Balm though He is to my soul, grateful though I am for this offering, I am too weak to refrain from Sin.”

Fraternal? Sin?

“I would naught but bastardize this precious gift, and thine hand wilt be forced against me, as thou shalt flay me apart; dissect me to make penance for my transgressions. I do not wish this, Father, so please: Take Him from me, do not allow my wretched Sin to pervade in thine realm.”

Just because Dean’s stomach is empty doesn’t mean it isn’t trying valiantly to make an appearance. At the word “fraternal,” Bobby had started pushing him out the door. Stunned, Dean hadn’t fought back. There’s bile on Bobby’s hardwood floor outside the bedroom Sam and Bobby were still in.

Sam spoke as if Dean’s presence was the temptation, one too great to bear. And he spoke as if to God, but Dean knew better, he knew where Sam had been. Where Dean let him go. No gods to be seen, not there. What Sin had Lucifer contrived between them, to make Sam pay penance for? What occurred between them for Sam to be… Flayed alive. Dissected.

Dean’s not stupid enough to believe that's anything but literal.

Bobby swings the door mostly-closed just in time for Sam to finish his pleas and lower his arms.

It’s been three days and one hour and ten minutes, and Sam raises his head.

Dean watches through the crack in the door, concealed in the darkness of the hallway. He’s holding his breath and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for not rushing right back to Sam's side. But something is holding him back, and he doesn’t want to name it.

(Fraternal… Sin?)

Sam raises his head but keeps his eyes scrunched shut - tears and snot are dripping down his face, which is a blotchy red but somehow still pallid with fear. He’s shaking worse than before as he straightened his back out, sitting up and letting his legs fold down so he’s cross-legged. Not relaxed, but no longer contorted. Finally, he releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes, pointing down at the floor.

Bobby shifts his weight purposefully and Sam’s eyes fly to him with a wild flinch of fear. It hangs in the air uncomfortably long before he recognizes the man in the room with him, and he lets out a sob of what Dean hopes is relief.

He quickly bows his head and shifts up onto his knees in a simple prayer position, hands pressed together in a booklet of gratitude as he sobs out, “Thank you, Messiah, Morningstar. Thank you.”

Then, with a big sigh, he allows himself to look back at Bobby, but his gaze is clinical, observing. He whispers, through his hitching, wet breaths, “He did it. I can't believe he did it. He’s gone. I don’t have to do it again, not yet.”

Sam’s face crumples as he’s hysterical with relief, and Dean’s clawing his own arms raw and bloody outside the door, desperate to get to the crying baby and soothe it, desperate to kiss toddler-Sam’s scraped knees, desperate to tell teenage-Sam that nothing will ever change the way Dean feels about him, despite whatever darkness he seems to think is inside of him. But still, he’s held back by that unspeakable Sin between them. Lucifer didn’t contrive it, Dean knows that. He holds himself back.

Bobby speaks up then, gruff and wary, “Don’t have to do what, yet?”

Sam startles before finally, really looking at Bobby like he’s a human on the same plane of existence as him, not like he’s a mildly interesting fixture on a non-existent wall.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, Bobby. It’s good to see you,” Sam cracks a smile, and it encapsulates one thousand shades of grief.

Sam continues quieter, once again to himself, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. But you’re not Him, so it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Bobby squints at him long and hard, eyeing his more relaxed posture and at least somewhat lucid speech - odd though it may be - before he glances at the crack in the door and gives a tiny eyebrow raise that says, get your ass in here.

Dean slowly cracks the door open and calls out to his baby brother, just as he comes into view, “Sammy?”

His reaction is violent. If Sam was pallid before, he’s now a putrid shade of green, face twisting up in horror as he shakes his head, wringing his hands and mumbling out at first, devolving quickly into yells into the aether, into the corners of the room, “No! No, no- please, you promised, no-”

He collapses into himself on the floor, half hidden behind the bed, putting it between him and Dean. The trembling returns with moans and cries incessantly pouring out of Sam’s mouth as he buries his head in his hands, gripping at his face and whatever hair is in reach with too much force, wailing out a constant stream of no, no, no!

Dean takes an involuntary step forward into the room, drawn in by that maternal wretchedness. Desperate, always desperate, to comfort his baby brother.

When his boot sounds on the carpet - muted but oh-so-loud to Sam’s ears - the cries lose their shape, hiccupping wails of no quickly becoming unintelligible and increasingly frantic, building and building until it can only be described as a howling scream.

It’s been three days and one hour and fifteen minutes, and Sam won’t stop screaming.

#2.5k+ words #lucifer wants to be jesus #religious imagery #aftermath of torture #mentally anyway #this doesn't rlly follow canon LOL whoops #(#spn #wincest #< implied/referenced #sam winchester #sam whump #happy sam winchester's birthday #to those who celebrate #)

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victimeyez · 9 months

Text

Professional//Victim

Darwin

CW: captive whump, drugged whump, graphic depictions of torture, intimate whump

Taglist: @lonesome--hunter

The nausea starts when they roll off the highway. An unfamiliar town lies here, sporting lots of fancy diners and shops for wasps.

“It’s coming up. Get ‘im lively.”

Tommy had been awake for a while now, but a bump of coke made him “more lively” for clients. The bitter taste didn’t help his stomach when he rubbed it into his gums. Sure, it was more direct up the sniffer, but one time he sneezed blood into the passenger window, so they switched strictly to the oral route. He didn’t like the taste or the buzz, but it helped with the pain a little. Not that it mattered.

His stomach drops to his knees when they turn off onto a long side street and begin passing houses. Only a few down and they turn onto a long, neat driveway that slithered into the woods. Finally, a house emerged from the foliage.

(Brown, drab. Not a mansion, but expensive. Groomed lawn. Driveway, maybe a quarter mile. Isolated. Definitely not a client we’ve seen before. New clients are always crapshoots.)

Caius dragged Tommy up the path to the door. He hesitated before ringing the doorbell, making Tommy face him while he fixed his curls and looked him over. He pinched his cheeks and his lips to give him a flushed look, pinching some of his eyelashes between his fingers and tugging them painfully. He repeated it on the other side, making Tommy’s eyes water so they were tearful and moony. He then pressed the gold-framed button next to the door. A twinkling classical piece played inside in lieu of a standard bell.

A middle-aged man answered too quickly, surprisingly well dressed in a tortoiseshell suit and matching glasses. He looked like a professor. He smiled kindly at the two of them.

“Please, come in.”

Caius put a firm hand on Tommy's shoulder and pushed him through the doorframe into the house, while the client politely held the door for the pair. He closed it behind them and activated an electronic lock, hidden from the outside. A heavy deadbolt slid into place with a loud chink. It resonated with an ominous finality that made Tommy’s stomach clench.

“I am Darwin. I take it this is Tommy?” He gestured to Tommy.

“I’m Caius, and this is Tommy.”

Darwin nodded, and then hesitated as he began to turn.

“Forgive me if I’m new to the etiquette of these…arrangements. Could I offer you a water, or maybe some wine?”

“Don’t worry about formalities, you’ve paid for us to be here. Let’s not waste your time.”

Darwin's eyebrows raised just a touch, but he seemed relieved to dispense with niceties. He began up a flight of stairs, which Caius ensured Tommy followed close behind. His heart was starting to pound and his feet felt heavy. Upstairs rooms were less common than basements. They somehow felt so much more intimate. Tommy had long since learned you can’t tell what a client wants based on appearance. He wasn’t sure what he feared more - a dungeon, or a bedroom.

He could feel himself starting to shut down already, and he embraced the dissociation.

(Left, right, left, right, keep walking, just follow. Don’t feel anything, just exist. There’s nothing you can do now. Just breathe. Disconnect from the feeling of desperation. We don’t have to remember this part.)

He walked robotically behind Darwin until he was led into a room that looked like an enormous study, with a fireplace at one side and rows of nice bookshelves and displays lined the walls. The display closest to him looked something like fireplace tools, but not like ones he had seen before. The floors were of a rich hardwood.

“Remove your shoes, Tommy.”

He hated it when they used his name. As if they knew him. As if they were friends. All it took was a warning look from Caius and he peeled off his tennis shoes, setting them awkwardly to the side. (Avoid eye contact. Makes it easier.)

“Are you wearing underwear?”

Tommy didn’t like where this was headed. He despised the romantic ones.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Strip down to them.”

Tommy mechanically removed his shirt, and then more hesitantly, his sweats. He was down to plain black boxers, a stark contrast to well-dressed Darwin. He handed them off to Caius while his eyes scoured the room.

The center of the room was filled with precariously placed items that looked very old and worn. There was a big lumpy looking chair made of wood, a kind of bench-like table with three rolling pins attached in the middle, and a big sort of horse-shaped wooden structure. It looked badly built, and had a big triangle for the saddle.

(Don’t panic. Don’t run. You don’t have to know what’s happening. Don’t think about it. Don't think at all. Turn your brain off. It makes it easier.)

“I curate for the museum here, and over the years I’ve become a bit of a collector of sorts myself. When the museum here wasn’t interested in these pieces, I knew I just had to buy them up. Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten the chance to play with them, and they’ve gone without use. Then I found a video of Tommy here online, and I thought I found the perfect person to try them out.”

Thomas felt like his body was moving without his will as he was led to the chair, which upon closer look, was more than uncomfortable. It had no open slats but was made of uncut pieces of wood with a high back, wide arm rests, a flat seat, and another solid plate between the front legs, almost to the floor. Every inch of it was covered in neat rows of small, wooden spikes.

“Which video?” Caius asked conversationally.

(Market research.)

“It was some kind of flogging scene, with Mistress Alice. A few months ago now.”

Tommy’s head swam before he realized he was holding his breath. He felt a little shaken by the mention of Alice, and struggled to stay adrift from his feelings.

“It looks like he’s healed up marvelously though,” Darwin appreciated, looking him over hungrily.

“He cleans up well, and we have excellent doctors on hand. We cannot allow certain things that will damage him beyond repair, so I will be staying with you for our time. Most nerves can be fixed, but no severing of central tendons or arteries, and go easy on the spine to keep basic motor controls intact.”

Darwin nodded. “They shouldn’t puncture too deeply. Everything is antique, but sanitized.”

Without ceremony, Tommy was shoved back into the chair.

He took a sharp breath in when all the points sank in at once, biting into the sensitive flesh of his ass and thighs. The shock of It was like being submerged in icy water. He instinctively leaned forwards away from the back of the chair, but he could feel beads of blood forming where he had knocked into them initially.

Hands appeared from nowhere, wrapping a leather strap across his throat and pulling him flat against the back of the chair. The shock of the pain winded him, and he gasped for breath as Darwin fastened his restraints. His ankles were locked with leather and pulled taut hard to force his legs into the spikes, and his arms were pulled hard down on the spiked armrests. Thick leather cuffs bound his wrists in place, and slight sides built into the back ensured his outer arms were also penetrated.

The best he could do was try to arch his back away from the back of the chair, but with his neck fastened it only seemed to drive the ones in his shoulders deeper. The awkward position made his back start to cramp immediately, and he doubted he could hold it for long. The urge to fight the restraints was overruled by the pain that the slightest movement caused, and he found himself paralyzed by it. Even breathing agitated the punctures, and on instinct he started to breathe shallowly to avoid it. A muted thought came to him, of the sharp wooden skewers used for shish kabobs, and he suddenly related to being a piece of skewered meat.

He vaguely registered that Darwin had stood back and was watching him, a great grin on his face.

“This piece is called the ‘Armchair of Inquiries’ - a bit of a cheeky name, in my opinion. This one was actively used a bit longer than most, with the last recorded use being May 8th, 1868. I’ve had it thoroughly cleaned and disinfected just for you.”

Tommy tried to pull his head away from the pins, only resulting in choking himself against the leather collar.

Darwin smiled. “I had that strap attached as an extra, from a heretic’s fork. I think it makes a good addition, even if it wasn’t the original.”

There was something deeply sickening about the pride in Darwin’s voice, while he gladly explained history that hardly mattered to the butterfly he had pinned.

The initial shock was starting to wear off, but the pain was blooming. He doubted there was enough coke in the world to shield him from this. His shallow panting took on a whine to it on every exhale as the pain began to steep.

Darwin had walked away, and returned with quick steps holding some sort of miniature harness. It consisted of metal bands arched and connected, with an adjustable leather strap. Tommy couldn’t identify it, but the glee with which Darwin presented it made him think he would find out the hard way very soon.

With a surprisingly gentle hand, Darwin guided his head forward as far as it could go against his neck restraint, and slipped the harness over his head.

“This one has many names, and many forms. It was the first piece in my collection. There are other ones that are shaped like pigs, or fools with long noses, or even a cone coming out from the mouthpiece. Just to name a few.”

At being masked, Tommy started to panic and struggle, shoving hard against his restraints only to have the spikes impale him again and again, agitating the wounds with every movement.

“Wait, wait, wait, fuck, fuck, wait you don’t have to do this-”

Tommy finally begged, which Darwin only acknowledged with a soft smile as he worked the cage mask on. There was a metal band that ran down the back of his head, parting his hair, but pushing him off of impalement on the spikes there as the metal band rested atop the points.

The other band came down the middle of his face, forking into a triangle around his nose. Right below, it connected to a thicker metal band across his mouth, and a sharp obtrusion from it pressed hard against his lips. He clenched his teeth against it to try to keep it out, abruptly ending his ability to beg with words. His pleas reduced to panicked keens of fear and pain.

“It’s called a bridle mask, a scold’s bridle, a mask of shame…” Darwin rattled off idly. He tapped a finger against the metal bit against Tommy’s lips.

“If you can’t feel it yet, there’s another spike in here. I’m about to fasten this tight across your jaw, and if you don’t let it in, it’s going to puncture through your lips and cause you quite a bit more…discomfort. Open up for me, Tommy.”

Darwin’s hands cradled his face with a disturbing intimacy, stroking over his cheeks. His fingers found the hollows of his cheeks and pushed into them sharply, forcing his jaw open. A long metal spike followed by a thick metal bit pushed in, and he had to curl his tongue to keep it from skewering straight through. The metal bit held his jaw slightly open, but if he tried to speak, he would pierce his tongue.

The strap at his jaw was pulled sharply taut and secured. Darwin’s hands returned to his cheeks, stroking his face gently between the gaps of the mask.

(Don’t spiral. Just another - just ignore it - the pain is - how much -)

His best guards against the pain were failing, easily overwhelmed by this unfamiliar torture. A new hysteria was building deep inside of him, and he was starting to grow light-headed from his shallow panting around the gag.

Darwin’s lips were parted and he was panting a little too, his face so close, hungry eyes roving over Tommy’s own caged face. His thumbs tenderly stroked comforting circles over the apples of his cheeks, and Tommy felt a wetness there. (When did we start crying?) His eyes felt so heavy as they spilled over without relief.

Darwin closed the gap between them suddenly, pressing his lips intensely against the outside of the gag. Tommy tried to turn away from him, but Darwin’s gentle hands became restraints holding his head in place. He slowly kissed and tongued and licked the dark metal there, and Tommy couldn’t help the harsh whimpers escaping his opened mouth.

Darwin finally pulled away, his lips wet. A strong urge to wretch boiled in Tommy’s gut.

“You look so beautiful.”

His stomach lurched.

“I have one more piece for you,” Darwin murmured, mostly to himself.

Tears ran down the sides of his face, wetting the metal harness as it started to warm against his skin.

“But before that…can I take a picture?”

Tommy was confused for a moment until his brain finally caught up to the fact that Caius was still there, sitting off to the side and witnessing his agony with a look of profound boredom.

“Sure. I have a camera in my bag if you’d like me to take some nice ones for you. It doesn’t cost extra if you let us also use them for promotional materials.”

Darwin licked his lips. “Of course.”

Tommy let out a miserable moan of protest, with heavy tears of humiliation and pain dripping down his face and cooling uncomfortably at his neck.

Caius kept a calm demeanor of cool indifference while he circled Tommy, collecting photos with his camera. Tommy was only addressed with a sharp snapping of fingers, directing him to look one way or another. He could see a dark reflection of his face in the wide lens of the camera, and he closed his eyes with a sob.

Darwin emerged to be front and center again, holding one of the metal tools that Tommy had noticed when he entered. It was a crude, thin piece of metal, with two fork-like tines on each end. He held it up so Tommy could see it, and then playfully tapped one side of tines against his cheek.

“The heretic’s fork. It fits right in here,” Darwin offered, and slipped it into a leather buckle of the collar around his throat. Tommy tipped his head back to try to avoid it, but yelped when he felt one pronged end pushed shallowly into his neck behind his collar bones. This firmly locked the fork vertically against his throat, the tines on the opposite side baring threateningly against the soft flesh under his jaw.

“If you can keep your head up, this won’t hurt.”

With this last attachment, Tommy suddenly felt entirely overwhelmed with helplessness. He couldn't move an inch, couldn’t even breathe without disturbing the bed of thorns beneath him. His tongue was cramped in the back of his throat, and he was starting to drool around the gag. Lowering his head at all would impale him on the tines of the fork, driving it both into his jaw and into his sternum. He couldn’t think of a time he was held in such strict binding, and his brain was starting to short circuit with the horror of his situation.

Darwin seized this opportunity to lean in and press another kiss over his gag. Tommy whined impotently, hyper-aware of his inability to pull away.

Darwin stood back and took a long, shuddery breath of excitement. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“P-pictures, please,” he called breathily. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas could see Caius toss his cellphone aside and get back up to take pictures.

Tommy stared at the ceiling, blinking tears of terror. He always hated the feeling of something stuck inside of him, the gnawing urge to pull it out only growing with the many barbs penetrating his skin. He thought his regular collar was bad enough. He could no longer see anything around him, and he had no idea where Darwin or Caius were in proximity to him. The anxiety made him tense, agitating his wounds.

“This doesn’t quite fit in with the others, but, well…we only have so much time. I think this will speed things up.”

He sounded close. There was a popping, crackling sound Tommy couldn’t quite place.

(How much time do we have? How long has it been? It felt like an hour, at least. Maybe. It always feels slower than it is.)

Something touched him, two dull points maybe an inch or two apart. Pressed to his diaphragm. He braced himself for it to puncture him, but for a long minute it just rested there. Darwin was breathing heavier. (Psyching himself-)

His body was on fire.

It almost felt like relaxing. He lost all control while a painful, hot tingling went through his body. He spasmed, shuddering violently until it stopped as suddenly as it had started.

He sagged back into his bindings, but the damage had been done. There were a thousand points on his body that throbbed in urgent pain. It was a full-body pain like he had never experienced before. It was terrifying not being able to look down at his body to see how bad it was - he felt like his skin must be shredded, vivid imaginings of his flayed corpse pinned to this throne.

A touch against his diaphragm, heavy breathing in front of him. Excited sounds from Darwin. He was lit up once more, for a longer time. He could feel himself tearing around the spikes. This time he was vaguely aware of the sound it pulled from his, a deep, guttural cry as the breath was knocked from his body. It was a unique sound he didn’t recognize as his own voice, but a deep wail of anguish. It felt entirely disconnected, like the sound was coming from the prod pushed to his stomach, not his body.

When it ended, his vision was swimming. Everything was black, gray, yellow, dancing shadows. He blinked a few times as he slowly started to come back to his senses.

This time, he noticed the foam in his throat. He coughed, and blood burned on his lips, long dried from the gag. He finally registered the taste of blood on his tongue, the pain in his mouth. His tongue had been speared on the spike inside of the gag. His brain couldn’t process where or how his tongue was pierced, but he drooled blood out the corner of his lips and struggled to swallow the rest pooling in his throat. He couldn’t identify an exact moment when, but the fork under his chin had been driven into his jaw, and judging by the burning pain in his chest, it was up to the hilt on bottom as well.

Darwin let him stew with the tip of his device pressed to his stomach again. Tommy sucked in a breath, his only chance at pulling away from it, but his movement was easily followed.

He writhed in his restraints as he was electrocuted again, spasming uncontrollably even as it tore him open. Everything was pain, every breath, his nose burned, his eyes rolled back into his head. It let up again and he shuddered to stillness. He could still feel the tingle, and he continued to twitch in spite of his best attempts. He dry wretched, blood in his throat, in his stomach, making him sick. The still room reeled around him.

“Next time…you can call me Arthur.”

It felt a bit like sweating, an intense sweating across the entire side of his body. As the blood trickled out underneath him, he was starting to feel very cold. The shocks left him feverish, and he felt quite sick, like when he had the flu and felt hot and cold at the same time. He hoarsely barked out sobs that wracked his body. Every surface he touched pooled blood, making his seat feel wet and tarry underneath him. He was limp in his restraints, his heavy head supported solely by the prongs driven into him.

He numbly felt a prodding against his naked torso, and unconsciousness took its mercy on him.

pictures of tools used: x

series masterlist: x

prev: x next x

#captive whumpee #intimate whumper #sadistic whumper #medieval torture #professional victim

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whumpshaped · 6 months

Note

Hiii can we have a look into helle's life when they were alone at the mansion?? (after their siblings left but before they met beck)

-whumppmuhw

masterlist

tw emotional whump, lashing out, vampire whumpee, abandonment

Helle's footsteps were unbearably loud in the empty hallway. The constant, suffocating silence was nothing but a reminder of just how lonely they were, and they felt like they were starting to go a little crazy from it.

"I do not need any of you," they snapped, but the way their own voice bounced off the walls and got swallowed by the stillness did little to make them feel less alone. "I do not need a sire to tell me what to do. I do not need disloyal, ungrateful siblings."

They walked down the stairs, anxious to be doing something, anything, but found they had no idea how to pass the time. The books reminded them of the lady, the harpsichord still held the touch of Nikolai's skillful hands, the chessboard and the deck of cards brought forth memories of Isabella's gentle explanations and Aurora's childish whining about how it wasn't fair that she'd had so much more time to get good at the games.

They should've gotten rid of it all. They should've torn them all up, broken them, thrown them away, they should've purged every single item that served to make them so miserable; but parting with them was an even worse thought.

What if they came back? What would they say about it? Would they be angry with them? Would they call them stupid and emotional? An immature brat who couldn't handle rejection? Or abandonment? Or isolation?

"If you'd wished to hold onto these, you should not have left!" they exclaimed. "I am not the immature one! I am not the one who ran away without a word! What is that if not immaturity? What is it if not cowardice?"

They grabbed the chessboard and threw it against the wall, watching as the wood splintered and broke. The pieces flew in every which direction, rolling around loudly until they inevitably knocked into something and came to a halt.

Way too quickly, everything was still again.

Helle dropped to a crouch, then sat on the carpet, burying their face in their knees. They screamed into the soft fabric of their pants, earnestly, hoping to get out all the pointless frustration and grief. They didn't need any of it. They didn't want it. They didn't want to feel like it had all been for naught.

They stayed like that for a while after, clutching fistfuls of their hair and sobbing like a petulant child, unwilling to face the reality they themself had created. Why, why, why, why them. There were so many others out there, worse people, and yet all the damn tragedies seemed to be standing in line in front of their door.

They just wanted someone to tell them it had been worth it. That it wasn't wrong of them to want something better, to want to be free. That it wasn't a choice between constant torture and debilitating loneliness, or at least it wouldn't be, not forever.

They just wanted a hug, even if it was from a disgusting fucking corpse like themself.

They took a deep breath, slowly untangling their fingers from their hair. They didn't look up yet — they didn't want to see the ruined chessboard, nor imagine Isabella smacking them upside the head for having thrown a tantrum like that. But they breathed, mindfully and deliberately, and it made the weeping stop.

Clearly, there was nothing to do in the mansion. They had to get out.

They pushed themself to their feet, swaying a little from the utter exhaustion of it all, and walked to the front door. There would be plenty of warm bodies to hold out there, no? What did they need vampires for?

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @thecyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries @morning-star-whump @d-cs @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @tauntedoctopuses @blueyellow8green @typewrittenfangs @whumpsoda @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @auroragehenna @whumpedydump

#whump #whump writing #at my beck and call #helle #emotional whump #lashing out #vampire whumpee #abandonment

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theprodigalpragmatist · 3 months

Text

Fic Tag Chain

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern! (thank you to @roxannepolice for the tag!!!)

"Six dogs. One Will Graham." ~ old mr graham had troubles of his own (will graham + dogs + cat + L + ratio)

"At first there’s sound—noise, really—it grates and grates and is that panting he hears?" ~ you reap what you sow (uhhh...tensimm identity crisis with a twist, we'll go with)

“Kneel.” ~ cut mouth bleeding razors (tensimm smut, with its own twist, even...)

"The issue isn’t that the Doctor is old, though he is…unpleasant to look at, the Master can admit that." ~ hand in unlovable hand in unlovable hand (simm master + simm master + ten + the most rancid selfcest vibes in eternity)

"They used to play a game when they were children, a long, long time ago." ~ a martyrdom, a kingdom that will never come (part ii of a gallifreyan funerary ritual fic w/ @koscheiisms, tensimm edition)

"Borusa was the one who found them." the purest lick of fire (part i of the gallifreyan funerary ritual fic, academy era thoschei, torvic rock murder ft. borusa pov)

"He stumbles, helpless as a newborn woprat, and sometimes not being bad is like being good, so she watches him meet the ground of his own accord without throwing herself into the mix." ~ and i find you with a thimble weeping (tenmissy <3 beloved tenmissy <3)

"He opens his eyes to darkness, to a staunch nothingness that grates in its totality." Clawing for the Stars (sam tyler whump) (edit: currently hidden because of bot targeting 😔)

"Crawly adjusted the tails of their blouse around their embroidered girdle, the shirt spread wide and exposing the smooth planes of their chest." As time began unwinding, I'd be yours alone (aziracrow through the ages + music)

"The knife glints in the peek between shadows—sharp, wicked, honed to a point and chipped towards the hilt." i'm only what you wanted for a little while (installment from ongoing series informally known as 'saxteen kissies')

WOW okay i am terrible at analysis...however, fascinated by the recent trend of launching into the thick of it...in my head, most of my fics start with a heavy lead-up, this is really great insight! and was a blast to do, so thank you again @roxannepolice!

tagging @lohengreen @harrowq @koscheiisms @incorrectquotesconaisseur @thesecondbeatitude (fully sure i've double tagged people but soo la voo, as the kids say) (please join in if not tagged if you'd like!)

#hannibal #tensimm #thoschei #tenmissy #life on mars #good omens #saxteen #prodigalpragmafic #i really need to change that tag

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clavissionary-position · 2 years

Text

*clothing rustle*

HOW TO UNDRESS A GILBERT

GILBERT × R E A D E R VON OBSIDIAN

✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ WARNING 200% crack, 15% random smut. Please don't take anything here seriously, or literally, or as fact. WORD COUNT ~3000 AO3 clicky

MINORS / AGELESS BLOGS DNI

※　Due to the nature of Gilbert's outfit, it is strongly recommended that he be standing when you start.

STEP 1

The cloak has to go first. His gloves are skin-tight enough that they won't interfere with the removal of other articles beforehand (pun intended). The belt on the cloak attaches just above his left breast-pocket using a heavy-duty clasp.

Except just-kidding, that's a red-herring in case someone decides to unclasp his cloak in close-quarters-battle to use against him. Unfortunately, anyone fool enough to try will just be giving Gilbert the upper-hand.

To actually unfasten his cloak you have to sneak your hand under the cloak's collar where the other end of the belt disappears into. There's a hidden push-button clasp there. Gilbert isn't ticklish but he'll certainly pretend he is just to fuck with you.

The fur is attached directly to the collar of the cloak, so this is a one-and-done deal. Be aware that the cloak is extremely heavy and don't be afraid to just drop it on the spot and enjoy the beautiful WHUMP that it makes, like angel wings come to rest.

STEP 2

Your next stop is the secondary belt that crosses diagonally over his chest.

This belt is a mystery, and for reasons of national importance you are not permitted to know how to remove it. Gilbert must always be the one to remove this belt. I repeat. GILBERT MUST REMOVE THIS BELT HIMSELF. It's not just a simple single-pronged screw-clasp belt. Don't get cocky.

STEP 3

Now for his main belt. The plate buckle must be lifted half a centimeter towards you at a precise 180 degree angle so you can slide the leather through the hook on the plate's underside. You may consider doing this while cornering Gilbert against a wall. If you're feeling bold, advise him not to touch you until you're done. Before handling the buckle, you might angle his hips closer toward you by giving the strap a tug.

Don't tug on just the belt loop by itself because it'll throw you off-balance and put you in a vulnerable position for a sensual counter-attack. Unless you're wearing a hat that hides your ears for some reason. I mean Gilbert would just cutely headbutt the hat off you, but why did you bring a hat to this?

CAUTION. The outer edge of the buckle is lined with poison that activates by touch. The poison can penetrate any fabric except for the mysterious medieval nano-material that Gilbert's gloves consist of. This is why you'll never see Gilbert remove his belt bare-handed (though he has the antidote if he must; and yes, he'll try to convince you that the antidote must be administered mouth-to-mouth, but you must remain vigilant! Think about it: does that make any sense? No? Good. Gilbert was just testing you).

Yeah. It's probably best if you leave this belt to Gilbert too. But if he lets you borrow his gloves just so you can undress him, count yourself lucky. And if Gilbert gets you your own matching set of gloves, I mean that's basically a marriage proposal.

But wait, you say, remembering a thing. Didn't Gilbert stick his glove between his teeth that one time after presumably touching his cane?

No he didn't. That's not a CG that exists. What are you talking about? What wet-suitor collection event?

Fine, okay. Yes. That happened. The rain washed away the poison 💀

STEP 4

The mini-waistbelt. It may be thin, but it has a massive temper if you try to remove it. Would not recommend trying it if you value having a nose and teeth.

But since you've already come this far, the steps to remove it are as follows:

Pray.

Tell your loved-ones you love them, or have secretly hated them this entire time.

Place your left hand on Gilbert's right hip; make sure you have proper footing.

Place your right hand on the belt buckle like you're pinching a flaccid penis that is much, much, much tinier than Gilbert's flaccid penis.

Pray again in case you skipped step one.

Use your thumbnail to test the prong. Consider the materials, the craftsmanship, the German Engineering.

Hold your breath and rip the belt from his waist; he can always replace the belt.

Redeem your kiss from Gilbert, and for fuck's sake take off that hat.

If you trip over the discarded belt because you didn't throw it far enough away:

Please, I do insist you pray.

Try to trip directly onto Gilbert's chest so he can live out all of his otome fantasies. Let him commit your scent to memory.

It's okay to grab his cravat in the process because it won't loosen or tighten either way [see section on his cravat below]

It's not okay to grab his pants because no one wants to be pantsed by accident. Also Gilbert's pants don't come off that easy, so you'd just end up dislocating your arm.

If you trip into a natural, organic, Whole Foods fellatio-giving posture, take advantage of it. Gilbert's still wearing too many layers to give a proper, unimpeded blowjob, but just ghosting your mouth over the area with a hint of teeth will make him feel desirable.

Rub some sensual circles through the fabric of his pants; spell out your name with his last name appended onto it (Gilbert is a genius and he can easily-read any message you rub onto his shaft). His inner thighs, particularly past the adductor muscles back toward his glutes, are incredibly sensitive. Placing your palms against them and slowly fanning your fingers out while you nom on his bulge will quietly destroy him. Too bad you can't see his surprised-sprite-expression in the night.

STEP 5

At this stage you should be down to his military coat. You can ignore the epaulets and ropework and tasselry (unless you want to take a moment to mourn all the carnage they represent) because they're all directly attached to the coat.

If you find yourself tangled in the ropes in your attempt to free Gilbert's arm, don't worry. You have a few half-seconds before Gilbert ensnares you further and halts your honest undressing efforts with erotic tickling.

Use this time well. Consider using Gilbert's own cane to jam the insides of his elbows. The maneuver will both stop him and impress him. But also, do not actually do this, because his cane is coated in that same poison from before.

Why is there such a learning-curve to undressing this man? Don't worry though. Why? I don't know.

The coat itself requires extreme focus while unbuttoning. You don't have to go in order, but if you don't, you run the risk of becoming confused about which buttons you have or haven't touched. Gilbert's coat is what the common people refer to as an optical illusion, and what Clavis calls "an intellectual torture device". It is strongly recommended that you study the unbuttoning maneuver on a practice-coat.

And to be sure, at NO point is Gilbert going to help you on this one. You're screwed if you mess up. And Gilbert is going to enjoy every last second of it.

If by some stroke of luck you manage to get his coat off, please be kind enough to fold it and set it on his bed. You can also consider draping it over the window for some extra privacy, but imagine you're an Obsidianite soldier on the ground below and you see your boss's coat covering the window? You're gonna think to yourself, "Oh no, the boss is doing laundry in his room again. I should stop this before it escalates." There goes your hard-sought privacy.

STEP 6

Congratulations are in order because you have reached his shirt. Sure, there's a cravat with an extremely convoluted knot staring you in the face, but it's better than a clip-on tie, is it not?

I assure you, the knot hidden behind the brooch is not one to be trifled with. It even took Gilbert himself two tries to master it despite being the one to invent it. He wears this particular knot for its strength. It will not come loose or tighten unless someone knows what they're doing.

Despite betraying nothing beyond his evergreen smile, Gilbert is absolutely running out of patience by this point. So rest assured, because he'll gently take your hands in his and dance them through the steps of cravat-removal. Feel free to enjoy the "accidental" brushes against his chin and the skin of his throat. Chilly but sweet. This will be a welcome respite before the horror to come.

The horror being, you know that party trick with the endless scarves?

Good luck.

STEP 7

Gilbert's shirt, upon first-glance, resembles a normal shirt with normal shirt-like properties, such as a post-contemporary thread-count, invisible buttons, hidden seams, etc. It's somewhat loose-fitting but tapers beautifully into his waistband; so prettily in-fact that you might think clothed-sex would be a better option at this point.

But Gilbert didn't allow you to come this far so he could keep his cock behind enemy lines.

If you won't stop admiring his torso, he'll take your hands again and start biting each fingertip. If you're still dazed by his beauty afterwards, he'll switch your positions so that you're against the wall and his knee is against your sensitive bits pulsing pressure in a maddening upward motion.

To avoid this, you need to tear his shirt off. You need to free Gilbert's skin unto moonlight's stage at any costs. Hook your fingertips into the spaces between the buttons. Press your crotch against Gilbert's for leverage. If you need to lay down for this part, please do so.

The shirt will not be kind to you. The weave is too strong, the tensile-strength too god-like. You'll never know what it is to truly sweat until you go hand-to-shirt against Gilbert's spider-silk.

Gilbert for his part will do his best to offer moral support by rocking his hips upward into the warm crux where your bodies meet. Sure his pants are still in the way, but you'll never know a more loving gesture.

"You are not your shirt." You can try to whisper this to Gilbert to make him feel better about this whole ordeal. "You're my Gil. You are not your shirt."

The shirt has feelings too. So after you successfully remove it and have finished orgasming from Gilbert's languid dry-humping, please fold the shirt and place it on top of his coat. If his coat is over the window, place the shirt on the ottoman at the foot of his bed and give it two pats. We're all about aftercare here.

STEP 8

The thigh-garter. Quite possibly the most heavily-reinforced article this man wears. If it looks simple to your untrained eye, that is by design. It's meant to blend into his pants. If he were trying to flaunt it, his coat wouldn't have that suspicious, longer-on-one-side uneven cut.

Recoil? Poison? Child's-play. Gilbert himself nearly lost a hand the last time he went to remove the garter. The belt is made from a baffling and impossible weave of tiger-gut (died from natural causes) and coir fabric. That time Gilbert stole 100,000 coconuts off a Benitoitian beach was... not for the coir, but the discovery of such a useful byproduct was serendipitous and it was immediately put to use.

You need to incorporate this bit of trivia into small-talk with Gilbert while you attempt to remove the garter. It will take you 58 seconds, but those seconds will be the longest of your life. Your heartbeat will quicken and slow down and quicken again. Sweat will call your grip into question. The technique will require you to slide your finger into the space between the garter and the itchy indent on his thigh from where the garter has been digging into. Gilbert will bury his face into your shoulder and make the most precious moaning sound you've ever heard. He'll bite your shoulder, and he might break skin. The odds were against you from the start.

STEP 9

Could it be? Have you arrived at his trousers?

Are you beside yourself with frustration from being unable to distinguish the shape of his bulge because the fabric is so dark as to be formless velvet? Does it annoy you that the only way you can confirm how hard Gilbert is for you is by touching him? Do you see why this might be by design?

It was stated earlier in this guide that Gilbert's pants are difficult to remove. Not for him, obviously, but for his partner. Luckily the pants are easier to handle than his shirt was. You're probably still reeling from that harrowing episode, so now is a great time for a tea break while shirtless!Gilbert massages your thigh under the table.

You can ask him for some advice on how to proceed with his pants. Where are the buttons? There are no buttons? Is there some kind of waistband? No waistband? Really? That's interesting. How do you remove it, Prince Gilbert? What? Tongs? Oh, you're joking. You're not joking? What in the actual fuck.

He was asking you to pass the tongs so he could serve you a scone, but you didn't know that at the time, and accidentally took a pair of tongs to his hips.

Now. Two things here. 1) Obviously if a pair of dessert tongs posed any threat to Gilbert he'd not have let it so close into his territory. 2) But you happened to accidentally time it just as he'd timed a sneeze to appear more affectionate in your eyes. Sometimes the planets align for all the wrong reasons.

Don't worry; Gilbert's okay! The tongs were wooden and heavily-sanded and they glided over Gilbert's hip-bones like lip balm. Now would also be a good time to glide your lips over his hip-bones. Really, really enjoy that god-given architecture.

Next, you can try to pull him on top of you as you lay on your back across the tea table (please hurl everything off the tabletop beforehand). Stick two fingers into his nonexistent(?) waistband and trace your hands backwards away from you, lowering your palms into his pants as you go, so by the time you reach his backside you should be cupping his shapely ass. Massage it, knead it. You'll find his slacks will naturally drop a little to accommodate your roving hands.

Now, whereas Gilbert was the one grinding up against you in the shirt section, you must offset your handiwork here in the exalted pants section by grinding up against him. Hook your legs around his if you have to. Be a couple of sexy grapevines.

It's best to tease his pants lower and lower. Take your time and time will take you.

STEP 10

Gilbert's undergarments are a classified state secret. Don't worry; he took care of them before you even started.

STEP 11

HAHAHA SOMEHOW. Somehow you've made it this far without removing his boots. Somehow you removed his pants without removing his boots.

How? How did you do this? WHY did you do this? Do you like seeing Gilbert wearing nothing but his boots and his gloves? Is that your aesthetic? Do you imagine him sitting on his dark, moonlit, cobwebby throne like that, with one boot-ed leg over the other, cane held across his belly between the armrests as he watches you watching him?

Do you fancy breaching his lap and plopping down on his cock while he cups your ass with one hand and scrapes his gloved-fingernails down your spine? Do you like feeling his shoelaces press into your skin underneath because it's such a bizarre counter-texture to the sensation of his tongue gliding up your sternum? Does it make you hot when he grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head back so he can nuzzle your jawline while chuckling at all the mewling sounds you make? Are you about that friction? Do you like the squeaky sound of his boots as he bounces you up and down?

Just me? :')

Also what even happened to the cane in this scenario? Is it on the floor now? Don't trip, friends.

CONCLUSION

It was a long battle. There were some close-calls. You may have experienced multiple orgasms on the way. Sustained a gallery of lovebites. But Gilbert is now stripped bare, save for his gloves and eyepatch.

Most importantly, you're not dead from all the poison. Gilbert was kind enough to treat all the poison on him with rainwater beforehand, and he'll have made this clear to you from the beginning. This guide was lacking suspense amidst all the crack, and so that information was intentionally withheld.

The author of the guide recognizes that gloves add an extra layer of allure to intimate activities with Gilbert, so it is up to the reader if they wish to proceed with removal or not. The process is simple. You just take 'em off.

FAQ

What if I'm capable of removing his cloak while he's laying on it? More power to you. Don't let my limitations as a mere human be the standard by which you judge yourself.

Help. I want to try bondage with Gilbert, but the mini-waistbelt is the only viable option. Please don't forget his endless-scarves-infinite-cravat. Snip off whatever length you need. It'll grow back the deficit. The fabric is BDSM-certified.

The coat fell from the window. Run.

I took his boots off too early and now I can't enjoy the feel of his shoelaces on my ass. Put them back on him. Lace them with care. Don't just half-ass a lacing pattern like you used to do in grade-school. Remember: the pleasure you derive from his shoelaces is directly proportional to the artistry with which they are tied. Please hone your skills on a practice-boot if you are not confident. We all have to start somewhere.

Gilbert's moans are too cute. I couldn't get past the garter section. Feel free to take your tea-break early if this is the case. Talk about your concerns and listen to Gilbert's. Communication is key, and that tea was prepared with love.

Thank you for reading! If you found this guide useful, please consider hitting the reblog button ^^ I hope your time with Gilbert is extraordinary, unforgettable and magic.

#ikepri gilbert #ikepri gilbert x reader #ikemen prince #ikepri #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri headcanons #ikemen series #cybird #cybird ikemen #ikeprince gilbert #atelier basement #ikemen gilbert #atelier writes ikeseries #s e r i e s . how to undress a prince #h c . ikepri #p o s t . original

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thaliaisalesbian · 2 months

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Fic Masterpost

In chronological order by fandom.

Many of these are whump fics, and not all of the work warnings are mentioned here, read at your own risk.

green = ongoing

orange = nsfw

red = not complete, currently inactive

Maze Runner Masterpost

Percy Jackson

Demigods at Hogwarts

Annabeth/Percy, Jason/Piper, Thalia/Reyna, Hazel/Frank, Caylpso/Leo, Clarisse/Chris, Nico/Will, Hermione/Luna/Ginny, Draco/Harry Ten demigods are going on a quest, this time to Hogwarts. They're going in blind, and have no idea what the place is like or who they'll meet. Hermione and Harry are pursing tentive relationships. Ron is grieving his brother's death, coming to terms with a few things, and helping George with his shop.

dance, dance (the night away)

Annabeth/Percy Percy throws Annabeth a birthday party.

free floating

Annabeth/Percy Annabeth is determined not to let Percy win Capture the Flag tonight. She'll fight him if she has to! She doesn't get that far.

forever (on my lips)

Annabeth/Percy; MCD with an eventual happy ending. Annabeth wants to know, wants to know why. Why now, why him, why them? (she never gets her answers but she does get her peace.)

no more demons (in my head)

Annabeth/Percy, Clarisse & Annabeth, Clarisse & Percy Percy and Annabeth had a good night out, everything was going well. Until it wasn't. And Percy didn't know why.

(don't) pull your stitches

Annabeth/Percy, Thalia & Percy; Hidden Injury. Percy is tired. Why do all of these monsters have to be angry at the same time? Can't they plan a schedule or something?

forever and always

Annabeth/Percy Annabeth is kidnapped, but she's a badass who gets herself out of it.

these monsters (can't keep you)

Annabeth/Percy Percy has been taken by the gods yet again, and this time, he's stuck in a maze, fighting for his life. Annabeth has to watch him as he begins running out of time.

I thought I saw a sign (somewhere between the lines)

Annabeth/Percy, Annabeth & Clarisse, Percy & Clarisse; Emotional Hurt/Comfort Annabeth isn't sure, now, what she'd ever really seen in Percy. Not as a person, but as a boyfriend. After Tartarus, after everything. It's understandable, but she's not going to let him keep treating her this way. She deserves better than a boyfriend who can't seem to stand her presence, even if she might have thought before that they were happy. Annabeth just wants one thing in her life to be good, to be permanent. She thought that might be Percy. Now, she's not so sure. As they near the one-year anniversary of the battle against Gaea, Annabeth has been pulling away. After all that’s happened, it’s understandable. But, because of that, he’s having a harder and harder time squishing down the voice in the back of his head that says she's rethinking their relationship. Percy just wants Annabeth to talk to him, to figure things out. He thought they were past avoidance and pushing each other away. Now, he's not so sure.

Light will guide you home

Annabeth/Percy, Annabeth & Percy & Grover, Annabeth & Percy & Thalia, Annabeth & Clarisse & Percy. Post-HOO, Torture, Hurt/Comfort. You know how sometimes you think a bad day can't get any worse, and then it somehow does? Percy and Annabeth were trying to make a bad day better, only for it all to go wrong.

When It's Dire

Annabeth/Percy, Thalia & Annabeth & Percy; Injury recovery and blood, post-HOO. Percy's got to be tired; he's been doing this all day. Annabeth just has to get to him, and then it'll all be fine.

MCU

explosions got nothing on migraines

Tony/T'Challa Tony and Shuri set off an explosion on accident.

better than you (forever and always)

Tony/T'Challa; Carol & Tony Tony works himself into delirium and doesn't know that Carol's alive, so when she shows up... well, there are some issues with that.

for you (and coffee), a bullet wound is nothing

Tony/T'Challa; No Powers AU T'Challa is just trying to get a coffee, go to a meeting, and then wrap up his day by calling his family. Too bad the man in front of him seems to be a target.

bad ideas

Female!Tony, Tony & Shuri Shuri and Toni get kidnapped and Shuri is awesome.

blood isn't too bad (unless you die)

Tony/T'Challa, Shuri & T'Challa, Tony & Shuri Shuri, Tony, and T'Challa are on a trip and they get kidnapped. Shuri remains awesome.

stay here (in my thoughts)

Tony/T'Challa Of course they had to fight Doom, and of course he had to leave a radiation cloud behind. It would have been too easy for him to just leave them an exit. (How much would have changed, T'Challa will ask himself later, if it hadn't been there?)

as the day bleeds on

Tony/T'Challa; Endgame Fix-it Tony doesn't know how long he's been out for, but he's back now, and he's going to recover, dammit.

over and over and over again, i wake up here

Nick Fury & Tony, Carol & Tony Tony gets kidnapped, again, and has to get himself out, again. There are just some... complications, we'll say, along the way.

Star Wars

chains? they cannot hold you, dear

Poe/Finn, Leia & Finn, Poe & Finn & Rey; Force-sensitive Finn Finn volunteers for an infiltration mission, which somehow proceeds as planned. It's lucky that he has damn good pilot for a boyfriend and an entire Resistance ready to back him up when he needs it most.

she blinks and i'm lost, lost, lost

Poe/Finn; accidental baby acquisition. A normal recruiting mission turns into a special type of rescue mission.

Criminal Minds

seven for a secret

Derek/Spencer, JJ/Will, Will & Derek, Will & Spencer, Derek & Emily & Spencer Will doesn't want to watch JJ's family--his family, his friends, too--fall apart more than they already have. So he takes matters into his own hands, to ensure they won't be going to another funeral this year. Majorly inspired by Butterbeerandbutterknives’s fic One for Sorrow. Actually, it's set in their fic. Highly suggest reading that first; it's fantastic.

bleeding hands and beating hearts

Derek/Spencer This has been a hard case--the unsubs are dropping off videotapes of the victims hours before the bodies are found. They know everything these victims are going though. Spencer's been missing since he left the hotel this morning. Derek doesn't want to think about what's on the tape with his name on it. (see end notes for more detailed trigger warnings)

giant owls: not as good for cuddling as you'd think

Derek/Spencer, Emily & Spencer Emily's exhausted, and worried. They all are. It's been a hard couple of months--nonstop cases, and the LEOs seem to dislike them more than usual lately. It doesn't help that Spencer is already seen as an easy target, and when he's not cleared for field work? Things only get worse. "And there’s Spencer, soaking wet. “Oh, god, Spence!” JJ gasps. Derek’s already moving, wrapping his jacket around his shivering boyfriend and carefully probing at his head. “What happened, Reid?” Hotch asks, moving to help Derek settle Spencer on the couch. Spencer’s eyes are unfocused, and he’s not tracking movement well. Derek can’t fight the sinking feeling in his stomach as he realizes what’s going on."

guns raised (don't fire)

Derek/Spencer "The door opens again, and Spencer abruptly turns and backhands Hotch. Oh, God, this better not be what Derek thinks it is. “Come on, then.” The man in the door grabs Spencer by the shoulder and leads him away. “Hotch, what’s going on?” Derek asks." Being kidnapped? Not fun. Being one of four of your team kidnapped by at least three unsubs? Even worse. All Derek can do is hope that Spencer's plan works.

Original Work

bled dry (i wish)

Vampirism is seen as a curse. Hurt/No Comfort Prompt: Chestnut, short hair slightly covers a lean, menacing face. Dead brown eyes, set dreadfully within their sockets, watch guardedly over the tribes they've safeguarded for so long. A goatee graciously compliments his cheeks and leaves a bittersweet memory of his reckless luck. This is the face of Orlando Hanson, a true dreamer among vampires. He stands oddly among others, despite his tough frame. There's something different about him, perhaps it's his sense of honor or perhaps it's simply his personality. But nonetheless, people tend to socialize with him, while spreading rumors about him behind his back. Or: Orlando Hanson gets a short backstory. And neither he nor Hanson Victor are quite the victims or villains that they each think they are.

to break a fence (to kill a man)

MCD; Hurt/No Comfort. No dialogue. Prompt: Seth Ostler is a man in his late twenties, who is very adventurous. He comes from a wealthy background, lives in a rough neighborhood and tends to a huge collection of potted plants. Seth's adventures these days consist of the walk to work and back. It certainly scares him enough to feel like it could be a dream. Turns out, the walk isn't what he should be afraid of.

Stranger Things

silver lining

Spicy Six Polycule; only Eddie/Steve/Jonathan seen. Scene gone wrong with safeword use. Eddie wants to try tying someone up. Steve volunteers. For all their talks about it, though, he doesn't mention his biggest fear about it. @rememberthatiloveyou for more discussion on this (and any other nsfw fics)

i get myself twisted in threads

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26

Jonathan/Steve/Nancy, Steve & Everyone; Post-Season 2. Blood and injury, hurt/comfort, some fluff mixed in with the angst Jonathan wants to rush after Steve, to explain, but there's no time. Not when the kids have found another gate, not when there's more than his love life at stake. Now he might never get a chance to explain. Or: Steve walks into a conversation between Jonathan and Nancy at just the wrong time, and then everything gets worse (because Steve's just gone and tried to die for them, and this time, they might not get him back.)

loved you never (mourning forever)

Jonathan & Steve; unhappy ending. Steve's fine. He's always fine, he's the one who takes the hits and gets back up. Sure, this might be a harder hit than most, but he'll manage… as long as no one else catches on. (Jonathan might ruin that for him.)

Delicately Intertwined

Jonathan/Steve/Nancy; Post-S4, subdrop, sickfic After so long apart, and with everything that's happened, Jonathan's just eager to see his both of his partners alive and well. The 'well' part turns out to be highly debatable, and not as easily fixable as Jonathan would like it to be.

your presence still lingers here

Robin & Steve; Implied Torture and experimentation. Post-S4, vaguely, Magic AU. Samuel is not sure that this lordling's so-called mission is actually a mission. (all steve had ever wanted was to protect them) Robin just wants Steve back, and now that they're so close, she's not going to let anything stop her from saving him.

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aeor-is-for-reccing · 1 year

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Hidden Gems: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week, we have one of our recurring themes: fics with fewer than 150 kudos! Check under the cut for twenty fics that are beloved, but you might have missed the first time around:

Another Time, Another Place by Operafloozy (9780, Teen) Warnings: none Essek discovers the key to time travel. Bren discovers the key to time travel soon after. They start a time war. Reccer says: It's a great enemies to lovers fic, epistolary fic, and weird time travel shenanigans fic all in one. It's based on This is How You Lose the Time War, but you don't have to know anything about it to make sense.

I Have Blood On My Hands And A Smile On My Face by Professor_Rye (5836, Explicit) Warnings: Dead-Dove, Graphic Amputation, Torture, Hurt no Comfort Essek and Caleb get captured by a rogue Volstrucker who proceeds to torture them. Reccer says: It's intense, it's dark, it hurts, it's bloody... The whole whump experience dialed up to a hundred. If you're in the mood for something on the more extreme end of the spectrum that is very well written, this is your fic.

Dream a Little Dream of Me by CatgirlTheCrazy (2258, General) Warnings: None Essek uses the Dream spell to spend time with Caleb, even while they're apart Reccer says: Nothing

let the earth humble you withal by essektheylyss (midnightindigo) (13777, Mature) Warnings: None A ghost story: In his grief following Caleb’s death, Essek summons an old familiar. It does not come alone. Reccer says: A heart-wrenching exploration of grief.

something so precious about this by ThatFanwriter2424 (1684, General) Warnings: None It's valentines day and Essek has a gift for Caleb Reccer says: It's so sweet

Of Constellations and Freckles by Professor_Rye (100, General) Warnings: None Essek's love of Caleb's freckles Reccer says: Nothing

blood and bond by royalgreen (allyoop) (2069, Teen) Warnings: None Caleb is dying from a curse and Essek is desperate to save him Reccer says: It's very ambiguous but the emotions and vibes are immaculate regardless. An impressive and wonderful balance

desire, fulfilled by burningafterdark (burningdarkfire) (8809, Explicit) Warnings: Mind the tags and author's note: Extremely dubious consent typical of pon farr/heatfic Essek becomes dangerously insatiable when he undergoes his drow mating cycle while visiting Caleb. Reccer says: Hot and incredibly unsettling, with a mounting horror through the final line.

SA 4301: Advanced Transmutation, Excerpt Recorded 9th Horisal 1152 PD with Guest Lecturer: E. Widogast, Arch.M by soot_and_salt (1231, Teen) Warnings: Grief A transcript of Essek giving a lecture about what makes a great wizard, according to his late husband, Caleb Widogast Reccer says: There is so much love and adoration in Essek's tone and words, and the worldbuilding and setting is phenomenal

i'm really not so with you anymore (i'm just a ghost) by flashhwing (4104, Mature) Warnings: Essek is dead Essek Dies. Caleb keeps on seeing his ghost. Reccer says: It's haunting and beautiful; a wonderful depiction of grief with a side of spookiness. The art is amazing, too

The Thumping in My Chest by GayAssWizard (5309, Explicit) Warnings: None Caleb gets Essek a special surprise and then edges him with it. T4T Shadowgast with some light D/s. Reccer says: Essek drunk on pleasure is Best Essek.

Tooth of Zehir by witches_chant (17359, Mature) Warnings: Nope This fic happens in an alternative reality where the war between the Empire and the Dynasty was not prevented. Essek fled to a castle at the end of the world and has stayed hidden and alone for a very long time. One day Bren finds him, a pathetic shade of a man, feral and hungry, and an enemies to friends to lovers story begins. Reccer says: All the wumptober prompts give theme to the chapters in a neat way. The vibes are gothic and melancholic with the raging storm outside and the careful contact between the two men.

to take off the mask by KmacKatie (2560, Mature) Warnings: No major archive warnings, however it could be read as mildly dubious consent When your face is not your own, are you still you underneath it? A moment in a tavern where Essek is contemplating the loss that morphs over time and the lingering effects it can have on a soul. Reccer says: It's a short exploration about identity and disconnecting from yourself after having to hide who you are fundamentally from those around you. It's angst-adjacent, with some heavy implications wrapped up in a deep understanding of the other.

You Mean The Worm To Me by GoldenEyeWitch (2318, General) Warnings: None Feel-good fluff about a polymorph gone wrong. Reccer says: The situational comedy, the dynamics between the characters and the general premise. It's a perfect little pick-me-up story on a rainy day.

Series of Smaller Adventures by 2manyboys (3576, Teen) Warnings: None Caleb returns home after a long day. Essek is waiting for him. Reccer says: It is so soft and cozy and as sweet as these two can be together, like a warm blanket.

The Heat Between by Ahmose_Inarus (8221, Not Rated) Warnings: None Essek teleports to Caleb's home during a blizzard. Caleb massages him to relax his tense muscles and, well, we all know what happens when characters give each other massages in fanfiction. Reccer says: You can tell that Essek is already quite comfortable in Caleb's cottage and I find that to be a cute detail. I also love Caleb thoroughly teasing Essek and drawing out the encounter.

a healer's gift by toneofjoy (7280, General) Warnings: None One of Caleb's cats fall suddenly ill and he seeks help from a druid healer to find the cause. Reccer says: This is the best of outsider pov fic looking at shadowgast from the perspective of one of Caleb's (well, really both of theirs) cats. It's adorable, and there are some really sweet moments.

As per my last email by LivThael (11651, Explicit) Warnings: None Caleb and Essek annoy each other with emails at work. They solve their professional dispute in a storage closet after a party. Reccer says: Nothing

jealousy by mllekurtz (1724, Explicit) Warnings: no archive warnings, but it does have consensual non-consent Essek sleeps with someone else to further his goals. Bren is into it. Reccer says: This fic is incredibly hot and does a lot with a shorter word count. It's the delicious morally-grey brenessek flavour that I love, with some sharp and interesting insights into not-love but the closest thing two it that these two are capable of in the moment. Very delicious!

Daughter of the Burning Stars by Chaotic_Lesbianstringworm (928, General) Warnings: None Caleb and Essek celebrate the birth of their daughter. Reccer says: It's very sweet, extremely soft, and gives good gender feelings.

All recs are made by members of Aeor is For Lovers, an 18+ Shadowgast discord. Have any questions? Check out the FAQ. You can also join the discord here, or check out our previous list of Hidden Gems recs here.

Check back next week, when we'll have recs for current WIPs!

#Critical Role #Shadowgast #essek thelyss #Caleb Widogast #Fic Recs #cr fic rec #Critical Role Fic

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adzeisval · 7 months

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Why I like Izzy's death scene

I’ve got a longer post (or series of posts) coming eventually but I just wanted to do a quick version of why I like Izzy’s death scene.

To me Izzy always had an air of tragedy around him. Guy pops off the lines “I’m not dying, not for that ponce and not for you” and “The only retirement we get is death” and I’m not supposed to worry? I wasn't sure they’d do it and do it this fast but the possibility was there.

I liked that they did character development first. If they had killed him right away like in the dream sequence that would have pissed me off. I wish we would have gotten more time with Izzy but we got some and it was enough for me. Love to watch his journey and cry at the tragic end.

I like that Izzy is a defiant bad ass when he talks to Ricky. Ricky just said he was going to hang them all and things look bleak but Izzy’s gonna sit there and buy some time and insult this rancid syphilitic cunt. If Stede, Ed, and Zheng hadn’t arrived I’m sure Ricky would have killed Izzy there. But alas it’s only a delay and Ricky shoots Izzy.

I’m a sucker for the hidden injury whump trope. I like that Ed looked back and asked Izzy if he was already. Clearly he checked in again because he’s helping Izzy toward the ship the next time we see them. I like that they try to make Izzy comfortable, there’s a blanket or something under him and the coats to cushion his head.

I like that Izzy dies at home, with friends/family, and the arms of a man he loves. The crew is there and I’m betting even dying and in pain Izzy looked over and made sure everyone else was there and was comforted by the fact that they all were.

Took me a few rewatches but I do like the dialog between Izzy and Ed. By this point Izzy knows he is loved, has a home, and is worth something. Ed’s still working on it and Izzy tries to help with the little time he has. He wants Ed to know that just being Ed is fine. And Ed’s there, holding Izzy, crying for Izzy, begging Izzy to stay. Saying he’s family. He might not say I love you but his actions do.

“I wanna go.” I really like this line. I love the line delivery, how quiet and personal it is. Izzy accepts he’s dying and wants Ed to know that too. I like when Izzy tells Ed he’s surrounded by family it’s louder. They are Izzy’s family too and I feel like he wants them to hear that.

“There he is.” Love the callback. Love the touch with the ungloved hand. All around the acting in this whole scene is wonderful.

So yeah that’s the uh “short” ramble version. More to come.

And probably a fic from Izzy's pov as he's dying because I can't help myself.

#ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd #izzy hands #izzy death

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bagginshieldweek24 · 1 year

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Bagginshield Week 2023 - Guideline, Dates, Prompts

Welcome all to Bagginshield Week 2023, an event meant to inspire creations surrounding the relationship between Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakeshield! Keep reading below the cut to find out how to participate, when will it take place, and what are the prompts!

What is considered as Bagginshield for the purposes of the event? Any kind of relationship between Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield, whether that be platonic, romantic or sexual, so long as said relationship or the interactions between these characters are the main focus of the work you create.

Is there one specific incarnation of the characters/story that we must abide by? Not at all, you can write them following the lines of the book, the animated film, or the live action trilogy, and even add your own flavor to them. As for the story, you may observe either canon, or make it as canon divergent or alternate universe as you wish (prompt notwithstanding).

Are other pairings featuring Bilbo or Thorin welcome? Yes. So long as Bilbo and Thorin remain the focus of the work, you may include any other background pairings, other relationships (of any nature) that feature Bilbo or Thorin, and polycules/open relationships. I find it perfectly understandable and more than acceptable if you wish, for example, to develop a platonic relationship between these two characters, while also hinting at either of them having a romantic relationship with someone else. Different strokes for different folks.

What mediums are allowed? Are there any minimum requisites for completion or participation? Officially speaking, all mediums are allowed and there aren’t any requisites , since the purpose is to simply inspire more creations of this pair, but the following minimums are encouraged -

Art: 1 sketch.

Fiction: 250 words.

Commentary: 250 words.

Podfic: 5 minutes.

Edits/manips: 2 pictures.

Gifset: 2 gifs.

Moodboard: 4 pictures.

Playlist: 5 songs.

Any other mediums you can think of are more than welcome! If what you wish to create in (animation, cosplay, embroidery, essay, poetry, video edit, you name it) isn’t mentioned above, is simply because I couldn’t even begin to conceptualize what could be considered a minimum for it or wasn’t entirely sure if what I had in mind would work out. You’re more than welcome to drop any comments on other mediums in the ask box, and to participate just as freely as anyone else! Again, these minimums are suggestions, after all!

Event Specifics

Date: June 4th - 10th. 2023.

Two extra days (June 11th and 12th) will be available to post/finish creations.

There are two prompts to chose from or combine per day.

There are two alternate prompt sets (regular and whump), with five prompts each, which you can exchange or combine with any daily prompt.

For those posting in Tumblr, you must use the tag #thilboweek23 to have your post reblogged. For those posting in AO3, a Collection will be set at the beginning of the event. For those who may post somewhere else or would prefer remaining anonymous on Tumblr, you may: make a short Tumblr post to promote, request me to share your work through the Discord server (that is still being set up) or an ask through Tumblr, or send me an email with the link to your work through an account I will share later (I’m afraid I don’t have Twitter or Instagram accounts, sorry).

Prompts

Regular Alternate Prompts: Courtship | Secret Relationship | Thorin is an Errant Smith | Meeting the Family | Enchantments/Spells

Whump Alternate Prompts: Believed to be Dead | Nightmares/Hallucinations | Silence | Left Behind | Hidden Injury

#Bagginshield Week #Bagginshield Week 2023 #Thilbo Week #thilboweek23 #Bilbo Baggins #Thorin Oakenshield #Thorin II #Event #Fandom Events

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inevitably-johnlocked · 2 years

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Five Fics Friday: Nov. 11/22

Happy Friday, everyone! I hope you guys enjoy the start of the weekend with one of these fantastic fics recently added to my MFL list! Enjoy!

RECENT MFLs

Stet by LaDolceMia (E, 4,273 w., 1 Ch. || Body Worship, Grammar Porn, First Time, Rimming) – Jotted for a prompt on the kink meme. Because really, how could a linguistics scholar resist it?: Sherlock finds John's porn stash. He reads the entire thing, and when John comes home, he finds part highlighted and circled where they've got it wrong.

Heart on the Line by aquileaofthelonelymountain (M, 4,901 w., 2 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Runaway Groom John, Light Angst, Sherlock’s Poor Self Esteem) – Mrs Hudson repeated the motion, this time with a little more force. Sherlock frowned slightly at her, earning himself a roll of eyes. This time, she actually tilted her head, but what finally caught his attention was the fact that she mouthed John’s name. Sherlock blinked at him, but looked back to Mrs Hudson in shock as the words of the priest reached his ears. “… if anyone objects to the marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.” Mrs Hudson looked very proud that he had finally understood.

a hands-off approach by OmalleyMeetsTibbs and simplyclockwork (E, 7,516 w., 1 Ch. || Background Mystrade, Coronavirus / COVID-19, Quarantine, Developing Relationship, Alternating POV, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Bratty Sherlock, Touch Starvation, Friends to Lovers, Bisexual John, Everyone Ships It, Awkward Romance, Idiots in Love) – Quarantine is a time of reflection, a time of adapting, a time of finding connection through other means.And throwing sticky hands at your touch-starved flatmate. OR “How to comfort your touch-starved consulting detective during COVID: a guide by John Watson.”

Familiar Pain by plain_jane08 (E, 20,603 w., 8 Ch. || Post-TGG, IBS, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Whump) – John was probably the first person Sherlock regretted turning down. John was different to the heaving masses of society... It sparked a small glimmer of hope in Sherlock’s chest that maybe John was different. If he could accept Sherlock for all his unusualness then maybe he could accept the part that Sherlock kept hidden from everyone. Maybe John would be the first person to offer Sherlock comfort rather than scorn.

The Man With the Cartier Frames by JRow (T, 32,447 w., 8 Ch. || Post S4, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Case Fic, Parentlock, POV Sherlock, Sick Child, Pining Sherlock) – Sherlock's top priority is The Work, just as it's always been. His current case is a breeze and will surely be solved quickly. Frank Cleary is obviously having an affair and all Sherlock has to do is find him. And Sherlock will...in between trips to Putney to help with Rosie, collecting Rosie from school, and preparing for Rosie's sleepover at Baker Street.

#johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #five fics friday

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aphroditestummyrolls · 9 months

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Wylan Whump Fic bc i am predictable af xD

My friend! ❤️ I’ve been working backwards through the second chapter, but I wrote the beginning of it just for you!

The darkness was an oppressive thing. It weighed down his eyelids. His blood felt sluggish and thick in his veins.

And when he finally managed to pry open his eyes, the light felt like daggers.

All that Jesper knew in that moment was that his fucking head hurt. It throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, white hot pain radiating out from his left temple. Up was down and down was up, he could scarcely even tell where his feet were. Was he lying down? Had someone sat him up? It left him fumbling and disoriented, made his gut roil, flipping and twisting– it was only by some minor miracle he hadn’t been sick.

He breathed through a long few seconds with his eyes screwed shut, just barely squinting as he adjusted to the lamps in… wherever he was.

It wasn’t the Slat. It wasn’t anywhere he recognized.

If he could think logically– or see normally– he’d be rolling his eyes at how dim those painful lamps actually were. Their ember-like glow wasn’t from any type of window or opening, emanating instead from dusty looking, cracked sconces fixed to the walls. They were nestled between dug-in shelves. Dug-in because, the more he blinked the world into focus, Jesper could tell they were made of packed earth.

This was some type of cellar. The world was coloured in shades of shadowy brown and grey, and it would be hard to see even if he was in the best of conditions– something he was not. But he could feel the soil under his hand, caking itself under his nails as he clawed weakly into the floor where he had been dropped. It smelled like a cool spring night on the farm– tilled earth, a fallow field with nothing planted yet. What was different, though— made his lungs feel tight and ache for home— was the musty, recirculated quality to the air. It was cold, but still. Stagnant. Like Black Veil.

Jesper shivered even as he felt something warm drip down his cheek, and wondered idly if he was sweating or bleeding.

His brain stayed a foggy, thoughtless thing, for even longer than his eyes stayed bleary and burning. It wasn’t until his body adjusted to the new, elevated baseline of pain that the throbbing started to ease off. Dimly, he acknowledged his own body, taking stock— his hat and gun belt were gone; he was stripped down to his trousers, waistcoat and shirt, and it made him shiver. Whoever had taken him had thrown him carelessly to the dirt floor, leaving him a heap on his side. There was no doubt that he was already bruising. And then there were his hands and feet— his wrists and ankles felt heavy and rubbed raw, but he hadn’t thought about it too hard. Not until just then, when a feeble kick of his legs sounded like clinking metal. He blinked down to where he’d dug into the dirt, and his followed the chain of his shackled hands.

Shit.

He remembered the acrid tang of blood and smoke, chemical compounds tingeing the air as he pushed open the workshop door. The apology he was rehearsing abruptly trailed off as he took in the state of the place.

And the state of Wylan.

Wylan.

Across the small room, crumpled into a dead-looking heap of scrawny limbs and singed curls, was a body. A Body. The thought was unthinkable but he couldn’t turn his mind off of the terrible chant of it– dead, dead, he’s dead, his brain uselessly supplied. The body was so still, one ghostly pale hand laying limply out toward Jes with something rusty smudged into the fingertips. The body was still faceless, fully hidden in the crook of an elbow and a careless flop of curls– but Jesper would know him anywhere. That unmistakable, untamable hair; that too-big overcoat; the slender line of his hand with those precise fingers.

It had to be some trick. Some terrible trick by some… who would do this? Any of it?

“Wy—“ his voice was nothing but a ragged croak, but there wasn’t much moisture in his throat to help him clear it. It hurt, fuck, everything hurt. “Wylan, Wylan! Wake up! WYLAN?”

Yeehawwwww hopefully the chapter will be up soon! Thanks for playing! ❤️❤️❤️

#wesper #wylan van eck #jesper fahey #shadow and bone netflix #six of crows duology #grishaverse #the Wylan whump fic™️#WIP game

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skloomdumpster · 11 months

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Thank you for tagging me @crazycatfaery <3 I'm sorry I took so long 😅😅

Rules: How much do these tropes affect your decision to click on a fic?

-10 -> very dissuaded

0 -> don’t care either way

10 -> very enticed

nope -> if it’s a hard no and you’d never click on a fic with that tag or or you even have the tag blocked or you’d insta click out of the fic if it wasn’t tagged.

Bonus points for explaining the rating and whether it’s conditional

Age Gap: 7/10

I love it, but I'll only read it if the Dead Dove Do Not Eat tag is there. I want to read it from an author who's aware they're writing an age gap, especially if we're talking toxic/problematic ships. If we're all in agreement in this room, then HELL YEAH.

Codependency: 100/10

Love it. I love it between love interests, I love it between family members, I love it between enemies even. Characters who only exist and see themselves as a paired up thing with another character. If I see that tag in any work the chances of me clicking on it double.

Enemies to lovers: -5/10

Eh... Sure if it's okay enemies to lovers, as in they're actual enemies and they want each other dead and then we turn it back around. Alright, sure. But honestly? 9/10 times people are writing mild-annoying acquaintance to lovers. I hate that. And even when they ARE writing real enemies to lovers, sometimes the "lovers" part doesn't live up to the "enemies" part.

Enemies With Benefits: 10/10

It's rare and I love it, but it's a tricky trope to get right. You can't remove the "enemies" aspect from it. I've seen this done right (cough - John Ross/Pamela), but I've also seen it butchered many times.

Fake Dating/Relationship: 3/10

Cute and all, but I won't click on a fic because of it.

Found Family: -1000/10

Nope. Most of the time people mean "found nuclear family" and then I'm forced to watch as these characters act completely wacky and ooc. I adore a good found family, but seeing this tagged in a work is a surefire way to have me not click it. (also let's just please stop with the weird subtrope of putting the favorite-white-guy of the group as the "tradwife/mom"??? what the FUCK is this? I've seen it in Teen Wolf, I've seen it Fate, I've seen it in Fast and Furious... just nope.)

Friends To Lovers: 100/10

Perfection. You want pining? You got a forest of pines. You want yearning? You want italicized oh moment? You want harmless jealousy? You want hilarious cutesy moments? You want deep conversations? You want confessions that fix something broken inside of you? You want a love so deep and profound that it has grown and changed and it'll change again if you won't take me as a lover because a friend is good too, is great even?? You want STAKES because I-love-you-but-I-don't-want-to-ruin-this-because-you're-the-best-thing-in-my-life??? Perfect trope. No notes.

Friends With Benefits: 10/10

The same as above + sex. Can't go wrong.

Hurt/Comfort: 100/10

Bathe my blorbo in their own blood!! Whump the shit out of them!! Put them through hell!! Make the caretaker fear for their life!! Get the begging and bargaining out and the wheezing confessions through bloody coughs. Love this.

Love Triangle: 0/10

It sure exists.

Mistaken/Hidden Identity: 0/10

I don't think I ever read this, don't think I ever will either.

Monster Fu… Relationship: 5/10

Sure, but only if it's a werewolf. Team Jacob forever.

Obsession, Possessiveness, etc: 10/10

Fuck yeah. Yes in good, deliciously toxic ships, but also YES in good, healthy ships. The golden ships, made up of two righteous characters and you wouldn't expect this and then BAM. The other day I read fic that was like "[redacted] had often fantasized about reaching in and counting the teeth in [redacted's] mouth" <- most perfect line ever written.

Opposites (like grumpy×sunshine, etc): 5/10

Eh...? It can be cute, but sometimes it feels like too much. I'm actually more of a "they're both grumpy, but not with each other" or even "they're both golden, but can be at their worse with each other".

Poly: 5/10

Sometimes it's shoehorned in and I'm like... :/ you could've written something more interesting if you allowed the conflict to exist. BUT sometimes there's genuine sexual/romantic attraction between all parts and that's when this hits. I'll read an OT3 as long as it's not "author couldn't decide and decided to go the fluffy no conflict route even though it makes no sense for the characters"

Pregnancy: 8/10

I'll read it in fics, in all sorts of manners: cute family fic, kinky breeding fic, plotty dramatic fic, etc. But I don't like it in canon, movie or book. In fic I have the ability of getting bored and clicking out and reading one of the other 200 fics where there's no pregnancy or baby. In canon that's impossible.

Second Chance: 0/10

Sure, I'll read that.

Sex To Feelings: 5/10

IDK, when are we talking feelings? Is this a scenario where they're friends/enemies to benefits and then the feelings emerge? Because then yes. Or is this just a PWP and then I get some feelings at the bottom? Because then no. Or is this a character study while they're fucking? Because then YES.

Slowburn: 10/10

It's the perfect trope but watch out. I'm a firm believer of stories needing beginning, middle, end. I've read fics that are 80 chapters long and every time the characters are about to get together/realize another curveball is thrown their way. Once or twice I'm good with, but 50 different obstacles? Fuck no, I'm clicking out.

Soulmates: -1/10

This won't make me wanna read your fic. If you mean this as a "they are soulmates so X happens" ....nope. Not my thing. If you mean this as "they're always the endgame. In every universe, in every reality, these two are IT" (cough, Skloom) then YES!!! But also don't spell it out for me. I don't need you to tell me soulmates, I can guess that.

Tagging: @infp-obsessing-over-everything , @faithfire and @daisiehoney @astrid-v

#hello i'm a highly opinionated person who can't shut up #i'm sorry this is so fucking long #astrid i think you've done this already but im not sure so forgive me

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lumpsbumpsandwhumps · 2 years

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BTHB - Going Into Shock

Malik does a little arts and crafts project and makes a self discovery along the way (:

Finally I've had the time to finish this stupid fic. The irony that it took me twice as long to finish a WIP that's almost half the amount I usually write is not lost on me...

As always, if there’s a tag I missed or anything you’d like me to specifically mark, please let me know so I can add it for future fics!

Taglist : @whumpsday @painsandconfusion @suspicious-whumping-egg @t0rture-me

CW: Graphic depictions of blood, Cutting (Of Another Person), Mentions of Self Harm/Suicide, Creepy/Intimate Whumper

Word Count: 5.2K

There was something satisfying to Malik in the way his and Jonas’s names were complementary to each other. Five letters, two syllables, alternating between consonants and vowels in a pattern. When Malik’s name was written in all capital letters, it was made up of sharp angles and long lines. When Jonas’s name was written in lowercase, all the letters curved into soft, round shapes. His name could loop over itself a dozen times when written in cursive whereas Malik’s still remained uniform with straight peaks, much more orderly and neat. The name Jonas was more fun to scribble with the flick of the wrist, but the name Malik was easier to scribe with simple marks.

Therefore, it made sense that it should be Malik’s name he cut into the quivering flesh of Jonas’s forearm. Tempting as it was to sit here with the pretty boy squirming in his lap while he tried to finesse his blade into carving neat curves, there was too much room for error to mess up the calligraphy. Skin was a soft, fickle organ that liked to split into large gashes if the angle of the knife was too bent. One tight curvature could accidentally dig deeper into the fatty layer, creating an unsightly flap of skin dangling off the appendage rather than a perfect loop. Jonas’s name was very lovely, but it wouldn’t do to mar his body with failed attempts at lettering, not when Malik could write his own name perfectly on the first try.

And really, what better way to remind Jonas of who he belonged to than the elegant marking of his captor’s name taking up a majority of his forearm? To remind everyone, honestly, both in public and post mortem if it came to that. Thin, silver scars surrounded by colorful bruises on tan skin, what a pretty visual. A wound that could heal from a series of bloody cuts to dark scabs to discolored skin, but never truly fading the same way split lips and fracture digits could heal themselves. Jonas would carry Malik’s name with him forever whether he made it out of this basement or not, unable to forget him for a second unless he willingly amputated the whole arm to no longer see the reminder.

The idea of Jonas mutilating himself to such an intense degree gave Malik butterflies in his stomach.

He hadn’t even been intending on branding the poor boy with his name when he originally began carving into Jonas’s battered skin. For some reason, Malik had woken up with the innate desire of making the other bleed, so that was exactly what he did. He wanted to see Jonas drenched in blood, be it his own or splashed with someone else’s. He wanted to see thick, dark beads of red running down his neck and steadily dripping from his fingertips. He wanted to see old and new injuries hidden behind a thin layer of gore. He wanted to see gorgeous green eyes running over with tears to cut through the sticky stains on gaunt cheeks. Red and green were perfect complementary colors as well, weren’t they?

Unfortunately, he didn’t have any spare ‘actors’ at the moment to siphon a couple buckets of blood from to paint Jonas himself. Double unfortunately, the amount of red he wanted to bleed from Jonas would most certainly kill him. While that wouldn’t be too horrible of a thing to watch, Malik was still under verbal contract with Tucker to keep the Belmont boy alive until the ransom deadline was up…whenever that was. As much as he would love to hold tight to his writhing form while the life slowly drained from a multitude of bone deep cuts, Jonas needed to remain breathing and (mostly) in one piece. For now. So, Malik had to make do with what he had available to him: a pretty boy, a hunting knife, and two slender arms begging to be littered with superficial slices.

He couldn’t go too deep with his cuts and risk nicking a major artery, yet Malik wanted to make sure the skin had been sufficiently hacked so the wound healed with a lovely pale scar. Many years ago, when Malik was only allowed to photograph the cadavers brought into the backrooms of his father’s funeral home, he asked about a woman that was being prepared on the table with wicked gashes down her arms. There were telltale signs of old, pink cuts going horizontally over her wrists, but the long, inch deep slash from her elbow to her palm on each arm were what was listed as her official cause of death. His father, ever so eager to teach his son the studies of mortuary, explained that by cutting straight down she was able to dig into the main vein in such a way it would be extremely difficult to stop the bleeding, similar to when someone had their throat slit.

That was when Malik learned the intricacies of cutting. The difference between truly wanting to bleed to death and just wanted to bleed as some form of release, be it pleasure or pain. It was down the road, not across the street, he memorized. Cuts going side to side in short, light strokes could still bleed in varying degrees, enough to satisfy his craving to drain a person a couple pints without worrying about stopping their heart. It wasn’t just the blood he had a morbid fascination with, but the reactions people had about having their skin peeled and sliced when they weren’t intending to self harm. The way the muscles and tendons tensed, causing more blood to well out of the cuts. The way they struggled in whatever bindings Malik had them strung up in. The tears, the whimpers, the screams, all for something that could be patched up with some gauze, maybe a stitch or two.

God, it was killing him not to stab the knife into Jonas’s shoulder and drag the blade all the way down his arm to the tip of his middle finger, scraping against bone and severing as many vessels as possible along the way. To flay the entire limb and watch the blood squirt from his ruined wrist like a grisly fountain, red raining down in a puddle onto the floor to bleed him dry in a matter of minutes. Malik wanted to hold the boy close the entire time and revel at the progression from thrashing to weak squirms to limp to stiff. From hot to cool to frigid. From wet to sticky to dry, crusty red flakes. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t an animal, he could restrain himself just fine from the visceral urge to mutilate Jonas for overwhelming pleasure.

As soon as that deadline was missed, though, Malik was diving straight into his pretty little intestines with his bare hands.

Jonas arched his back against Malik’s chest, unhappy with the close proximity that came from being forcibly situated between his legs on the floor. Or maybe he was unhappy with the fresh collections of cuts now decorating his right forearm. Really, Jonas should be thankful Malik was kind enough to snap off the zipties on his wrists for any extended period of time, even if one arm was trapped between Malik’s bicep and side while the other was firmly grasped in his free hand. The arm was fully extended to reveal his skinny canvas of tan and mottled purple skin, the flesh twitching as the rest of Jonas trembled and broke into a cold sweat. Six slices of varying angles presented themselves in neat little lines, weeping beads of blood that trickled over the curve of his arm to drip onto Malik’s jeans.

Sure, it wasn’t the bloodbath he was craving to submerge Jonas in, but it still made his heart beat with excitement hearing the boy mewl through the duct tape over his mouth. Bony limbs tried to wriggle out of Malik’s hold to avoid any more wounds, thin legs still bound with rope kicking against his boots. The way Jonas’s head lolled back onto his shoulder, inadvertently pressing into the crook of his neck felt wonderfully intimate. Warm tears sliding over his cheekbones to soak into Malik’s sweater was an additional bonus, of course. He was panting hard, unable to fall victim to full hyperventilating as he could only puff air through his nose. While Malik was a fan of all the noises that have ever spilled out of his mouth, but he really didn’t need Jonas hollering at the top of his lungs right in his ear. It was a shame; it meant he also had to silence all of his endearing sobs and pleas with a gag.

Malik had just finished another line across the poor boy’s wrist when he noticed an interesting pattern in the cuts. Because some of them were slanted while others were straight, it almost looked like a blocky ‘M’ had been written in blood. How fitting. If he focused on different cut placements, one almost looked like an ‘A’, though it was missing its middle dash. At that moment, it was as if a lightbulb went off in his twisted mind. What a fun way to keep this game going, making Jonas wriggle and bleed for his amusement. Making Jonas bleed for him. He had always been Malik’s current favorite, he openly admitted as much, it would do good to solidify that statement. Bruises and bloody noses could heal, though maybe not the missing pinky finger, but this would be a claim to last for the rest of Jonas’s life. Whether that meant another miserable sixty years of living or until next Wednesday didn’t matter much to Malik.

He released his iron grip on Jonas’s thin wrist, much to his relief. The bloody limb dropped to his side, red smearing on his nightshirt and against Malik’s thigh. It was impossible to miss how the entire arm was shaking, as if it was a seizure isolated to one area of the body. Intriguing how even after having his finger amputated for a ransom reminder, after taking so many kicks to the ribs and stomach, after being (accidentally) starved and smacked and strangled, Jonas still had quite a low pain tolerance. Was he hemophobic, Malik wondered? Surely not, the Belmont heir had seen plenty of viscera when Malik needed to keep him near whilst doing his…work. Maybe it was different seeing someone else’s blood compared to your own, to know it was oneself bleeding and in pain. Malik hadn’t even cut that deep, he made sure he wouldn’t mistakenly let Jonas bleed out in his lap! Still, the boy was moaning and trembling like he had ripped the artery out and showed it to him.

So dramatic. He hoped he would continue to put on this cute little show when he cut up his other arm.

Duct taped muffled the strangled yelp of pain when Malik swapped his hold on his arms, switching to extend the fresh one while sandwiching the still bleeding one against his body. He could feel the warmth of blood prickling his side, the fabric of his sweater irritating the open wounds enough to make Jonas whimper on contact. Poor thing kept instinctively trying to yank his arm out of the hold, worsening the stinging pain with each unsuccessful tug. When Malik flipped the unmarked arm around into the same position as before, Jonas shook his head in an attempt to convey the pleads trapped behind his gag. He didn’t want to go through this again. He didn’t want to feel the bite of the hunting knife digging into his already tenderized flesh. New tears cascaded down his paling cheeks, unable to do much else. If it weren’t for the duct tape on Jonas’s mouth and the bandana on the lower half of Malik’s face, the older man wouldn’t be able to stop himself from locking their lips together to steal every last pretty sob from his lungs.

“What’s wrong, lover?” Malik crooned, knowing full well that Jonas wouldn’t be able to respond to his rhetorical question. “Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?”

Jonas nodded like he was trying to break his own neck. Curls matted with crusted blood and damp with sweat nuzzled against his covered jawline. They had felt so soft when Jonas first arrived. Malik loved threading his fingers through the chocolate brown locks to yank him up to eye level. He should hose him down some time in the near future to clean off the build up of grime and gore, revealing once again clean, soft skin and fluffy curls. Almost like a fresh canvas. If said canvas had already been slashed with a palette knife and stained with colors of purple and red. Maybe he should bring Jonas upstairs to let him use the employee shower with Malik, or maybe he should just dunk his head under water in a basin. Depends on his mood.

He hummed, the vibration of his voice echoing through his chest and against Jonas’s back. The way he shifted uncomfortably from the sensation, unintentionally nestling further between Malik’s legs, made the other tighten his hold on the fragile wrist. God, it would be so painfully easy to snap the joint backwards. Jonas would probably scream, perhaps even vomit. He was so pretty when he was heaving bile and blood and spit. Damnit, Malik should have set up his camera to record this whole ordeal to watch back later. Oh well, there would be plenty more opportunities to make Jonas squeal for his amusement. Like in the Red Room. Just imagining Jonas strapped to the gurney, helplessly staring up at Malik with those terrified green eyes, trembling lower lip begging to be bitten and bruised skin quivering under Malik’s hands while he sings such pretty pleads.

Can’t get too ahead of himself. Need to focus on the task at hand.

Malik twirled the handle of the hunting knife between his fingers before adjusting his grip, pressing the tip into Jonas’s forearm just a bit past the inner elbow. “You know what they say: suck it up, buttercup.”

Unfortunately for Jonas, there was hardly anything he could suck up with his airways being restricted to his nostrils. The duct tape across his mouth tried to expand and contract with each failed gasp, creating the faux sense of suffocation as Jonas wasn’t able to hold onto a full inhale. His adam’s apple bobbed with each silenced cry, kicking his bound legs with renewed vigor while Malik carved the first of many lines needed to spell his name. The kicks were weak, barely nudging his boots to the side, stifled by weeks of depleted energy and ankles bound like a fish tail. It was cute in a way, to watch Jonas struggle with all his limited might while Malik didn’t break a sweat to keep him securely in his embrace. They just fit so perfectly together, the boy’s lithe frame easily swallowed up by his larger, stronger form. So perfect perfect perfect–

The moan of pain caught in Jonas’s throat when Malik finished carving the last line of the ‘A’ would have made a lesser man blush. Such sweet sounds whimpered by a pretty boy. If his hands weren’t preoccupied with marking his claim, he’d love to squeeze them around the Belmont heir’s abused windpipe, adding to the collection of finger shaped bruises, feeling the pulse flutter against his palm while more whines vibrated into his skin. Maybe later. Right now, Malik was focusing on the delicate work of his bold calligraphy, keeping his lines as straight and even as possible. No sense in making it look like chicken scratch. He wanted it to be clear and legible.

When Malik dug the blade down the forearm to finish the tail of the ‘L’, Jonas howled as much as he was physically capable of. While the cut itself was nowhere near as long or deep as the typical wounds needed to end a life, it must have still hit the same bundle of nerves to cause such an immediate reaction. The slash welled up with dark droplets of blood faster than the other slices that were only now beginning to trickle down the curve of Jonas’s arm. This time, that arm that had already been subjected to a cutting session reached up to paw at Malik’s bicep in a panic. Four remaining digits uselessly dug into his sweater’s sleeve, trying to pull the offending limb away from how it coiled around Jonas’s chest that heaved with uneven breaths. All he was managing to do was give a few frenzied tugs, like a child eager for their parent’s attention, making little difference to Malik.

Still, he made a point to shift his arm to readjust the snare across Jonas, squishing the flailing limb further into his side. The boy yelped, the collection of cuts slowing into a sluggish drip but still stinging something fierce when compressed. To further regain his compliance, Malik squeezed the wrist of the arm he was in the midst of eviscerating. The bones painfully grinded together, popping the joint with a weak crack to send an extra tingle down the inner nerve. Jonas lurched at the new shock of pain, throbbing instead of burning hot, a little break up in the monotony of his torture session. With just a little bit of extra force, Malik could bend the brittle bone and snap it like a twig. Honestly, it never felt like it would take much effort to tear Jonas to shreds, piece by piece, limb from limb. And from there he could carry his remains upstairs in buckets to the embalming room to be hand stitched back together, preserved in scars and chemicals until at last he rotted to bones.

Since when had Malik become so sentimental, wanting to save his dearly departed lover until decomposition claimed them at last? Sure, he’s kept the odd memento mori – or trophy, or whatever people wanted to call it – from a select few of his favorites. Just a pocket urn with a bit of their ashes before he cleaned out the cremator. It helped put the memorial vases on display in the front viewing room for grieving families to peruse their options. What a strange feeling this was. Foreign, out of his usual routine.

Interesting.

“Quit your fussin’. If I mess up, I’m going to have to start over,” Malik warned. To Jonas’s credit, he stopped his pained squirming, but there was little he could do to quell the involuntary trembles that wound his muscles up so tight. That was fine, nothing he couldn’t manage on any other Tuesday afternoon.

Even though the thickness of his sweater, Malik could feel the way Jonas’s skin was becoming clammy with sweat. Granted, he had always run at a much cooler body temperature than Malik, especially now that he had been locked away without sunlight and iron rich (or frequent) meals. It wasn’t just blood leaking from the cuts now, but his internal source of warmth was being sapped with each drop running down his arms. The shaking was getting worse; a combination of overly tense muscles and an unbearable chill seeping into his bones. Jonas was more than welcome to press himself as tightly as he wanted against Malik’s chest to steal a bit of heat. He certainly didn’t mind sharing.

What was most strange was just as Malik finished the simple line meant to be the letter “I”, the muscles vibrating with terror practically went limp. Not completely, but enough for him to notice the way Jonas sagged fully into him. The arm was still taunt, stiff like rigor mortis while the nerves flared to keep the limb aware of the damage it was sustaining. Good enough for him. Jonas’s head drooped down, yet little moans were continuing to squeak in his throat, a sign he was still conscious. Malik rolled his shoulder to be able to force the boy’s head back up. Need to make sure he was still awake and aware to enjoy the show of his mutilation, now tucked up under Malik’s chin. The sight of his bloody arm, one letter away from spelling out his captor’s name permanently, made him gag on a sound that was unable to slip through the duct tape. Considering he had yet to feed Jonas today and was about…sixty percent sure he didn’t remember to do so yesterday either, there was nothing to worry about him choking on stomach contents if he truly needed to retch.

Ah, shit, it was low blood sugar, wasn’t it? The pain and gruesome nature was horribly distressing to endure, of course, but the lack of glucose in his steadily dripping blood wasn’t doing Jonas much favors. Without any sugar or water in his system, coupled with the overwhelming emotional trauma he’d been experiencing daily under Malik’s care, it was making him much more susceptible to falling victim to shock. Pathetic, really, to see the younger man shutdown the same way previous victims had when he had flayed their stomachs to poke around their intestines on camera. Honestly, a couple tiny puddles of blood was his body’s breaking point? How disappointing when this was only the tip of the iceberg Malik had in store for him. They would need to work on building that tolerance up quickly if he were to have any fun with his new lover.

Oh well, he was almost done at this point, Jonas was just going to have to tough it out while he added the last two lines needed to make the letter ‘K’. It was funny, ironic actually, that when Malik strapped him down to hack off his finger for dear ol’ mom and dad’s collection notice he never succumbed to any type of shock. He screamed and begged and sobbed and writhed, even before the digit was actually severed, yet he still didn’t pass out from the pain or a seizing heart. Perhap this reaction was just an accumulation of everything Jonas experienced over the last several days. His poor, weakened organs unable to take the continued stress anymore, needing a break from the constant rush of endorphins to repair the damage taken. Malik will be sure to give him a shot of morphine and something sweet to prevent any future relapses.

The chest under his arm started to slow its short, hyper gasps in favor of deep, though still uneven, sniffles punctuated by quiet groans. If Malik had to guess, those lovely green eyes were probably unfocused and rolling back, no longer damp with tears. That wouldn’t do; he was already being nice enough to contain the raging need to paint Jonas red in favor of a few, simple cuts. It was the least the boy could do to stay conscious enough to keep playing this game.

“C’mon now, none of that,” Malik scolded, giving him a light shake back into wakefulness. “I have plenty of things to perk you right up if you’re going to be difficult.”

He smirked behind his mask to see Jonas fight with the urge to submit to his own body’s needs. The ingrained need to comply with his captor, the fear of being subjected to anything worse than what was happening now, led him to resist the physical desire to relax into a mental reset. Shock could be quite fatal if left untreated for too long…well, the medical kind of shock, with infected blood and all that fun stuff. Psychological shock though? Malik couldn’t be too certain. He supposed now would be as good a time as any to let the results run how they may. Worst comes to worst, there was a defibrillator in the Red Room he could charge up to get Jonas’s failing heart back up to speed. Plenty of former victims had passed out as a result of what they’ve seen compared to what they physically experienced and turned out mostly okay.

The tip of the blade punctured the tan skin for the last time as it sliced a short, diagonal line to complete the final letter in Malik’s name. A fat drop of blood was already chasing after the knife when it removed itself from the carved flesh, making way for a stream of red to trail down Jonas’s wrist and smear along the fingers holding it steady. There was no need to dig his hunting knife into the poor, abused arm any longer, but that didn’t mean Malik couldn’t take delight in ghosting the flat edge of the blade over the inflamed cuts, feeling the swollen bumps rise and fall against his weapon. Thicker puddles of blood were crudely wiped away by the caress, ripping away still damp scabs that were trying to stop the leakage of red dripping down Jonas’s forearm. Even with so much blood welling up and obscuring his recently signed name, Malik was still able to see a faint outline in the pattern of droplets that clung to the skin.

“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Malik asked, only receiving a weak moan in response. He at last pulled the blade away before it could nick anymore of the flayed flesh and dropped it into Jonas’s lap. It was lucky for him it didn’t land on its tip to embed into his thigh. “Here, hold that for me, lover.”

With his hand now free, Malik forced Jonas to bend the arm he had been holding straight out so that the wounded limb was brought closer for the two of them to observe his handiwork. Poor boy, if it wasn’t for his weak stomach and steadily crashing blood pressure, he’d be able to grab the carelessly discarded knife and stab it into Malik’s neck fifteen times. But he couldn’t, and Malik knew as much. Cold fingers remained loosely curled in on themselves, useless to do anything. He wondered if Jonas was even aware enough to appreciate the cruel taunt being left out to him. These kinds of games weren’t nearly as much fun when the one on the receiving end wasn’t lucid enough to respond. Malik would have to settle once again for a watered down version of what he was actually seeking from Jonas. Couldn’t drench him in his own blood, couldn’t make him squeal for hours on end, what a disappointing day this has turned out to be.

There was always tomorrow, though.

Malik pressed his thumb into the middle of the collection of cuts, marveling at how excess blood was pushed out of the wounds to run down the forearm. The hiss of pain Jonas tried to suck in through the duct tape made him smile again. Despite his body failing him, the shock of adrenaline was just enough to make the exerted heart pump faster for a moment, causing the flow of red on both arms to trickle out a few extra drops.

With his thumb still aggravating the wounds, Malik rubbed the digit to clean away some of the mess to better see his claim spelt out in inflamed ridges. “What do you think, hm? Do you like it?”

No reply, unsurprisingly. Not even a little whimper or a single tear to be shed. As badly as Jonas wanted to obey the command of staying fully conscious to endure Malik’s whims, it was a losing battle with the toll it was taking on his body. Malik supposed he could grant him this one, small mercy of being allowed to pass out now that the session was done. Such a good boy, sticking it out until the end, though he wasn’t able to fully enjoy the visual of Malik’s bloody name as his clouded green eyes had lost the ability to focus some letters ago. He deserved some kind of reward for that, perhaps. Or maybe a punishment after Jonas woke back up for not reacting how Malik wanted him to. Decisions, decisions…either option could be quite fun.

“Aw, c’mon now, lover, don’t be that way,” Malik crooned as if Jonas was pouting and not actively going into shock. He still looked awfully cute slumped in Malik’s embrace, partially tucked into his chest and smeared in his own blood. “Too much fun already? What’s the part that got you all tuckered out? Was it the blood, or the pain?”

Even if Jonas had the strength to move his tongue to form coherent words, he wouldn’t have been able to answer the barrage of questions with the duct tape firmly silencing him. It didn’t seem like Malik was genuinely looking for a response anyhow, shifting the Belmont heir’s limp body in his arms so that he was better cradled sideways in his lap, allowing for a full view of his sickeningly pale face. With so much color drained from his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes looked more prominent and sunken. Jonas needed a little pop of color to brighten his features back up. Something to contrast nicely with his dull, half lidded eyes and ashened skin. How convenient that Malik’s fingers were still slick from playing with the slowly congealing wounds on his arms. Like a child finger painting their masterpiece, he swiped one blood soaked digit from each end of the duct tape over Jonas’s lips, arching the path upwards to create a faux red smile.

It looked quite pretty against the silver background of the gag, helping it stand out more pronounced. Malik wished Jonas was aware enough to understand what was happening so he could see those lovely eyes overflow with tears and his thin eyebrows scrunch together in distress. Then again, he could get that expression on any other given day with minimal effort.

“Know what I think? I think you get just as excited being this close to me,” he purred, curling the hand that had been hovering over Jonas’s face against his neck. He could feel the slow pulse against his fingers, still faithfully drumming beneath the collar of bruises. So long as that beat didn’t stop, Malik was satisfied enough. “I’d reckon you even like when I touch you like this, no matter how much it hurts. ‘Cause you’re a touch-starved li’l thing, ain’t you?”

Jonas couldn’t confirm or deny the allegations which by default meant that Malik was correct with his assumptions. It wasn’t too hard to come to such a conclusion anyhow: richie rich kid with distant parents, no experience with familial or romantic love, he’d probably eat any gentle touch up no matter who it came from. Including from a serial killer in the basement of a funeral home. Malik could have the poor, neglected boy wrapped around his bloody finger in no time if he really wanted to. Only a handful of weeks into this captivity and he already knew how to make Jonas squirm and how to make Jonas melt. But it was the fight to survive that still distantly burned inside of him that kept him interesting enough to catch Malik’s attention. Total obedience and attachment sounded like too much of a hassle right now.

Malik reached back up to Jonas’s face to tuck an errant curl behind his ear, not missing the way his eyes finally slipped closed from the gentle touch. “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, lover. I won’t let you go.”

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