#guilty writes

(reader who is typically self-assured and mildly controlling, and for unspecified reasons is currently living in perdition) 

When you open the door to Katia’s, Ludwig is the first person you see. He straightens at your appearance, both intrigue and concern duelling for control of his features. The concern wins out when you don’t smile. No boasting or joviality at your bruises, and the smear of blood. No comment on the obvious scrap you’d gotten yourself into. When you step into the circle of his arms, silent, and lean in for a hug, he’s entirely shocked. Your mood must really be down if you’re looking for comfort.  

“You okay?” 

You don’t want to talk about it, closing your eyes and pressing your face against his shoulder instead. The bruises would heal. The scrapes would fade. You were depressed more than anything. It’s an effort for you to shrug. To reply. “Long day.” 

Hesitant, he pats you on the back. You don’t typically go to the triplets for comfort, and you’re not sure they know how to give it, but it soothes you regardless. 

“Why don’t you wash up? There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.” 

You grunt your acknowledgement and leave him, flustered and covered in blood. You take your time in the shower, letting the hot water loosen your muscles. It stings as it runs over your open cuts. The defensive wounds on your forearms burn. It’s a welcome burn. One you have control over.  

Ludwig paces in the lounge. Tries to will his arousal away. Seeing you covered in blood is definitely stirring, but your sombre mood put a dampener on things. He wonders how much the mask is slipping if you can’t even pretend to be okay right now.  

Hastily he texts his brother. ‘U can stop looking. She’s home.’ 

‘Condition?’ 

Ludwig frowns. ‘Seems kinda bummed.’ 

‘Idiot. I mean is she still possessed?’ 

‘Don’t think so. She walked in herself.’ 

He stows his phone when you return, dressed in sweatpants and a loose top. You’re covered in a patchwork of bandaids and bandages, and Lud distantly wonders if he should have helped apply them. Probably. 

You sprawl on the couch where you’ve been crashing with a sigh, and Ludwig blanks on what to do. You’re not usually this despondent. 

“Can I sit with you?” 

He gets a thumbs up. 

He takes a tentative seat, surprised when you roll over and snuggle up to him.  

You lose track of time, snapping to attention when Katia wanders in and starts fussing. “You look terrible, love. Are you okay?” 

You shrug away the memory of being piloted like a meatsuit. “Nothing that won’t heal. I’ll live.” 

The demon frowns, your depression and energy as obvious to her as the blood and cuts are to her son. “Tsk. Get some rest, love. I’ll tell Obie you’re home. He’ll cook you up something nice, I’m sure.” 

You watch her leave, eyes catching on the purple figure in the doorway. Mervin had arrived.  

You manage to dredge up a little smile. Pat the couch beside you in invitation. 

He seems surprised to be invited, but joins you. He’s even more taken aback when you wriggle over, putting your head into his lap, and resting your feet in Ludwig’s. You wouldn’t admit it aloud, but you’re feeling more than a little touch starved. 

“Did you want to watch a movie?” Ludwig supplies helpfully. 

You shrug, eyelids drooping closed. “Sure. Something light-hearted maybe.” 

For once the pair don’t bicker over the remote, and soon some cartoonish plot is playing out on the screen nearby. Ludwig starts to rub your feet, and you let out a content sigh, nearly groaning at the contact. Hesitantly, Mervin’s fingers tangle in your hair. You lean into the touch, letting out another little noise, and soon he’s rubbing your scalp and combing out your trusses. 

You close your eyes, just listening to the movie, when there’s a touch at your shoulder. Obie is crouching in front of the couch. “Did you eat today?” 

Your stomach rumbles at the mention of food. “Don’t think so.” 

The yellow demon frowns. “Let me get you something?” 

With all you’ve seen today, you’re not confident in your appetite, but you shrug. Obie’s cooking is always a treat. “M’kay.”  

You’re wedged between Mervin and Ludwig when he returns with a tray absolutely laden with hot food. You look at the array with raised brows. 

“Obie...” 

He winces at your tone. 

“Sugar... honey... muffin... sweetcakes...” 

“For fuck's sake,” Mervin groans. “He gets it.” 

Obie is still concerned, but his cheeks are reddening with the nicknames.  

“You’re going to have to get another spoon. I can’t eat all this alone.” 

The demon brightens at your solution before racing off. When he’s back you both rip into the meal, with Obie glancing at you between bites, trying to gauge your reaction.  

You’re tired, but not so tired that you can’t yearn for the normalcy of a sweet moment. With that in mind you sample one of the dishes, and offer him your spoon. “Try this. It’s good.” 

His whole countenance brightens, and he leans forward to take your offering, tongue slipping out to clean the whole length of the fork, brushing your fingertips teasingly. 

You roll your eyes at him, conjuring a tired smile. When the food is gone (Obie ate most of it), you relax back onto the couch. The gluttony demon sits on the floor by your feet, the four of you bathing in silence, decompressing after a long day.  

You reach out and stroke the skin between his horns. “Thanks Ob.” 

“Can I get you anything else, Peach?” 

You close your eyes and hum. “Maybe some chocolate.” 

He’s back before you can open your eyes, a whole block of your favourite brand in hand. You smile appreciatively, but instead of reaching out to take the treat, you open your mouth and lean forward. “Aah.” 

Obie’s face darkens with blush. “You want me to..?” 

You nod, impatient. It’s fun messing with him like this. He’s cute when he’s flustered. 

His fingers shake when he breaks off a piece and feeds it to you. 

Mervin snorts. “Pfft. Loser.” 

You pinch him and let Obie finish feeding you. When half a block of chocolate is gone, you withdraw, sprawling out over Merv and Lud again, letting them ply you with soft touches and affection. 

“Thank you,” you make sure to meet Obie’s eyes, drawing out the words. 

He flushes before turning around to lean against the couch, drawing his knees up to hide what can only be a growing erection. 

You nearly drift off, to be honest, spreading your legs a little, and angling your hips up when Ludwig massages higher, making his way up your calves and rubbing at your thighs. The tension finally leaves your body, and you stare up at Mervin with a sleepy smile.  

He blinks at your expression, probably unused to such displays of softness.  

Ludwig is massaging your inner thighs when arousal stirs within you. You squirm, face warming at his persistent touches. You don’t know if he’s doing it intentionally, if he has the patience – he's certainly taking his time, working his way back down your legs. You nearly frown as his hands move in the direction opposite to what you want. 

Mervin is still watching you, his cheeks sporting a hint of blue – you realise you hadn’t seen him blush before. It’s cute.  

Spontaneously you make a ‘come hither’ motion with your finger, grinning up at him. 

Brows raised, he leans down, “What?” 

You link your arms around his neck and lean up to kiss him.  

He goes still. The hands on your legs also freeze. If your eyes were open, you’d roll them. Instead, you slip your tongue into Mervin’s mouth, pulling him closer. 

Finally, past the surprise, he kisses back, one arm supporting below your waist, the other working its way back into your hair. Hands resume movement on your legs, rubbing along your thighs. Lud’s claws are starting to dig into your flesh, and you know he’d rip your pants off if you let him. But you’ve no intention of rushing this. 

Then Mervin grips your hair, making a fist near your scalp, angling your head back so he can suck at your throat. You hum appreciatively, going loose and pliant under his lips.  

Obie whips his head around at the noise, finally noticing the commotion behind him. Nobody is watching the movie anymore.  

Ludwig huffs, losing patience and pulling you upright, onto his lap. Mervin rumbles with displeasure, but only for a moment. Your back is pressed against Ludwig’s chest, and he takes over for Mervin, kissing your neck, sucking a line of bites and hickeys along your shoulder. Your legs are spread and pinned open with his own. 

He’s rougher than his brother, and you tremble and whimper each time he bites too hard or grips you too tightly. Still, you’re exactly where you want to be, and you wouldn’t dream of pulling away. 

You blink and Obie is sitting between your knees, hands going to your waistband. It’s not hard to guess what he’s planning.  

“Tsk,” you warn him.  

He pauses, and if his eyes could open any further you know he’d be giving you a puppy dog stare. 

“We have all night.” 

He pouts. 

You hope he backs down. You’d really like to take this slow, and you’re not in the mood to have a standoff. But all is forgotten when Lud pulls your shirt up.  

Obie’s attention immediately switches to your breasts; full and unclothed. You hadn’t put on a bra after your shower, and you can’t help but blush at the attention.  

You tremble and arch when he moves to mouth at those, drenching them with drool. You hadn’t realised that with his long tongue, he’d manage to lick both at once, but it’s certainly a pleasant surprise. You whimper with anticipation at the threat of his teeth, their needle points grazing your flesh.  

There’s another hand on your leg. Warmth at your side. Mervin has sidled up and is watching the exchange intently, his hand creeping up your thigh, to the top of your pants. This time you don’t stop them, instead spreading your legs further.  

Ludwig huffs against your ear. “Needy.” 

You ignore him, bucking your hips with desire. You don’t remember the last time you were caged in like this, and it leaves you feeling high with excitement.  

Mervin’s fingers dip past your waistband, into your underwear. He traces your folds, finding your growing wetness before smearing it over your clit. 

You jolt with the contact, letting out another whine.  

“Be still,” Ludwig orders before latching back onto your neck. 

You try. But between the teeth at your shoulder, the attention to your breasts, and the gentle but precise touches at your core, it doesn’t take long before you’re seizing and jerking as you come. Juices flood your underwear, and you shake with aftershocks. 

Mervin pulls back his hand, sucking his fingers dry. At the motion Obie pauses to growl. “I wanted to taste her first.” 

You’re too relaxed to resist. In fact, you sympathise with Obie enough that you grab one of his misshapen horns and guide him towards your crotch. 

Ludwig chuckles behind you. “You’re forgetting something, babe.” 

You frown and whine. 

“Strip.” 

Ah. That would help.  

You wriggle until you can get your pants around your ankles, not helped in the slightest by the wrath demon holding you open. He does release you long enough for you to remove your shirt, though. When you’re done, you hesitate, some clarity coming back to you. Mostly naked on a couch surrounded by demons, it’s the most vulnerable you’ve let yourself feel in a long while.  

Obie doesn’t wait any longer, pressing his face between your thighs. There’s a single, exploratory lick as he tastes you, slurping up the evidence of your previous orgasm. He groans, enthralled by the taste. Then his tongue is filling you, and you jerk at the sudden intrusion.  

Ludwig holds you tight, burying his teeth in your shoulder and drawing blood. He reaches around to cup your breasts, claws digging into your skin.  

You don’t have room to focus on the pain, instead occupied by the glutton’s tongue, and how thoroughly it fills you. You’d suspected its capabilities, but if you’d known it’d feel like this, you’d have jumped Obie sooner.  

He writhes inside you, poking and prodding in places that are almost uncomfortable, before backing off to caress and stroke other parts of you. It’s- barely describable. Definitely a welcome sensation. Pressure builds inside of you – no, he’s not squeezing more of his tongue inside (yet) - he’s rubbing against your g spot. The pressure is another orgasm building.  

You’re not sure if you’re able to come again so quickly, but the choice is taken away from you by force when Obie grips you by the thighs and stuffs himself deeper.  

“Ffffuck,” you groan through your high, arching against Ludwig and coming again.  

Obie doesn’t stop. Ludwig doesn’t stop. Mervin grips you by the hair and pulls your face to his, devouring you in another steaming kiss. You can barely focus on it, your mind emptying as your orgasm is prolonged and drawn out until you’re a shaking mess (did you just come from penetration alone?). 

You don’t know how much time passes before the glutton comes up for air. He licks his lips with a flourish, looking satisfied. You’re flushed, staring at him through bleary eyes.  

He barely notices, instead ducking back down for seconds. 

Ludwig growls. “It’s my turn.” 

Obie pauses, leveling that almost puppy dog stare at his brother. “But she’s so tasty.” 

“Don’t care. You had a go.” 

You’re suddenly aware of the hardness pinned against your back. The length of it is mouth-watering. And you’re more than a little fuckdrunk right now. Enough that you don’t think before you speak. “Both.” 

There’s a silence as the triplets stare at you, brows raised.  

You writhe against Ludwig’s grip. “Please. Now. Both.” 

Mervin grins. “You heard the lady. She’s enough of a slut – I'm sure you’ll both fit.” 

You whimper at the comment, grinding back against Ludwig. You might not be able to come again, but you don’t want the pleasure to stop. And you really want to be filled.  

Ludwig rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about fit. I’m taking her ass.” 

You clench at the words, growing wetter with anticipation.  

Ludwig lifts you high enough to free his cock. Lowers you down on to it and moves you back and forth, using your slick to lube him up. With the combination of your juices and Obie’s drool, there’ll be no issue.  

Your heart starts pounding when he presses against your puckered entrance. He feels big, so big, and he hadn’t bothered stretching you, hadn’t bothered with prep.  

He sheaths himself and it hurts. By the Gods and the Icons, it fucking hurts. You’re no stranger to taking things up the ass. But usually carefully. Slowly.  

His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your wail. You shake and seize, clawing at his arms, trying desperately to climb off, but his grip is steadfast.  

You just need to relax. You know the pain will fade, that you’ll fucking adore the sensation, that you just need to relax and it will be okay, but fuck. He’d really stuck his entire length in, in one go. 

You pound your fist against his thighs, hard as you can, cursing around his hand. 

He only groans in response. Then chuckles. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. You’re so tight like this.” 

Even Obie is hesitating, waiting for you to adjust before rejoining. 

“Just breathe, babe,” Ludwig croons at you. “Or keep struggling, it’s really hot.” 

Tears slide down your cheeks but you listen to Ludwig. Clenching and unclenching over and over. It takes almost a whole two minutes before the pain fades. Before you’re able to relax against him, tension draining from your muscles. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your ear. Then he fucks you.  

His pace makes you gasp. Then whimper. Then moan. There’s no more pain, thank fuck, just breathlessness, and the sensation of being deliciously filled. Lud lifts you up and down on his lap with ease, treating you almost like a thing. A toy. 

You reach out, trying to brace yourself, and end up bent forward, with your arms wrapped around Obie’s neck. You whimper and cry and swear against his ear and he lets you, stroking your hair until Lud pulls you upright again, using one hand to pull your arms behind your back. 

At the loss of contact Obie blinks, snapping out of his daze. Then he grins at you and lowers himself back between your thighs, tongue darting out to taste you once more. He flicks at your clit, making you arch and whine, before dipping back inside.  

You gasp and shudder, limbs twitching. You don’t remember the last time you felt this full. This stuffed. You don’t know how they’re doing this, how Obie can coax more of his sinuous tongue inside of you. Ludwig slows his fucking, and you’re entirely grateful. You don’t think you have a millimetre to spare inside of you.  

You try to keep your eyes open, but everything is a blur. A wonderful, fuzzy blur. Your head lolls to one side and you lock gazes with Mervin. It’s no surprise to see him fisting himself, but you still groan at the sight. You lick your lips, filled with envy. Your hands twitch, and if Ludwig weren’t holding them firm you’d be reaching for the pride demon.  

He smirks at your reaction. “Aw. Does our pet want to touch?” 

You nod, nearly mindless at this point.  

His smile softens. “Later, lovely. You look a tad occupied at the moment.” 

You whine. It takes a monumental effort to string your words together. To remember the right things to say to the pride demon. “Please, Mervin. You look so good right now.” 

He purses his lips. Cheeks bluing some more. “Oh?” 

You don’t know how effective your begging is going to be when you’re teary eyed, your hair is plastered to your neck with sweat, and you can barely vocalise your thoughts with the way Mervin’s brothers are fucking you, but you still try.  

“-wanna touch, wanna taste, please, please, please, bet you’ll feel so good-” 

He goes silent, eyes narrowing as he tries to keep his composure. But the way he bites down on his lip and grips himself harder are easy tells.  

“-bet you’ll taste so nice-” it’s hard to speak between Ludwig’s thrusts, “-you look so hot right now-” your head is spinning. “Please Mervin,” you whine his name.  

Obie comes up for air to scowl at the pride demon. “Take a hint, Mer.” 

With the glutton out of the way, Ludwig pauses long enough to turn sideways, bending you forward so that you’re spread across the couch again, kneeling, with your head nearly in Mervin’s lap. He keeps hammering into you, but with the new angle you’re inches from Mervin’s cock.  

You crane your head to stare up at him, awaiting permission. Any other time it might chafe to do so, but you’re so buzzed right now that you have no problem sliding into the submissive role. 

His restraint breaks. Finally, he angles his hips towards you. “Go on, then.”  

There’s no finesse in your actions. The angle’s not ideal and it’s hard to get a good rhythm with Ludwig’s fucking, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. You’re practically drooling, mouthing at his cock and licking up the sides before sucking on the tip. You swirl your tongue around, trying to make him feel as good as you’re feeling, fitting as much of him into your mouth as you can; sloppy in your enthusiasm.  

The hands in your hair turn to fists, and soon he’s thrusting up into your mouth, making you cough and gag. You try to relax, focusing on just breathing and getting fucked at both ends. It’s a fruitless effort and soon your eyes are lined with reflexive tears. 

There’s no warning before Ludwig comes in your ass. You relish the way he twitches, clenching hard around him, wishing desperately that there was something in your cunt, or that you had some friction against your clit. You could probably come again with some assistance.  

You shudder when Ludwig pulls out, his cum leaking out of your hole. You can feel the stares on your ass, and can’t help but squirm, moaning around Mervin’s length. He’s deep enough in your throat that he can feel your noises. 

 Suddenly you’re wrenched off his cock and being led up by the hair.  

“Sit. Now.” 

He makes you straddle him, not even hesitating before grabbing you by the hips and plunging into your pussy.  

You thought Ludwig was rough. Mervin surprises you with the force of his thrusts, one hand still fisted in your hair while the other grips your thigh. Your jaw falls slack and you’re powerless to stop the sounds from escaping you. Obscene moans, breathless grunts; all manner of lewd sounds.  

“You. Noisy. Slut.” He punctuates each word with a thrust of his hips. “You could have just said you wanted to fuck me. You must feel so honoured right now. I don’t do this to just anyone, you know.” 

His words blur together as you lose focus. You know he’s just talking himself up, that all you have to do is nod and agree. Still, you can’t help but tune back in when something brushes against your clit. You writhe when it presses harder, and a glance down reveals the spade of his tail pressed flush between you.  

“Are you going to come for me again, pet? Show me how good I make you feel?” 

Insufferable as he can be, you don’t plan to argue, spreading wider, trying to grind against his tail while keeping rhythm with his fucking. It’s nearly impossible. Your limbs feel like jelly, and you just want to collapse on top of the purple demon.  

You must look as fucked out and pathetic as you feel, because somebody takes pity on you; another pair of hands come to rest at your waist, lifting you up and down on Mervin’s length.  

You let yourself go slack; your arms give out and your face presses against Mervin’s shoulder. If you had more brain function left, you might be struck with just how arousing the situation is; somebody else pumping you up and down Mervin’s cock.  

You look down. Yellowed hands grip your waist. And past them Mervin’s tail still grinds against you; the demon now able to direct more attention to your clit.  

Part of your mind skitters towards the demon behind you. The strength of his grip and the press of his erection against your back. But he doesn’t do more than support you, lifting you up and down. You’re not sure if you’re glad or disappointed. Especially as your next (and hopefully last) orgasm starts to present itself; coiling in your core and making your legs shake. 

Mervin’s claws dig into your skin when he shudders and comes inside you. Obie lets go of your waist, but you keep grinding against Mervin’s lap, whimpering with need. He couldn’t stop now, not when you were so close.  

Somebody laughs. You’re released, collapsing into a heap on the couch. Pushed onto your back. Legs spread.  

The touches don’t stop. Thank fuck. 

Brutal pressure against your clit until you’re a shaking mess, gasping and coming with a series of ungodly noises.  

Then the room is still.  

You might just pass out. Partially, at least. There’s the sound of the tv, still going. Some voices, accompanied by gentle, but firm touches. 

“-put her clothes back on would ya-” 

“-needs to shower, idiot-” 

“-thought humans weren’t supposed to sleep in the shower?” 

You’re too floaty to care for the bickering, just appreciative when somebody dresses you and you’re sprawled across the couch again. There’s more discussion; soft, mindful of your presence. Then hands at your hair. Fingers at your legs again, unknotting any sore muscles. 

You crack your eyes open. It looks as if everyone has returned to their previous positions.  

Obie is sitting at the foot of the couch, his head a few inches from your own. He catches your stare and gives you a smile.  

‘You. Me. Later,’ you mouth to him.  

When you’re late for class, Whitney is irritated. He’d only showed up to bother you, if he’s being completely honest. Watching you squirm under his touches and try desperately to focus on your work, was quickly becoming one of his favourite pastimes. It’s made all the better on days you give in, spreading your legs or slipping under the desk. 

Ten minutes pass and you don’t show. It’s uncharacteristic, and concern creeps, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind. He dismisses it, pretending you were stupid and had gotten lost on your way to class. He sighs and resigns himself to a boring day. Perhaps he’d track you down later.  

Halfway through the lesson the door opens. 

River doesn’t bother looking your way. “Tardiness. Detention.” 

Whitney smirks at the punishment. Then you step into the classroom. 

You hardly spare River a glance, instead trudging straight to your desk. You move with a heavy limp. There’s a defeated slump to your shoulders and you keep your eyes trained on your feet. 

He takes in the finer details as you round the desk. There’s cum in your hair, and blood is smeared at your hairline. Your skirt is torn and your thighs are covered in fluids. You smell like piss and when Whitney catches your eye, there’s no recognition in your own. 

“Oi, Teach. I think Player needs to go to the infirmary.” 

River doesn’t turn from the blackboard. “Leave her be, Whitney.” 

“She’s literally bleeding.” 

River finally turns. Takes in your tattered appearance with widened eyes before addressing the class. “Page sixty. Copy and solve. I don’t want to hear talking.” 

They cross the room and crouch before your desk, meeting your eyes. “Player.” 

You blink. Frown. “Yes?” 

“Are you okay?” 

Whitney watches as you take in your surroundings. Shift your weight and wince. “Sorry Professor. I must have been on autopilot.” 

“What happened?” 

You crinkle your nose. “Got held up by some classmates.” 

River leans into your line of sight. “Player. Are you hurt?” 

“I’ll be alright.” 

Whitney chooses that moment to poke you in the side. 

You hiss, nearly falling out of your seat. 

River doesn’t look impressed. “Whitney, take her to the infirmary.” 

Out in the hall you lean against the bully. Today he doesn’t make a big deal out of the contact. Not as he watches you guard your chest and listens to your unsteady gait. 

“Who did this?” 

You shake your head. “I didn’t recognise them. ‘Think they were underclassmen. Couple ‘o boys.” 

“How many?” 

“Four? Maybe five? Dunno.” 

His jaw clenches. Five other students dared to touch the girl he’d so clearly marked as his? He’s so aghast that he almost misses the way you plant your feet and sway. 

“What?” 

“I don’t want to go to the infirmary.” 

He lets out a huff, trying to ignore the way your pathetic display makes his chest ache. “Why the fuck not?” 

You look at your feet. Mumble, “I didn’t let them. I tried to fight back.” 

A surge of pride goes through him, even as he shrugs. “So?” 

“They might be there too...” 

He grips you by the arm and tugs you into motion. “I fucking hope so, slut. But you don’t need to worry about that.” 

The infirmary is, mercifully, empty, save for the nurse. Whitney scowls at her. 

“If they were here, they’ve cleared off.” 

You grab his jacket sleeve. “Or they haven’t stopped by yet.” 

He raises a brow at your touch. You must be seriously unnerved if you’re relying on him to make you feel better. 

Still, he shrugs and takes up post beside the door. “We’ll see.” 

The nurse takes you behind a privacy curtain, but Whitney hears your examination. His rage builds with each question you answer, until he can barely sit still. 

“Can you move this?” 

“No. Hurts.” 

“And here?” 

“The same.” 

After a minute. “I think you’ve cracked some ribs. You’ll have to go to the hospital.” 

You sound panicked. “No. No hospitals. If it’s cracked, they won’t do anything anyway, right?” 

“Sure, if they’re just fractures. But you need an x-ray. If there’re any major breaks, they could do some serious internal damage.” 

Whitney watches their silhouette put a hand on your shoulder. Doesn’t want to imagine what kind of pathetic face you’re making to merit the gesture. 

“I’ll give you a painkiller. Does anything else hurt?” 

“My head.” 

“Look here.” Pause. “Follow my finger.” Another. “Any dizziness?” 

“Some.” 

“Blurred vision?” 

“At first.” 

“I’ll patch up that abrasion, but I think you have a concussion. Even more reason to go to the hospital.” 

Whitney shifts from foot to foot. Grits his teeth. Some stranger had been rough enough to concuss you. He’s absolutely livid. 

His ears perk up when your voice lowers. You try to be discreet, but he still hears every word. 

“I need some plan B.” 

His anger increases tenfold.  

The nurse recovers from her pause. “Okay. Do you want a kit too?” 

You sound bitter. “And do what with it? Take it to the police?” 

“Fine. Have you had plan B before? Shall I explain the side effects?” 

You sound defeated. “I’ve had it before...” 

Whitney suddenly feels unwelcome. He knows he’s intruding. He’s supposed to stay. To keep watch for any of your assailants. But he can’t help but turn away, guilty. He wonders how many times he was the reason you had to go to the infirmary, asking for plan B.  

Deciding it’s one of the rare occasions where it would be best to display tact, Whitney steps outside. Waits by the door, menacing any who might approach with a glare. 

The bell rings. Whitney waits until you’re finished. 

You step outside and start when you nearly bump into him. “You’re still here?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You leaving school or what?” 

“N-no. I’ll finish my classes.” 

He shrugs. Walks you to English. Doesn’t say a word. His silence is unnerving. It’s not until you’re at the doorway that he bids you farewell. 

“I’ll see you after school, slut. Don’t be late.” 

He waits until you’re seated at your desk before stalking off. Pulling out his phone and opening his regular group chat. 

‘Some guys touched my girl. Find out who.’ 

--- 

 Whitney waits for you after school. You’re late. River hadn’t bothered rescinding your detention, despite the obvious reason for your tardiness.  

You look no worse for wear when you trudge outside, ten minutes later. It seems Leighten went easy on you today. At least, he sure as fuck hopes so. 

“Got some errands to run, slut,” he links his elbow with yours. “You’re coming with.” 

He doesn’t get your usual eye roll, or the bemused twitch in your lips. You just look tired. 

He shoots a stare at the rest of his crew. “You lot fuck off. Unless you’ve finished that job..?” 

His friends scatter, though there is a grumbled protest or two. But they won’t stick around. Not the ones who know him. Who can see the shadow of his anger, still hovering. Who’d received his message this morning. 

You don’t react to his friends’ dismissal. Only startle when he starts walking, pulling you along. 

You’re not in the mood to protest or ask questions. You’re not heading towards the docks, and figure Whitney can’t have anything worse planned than his occasional seaside jaunt. Besides, you’re alone with him. His treatment towards you without an audience tends to be... more forgiving. 

But when he turns onto Nightingale Street, you hesitate.  

“Where are we going?” 

“Where do you think, stupid?” 

He doesn’t expect you to plant your feet and pull your arm from his. 

“No. No hospitals.” 

“You heard what the nurse said.” 

“I’m not going.” 

He doesn’t understand the tears pricking your eyes or the way you cross your arms. It’s been a long time since you fought him on anything. 

“Why the fuck not?” he fights to keep his voice down. He honestly doesn’t know why he’s bothering. It’s not until the glazed look in your eyes comes back that he remembers. 

He tries again, gentler. “Babe. Did something happen?” 

You look down. “I just don’t like the hospital. The head doctor... he’s a fucking creep.” 

Whitney raises his brow. He doesn’t get to hear you swear often. Then he grits his teeth considering his options. Resigns himself to the most tedious one. 

“I’ll stay with you. If you’re going to be such a baby about it. 

He sets his shoulders before grabbing you and pulling you along again. He’ll bitch and moan about it later. Right now, he just wants you to get that x-ray. Even if it takes holding your stupid hand through the process. 

--- 

Whitney is true to his word, and stays by your side through the whole ordeal. He doesn’t speak to anyone, just looms behind you, glaring at each medical professional you cross. 

Dread grows within you in the waiting room. But when you’re called to be seen, it’s by an older woman. Not Harper. You could vomit with relief. 

Whitney follows you anyway. Brokes no argument when the doctor raises her brow; asks who he is. 

There’s no privacy curtain in the little room you’re seen in. Whitney watches with increasing fury as you undress. There’s a slew of bruises across your torso. Some look like handprints. He holds his tongue. Clenches his jaw. 

The x-ray reveals several fractures, but no serious breaks. She prescribes you some painkillers, explains how to manage a concussion, and writes a letter to Leighton, excusing you from school for the next few days. 

You hadn’t expected that, and clutch the printout in both hands when you exit the building. 

“Wish I got to take time off every time I got into a fight,” Whitney complains once outside. 

He’s irritated when you don’t respond. He gave you the perfect setup for a joke there.  

Still, you look positively haunted, and he decides to let this one go. Puts his hand on your back and pushes you towards Domus Street. He’s tempted to walk you home, but doesn’t want to seem like he’s fussing.  

Besides. It’s not too late to join his mates on the errand he gave them. 

“Go home. Sleep it off. I’ll see you next week, slut.” 

--- 

The next day several students are sent home early because of how badly they’re beaten. Somebody is pulled out of their locker, with chipped teeth and a fractured jaw. Two others are found splayed on the floor of the bathroom, ribs cracked, and noses broken. Another was left unconscious behind the bike shed. 

> Fawn 

Wait, no, please- 

Your limbs turn to jelly as it pushes the oar aside. Grasps you under the jaw. Holds you still as it closes the gap between you. Its lips don’t pucker. Its eyes don’t close. For a moment you’re not even sure if it’s going in for a kiss. Its movements are too awkward – as if it’s only guessing at how this is done, copying something it had seen long ago. 

But then its mouth presses against yours. You close your eyes and hold still. You want to cry but you’re too scared. What if you anger the creature? 

You feel nauseous. From the situation, yes. But mostly from the stench. Its breath smells of rotten meat. Its lips taste of stagnant water. All you can do against the disgust is hold your breath until it’s over. When it pulls back you don’t dare move. Especially not with one set of claws still cradling your jaw.  

It examines you with wholly dark eyes; no sclera visible. You don’t think things can get any worse, but the hand around your ankle moves. You let out a shuddering gasp as it squeezes and works its way up your leg. Deadly claws caress your skin with careful restraint and you shiver at the contact, melting just a fraction into the creature’s touch.  

“Interesting.” 

Your eyes flutter open when it speaks.  

It watches you with a half-smile. “You almost look as if you enjoyed that.” 

You open your mouth to protest, but the words catch in your throat. Should you deny it? Would that make the creature mad? Did you enjoy it? 

You’re honestly too scared to know for sure.  

“Do I repulse you, little one?” 

You want to deny it. But even as you go to shake your head, you hesitate. Would it know if you lied? 

It takes you a moment to find the words. To form them. To say anything in a volume above a whisper. “Maybe just your breath.” 

The creature blinks, shock written across its face. Then it tilts its head to the side and gives you a wide and open smile. It’s probably one of amusement; intended to be genuine. Instead, it just terrifies you. 

“It must have been something I ate.” 

You don’t know if the creature is trying to scare you, but that’s the effect the words have. All you can do is give it a strained smile. 

“But if you don’t find me wholly disgusting, I might just...” 

You don’t have time to react before its lips crush against yours again. This time there’s more fluidity to the movement. Its tongue forces its way into your mouth; dry and leathery and exploratory. You close your eyes and exhale, trying to relax into the kiss, trying to ignore the taste- 

It pulls away, abrupt. 

“I don’t think you’re going to be afloat for much longer.” 

They’re right, you realise with horror. The puddle at the bottom of the boat is now above your ankles. Water is leaking through the hull at an alarming rate, and almost unconsciously you grip on to the creature. 

“I can’t swim.” It kills you to admit it, but you don’t have much of a choice. Your time is running out. 

“Oh?” That relaxed grin is back. “Would you like some assistance?” 

“Yes,” you beg, “Yes, please.” 

The creature lets go of you. Untangles itself from your grasp and goes back to leaning against the edge of your boat, almost casually. “And what do I get out of it?” 

You start to cry. Despair hovers over you. “Anything. Please. I just want to live. Don’t let me drown.” 

Its grin is positively wicked. “It’s a deal then.” 

The boat groans. Cracks. As if the creature’s words are a death knell for the ancient wood. 

“You and I are going to have so much fun,” it says. 

The boat comes apart beneath you and you plunge into the water. 

You’re ready to panic. Ready to kick and shriek and probably waste your precious air fighting against your own gravity and the icy pull of the lake. But arms wrap around you. Under your arms. Around your waist. Holding you against the creature’s chest.  

For a moment you’re filled with relief. You’re going to be okay, it’s going to take you to the surface. 

But it doesn’t. Instead, it takes you deeper. 

And deeper. 

Until you can make out the lumpy lakebed and the occasional tangle of freshwater plant, and you realise that you’re going to die down here.  

The water is murky and other than vague outlines, you can’t make out much over the creature’s shoulder. You can’t even make any sense of its lower half – too large, too long and misshapen for your brain to process and properly see anyway.  

The last of your air leaves you in a string of bubbles and your head starts to hurt. Your lungs squeeze uncomfortably tight. Are you really going to die here? Should you have fought back? Should you have done something differently? 

You go limp. Black spots jump in your eyes and your vision starts to tunnel. You need to breathe. You just need to open your mouth and pull in the air. Your body is starting to scream. Starting to demand you do it. Do it. Breathe-  

It’s suffocate or drown.  

But before you can choose the creature slows. Holds you by the back of the head and peers at your face. And presses its mouth to yours again. 

At first you’re incredulous. You’re going to die and this thing is kissing you again? 

Then you feel the air blowing into your lungs. Feel the relief in your chest. You don’t even care if it tastes of decay and rot, you bring your hands to its face and take as many breaths as it will spare you. 

Then the moment passes and the creature is swimming again. Water drags at your clothes, at your hair as it propels you towards its destination. Again it has to stop. Again it has to give you air. Twice. Three times. Four. 

And then you’re swimming up.  

Your head breaks the surface of the water and you gasp for breath. Spluttering and coughing, you cling tightly to the monster, wrapping your legs around it’s waist, terrified it will leave you to the depths. 

“We’re home,” it says in a sing-song voice. “Would you like a tour?” 

“I can’t see,” you say, voice a painful rasp. 

“Ah. Of course. Worry not, it’s brighter in the day.” 

You move through the water, slowly this time, and it deposits you on a pebbly shore. You crawl up the sloping bank until you press up against a sheer rise. Feeling your way up you realise it’s a stone wall, and that the bank you stand on is quite narrow. You could lay on it without getting your feet wet, but that’s disregarding the lake tides.  

If the tide came in, if this were an underwater cave, the whole area could go under. You’d be trapped and nobody – aside from your abductor – would be any the wiser. 

It’s suddenly hard for you to breathe. 

“If you follow that wall left you’ll find my collection. I keep the lake remarkably tidy. I bring all of the wrecks here.  We’ve got row boats, ‘swans’, canoes... I’ve also got a nice pile of fabric you can use. We can build you a nest! You’ll be so comfortable. Of course, it’s a bit damp – okay a lot damp – but I can’t help it. It’s not like I can take the clothes from anyone dry.” 

You lean against the wall as your legs turn leaden, sliding to the floor with defeat. 

“And if you follow the wall to your right, you’ll feel the moss in that corner. Humans eat plants, right? The last guest I had said they could eat the moss, so I suppose you’ll probably be fine. It might not be enough, but I can bring you other things. Oh! And the water that drips down that wall is clean, if you’d prefer not to drink from the lake.” 

You don’t know how big the space is, but the darkness presses in on you. Tears bubble up and drip down your cheeks. The space – the cave – feels too small. You focus on keeping your breathing regular but your thoughts still start to spiral. You might not have drowned, but you’re still going to die here. 

There’s a clammy hand against your cheek.  

You focus on the contact, letting it ground you. You’re not alone in the dark. There’s something here with you. 

“I’m scared,” you whisper. 

The hand gives your cheek a fond little pat. “Why’s that, sweet thing?” 

“It’s dark, and nobody knows where I am, and you’re going to kill me if I’m not good-” you start to cry. Your throat closes and you can’t get the rest of the words out. 

“Aw,” there’s a crunch and a scrape as it beaches itself and leans over you. You’re pulled against its chest again. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to look after you. I promise, I take good care of my things.” 

One hand runs up and down your back. The other through your hair, claws scratching your scalp delightfully. You can’t help but feel soothed, eyes drooping as you relax into the creature’s touches. You’d woken in the middle of the night when you heard the voice. Had been compelled out onto the lake by any means. And had gone through a ringer of adrenaline and stress. 

The fatigue is catching up to you. All you want to do is drift off; sleep away the night and hope that you wake from this nightmare in the morning. 

But the creature has other ideas. 

Gentle touches, which had relaxed you, now have you shuddering and biting back little noises of content. A hand rubbing your back. The other kneading the muscle of your leg. After a minute the creature plucks at your clothes. 

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay in these wet clothes. Perhaps you should remove them?” 

You’re acting out the suggestion before you can even consider it. Hands moving without permission, thoughts going hazy with the need to please. Something about that voice makes you eager to obey.  

“Good job,” they praise. You go fuzzier at the words. Not quite sleepy, but your thoughts are foggy and it’s hard to concentrate. It’s easier to just... lean into their touches. Let them pat your hair and run their fingers up and down your chest. Tracing patterns across your breast. Teasing your nipples until you’re unwittingly aroused.  

You let out a shuddering exhale. 

The creature lays you down on the ground. Your legs fall open to make room for its approach. Your head tilts back and you’re suddenly struck with an overwhelming desire to be touched. Hands caress your hair as it kisses your throat. You whimper. 

“Shhh. I know. Why don’t I show you just how good I am to my pets?” 

There’s a part of you burning. A presence in the back of your mind, screaming: wrong, this is wrong. But the voice is so far away. And if you are to be a prisoner here, you might as well have a good time. 

It’s too easy to ignore the warning. Too easy to relax and let the creature take what it wants. Especially as its now familiar voice seems to urge you to do so. A whisper in your mind telling you to spread your legs and enjoy yourself.  

You feel wet and silky hair brush your thigh. Then their tongue; curious. Exploratory. Before their mouth closes over you and they begin to suck. 

Your hips buck off the ground and you gasp. The hands that pin you to the ground might be sharp and cold, but the creature’s mouth is wet and warm. You can’t help but moan as their tongue circles you, and you find yourself becoming more vocal, more desperate as they find a rhythm.  

You don’t know if it’s stress, or surprise, but you come quickly, with a loud cry, arching and flexing. They work you through the aftershocks of your orgasm, until you are finally still: limp and pliant. 

The creature chuckles. “You look good enough to eat.”  

You don’t have it in you to protest. To be afraid. Just horny, when its hand goes between your legs to feel your core. You’re a drenched mess, slick with saliva and your fluids. When the pad of its finger rubs against your hole, you shudder.  

“But I suppose, I can settle for doing other things,” it muses, rubbing a knuckle against your opening, making you arch and gasp.  

“Do you want me to fuck you?” 

Tears prick in your eyes. Humiliation at how aroused you are. Trapped in the dark with a nameless, and presently faceless monster, but you’re trying not to squirm with need.  

“Hmm, my greedy pet. Didn’t I just make you come?” 

You still feel hazy. Lust glazes your thoughts and before you know it you’re begging.  

“Please fuck me, I’ll be good, please use me, please, oh please-” 

It silences you with a kiss. You taste yourself on their tongue, but you don’t even have it in you to be offput, grinding against their hand with a whimper and letting them devour your moans.  

“Well,” it breaks off to reply, “since you asked so sweetly.” 

Their hands go to your waist, and you’re lifted into the air. You hear a shuffle and feel the world tilt as it lies onto its back and places you atop it. You straddle a body that is unusually wide, though your hands rest on its humanoid chest for balance.  

They lift you and you feel their member at your entrance. You might not be able to see, but its press against your opening tells you something of its size, and you blanch.  

You don’t have a chance to protest, though, because it eases you down onto it, sheathing itself in you. Your head lolls back at the stretch and you let out a long groan. There’s nothing human about the member inside of you. 

A flat head with a slightly pointed tip that eases into you, pressing flush once inside. A monstrous length and girth that has you moving gingerly, genuinely concerned that you might tear if it fucks you with abandon. You reach down and touch yourself, and the creature hisses when you clench.  

“Did I say you could do that?” 

You trail your fingers lower, rubbing against the base of their cock. It’s... long. They’re not even fucking you with the whole thing. Further down you feel a single ridge. Then a... sheathe? It groans at your touch, and starts lifting you up and down, fucking you open. 

You begin to feel the familiar building of tension in your centre. Can’t help but reach down and stroke yourself. You’re still slick from their earlier ministrations; flushed and swollen.  

“You should see how you look right now,” it says, its voice a near growl. 

“You should see... h-how you feel...” you try to retort but trail off to let out a breathy moan instead.  

It laughs beneath you. 

You don’t try speaking again, submitting to the fuzziness of your thoughts and the rush of chemicals in your head, making you feel higher and higher. You just keep stroking yourself, tilting your head back and letting the creature lift you up and down the length of its cock. 

“That’s it. I want to feel you come on me.” 

You let out a whine at their words, convulsing as a second orgasm drifts closer and closer, much sooner than you’re used to. It’s overwhelming. Your body feels alight with sensation and you struggle to keep up with the rising wave within you. 

There’s a hand at your throat. Claws pricking your skin. “Now, pet.” 

You couldn’t resist, even if you’d tried, and you clench around them as you come, shaking and gasping and whimpering, every last reserve of your strength emptying to fuel your twitches and shudders. 

You’re so focused on your own orgasm that you almost miss it coming inside you; the deluge of seed coating your walls, overflowing and running down your thighs.  

You fall forward against its chest, panting, as it squeezes you tighter and keeps fucking into you, using your body to coax out every drop, every hot spurt.  

By the time it’s done you’re limp in their arms, mouth agape and thoughts awash in dopamine. You can’t formulate a complete thought, other than, ‘feel good’.  

Talons drag through your hair again, and another arm wraps around your waist. “You liked that?” 

You let out a groan, and nod. 

You’re still unconscious when Strade enters the shop the next morning. He surveys you with a critical eye, frowning at your pallor and shallow breathing. He’d thoroughly enjoyed two days with you. It isn’t a surprise to find you looking so weak, but it’s still disappointing.

He usually kills his victims when they reach this stage. Planning a delicious death is satisfying. Getting worked up during a scene, only to find his guest hadn’t survived the ordeal, is less so. 

He sighs as he considers his options. He could fuck you one more time: bend you over the wood saw and enjoy your clenching as he inched you closer and closer to the spinning blade. Though that runs the risk of leaving him too excited afterwards. 

He could give you that bath you so sweetly requested. Then when you were relaxed and pliant, he could push you under, holding you down as you thrashed. Though it’d be a pain to carry you downstairs again. Impulsive as he is, Strade frowns as he considers the impracticality of lugging your carcass around his house.  

No. He’d do it the easy way. Strade thumbs the holster at his hip open and closed, trying to ignore the weight in his chest. You’d been an absolute treat. Most guests couldn’t stand him after that first hurt, flinching away from every subsequent touch. Devolving into snivelling messes by the end of the first day. The begging became repetitive and grating. The threats empty. The silences boring. You’d been none of the above. 

Your witticisms are genuine. Your shamelessness, refreshing. Your receptiveness to his touch, downright delectable. Fuck – you'd climbed into his lap after that second session. Had thanked him for hurting you. You aren’t what he expected at all when he’d spotted you in that pub. 

And what you’d said on that first day: That’s all I want. For somebody to hurt me. And use me. And make me scream. Fuck. It had made his blood sing, even as he’d scoffed.  

Strade is unnerved when he realises that he’s experiencing something akin to disappointment. Regret? He hadn’t made you scream. Yell and sob and cry, of course. But he still wants to pry those sounds from your throat. To hear your voice blow out and turn hoarse from abuse.  

“Fick,” he mutters, before turning and trudging back upstairs. 

---

When you come to, Strade is scowling at you. It’s not a pleasant way to start your morning, wondering how you’d inadvertently offended him. Nothing about the situation is particularly pleasant. Your hurts are accumulating. You’re cold and stiff. The crusted blood covering you and the itch of your stitches set your senses on edge. 

You grit your teeth and raise your brow. “Something wrong?” 

He crosses his arms. “Du siehst scheiße aus.” 

You frown at him. “I only know one of those words.” 

Your abductor sighs. Takes a moment to roll his shoulders and rub his face. Some of the tension leaves his frame and when he offers you a small smile, you’re taken aback at how smoothly he can change his demeanour. 

“I said you look terrible.” 

You shrug and nod. “I feel terrible.” 

He hums, hardly acknowledging your reply. When he thumbs open his hip holster and draws a knife something in you chills. He approaches before sinking into an easy crouch, eyeing you speculatively. 

“Tch.” 

Your scoff shakes him from his ponderance, and he gives you an amused smile. “You’ve had enough?” 

You don’t like the gentle mockery to his tone. The condensation. He’s not the one who’d gone painfully numb from their bindings, or who’d sat in a disgusting mix of cum, blood, and at this point, piss, for three days.  

You lean in, taking on a conspiratorial tone. “I look like scheiße because you’ve been sticking me like a pig for two days. Surely there’s other ways to have our fun.” 

He blinks at your retort. Then throws back his head and laughs. It’s a warm sound. Hearty and genuine. He examines you with renewed interest. 

“I was worried you wouldn’t have the energy for another date, but it seems you’re still lively as ever.” 

That’s it then. The reason for the scowl. The dread that had blossomed in you when he’d unsheathed the knife. It seems that the moment Strade deems you unable to withstand his appetite is the moment you’ll have no further use. 

The knowledge has you tingling with fear. And triumph. There’s nothing quite like the click of a puzzle piece moving into place. And people are just full of them. Characters, with stories that you can pry open and read.  

And Strade is an open book that you intend to edit. 

“You’ve got a whole workshop down here and I’ve only seen you use that knife. Why don’t you show me what else you can do?” 

His smile matches the fervour of your own. “Would you like a tour?” 

Your grin turns feral. “I’d be delighted.” 

---

Strade unties you from the hardpoint with the cool assurance of a practiced predator. He zip-ties your wrists in front of you, but otherwise gives you complete range of motion. You want to scoff at his arrogance, but when he pulls you upright you realise his confidence is well placed.  

The room spins when you stand, and you frown. You’re ravenous, and your mouth is bone dry. Details that had been easy to miss over your collective aches and pains. You have to lean against Strade for support, which he doesn’t seem to mind, propping you against the workbench once you cross the room. 

He appears to be a jack of all trades, owning everything you’d pack into a standard toolbox, and at least the basics to get him started in several other crafts. You do notice a distinct lack of materials, though. Hammer, nails, drill bits, but no scrap wood in sight. Glass cutters but no glass. Welding equipment but no metalworks.  

He works through each cupboard, seemingly happy to introduce you to each tool and explain what they’re used for. It’d almost be charming if he weren’t also going into detail about the different ways he’d maimed people with his equipment. He discusses the torture matter-of-factly, and with a hint of pride when detailing some of his more creative punishments.  

You let him talk it out, as he doesn’t appear to tire of the discussion, even asking questions here and there. Less to distract him: you know he’ll get his pound of flesh by the day’s end. You keep him talking more to relax him. To endear yourself to him. 

When he seems to be winding down, you let yourself butt in, giving him an teasing smile to keep things light hearted. “As incredible as that would be, I’m afraid that would involve drawing a lot of blood.” 

“Right, right. Remind me to show you some of my videos later, ja?” 

"Sure.” 

Strade looks over the workbench, finally ready to plan out the morning. After a moment he pulls a hammer from the wall rack. “Would you like to break some bones today?” 

You purse your lips. The man is deranged, offering to maim you with such boyish charm and enthusiasm. You have to bite back a smile in favour of being stern.  

“Will you set them afterwards?” 

“Of course, <3” 

You don’t bat an eye, fixing him with a shrewd stare. 

After a moment Strade deflates, pouting and lowering the hammer. “I’ll set them afterwards.” 

“Unless you can do it properly, I’d like to see what else you’ve got.” 

He lets out a dramatic sigh and puts the hammer back. After some consideration he opens a draw and pulls out- 

“-is that a car battery?” 

“It’s modified,” he says, almost defensively. “I’ve used it on people before. They usually survive.” 

Usually?  

You sigh, trying to play off the fear as exasperation. 

This won’t do. Not at all. The whole situation is too risky and growing more fraught. If you keep turning down his ideas, if you can’t prolong your time with him, if- 

“Schätzchen?”  

You glance between the car battery and the hammer and take a deep breath. You need an idea, and you need it fast. 

“Do you-” you hesitate. Fuck, this would suck. “Have you done any soldering?” 

You could survive some burns. They’d be insanely painful, but provided Strade was careful, provided he had the right tools... the damage would only be cosmetic.  

By the glint in his eye, you know you’ve stumbled onto the right answer. 

“Soldering,” he hums, stepping closer to you. “Really?” 

You swallow. You’re reminded of your stature when Strade boxes you in, leaning against the work bench and regarding you with growing intensity. He’s not a behemoth of a man but he’s still got a few inches on you. You flash back to the way he’d grabbed your hair and slammed your head into the wall when you’d first arrived – he's certainly not afraid to use his strength.

“Yeah, really,” you murmur, trying and failing to summon some enthusiasm into your tone.  

“I like how you think, schatz .” 

Before you can dredge up a response, he leans down, too close for comfort. If you didn’t know him, the fingers winding up your nape and the breath on your cheek might have been intoxicating. The sound of Strade sniffing your hair and his other hand running up your side is still thrilling, even if it fills you with wariness. 

His lips close over your neck and your breath hitches. You find yourself clinging to him as he sucks a line of kisses into your throat. You wince at the feel of his teeth before relaxing into the touch. 

You’re so fucking easy. 

The danger of the situation, the inherent possession and arrogance of his touches; your mind goes hazy with lust. Never mind the torture ahead. Never mind the looming threat of death. You curse yourself for thinking with your cunt even as a soft moan escapes you. 

At the sound, Strade’s control cracks. His hands go to your thighs, and he hoists you onto the bench. One hand fists in the hair at the back of your neck, dragging you down to his level. The other parts your knees so he can press up against you. 

You lift your bound hands over his head, grasping the back of his shirt and pulling him closer. The kiss is... well if you were to judge Strade for technique alone, it wouldn’t be great. You suspect he has more experience sticking his dick in his victims than he does kissing them. 

There’s no finesse. Too much spit for not enough tongue. And he’s way too liberal with the use of his teeth. You whimper when he digs his fingers into your injured thigh, skin tearing around the sutures. 

“Ahff- A warm up would have been nice,” you grouch. 

“This is your warm up.” 

The words send a spike of fear through you. You decide to be grateful for the little things, and give yourself wholeheartedly to the kiss, wrapping your thighs around Strade and groaning against his mouth. Evidence of his excitement presses against you, but before you can reach for it Strade ducks out of your grasp, panting heavily.  

His hands can’t move fast enough as he sets up, producing an extension cord from one cabinet and a soldering gun from another. Once it’s plugged in, he sets it aside. The sight of it is sobering; you swallow. This would be your last chance to back out. To ask for something else. To reason with him before bloodlust and elation overtake his rationale. 

But there’s nothing to be said.  

Pain shoots down your leg when he pulls you from the bench. You nearly collapse, grabbing on to him to catch yourself.  

He allows the touch for a moment, smiling with lowered brows, as if to silently chide you for your clumsiness. The moment passes and he steps away before you can recover. You fall to the ground in an uncomfortable sprawl. 

The time for messy kisses has passed, you realise, when his boot comes down to rest on the back of your head. He presses, experimentally, as if testing the give to your skull. Your face is pressed unpleasantly into the filthy concrete, and your breath comes out ragged.  

You clench your thighs together, embarrassed by the sudden flood of warmth at your core. You bite down on your lip, reminded of how depraved you are. 

“Kneel for me.” 

He doesn’t move his foot. 

Slowly and awkwardly, you pull your legs beneath you, propping yourself up on your knees. You close your eyes, trying to block out the abject humiliation of exposing yourself in such a way. 

“Good girl.” 

You nearly melt at his words. They ease the shameful burn in your cheeks and you’re suddenly less self-conscious about the position. Holding your face and chest to the ground with your ass in the air – you're too keyed up to notice the change in Strade’s stance or hear the scuff of the power cord on the cement. 

He presses the iron against your back.  

All the arousal in the world couldn’t stop you from feeling it. (Pain) Your whole body seizes, writhes, flattens, does anything to escape the searing touch. (It hurts) Your throat hurts. You don’t recognise the sounds you make. Don’t even realise that you’d been making them until you’re gasping for breath and the shrill cries fade. (It still hurts) If it weren’t for the boot on the back of your head, you’d have bolted. Even so you claw at the ground, struggling to move. 

“How was that?”  

You barely hear him over your panting. Can’t see shit past the tears blurring your vision. You try to shake your head, try to form words, but still haven’t recovered the ability to speak. (You could always scream?) 

His weight shifts again. The pressure on your head lessens. You think he’s crouching.  

Fingers stroke up the curve of your back. (No) You’re in so much pain you’d assumed the whole slab of your back was a blistered mess, but at his touch you know you’re still intact. (No, no, no) You know because you shake and cry with dread as his fingers work towards the mark he’d burnt into you. (Please don’t touch it) 

You choke on a sob when he fingers the wound, pulling back and wincing before chuckling.  

“You’re still hot.” 

The weight leaves your head and Strade kneels behind you, his erection pressing against your ass. (Not now) You don’t even have it in you to moan, or grind against him. Your whole body is shaking. In the following silence you whimper. Anticipation and dread building in equal parts.  

You don’t get a warning before he touches the gun to your skin again. 

You screech, struggling and fighting the contact. It just makes it worse. Instead of a steady line drawn between your shoulder blades, (get away, get away) the iron dips and stutters, dotting your skin sporadically. It almost reminds you of wax play, but (it hurts) infinitely more twisted. Instead of the thrill of heat you’re experiencing the terror of molten burns.  

“Shhh,” Strade puts the gun down to touch your hair. “This was your idea.” 

You want to retort. To curse and spit at him and beg for mercy. But the words come out as an unintelligible stream of whimpers and sniffles. All you can do is sag against the ground, panting. Your whole body feels weak. 

He laughs. Seizes you by the hair and lifts you up to your knees. He turns your face to regard him; drinking in your agony. 

“Tell me how it feels.” 

“H- hurts...”  

“Come on. Use your words, sweetheart.” 

You try again. “H- hurts more than... anything... I’ve...” 

He lets out a whistle. “Now this is something I’ve got to experience.” 

Strade drops you. You hear him unzip. Feel the press of his cock against your entrance. Then hesitate. 

“Oh? I thought you were into this?” 

You’re not wet anymore. The pain had been way too much way too soon, and you doubt anything could arouse you enough to make you slick right now.  

“Tsk.” He pushes you down again, one hand on the back of your neck, crushing your face against the ground. He knees your thighs open. “Well, if you’re going to be difficult, you can at least scream for me.”  

Yes. Yes, fuck, you would scream yourself hoarse if it meant pleasing him, if it meant ending this punishment sooner rather than later.  

But when he presses the gun against the back of your thigh your enthusiasm drains in an instant. You shriek and buck and he draws back for a moment, leaving you to sob and try to catch your breath.  

He does it again, further up your leg.  

Logically you know kicking is dangerous. That you could hit Strade and piss him off. That you could knock the iron and give yourself a larger burn. That he might like watching you struggle and be prompted to keep going. 

You’re not thinking logically.  

You squirm and kick and cry, wiggling your ass to try and get out of the way. Strade’s hold on the back of your neck is steadfast, and you don’t succeed in anything more than bending your spine into an uncomfortable angle.  

Again, he burns you, the tip now inches from your core. Hysteria takes over and you start to sob. You shake your head when he releases you. He touches your folds, holding your lips open and letting out a ‘hmm’.  

“Was würde passieren, wenn ich dich damit ficken würde?” He muses. 

(What would happen if I fucked you with this?) 

“Please,” you wail. “Please don’t.”  

You feel sick with terror. Your thigh burns but your press your backside flush against Strade, hiding your slit from him. If he were to burn you there- Fuck, you don’t even know what you’d do.  

“Don’t worry, schatz. I’ll be good to you,” he soothes before pressing the iron against your ass. 

You shriek and jerk, desperately trying to crawl forward. Strade lets you go a few inches before grabbing you by the ankle and yanking you back against him. You barely notice him reach around to your hands, cutting them free. When he wrenches your arms behind your back, you groan. He binds them again, heedless of how the position shifts and stretches your injuries. Then, with practiced ease he digs his fingers into your hip and rolls you over. 

Lying on your injuries is agony. Your arms pinned beneath you don’t fare any better. Your breath catches and you lose focus for a moment as Strade climbs on top of you, kneeling above your thighs. He brushes the tears from your face until you can see again.  

Your abductor is flushed and sweating, amber eyes sparkling with excitement. He puts the gun to the side and grabs you by the hips, grinding his length against you. Your head lolls and you whimper. All the tensing and bucking and shaking has left you exhausted. When he ruts against you, dragging his cock over the top of your folds, you can’t bring yourself to care. There’s nothing left in your reserves; no fight in you when he’s not inflicting any pain. 

He doesn’t seem to mind. After a pause he spits into his hand and strokes his cock a few times, before pressing against your entrance again. Then with a jerk of his hips he sheathes himself in you, forcing you open.  

Your fingers flex. Then relax. You arch your back as you’re jostled and pressed hard into the ground. Your back hurts. Your thighs hurt. Your ass hurts. Your throat, your chest, your arms: everything hurts. (Just fuck me. Fuck me and get this over with. Fuck me and let me rest) But Strade stops, and smiles at you.  

“Now, schatz, I want to feel you scream.” 

Your eyes are watery and you’re feeling distant. Part of you hopes that you can just tune this out. Forget yourself for a little while. Let your body relax around the familiar stretch until you’re tired enough to pass out and hopefully have painless dreams.  

You’re snapped back into your body when Strade presses the soldering iron against your stomach.  

You cry when he draws it along your side, tracing the length of your ribs. Then stops. Pauses for effect. Drinks in your snotty face and agonised gasping with delight.  

Your whole body jerks when he circles your breast with the iron. Pauses again. 

You’re shaking your head. You know what comes next.  

“Please-” 

He presses it against the flesh of your nipple. And holds it there. 

You open your mouth and scream. 

Your skin sears. The sounds that escape you are barely human.  

Strade laughs. Then moans. “Du wirst so eng, wenn ich dich verletze.”  

(You get so tight when I hurt you) 

He removes the iron. He’s panting too, watching you with wide eyes, biting down on his lip as he takes in your dishevelled form. His hips buck as he draws a line up over your collar bone and rests the iron at the side of your neck. 

Your throat feels raw from how much you’re screaming. You twitch and clench and cry. You can smell burning flesh.  

“Ich könnte dich daran ersticken lassen,” he murmurs, bringing the gun to your cheek and stroking you with it.  

(I could make you choke on it) 

Your skin bubbles and blisters. You turn your face away, but only succeed in scraping your jaw against the gun tip, tracing another agonising line into your flesh.  

He pulls the iron back again. Lets out a shuddering exhale. Then starts moving in you. Each thrust brings the gun too close to your face. Scrapes your back against the concrete. Hurts. Bitterly, dizzyingly.  

You clench and freeze when the iron dips closer, inches from one of your eyes. Strade laughs at your reaction, tilting his head back and relishing the feel of you around him.   

You close your eyes and focus on keeping still. On withstanding the torture; the array of terrible sensations. He’s right. You’d asked for it. And it’s this or letting him bleed you again; letting him inch you closer to death.  

You open your eyes when the hand wraps around your throat. The soldering gun isn’t in sight, to your relief. It’s just you and Strade, fucking like animals on the floor. Some of the tension eeks out of you, and you let out a low groan; your whole body hurts. You can’t even derive any enjoyment from the sex; you’re practically dry.  

“You look so good, liebling,” he murmurs, thumbing the burn on your face.  

You sniffle and wince. “Did I do good?” 

“Well, you sounded beautiful,” he agrees, smiling down at you with a gentle fondness, like he hadn’t just been melting your flesh. “Why don’t you show me what other sounds you can make?” 

You can’t bring yourself to reply. Exhausted. If he wants you to put on a show for him, you’re going to be hard pressed to do anything other than lie limp and pliant, and pant in time with his thrusts. Even the panting grows difficult as his grip on your throat tightens, and your eyes start to trickle again as he digs his hand into the burn he’d just placed there. 

“Come on, pet. Louder.” He punctuates the order with the press of his palm against your clit.  

You wheeze and arch as he grinds its heel against you, eliciting a visceral reaction. He even pauses in his fucking to focus on you, pressing hard enough to hurt.  

The pressure on your clit is overwhelming and you clench reflexively, letting out a string of whimpers and moans. His ministrations hurt and the brutal treatment of your nub is somehow enough to rekindle your desire.  

“Fuck,” you groan, bucking up against his hand.  

He squeezes your throat again and you clench around his cock, vision blurring, head spinning. You don’t know if it’s pain, or pleasure, or a lack of oxygen, but you are riding a high once again, moaning like a bitch in heat, eyes streaming.  

You peak. And it’s over too soon. Before you can flex and shake and gasp, before you can ride out the waves of the orgasm, Strade pulls his hand away. Grabs you by the thighs and starts fucking you, lifting your hips to meet his. 

You whine when he stops touching you. Legs shaking, desperate to feel his vicious touch for just a moment longer. Left on the brink, with your satisfaction torn away, you begin to despair, your orgasm ruined. 

Strade doesn’t seem to notice, slamming his hips against yours. He pants over you, flushed, sweating, face contorted in pleasure, using you how he pleases. You feel the throb of his dick when he spills, and the wet heat spreading through your cunt. He takes his time riding out the aftershocks, bent over with his hands braced on either side of you. 

The weight of his body against yours would probably be a comfort if he weren’t pressing against your new injuries painfully. Regardless, you lean into his chest, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder. There’s only so much you can do laying on the floor with your arms tied behind you, but you’ll be damned if you don’t at least try to ground yourself with some human contact after that particularly gruelling session.  

He allows it, even lowering himself to the ground beside you, resting his head on one hand as he looks you over, contemplative once more. 

You wish you know what he’s thinking about. Even as your eyelids droop and your limbs turn leaden, the suspense of the moment keeps you awake. As much as you want to pass out, or melt into the apparent cuddle, you have to ask. The words are a battle to get out of your mouth. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” 

He blinks, resurfacing from thought. “It was certainly satisfying. The iron was a good choice.” 

You try to ignore the wicked delight to that comment. You give him a smug smile instead. “I’m full of bright ideas.” 

“Oh? Are you going to share another?” 

You stretch, as best you can in this position, though the movement only has you hissing in pain. You clear your throat before you answer his question, letting confidence and good humour exude from your voice. “Nasty shower sex.” 

He huffs a laugh. “You have a one track mind.” 

You shrug. “Followed by breakfast. I think we’ve earned some pampering.” 

“We?” 

“Don’t think I wasn’t impressed by your performance too. How can I reward you? A massage? A blowy in the shower? A movie night? You said you wanted to show me some videos. Or I could cook breakfast. I make a good scrambled egg.” You pause. You want to hammer in your point, but rambling if he’s not completely on board will do you no good. You swallow, and soften your tone. “This doesn’t have to be a one-time thing, Strade.” 

He raises a brow. “It sounds to me like you’re bartering for time.” 

You pout. “So, what if I am? Time with you could be a lot of fun.” 

He chews on his lip while he considers. His eyes trace the length of your body. Each hurt he’s inflicted on you. Each mark he’s bestowed.

You wait, knowing you’ve applied just enough pressure, and that any more might foil your plan. 

“I suppose a shower wouldn’t hurt.” 

You smirk. “I’m sure you could make it, though.” 

He processes the joke, and then laughs. “You know what, Schätzchen? I think I like you.” 

You survived. 

He’ll keep you forever. 

But not if he knows what’s good for him. 

When you come to, you’ve been moved. It takes a few blinks to clear the blur from your eyes, and your head feels awful. In fact, the rest of your body doesn’t fare much better. Your shoulders ache like you’ve slept in the wrong position, and your hands are beginning to go numb. It’s no surprise why – they're tied behind your back, around a pole of some sort – a support beam you think. 

You sit in a basement, lit by fluorescents and haunted by the smell of old metal. The room is stained with brown and red splotches. The floor, the drains, the walls. Across from you are a handful of cabinets and one large work bench, decorated with tools both electric and manual. 

The seriousness of your situation begins to set in, and you swallow. “Strade?” 

A side door opens at your call, and the man emerges. He gives you a once over. “You weren’t out long. How are you feeling, bud?” His cheerful tone is jarring.  

“Why have you tied me up down here?” 

He leans against the work bench and gives you an easy smile. “Because I wanted to. Because I could. We were having such a nice talk, and I decided I had to get to know you better.” 

You pursue your lips at his response. After a beat, you decide to speak honestly, addressing his first question. “My arms are going numb, and you did a number on my head.” 

His brow creases and he makes a sympathetic noise. “Did I tie you too tight?” The concern in his eyes melts away, and the sweetness of his tone becomes almost mocking. “I couldn’t help myself. You’d look so good with some rope burn~” 

You like it rough. You enjoy things scary. Fuck, you even enjoy it when your partners hurt you. Especially when they hurt you – the extent of your depravity had scared away many men. But this guy does not impress you.  

His entitlement to your body, to your pain, does not impress you. 

“There are more fun ways to inflict rope burn,” you deadpan, “don’t you think?” 

Strade lights up. “Ahh, you’re enthusiastic~ <3” He draws closer before falling into a crouch in front of you. “Shall we see how long it takes for you to break?” 

You clench your jaw. He’s told you nearly everything you need to know. You ignore your bitterness and give him an indolent shrug. “Be my guest.” 

Something, perhaps irritation, flickers across his features. Tired of your bravado, he takes hold of your short bottoms and tugs them down. 

“Most people buy me dinner first,” you grumble. 

He ignores your gripe, instead pulling your shorts off and tossing them to the side.  

In the following silence, your heart begins to race. You’re filled with trepidation. Death hadn’t scared you for the past few years. If anything, it had bored you. Living had become a little dull. A bit predictable since you’d had your close encounter. You’d seen what awaited you, and something had fundamentally changed because of it.  

You did not fear death. Did not fear the grey of the river, or the swirling of its fog. That part of you was long broken. 

Perhaps that’s why you feel something akin to excitement when Strade runs his hand up the exposed expanse of your leg. Your breath hitches when he unsheathes a knife from his side.  

Your legs, half folded beneath you, press together, and you try not to squirm.  You watch, enthralled, when he grabs your ankle and straightens your leg, calloused hand rough against your skin. 

Strade watches your face when he plunges the knife into your thigh.  

The air rushes out of you in a gasp. The pain – absolutely blinding – winds you. Doubled over, unable to make a sound, your arms are pulled taut. You can barely hear over the pounding of your heart – the rushing of blood in your ears. 

When you meet Strade’s gaze you find him flushed, and his eyes are hooded. You cough out a little laugh, and when you can get some air down, you grin at him. 

“I think you’re coming on a little strong, babe.” 

He raises his brows. Glances down to where his knife is embedded to the hilt. It would probably scrape against the bone if he’d plunged it an inch further to the left. You hate to picture how that would feel. 

He smirks, and twists it. “Am I?” 

Your muscles contract in pain and you double over again. Your mouth hangs open in a wordless cry and your eyes unfocus. Tears spring to them, unbidden. This time a breathy groan escapes you.  

It takes longer for you to recover. Sweat drips from your brow when you meet his gaze and quip. “Most people start with spanking.” 

He gives a short laugh, and pulls the knife out. “I’m not most people.” 

To say the movement smarts would be an understatement. You tense and untense, struggling to deal with the pain, the adrenaline, while bound. You tilt your head back and try to breathe through it all. Try to catch your breath. When you’re ready, you survey the damage. 

At a glance you know the situation is dire. If you were still wearing pants they’d be soaked through. Without them, a large puddle of blood has formed beneath you. Your vision swims, and you wonder if you’re starting to lose too much. The thought fills you with distaste.  

“I’m bleeding quite a bit.” 

He tilts his head and considers, still flushed. “No, I don’t think it’s enough.” 

You don’t have time to brace before he stabs you again, further up the leg. You let out a cry when the blade scrapes the bone. Your tears begin to fall in earnest, blurring your sight. 

Strade licks his lips and smiles, eyes flicking between your face and your leg. “Ahh... I’m getting too excited...” He removes the knife and you jerk, panting from pain.  

A bit distantly you regard yourself again, and frown. “I don’t think you’re very good at this. Five minutes in and I’ve already lost too much blood.”  

He tuts, rubbing your thigh and smearing the blood further. When his fingertips approach the edge of a wound you stiffen. He squeezes and you let out a pained grunt. You shut your eyes, hoping to block out the dizziness. 

You can tell he’s leaning in, because his breath brushes against your ear. “I don’t think you’re in any position to complain, schätzchen.” 

“I guess not.” The bitterness rears its head again, and you scoff. “I was hoping to offer you a deal. But after our first session, I’m not sure you’d be capable of keeping it.” 

Two of his fingers press into your wound and you kick reflexively. It only hurts you more. He smiles, but there’s no sweetness to his expression. “I don’t need to make a deal.” 

“Yeah. But you would have liked this one.” 

He releases you abruptly and lets out a sigh. Rests his chin on his hand, heedless of the way he smears blood along his jaw. “Oh?” 

There are spots in your vision. The wooziness is making it hard for you to concentrate. To think rationally. “I was going to let you hurt me in any way you liked, do anything you asked, provided you agreed not to maim or kill me.” 

Your cheeks flush at the confession. You’re so caught up in embarrassment at your admission that you miss the way he regards you, curious, with budding excitement.  

You don’t miss the shrug. “I can do that anyway.” He grabs your thigh, digging his fingers into your flesh. “See?” 

You cry out at the touch, and when he lets go, you’re panting with exertion. You lick your licks, and close your eyes against the spinning of the room.  

“Yeah, but, like, when was the last time you had a willing participant? Somebody who enjoyed your work? Who asked – no – begged for it?” 

Your eyes are closed, so you don’t see the stillness that settles over him. The predatory tilt to his head. 

The blood loss has gotten to you, and you know you’re blathering on. You’ve said enough – enough that Strade must realise the depths of your lunacy. But you’re too delirious to restrain yourself, and there’s still alcohol in your system, and you’re probably going to die down here, so you just keep rambling on. 

“I think it’s a fucking tragedy – an absolute travesty – that nobody has hurt me the way I need. That’s all I want. For somebody to hurt me. And use me. And make me scream – gods, I need somebody to make me scream. And then to fuck me afterwards.” 

You sniffle into the silence, and on noticing the quiet, open your eyes. Strade is watching you carefully. His calmness, the blood on his chin, on his clothes, it all annoys you. You crinkle your nose. “But I don’t think you have the control to give me what I need. Not from what I’ve seen.” 

Another smile ghosts his lips. He seems to come to a decision, and approaches you. For a moment, you think he’s wrapping you in a hug. You feel his breath against your cheek. Hear him inhale the smell of your hair. And then there’s metal along your wrists. The careful snick of his knife against your bindings. The pressure on your shoulders eases as your wrists are freed. 

“What are you-” 

You yelp when he grabs you by the knees and drags you away from the beam. His fingers dig into your thigh and a whine leaves your throat. He flips you and uses his knee to part your legs and push your ass into the air. One of his hands grip you by the hair, and presses your face into the concrete. “Is this what you want?” 

You whimper, and try to nod. 

“Do you like this?” 

You don’t reply, and when he smacks your ass, hard enough to bruise, you yelp.  

“Yes! Yes, I like this!” 

He tugs your underwear down and pauses.  

“... Interesting.” 

You squirm under his gaze, knowing that he found you needy and wet.  

You gasp when something cold touches your folds, and flinch when he turns the knife on its edge. You have to cease your squirming when he rubs the flat of the blade against your folds, afraid he’ll cut you.  

“Tell me what you want.” 

You tremble, terrified to move an inch, desperate to rub against him, to gain any ounce of friction. “I want you to fuck me.” 

He spanks you again, and you flinch, cutting yourself on the knife. You whimper and sniffle at the pain. 

“Please, Strade. I need you so badly.” 

He laughs. “Wow. You really are pathetic.” 

The knife leaves you, and you hear him undo his belt and pants. His hand fists in your hair again when he lines himself up to your entrance. You rub against him, keening, and he chuckles again. 

He enters you without warning. You’re wet enough that he slides straight in, and after a few exploratory thrusts, he sets his pace. His free hand grabs you by the thigh and you cry out in pain. It only encourages him. 

He releases his crushing grip on your head, instead grabbing you by the throat. He pulls you upright, pressing your back to his chest, to growl in your ear. “Ich denke, ich werde Spaß mit dir haben.” (I think I will have fun with you) 

With the blood loss, the man handling, and the tightening grip around your throat, you’re light headed. Tunnel vision is setting in, and the sounds around you – Strade panting in your ear, the wet sounds of skin slapping against skin – they're becoming increasingly distant. 

A small part of you is bothered by this development. Self-aware and critical of Strade’s actions (and your reactions). You had scolded Strade for his lack of control, but where was yours? You’re going to die. You’re going to bleed out, or suffocate, and nobody but this sadist will ever know, and you will have deserved it for begging him to fuck you, for begging him to hurt you.  

You ignore that realisation. Because you’re awash in sensations, and you've never felt more alive. His fingers in your thigh hurt. You can barely breathe. Your heart is pounding in your ears. You’re gripping Strade’s arm at your throat, not to stop him but to balance yourself. His heat practically envelops you, his rasping breath hot against the back of your neck, his cock stretching you deliciously.  

You’re so caught up in the moment that you miss the warning signs – the pounding in your head, the sluggishness of your grip, the darkening of your vision.   

He finishes in you. You’re not awake to feel it. Nor do you notice him drop you and sigh.  

“I guess we could try it your way, schätzchen.” 

You’d fucked up. You knew it the moment you plunged the knife into his back. It had scraped along his shoulder blade, cutting deep but ultimately not doing any immediate damage.  

Not to him anyway.  

The smile slips from his face as he pins your wrist to the ground. He’s deathly still, processing what you’ve done. Beside you, the knife clatters to the ground. 

You’ve not seen him so blank before, and it’s fucking terrifying.  

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, pathetically. 

His grip on your wrist tightens. His other hand, still tangled in your hair, balls into a fist and you wince. 

“Warum würdest du so etwas tun?” Why would you do a thing like that? 

“I’m sorry,” you’re crying now, “I didn’t think-” 

He uses his grip on your scalp to slam your head against the ground.  

You whimper at the pain, frantically blinking spots from your vision. 

“Enough.” 

He climbs off you. It’s almost a relief until you see the ice in his expression.  

You’re trying to crawl away when his boot comes down on your calf. Once. Twice. Three times. 

Thud. Thud. Snap! 

You scream. Fuck, you scream like you’ve never screamed before. Strade doesn’t even smile. He bares his teeth, but there’s no amusement in his eyes.  

Your leg is a mess. The skin bulges. Bone is pressing somewhere it shouldn’t, threatening to poke through and expose itself to the air. Nausea rolls through you and you pass out. 

Not for long enough. When you wake, you’re almost certain that only moments have passed. Strade is on top of you again, but instead of straddling you by the hips, he kneels on either side of your chest. You move to unseat him, but pain ricochets up your leg so fast you can only wheeze; the room spins around you. 

“Here, buddy. You dropped this.” 

Somehow you hadn’t spotted the knife in his hand, nor felt the tip pressed against your throat. Slowly – too fucking slowly, he presses it into you. Pain blossoms in your throat when it pierces your skin. He slides the length into the wound until your throat spasms and you choke around the steel.  

Finally, Strade smiles again, transfixed by the way you clutch at his hand, coughing on your blood.  

Waking up comes as a surprise to you.

Not the basement. That, you remember. And while the events of yesterday are a bit foggy, you still recall the broad strokes.

Your arms, tight behind your back, are uncomfortable. The support beam digs into one of your shoulder blades. Your throat hurts – you can barely swallow. The floor is cold. You wish you’d worn jeans the night of you capture. And perhaps a sweater. Not that it would matter, you suppose, since Strade had taken you pants. Right before he-

Ah. Yes. That also happened.

You stretch out your legs. The skin of your right thigh feels tight, and itchy. You wish you could inspect it. You wish you knew what the time was. You don’t have either luxury. Strade had left you in the dark.

Alive.

Waking up in your predicament; your partial state of undress, the throbbing in your leg, even the leftover slickness between your thighs – none of these things are as disconcerting as the fact that you’d woken up at all.

The sex had been – well, memorable – but you hadn’t expected to recover from it. You’d been bleeding profusely. Strade had held you in a tightening stranglehold. You’d severely doubted his control; his ability to check his strength.

And yet you’d survived the night. The tautness in your leg, the fact that you hadn’t bled out; you start to suspect that Strade had tended your injuries.

Perhaps you’d read him wrong?

He was still unhinged. Utterly confident in his desire and his ability to hurt people. Eerily friendly and personable. You’d raved about offering yourself to him, but begin to doubt if he’d even go for something like that. What did he want? What did he like?

What do you know?

You know he’s not had a keen partner before. He’d told you so when you’d first kissed him.

You know that he liked you. Well, at least enough that he wanted to get to know you better. He’d said so himself. Unless he was lying?

He seemed to light up at some of your quips. Had commented on your enthusiasm. But had punished you for other jokes, twisting the knife in your leg.

Scouring your memories, you struggle to pinpoint his responses after that point. The words, the pain – it had all blended together.

‘I don’t need to make a deal.’

That one is clear. You shiver to recall it. You don’t fear death, but that doesn’t mean you welcome it. And your situation? It doesn't look good. If he wouldn’t deal with you-

You needed more information. More time. Perhaps he’d keep you for another day. You just needed to plan your approach.

-

The creak of door hinges has you straightening. Your heart begins to pound at the sound of his steps; at his silhouette in the doorway. You’re not afraid. Not yet. But still worked up. You tap your foot, anticipation weighing out over dread.

He flicks the light on and you blink, eyes adjusting. When you can see again you give your captor a subdued, but pleasant smile.

“Good morning.”

Your voice is raspier than you’d expected. It hurts to speak. But your warm tone still comes through.

He cocks an eyebrow, but smiles back. “Good morning. Are you hungry?”

He’s holding a plate and a carton of juice.

“A bit, yes.”

He stoops to put the plate in front of you before continuing past, rummaging through cupboards you can’t see. You eye the food – a sandwich. Ham and cheese, you think. Your stomach grumbles at the sight. With the food in reach, you realise you’re desperately hungry.

Strade re-joins you, placing two glasses of orange juice alongside the food, and leaning around to look at your back. You feel the tugging of rope and after a few moments the pressure in your joints eases; your hands come free.

You let out a sigh of relief and roll your shoulders.

“Thank you. That was uncomfortable.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. “You’re very welcome.”

You take a moment to rub the angry welts around your wrists, and to stretch your back. Something pops when you do, and you wince, before shifting your legs. They’re red with old blood, but you spy the sutures knitting the flesh of your thigh together.

For a moment there’s silence. It’s only uncomfortably because of how carefully you have to consider your words. You’d decided to withhold your jokes. To be polite, and curious, but to otherwise tone down your attitude. It had seemed like the safest option.

“May I eat?”

He settles himself on the ground, sitting across from you and reaching for a glass. “Of course~”

You reach for half the sandwich and dig in. Ham, cheese, and mayo. Not bad. You tilt your head back and rest it against the beam, groaning appreciatively. “Did I eat yesterday?”

“No.”

You roll your eyes, forgetting yourself for a moment. “I hope you don’t intend to starve me.”

His smile is more pointed this time. “Not at all.”

You take a sip from your drink to cover your deliberation. Or intend to, before draining it in one go. Damn, you’re thirsty.

You glance at the sandwich and back to Strade. He’s seemingly content to sit in silence, but the way he stares is beginning to make you uncomfortable. You have no way to know what’s going on behind that pleasant expression.

“Have you eaten yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. I was pretty eager to get started.”

The words send a flood of adrenaline through your veins. You have to swallow and take a breath before pushing the plate forward. Thankfully your voice does not waver. “We have time. Here. It’s good.”

He raises a brow again, before shrugging and helping himself.

You watch him eat, silence slightly more companionable, before you realise how blatantly you’re staring at each other.

Embarrassment prickles up your neck, and you glance away, hoping your blush isn’t obvious.

Now, you decide, is probably the best time to act.

“So... I thought of a game we could play.”

His eyes sparkle. He tilts his head, humming his interest around a mouthful.

You begin to bounce your leg again, the anticipation building. It’s almost exciting. “You said you wanted to get to know me better. And I definitely want to know you. Can we play ‘never have I ever’?”

He finishes. Brushes crumbs from his mouth. “You want to play ‘never have I ever’.”

You can’t help the grin that slips through. “Do you know it?”

He’s stoic for a moment, before pouting. “No. Tell me.”

You lean forward, about to cross your legs. The movement sends a jolt through your injury and you wince. But your ass is numb and you adjust anyway, freeing your hands to show Strade.

“Usually, it’s played two ways. The players can hold up their hands like this, and every time you lose a round you put down a finger. Or it’s played with alcohol, and loser has to drink.” Your grin widens. “We take turns saying ‘never have I ever’ and name something we haven’t done. If the other person has done it, they lose the round.”

He considers. “Sounds simple.”

You lean in. “Yeah, but I thought you’d want to play it differently.”

“Oh?”

You glance down to his belt, where a knife is sheathed. “You can use that.”

His eyes widen a fraction, before a grin splits his face. “That does sound like fun.”

You sit back again, satisfied. You thought he’d like it.

“How many rounds?”

It’s your turn to consider. You glance down at your fingers, and spread them. “Shall we end the game when somebody loses five times?”

He sits back. “Ja. That sounds fine.”

“Do you want to go first?”

He nods, and then frowns. “But I’m not sure what to say.”

You give him an encouraging smile. “It can be anything. Something boring. Something sexy. Or even one of the morbid things you haven’t done yet.”

He huffs a laugh. “That’s a short list. Let me think.” He crosses his arms as he considers. “Never have I ever... owned an animal.”

You pout and put down a finger. “My family had so many cats and dogs I couldn’t name them all.”

He unhooks the knife. “Where would you like it?”

Your heart flutters. You shuffle closer to Strade and extend the hand you’re using to keep track. “Between the fingers.”

He grins delightedly and grasps you by the wrist. His skin is a degree warmer than yours, and you could easily relax into his touch.

Instead, you hold your fingers spread, and hiss when he cuts into the flesh between your pinky and your ring finger, flinching, but not pulling away.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

You have a visceral response to his words, and every thought empties from your head.

It doesn’t escape his attention, and he grins. “I think it’s your turn, schätzchen.”

You swallow. You pick a warm up question. “Never have I ever gone to university.”

He holds up his hand and puts down a finger, grinning sheepishly.

“What did you study?”

“Engineering. I like taking things apart and finding out how they work.”

You raise an eyebrow. “People too?”

He laughs again. “People too.” He settles and considers. “Never have I ever dyed my hair.”

You scowl and hold out your hand. “There’s no story with that.”

He holds your wrist firm as he digs the tip of the knife between your next fingers. Your breath comes out in a shudder. He twists the blade, deepening the cut, before letting you go. Your hand begins to shake. He’s silent this time, but you think he’s breathing a little heavily.

“Uh,” you have to clear your throat. “Never have I ever... gotten a tattoo.”

He stares. For a moment you think you’ve missed the round, but he rolls up his sleeve revealing four thick lines of ink: two parallel lines above an inverted ‘v’.

“Is that... military?”

He rolls his sleeve back down. “No. I saw it in a comic as a kid and thought it looked good.”

You hum your agreement.

He runs his eyes up and down your body, fiddling with the tip of his knife. “Shall I pick something salacious?”

You grin. “That’s my short list.”

He raises his brow. “Oh? Never have I ever... I don’t remember what it’s called. Had sex with three others at once.”

“A foursome?”

His face sparks with recognition, and he nods.

You smirk. “Implying that you’ve had sex with two?”

“A gentleman doesn’t tell.”

You laugh, and put down a finger.

Strade inches closer, until his knees touch yours. “Where?”

“Where did I have the foursome?”

“Where do you want the next one?” He brandishes the knife. “But, ja, tell me that too.”

You hold up your hand, trembling as you spread the next two fingers. “It was after a party. When I was in the city, I used to go to a lot of sex clubs and stuff. I met a lot of... enthusiastic... people.

He sounds interested, taking your wrist but pausing. “Did you go alone?”

“Usually. But I was familiar with most the regulars. The community could be pretty insular.”

You don’t get to brace before he cuts you again, and you let out a yelp, flinching and yanking your hand back.

He looks down his nose at you. “Tch. I thought you were being good.”

You clutch your hand to your chest, and drop your eyes, contrite. “Sorry. I wasn’t ready.”

He’s not actually mad, you don’t think. He stares at you with a bemused smile, waiting for your next move.

You remember it’s your turn. You decide to continue with the tone he’s set. “Never have I ever had sex while a stranger watched.”

He raises his brows. “So much for a short list.” He puts a finger down.

“Scandalous.”

He shrugs. “It’s not the most scandalous thing I’ve done.”

Looking around, you can imagine. “So, what was the occasion?”

His smile is a little coy. “I was entertaining a guest. Things got a bit heated, and I couldn’t help myself.”

“And the stranger?”

He huffs out a single laugh. “Maybe I’ll introduce you.”

You can feel the weight of his words. You know he’s implying something dangerous. You’re just not sure what.

He leans back and hums, dropping the subject, considering his next question. After a moment, he frowns.

“What does the winner get?”

You shrug. “I dunno. What do you want?”

He looks you up and down again. A flush comes to his cheeks and dangerous smile creeps onto his face. “Another game.”

“Of this?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve something better in mind.”

Your throat closes with fear for a moment. But it hadn’t really mattered if you won this game. Winning wasn’t the point of the exercise.

“Okay. And if I win?”

His smile shifts. It’s almost condescending.

You won’t.

“I’ll let you go free. <3”

You tilt your head back and laugh. “I wasn’t going to ask for that.”

“Oh?”

You use your good hand to rub some warmth into your upper arm. “I was going to ask for a blanket. Or a pillow. Or maybe even a shower, if you were feeling generous.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t reply. “Never have I ever used a whip on somebody.”

You let him change the topic. And pout again as you lose the round.

“You’re just winning because I let you go first,” you sass, holding out your hand again.

He presses a kiss to your fingertips, surprising you. “Yes, but I’m learning so much about you.” He licks the blood from his lips and holds your hand firm once more, turning it this way and that, even though you both know where the next laceration will go. “Was this after another of your parties?”

You watch carefully, not wanting to be caught off guard again. “No. It was during the party. Learning to use a whip safely was one of the events.”

He keeps you waiting, carrying on the conversation like he’s not deciding how best to hurt you. “What was it like?”

You try to untense while you wait. “Uh, interesting. They had a lady there who could strike a balloon without popping it. That was...” your thoughts churn over the display, “...attractive. I can’t imagine how much time she spent practicing. She could whip a person without breaking their skin. I never got to that level.”

He chooses that moment to slice through the fleshy area between your pointer and your thumb.

Your whole arm shakes and your eyes water and squeeze shut.

“Eyes open.”

You whimper when he squeezes your hand, all of the incisions aching painfully. He threads his fingers through your own, and you begin to cry in earnest. He watches your face with delight, leaning in as to not miss a detail.

“You look so good like this~”

He brings your hand to his cheek, leaning into your touch. He’s breathing heavily again – you both are. The sight of your blood on his face, his blown-out pupils, way he’s staring at you; you let a tiny moan.

He grins, squeezing your hand tighter. “I’m so glad you chose this game, schätzchen.”

One more time. He only needs to win one more round, and the game is over.

“Never have I ever-” Killed a man. Kidnapped a woman. Held somebody at knife point.

You just want the game to be over. You’re hurting. You’re scared. You’re inexplicably horny. But you’re not meant to win. Fuck, what you wouldn’t give for that shower, or some warm clothes. But this game is for Strade. To entertain him. To get to know him. To learn just what you needed to do to survive.

You uncross your legs so that you can better clench them together. And fucking him is not a long-term solution.

You chose one of your pre-chosen questions. One designed to pique his interest: “-broken a bone.”

His eyes light up. “Really?” He drops your hand, instead pressing the flat of his blade to his lips. “Would you like to?”

Your eyes are drawn to his tongue. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s cleaning the blade of your blood, more fixated on your response.

“Not today,” you hedge.

He grins. “Okay. But I haven’t broken one either.”

You let out a breath. “Then the game goes on.”

He eyes your hand, and you know he’s wondering where he’s going to place the next cut. “Never have I ever told somebody I loved them.”

You frown. “Can I exclude my family?”

He glances back to your face, and gives a bemused smile. “Alright. You can exclude your family.”

You smile triumphantly. “Safe.”

He raises his brows. “Really? But you had a boyfriend.”

You shrug. “I’ve had lots of boyfriends. Girlfriends too. Doesn’t mean I loved them.”

He drops your hand with a pout. “Fine. Your turn.”

You tilt your head back. Fingers clenched tightly together, you’re not losing much blood. The room spins anyway; gently and uncomfortably. You’re not sure what to say. Perhaps something mild? You didn’t want to get him too excited.

“Never have I ever used a fake ID.”

The amusement leaves his face. He lowers a finger.

That made you four-four.

Damn. You hadn’t even thought. He's a kidnapper. Almost definitely a murder. It shouldn’t be a surprise at all that he’s had to use a fake ID.

You cringe. “Sorry. Where do you even get something like that?”

He starts toying with the tip of the blade again. He’s done playing. The dark way he regards you says more than words. “Online. Never have I ever been abducted.”

You saw it coming. It still makes you huff. “That was cheap.”

He shrugs, his smile returning. “I like to win.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay. What’s this other game you wanted to play?”

“Nuh-huh. You’re forgetting something.” He taps the flat of the blade against your leg. Stares meaningfully at your shaking hand.

“Right.” You extend it, lump in your throat, the rest of your body vibrating with tension.

He places your hand flat on the ground, palm up. He meets your eyes, and gives you a soft smile. It’s at odds with the violence of his next motion; the sharp downward punch of the knife through your palm.

Pain.

Mind splintering pain.

You shriek at the impact, and try to jerk your hand back. Strade holds it in a steadfast grip.

When you meet his eyes next he’s transfixed; practically red with blush, beginning to sweat, biting down on his lip as he watches you strain.

Your hand is jarred when you feel the tip of the blade scrape against the ground: the vibrations sending pain ricocheting up your whole arm.

You groan, and close your eyes. “Take it out. Please, take it out, Strade.”

His laugh, soft and cruel, caresses your senses. “Why? It looks good in you.”

You open your eyes, begging with a tearful stare. You lean against him, as much as you can without moving your hand. “Please. It hurts so much.”

His free hand rubs your back and he makes a mock noise of sympathy. “But I thought you wanted me to hurt you?”

You cry harder.

“You weren’t lying, were you?”

You shake your head. There’s danger in his tone. He’s right anyway – you'd asked for it. Practically begged for it yesterday.

He releases your wrist but you don’t touch the knife. Instead, you lean forward, until you can rest your head against Strade’s shoulder, taking what small comfort you can from him.

When he continues to rub your back you climb into his lap and straddle him, letting your tears soak into his shoulder, holding your hand out at an awkward angle. He scoffs, but doesn’t push you away, letting you sniffle for a few minutes.

There’s warmth against your skin. The sound of another person’s breath, a hand slipping under your shirt to trace patterns on your back; finally, you calm.

Your voice is hoarse when you next speak. “Thank you.”

Strade seizes you by the hair. Pulls you back just far enough to examine your face. “What for?”

“Playing my game.” Your cheeks redden. “And then-” holding you “- letting me do... this.”

His smile is too cheerful. You can’t help but wonder if your captor uses his amicability to deflect more serious matters. “I’m always open to new ideas. But let's try mine next.”

You swallow. “Okay?”

“You owe me a game. How about Jean dit?”

A shiver runs through you. You’re not sure if you’re scared or aroused, or a sick mix of both. “You want to play ‘Simon Says’?”

He waits.

You clutch your hand to your chest. Make yourself smile. “Sounds like fun.”

He leans back, resting his weight on his hands. It gives him a better view of you, still straddling him.

“Jean dit... take off your shirt.”

It’s definitely arousal. You wish you could squirm; clench your thighs together, but it’s not possible with him beneath you.

You make a movement, and flinch. Taking your shirt off is going to be hard with the knife still embedded in your hand. You manage, flushing when Strade drags his gaze over your semi-bare expanse.

You’re looking anywhere but at him when he issues the next command.

“Jean dit... take out the knife.”

You look at him sharply. He’s deadly serious.

Your injured hand shakes when you lift it. You take hold of the hilt. Even that slight touch hurts, and you shudder. You try not to overthink: pull it straight up. No curved motion. Don’t do more damage. Just take it straight out. Straight out. Straight-

-out!

The knife clatters to the ground beside you and you clutch your hand back against your chest, choking down a sob.

“Pick it up.”

Panting, you reach for the knife. And hesitate.

He grins. “Jean dit, pick it up.”

You do. The handle is slick with blood and you grip it carefully. You’re glad that Strade hadn’t cut your dominant hand.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, and something in you begins to heat. You feel buzzed; the pain is making you light headed, but it’s not a bad sensation.

“Now cut yourself.”

Caught up in the commands, there’s no room in your head for protest. You bring the knife to your collar bone, and glance down to measure the cut.

Your body is a mess. Your legs coated with dried blood; barely an inch of clean skin. Your chest is already smeared with it; fresh and reeking from your hand. Your bra, once pastel coloured, will never be stain free again.

You etch a tapering line along the underside of your clavicle. Red blossoms in the knife’s wake, and blistering pain follows. You groan, tilting your head back to pant.

Strade is hard beneath you.

“More.”

He’s breathing heavily again, enthralled by the rivulets of blood on your chest, biting down on his lip to contain himself.

Eager to please, you trail the knife along the curve of your breast. It’s sharp enough to score your skin at the touch.

Strade sits up, adjusting you on his lap. With his hands free he traces the contours of your chest, smearing bloody hand prints across your rib cage before taking one of your breasts in hand. He squeezes, and digs his fingers into the cut.

You whimper.

“Off.” He tugs at the bra.

You hand him the knife before reaching around with your working hand, fumbling at the clasps.

Impatient, Strade hooks the blade under the front of your bra, cutting it open.

The cold air makes your nipples harden, and you bite down on a moan. Mindless, you grind against him, desperate to be touched, for any kind of pleasure.

He drags the flat of the blade across your chest, flicking your nipples with it. Your back arches and you shudder, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

He reaches for your hand; presses the handle of the knife back into it.

“Again, schätzchen.”

Your hand is shaking. It stings when you place the knife at the top of your sternum. Blood wells up, but you don’t move, scared to cut too deep, worried at your loss of co-ordination.

“Here,” he murmurs, “let me help you.”

Placing his hand over yours he guides the knife down, opening flesh until he reaches your cleavage.

You sway and the knife slips from your fingers.

Strade blinks, and brings his eyes to your face. He raises his brows. “Aw~ Is that all you had in you?”

You whimper, and shake your head, too dazed to understand.

“It’s okay schätzchen. You did good.”

“No,” you mumble, almost slurring the words. “I can be better-”

He’s still hard, clothed and pressing against your thigh. You reach down, groping at his belt.

“Let me be better,” you say before leaning in to crush your lips against his.

He almost recoils, hardly expecting his bloodied and pain dazed guest to come on to him so strongly again. But lets you mash your face to his; no control or finesse in your current state.

You keen, pathetic, and unable to get his pants open.

Amused and curious, Strade assists you, unbuckling himself and opening the zipper. At the sound, your mouth waters and you untangle yourself from him.

“Let me show you how good I can be-”

On your hands and knees – whole body screaming with protest – you lower your face to his member. He’s of moderate size, but wider than expected. You make up for it with your enthusiasm, licking up and down his length to lubricate him, before sucking him into your mouth.

“Hah,” he jerks at the contact, one hand raised, ready to push you off if you displease him.

Your mind goes quiet and you work from muscle memory, bobbing your head up and down. You could find happiness like this; with a cock in your mouth, your thighs slick with need, and your mind blissfully silent. You adore being good, and this is the best way you know how.

Strade doesn’t seem to mind either, and after letting you lead for a few minutes, begins to rock into your mouth. When his fingers snake into your hair and hold your head firm, you go slack jawed, letting him fuck your face at his own pace.

You resist the urge to gag when he touches the back of your throat, choking and drooling around his thrusts rather than fighting them. Breathing is nearly impossible and the room starts to spin in earnest. Your heart gets louder in your ears.

Thankfully, he doesn’t last long. When his hips begin to stutter, he crushes your head against him; your nose touching dark curls of hair. His dick throbs in your mouth when he comes on the back of your tongue, and he holds you in place until you’ve swallowed every drop.

Finally, you’re released. You come up for air, gasping and coughing. When you’ve caught your breath, you collapse, rolling onto your side. Dizzy, hurting, and still experiencing a twisted version of subspace, you smile up at Strade’s silhouette.

A braggart to the core, you’re able to rasp, “Told you so,” before passing out.