Whump Secret Santa Events

KASSSSS!!!! ❤️❤️❤️ HAPPY NOT CHRISTMAS, LOVELYl! 

You're such a legend and you should know that I was so so happy when I saw I was assigned to you, legit squealed 😭❤️😌 amazing taste in tropes btw - OM NOM NOM 🍽️

I apologise so so much for the delay! my laptop decided to do the die on me and I've been stealing other people's laptops to write where I can! ❤️

I hope you like 🥺 I tried to hit your tropes, and I hope it's okay 😖 I made a new whumpee for it! Nehehe - more pain for more pretty men!

Lots of love, your secret Santa! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a regular Friday night for Otis, and thank fuck it was. The weekend was starting to feel like it would never arrive and the past hellish week had definitely aged him ten years. Wisps of grey hairs sneak through his dark brown curls, frown lines and wrinkles starting to creep in. The joys of stress, right?

He lay curled up in bed, eyes fluttering shut and breaths drifting softly in and out of his lips. A half-finished glass of red-wine sat on the nightstand, next to a well-worn copy of 1984, his go-to staple book when he was so run off his feet with work that he hadn’t had a chance to snag a new romance novel from his favourite used bookstore a few blocks down from his house. Everything was silent. The only glow was the flickering street lamp across the street, seeping through the slits in the curtains. 

Otis drifted away with the high of the alcohol, giggling and hiccuping softly to himself as he did so. His shoulders loosened with every soft chuckle, melting into his mattress as the warmth of the blankets envelop him. The soft breaths soon morph to gentle snores and in minutes, the lull of sleep pulls him under.

…

The piercing sound of shattering glass snaps Otis wide awake. He springs upright in bed, his heart pounds at his ribcage, racing a mile a minute. He sits as still as a statue for a moment, frozen solid in fear, cold sweat drenching through to the bedsheets. His eyes dart around, frantically searching the darkness. And then he hears it again. Another crash. Louder this time. The alcohol seems to dissolve in his bloodstream, the adrenaline sobers him in the blink of an eye.

Someone’s breaking in.

Gruff, mumbling voices whisper downstairs, then comes the creaks of the floorboards beneath cautious, tiptoed footsteps. Otis can feel his stomach twist and turn, pinching into a knot as bile rises to his throat. From head to toe, his body trembles so much he’s vibrating.

There’s nothing worth stealing. Nothing. No rolls of money stashed anywhere and even the damn TV is ancient technology. He can’t hope and pray that they’ll take something shiny that catches their eye and let it out the back door. They’re going to search. Turn the house upside down, scour from top to bottom. And they will find him. Sooner or later.

Otis’ ears prick at the groan of the stairs, the same step halfway up that always creaks when he usually stumbles down half-awake for midnight snacks. His body jumps into action before his mind can comprehend that he’s even moving. Otis races towards his wardrobe and throws himself to the floor, ducking his head underneath the dangling clothes on hangers. He swiftly drags the doors shut as quickly and quietly as he can possibly manage - submerging himself in pitch-black darkness. Otis folds to his knees and peeks through the slats of the wardrobe doors.

The doorknob to the bedroom rattles and twists, and then it swings open. Two tall, muscular men, dressed in all black come storming through. Searching the room, ripping off the covers from the bed and rummaging through all of Otis’ belongings. They sift through his drawers, pulling photo frames off the wall and smashing them on the ground.

A choked sob tries to claw its way through Otis’ throat. He slams his clammy palm over his quivering lips to trap his own cries. Squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a tear from underneath. Snot trickles down from his nose, his chest heaving. 

He’s panicking, he knows. Freaking the fuck out. How the hell are you supposed to stay calm in these situations?! Help is out of the question. His phone is still charging on the bed stand, he didn’t think of swiping it when he dove into the wardrobe. He didn’t think! He just did! He should have leapt out the window and crawled his way to safety, broken bones and all. Now he’ll be on the front page of the newspaper.... ‘Male found dead in burglary gone wrong’.

“Don’t be shy, little buddy. Come out and play!” One of the intruders calls out with a dark chuckle, suddenly squatting to check underneath the bed like he was so certain Otis would be huddled underneath there. Otis’ eyes blow wide, shuffling further back into the wardrobe. The dark figures circle his bedroom, and one of them heads straight towards him. Striding towards Otis’ hiding spot.

A dizziness spins in his head and the stuffy air around him feels suddenly suffocating. Otis traps his breath in his lungs. 

He’s going to die- oh god help him, they’re going to find him-

Otis screams his lungs out as the wardrobe doors swing open with a bang against the wall, a beam of light from a torch blinds his tear-filled eyes. The intruder smiles down at him, a terrifying look of amusement sparks in his eyes as he stares down at Otis cowering on the floor.

"Boo! Comfy, little one?" the intruder asks, his voice dripping with sickly-sweet sarcasm.

Otis doesn't say a thing. He can't. He's paralyzed with fear. His mouth blubbers open like a fish out of water. He just gawks up at the intruder, his eyes wide and bloodshot with terror.

The intruder laughs, a cruel, mocking sound. "Don't worry your pretty little head," he says. "We’re not going to hurt you. Not yet, anyway. Why rush the fun? We’ll have all the time in the world."

He reaches down and snatches Otis by the arm, hauling him to his feet. Otis cries out in pain as the intruder's grip digs deep, bruising into his flesh. He kicks and flails with every ounce of energy he’s got. They overpower him easily, without so much as busting a sweat. Every hit and swipe must feel like a tickle of a feather to the burly man. They throw Otis carelessly onto the bed, shoving him down onto the mattress and snatching his flailing arms to pin his wrists above his head. The man’s entire weight crushes Otis as he climbs on top.

“NO- FUCK- LEMME GO!” Otis roars, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeal, and squirming underneath the intruder’s hold. Hot tears spill down his cheeks. “PLEASE! TAKE WHAT YOU WANT AND GO-”

The intruder shoves his hand over Otis’ mouth to muffle his cries, “Shut him up-”  he growls the order to his accomplice. The other intruder quickly fishes around in his duffle bag until he holds up a leather muzzle, dangling it from his hands. Otis lets out a blood curdling shriek beneath the man’s sweaty palm, bucking his hips on the bed and writhing desperately. He clamps his jaw shut, grinding his teeth and shaking his head from side to side - refusing to let them strap that vile thing in his mouth. Fingers pinch his nostrils shut, another hand pries and rips at his jaw to pull his mouth open. 

The accomplice swarms in to wrap his hands around Otis’ throat, squeezing until he rasps and wheezes on stolen air, the pinky-hue of colour fades from his face until his skin turns porcelain white. A metal bit forces its way through his parted lips and presses down on his tongue, the leather muzzle swallows the lower half of his face. Any desperate sound he tries to make gets lost in the abyss - he can only huff furiously through his nose.

“You’re exhilarating when you cry, aren’t ya, lil buddy?” the intruder marvels, he wipes at the wet droplets collecting on Otis’ eye bags and licks the salty tears from his finger. “Would you look at those puppy dog eyes?”

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. Panic fogs Otis’ spinning mind and clouds every rational thought. It’s - It’s a nightmare, it has to be!… the wine must have dragged him into a heavy, disturbed slumber. Or the stress! Maybe it’s taking more of a toll on him than he thought. 

“Nah-ah. Focus on me, sweetheart,” The intruder croons, his fingertip dabs at the tears slipping down Otis’ puffy, rosy cheeks. Otis’s eyes stay glued shut, squeezed tight until his bloodshot eyeballs feel like they might pop out of his sockets and burst. Muggy breath wafts hot against the leather muzzle, welded to his face with sweat. Thick trickles of drool slip from his quivering lips, his teeth scraping on the bit. 

He pants and heaves for air beneath the muzzle. The heat is unbearable, and the sweat drips down his face, stinging his eyes. Blood rushes to his head and his heart pounds in his chest.

Otis’ eyes shoot open. But he wishes he stayed hidden behind the safety of darkness behind his eyelids, where he doesn’t have to face reality. Where he can’t see the stranger pinning him down with a wolfish grin. 

“Good boy,” the intruder praises, cool as ice, stroking his hand through Otis’ sweat drenched hair, “I knew you’d be an angel for us. Picked a good-un, didn’t I?”

It’s sickening. Every touch revolts and terrifies Otis’, making his stomach do somersaults. A petrified whimper makes it through the gag, and he winces. He’s never heard a person whimper before…never heard himself whimper before. The sound is so foreign to him, so out of place, that it took him a moment to realise it was actually coming from him. He was whimpering like a child, like a wounded animal.Like a dog. He can't stop it. The pain is too much, the fear too overwhelming. 

The intruder climbs off Otis’ body, and forcefully rolls him over and face down, shoving him onto his belly. His wrists are seized in an iron grip, and wrangled from stretched high above his head to criss-crossed over the small of his back. Otis sobs into the bedding his face is shoved into. The stranger splays his warm hand between Otis’ shoulder blades, and slides painfully slow down his spine. Every nerve-ending lights up, his skin crawls and twitches.

“You’re going to do nicely. Sweet little thing like you. You’re going to be the perfect pet,” the stranger purrs.

Pet.

Otis’ vision dips to black. He just felt his soul leave his body. He felt himself floating upwards, and out, away from his body. He looked down and saw himself lying pinned on the bed, lifeless. Hopeless. 

A leather cuff slips over each wrist, strapped tight before being linked together with a chain in between. Otis tugs at the restraints with all the strength he can muster, his muscles bulge and his veins pop as he strains against them. Sweat beads on his forehead and his breath comes in ragged gasps. 

The accomplice jingles something beside the bed to grab Otis’ attention. Otis’ twists his head, writhing on the bed to look…and then a guttural scream rockets up his throat, shaking his head so violently that his sight mists. 

A collar. With a silver, engraved dog tag dangling from it.

“If you’ll do the honours…” the intruder nods to his accomplice, giving him the greenlight. He swiftly fastens the dog collar around Otis’ throat, buckling the band until Otis chokes and cries out behind the bit, before he finally loosens it, allowing him to suck in air again. His cheeks burn cherry red beneath the muzzle with shame. His humanity stripped away from him with only a few instruments, he’s entirely at these bastards mercy.

“Guess what your dog tag says, boy! Go on!”

Otis lets out a pitiful whine, shaking his head trying to free himself of the muzzle. His hair flops around like a dog drying their fur.

“Oh right. I forgot. Guess I’ll have to tell you!” The intruder elates, grabbing Otis by the collar and spinning it around his neck to grab hold of the tag.

“Pup. If found, return to Master Becker.”

They must be able to clock the look of pure terror on Otis’ face, his eyes streaming with tears, nostrils flaring.

“Oh, that’s me, by the way. I’m your new owner, little one.”

This is insane. No-one can own him. He is his own person, with thoughts and feelings and dreams. They have no right to take that away from him. To beat him down to nothing more than a tamed, defenceless animal. 

He won’t give up easily. He will not back down, and he will never surrender, no matter what the odds. He will fight back at every twist and turn, until the very end.

“Let’s wrap it up here. Grab the legs. I’ll take his arms,” Becker barks. Otis is lifted into the air, the accomplice grabbing his kicking feet and Becker hooking his arms under Otis' armpits. 

Otis struggles and flails, but he was no match for the two men. They carry him effortlessly, as if he were a small child. Otis's head lolls back, and he closes his eyes, feeling helpless and defeated. He knows that there is nothing he could do to stop them. They are going to take him away, and there is nothing he could do about it. They carry him out the room, making their way downstairs and back down that creaking step.

It might be the last time he’ll ever hear it. He already misses it-

They drop Otis’ to his feet when they reach the final step, but he crashes to the floor in a sobbing heap. Every muscle gives out on him, he slumps like dead weight. Becker wrenches his fist in Otis’ hair and drags him back up and standing, and forces him to stumble towards the door.

When the door opens, there’s a black van parked outside. Right under the streetlamp. It’s running, its engine’s quiet hums cut through the silence of the night like a knife. Otis’ breath sprints away from him, he screams again, his legs go to give out - but Becker catches him in his arms.

He massages Otis’ Adam's apple, bobbing beneath the collar, with his calloused palm, “Breathe, boy. Do as you're told.”

Otis quickly shakes his head 'no'. Not that he won't, but he can't. Every breath is ten times harder than the last, his chest heaves and his lungs burn. Spots dance in his vision.

Becker pulls a strip of cloth from his pocket, and ties it over Otis’ swollen and tear-filled eyes, blindfolding him, “Calm down. You needn’t ever worry about anything else. Just listen to my voice, heed my word as gospel. Only me. Only my voice. And nothing else ever again. Until that ticker in your chest rusts and stalls to its final seconds.”

Otis keens, shredding his throat with his garbled cry. He collapses into Becker's arms once more, as he rubs meant-to-be soothing circles and pats Otis' back. Shushing him as he wails.

Note to Morbid:Whumping somebody else’s blorbos was much more difficult than I thought, but I hope you were naughty enough to deserve this gift. 

Your Secret Santa 

“You do want to play with me” 

As the sun set on a desolate cabin hidden deep within the woods, a chilling wind whispered through the trees. Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with tension. Virgil, timid and fragile, found himself trapped within the clutches of someone’s unhealthy fixation. Emerging from the depths of darkness, Nick's presence gradually unveiled itself, drawing attention to his striking features. As he stepped into the dim light, his cap cast a subtle shadow over his piercing, cat-like green eyes, lending an air of mischief to the situation. With each passing moment, the details of his face became clearer: a strong jawline defined by some yesterday’s stubble, a confident smirk that hinted at his sinister intentions. The subtle gleam in his eyes betrayed a wicked satisfaction, as if relishing the opportunity to perform a dance between captor and captive.

“Glad you have woken up already. I thought I overdid the chloroform.”

There would be an answer, if not the cloth gagging Virgil. 

Despite the pale pink hue of Virgil's hair and the darkness that engulfed his eyes, the look of terror etched upon his delicate features was unmistakable. His usually soft and vulnerable gaze now reflected sheer panic, the depth of his fear visible in the trembling of his frail frame. The innocence that once dwelled within his eyes had been eclipsed by an overwhelming dread, as if the weight of his past traumas had converged into an agonizing moment of terror. Each black-eyed stare seemed to implore for rescue, silently pleading for someone to provide solace in the face of the upcoming torment.

“Maybe you are too hot? You seem sweaty” Nick cooed with a smirk. “The windows are decked shut, as you see, but maybe if you lost some clothes..?”

Not awaiting any reaction, he produced a pocket knife with a gleaming handle from his pocket and with few movements, expertly cut up anything that the bound man was wearing. 

Exposed, he trembled like a rabbit in front of a predator. 

“No worries. If you get cold again, I know a few ways to warm you up. First of all, let’s give you some exercise” 

He casually licked the knife, cut off some rope in the corner of the dim-lit room and hid the blade away. Muffled protests finally started escaping from deep within Virgil’s lungs, his body recoiling. Nick was too fixated to pay any attention to this, as he got the rope through a looped hook in the ceiling and after attaching one end to the bonds at the pink-haired man’s wrists, he pulled him up until his precious toy tip-toed, shoulders barely supporting his outstretched weight. 

“Yeah, stretching is a nice way to start the exercising habit lightly, isn’t it? Some diet supper later and you’ll be in an even more fabulous shape in no time. Because you’ll want to play with me then, no?” 

The sheer fact that the dark eyes overflowed with tears at this veiled threat made Nick high. He already imagined his delicious body with his initials carved across the pale chest. Despite the adrenaline rush, he managed to not violate him just yet. They need to know each other a bit better. Every shriek, reaction, cry. He left the room. 

***** 

With each passing day, Nick's obsession grew more palpable. He meticulously watched over Virgil, barely leaving his side, keeping him confined to that small, dimly lit room, its walls adorned with photos and mementos collected over time—testaments to his sinister adoration. They showed Virgil in different poses, mostly bound in stress positions, but sometimes covering in Nick’s arms for even the slightest shred of touch. 

Virgil hated that touch, toxic and prying, but for the sake of his muscles not being strained beyond joint dislocation, he would suffer through that. Even his captor’s kisses full of intimidation and ownership stopped bothering him, as he laid motionless below him. He would get more water and food afterwards. Sometimes Nick would even come with a damp cloth to clean him. 

The depths of Virgil's trauma were not lost on Nick, exposed in his reactions and shrieks, as Nicked approached his gentler pars at every whim and relished the knowledge that he had taken control of someone so fragile. The smallest display of resistance or independence only fueled Nick's determination to break his toy’s spirit further, ensuring he remained entirely under his control.

Virgil’s past scars and painful history, on the other hand, only amplified the torment of his current predicament. Each passing moment tested his resolve to survive, fighting against the psychological shackles that Nick had imposed upon him.

***** 

It was probably weeks of the kidnapper satisfying himself with Virgil’s worn-out body, before he made up his mind to keep it not only forever to himself, but maybe even displaying his trophy on darknet. But first they need to know the snowflake is his to melt. 

The evening to claim his prize has finally arrived. 

That day, in the depths of his turmoil, Virgil sought solace in a cherished memory, a sanctuary that provided respite from the harrowing reality of his captivity. In this happy place, he could envision himself lying on a sun-drenched meadow, surrounded by an abundance of vibrant wildflowers swaying in a gentle breeze. The scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, mingling with the soft melody of birdsong. As he closed his eyes, he could feel the warmth of the sun's rays caressing his skin, creating a comforting cocoon of tranquility. It was here, in this idyllic haven, that Virgil could momentarily escape the clutches of his torment, allowing his spirit to soar free and find solace amidst the darkness.

It all dissipated with the sound of heavy boots on the wooden floor. Green eyes burning into his face with thirst there was no escape from. Virgil practically forgot what a flower even is. 

Then he was dragged onto a table and his weakened wrists and ankles tied to all four legs, spreading him over for whatever was to happen today. Additionally, Nick sat on his chest and started unscrewing a bottle cap from some local brand mineral water. 

“Drink, you will need that hydration today” he commanded, but just started pouring the liquid over Virgil’s nose and mouth, drenching him and making his spit and gasp for breath. Not much ended in his throat. 

Then the dreaded sound followed. Unzipping. 

Virgil closed his eyes shut and longed for the warm breeze and birdsong. It didn’t come.

“Say “aaah”, V. You do want to be occupied for our playdate today, I promise you” he teased. His hard cock already resting on the other’s chin. “Today’s game: You bite, you die.”

Captive’s mouth was full in an instant, Virgil wasn’t even given a chance to take a deeper breath or lick his lips. Nick took a fistful of his hair and just rode his face to his liking, not paying any attention to his gagging or desperate tussling and scuffling of his body in the bondage. 

After what felt like eternity (...what does “a flower” mean? …what is “a bird”?), the tormentor slowly changed positions and Virgil felt desperate, hot tears waterfalling from his eyes (Will he suck me off today as well? Why can’t he just leave me alone?). As movement of the hips tore his throat in pain, soon another sensation took over. And no, Nick didn’t even touch him down there. 

In a chilling moment of malevolent intent, Nick's fingers tightened around the hilt of the pocket knife, its blade gleaming dully in the dim light of the makeshift cell. With deliberate precision, he pressed the blade's tip against the other man's chest, just above his heart. 

“You bite, you die!” he hissed again, breathing heavily as his victory was coming. 

The blade began to etch a shallow, winding path across the captive's flesh. The initial touch was like a searing brand, the pain spreading like fire through his veins. Nick’s face started beaming with a twisted smile as he defaced his victim in his final act of dominance. Each stroke of the blade carved not only into flesh but also into the psyche of both men, leaving an indelible scar that would forever mark their intertwined futures. 

As the second initial was being finished, Virgil’s body strained like a violin string about to break, Nick marveled at the droplets of blood, beautiful little rubies, growing on the pale skin. Feeling almost gratified by the setting, he decided to add some white pearls to the set, pulling out of Virgil’s mouth and cumming all over his masterpiece. 

There was dry coughing and gagging next. 

“Jeez, V” Nick was out of breath, but full of satisfaction “I need to immortalize you like this in my scrapbook!”

After a few flashes and clicks of the digital camera, he started leaving the room, losing all interest in his dirty, bleeding toy. Before the door closed again, leaving Virgil cold and broken beyond repair, one last patronizing remark was heard.

He's a kleptomaniac. That's the only reason he takes the water bottle. He's surprised he hasn't gotten caught yet. One of the crew, Rafi, had gotten it from a vending machine.  Klepto doesn't even like Fiji water all that much. He just takes things. A goldfish biscuit is sitting on the train floor for that very reason.

It'd be a little ridiculous to turn around and return the water bottle. He and Rafi already separated to search the train for their target. If he takes a sip, so what? He's seen no sign of the target, hopefully Rafi is having better luck.

He's nearing the front of the train when he realizes how slow everything has become. Blinking is suddenly a bit of an ordeal, and continuing to walk forward is worse. He feels drowsy. Like he's going to fall through the floor. He has to hold onto the sides of seats to support himself, getting a few strange looks from passengers that he sneers at. He does manage to stumble through another sliding door, finding himself in the very front car.

It's completely empty. He has to lean against a snack counter, closing his eyes to try and stop his vision from swimming. He has no fucking idea what's wrong with him at the moment, but his best guess is that stupid water. God, he is going to tear Rafi a new one for this. Not that he thinks Rafi did anything to the water.

When he opens his eyes again, he finds that he fell face down onto the floor at some point. A gross fucking train floor, with his suit? He's going to need a goddamn lint roller. He tries to push himself up, but his movements are sluggish. He's too weak to do anything right now. He finds his eyelids far too heavy, shutting against his will.

Klepto doesn't know how long he lays there, ear pressed against the floor. The quiet rumble of the train's movement lulling him into some kind of sleep.

The obnoxious, continuous buzzing and vibrating from the phone in his pocket drags him out of his numb state. Possible drugging be damned, he's going to have to answer to The Boss. Probably not the best idea in his state. He and Rafi are missing the briefcase, and he doubts he'd be able to lie very well right now. He forces his body to respond to him, slowly reaching downward to try and grab the phone.

The noise of the door behind him sliding open barely registers in his mind. He gets his hand over the pocket when the new arrival speaks.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Some cheeky shit says smugly. He doesn't recognize his voice, but his accent is American. His eyes are closed, but he tries to roll them at the cliche bullshit the man just said. 

He continues trying to get into his own pocket, frustrated by how fucking difficult it is to move his fingers how he wants them. He can hear the man doing something by the door, moving things around most likely. If he's blocking the exit, then Klepto is probably in some deep shit. There's no way he can defend himself right now. His only hope is some civilian forcing their way in and becoming a witness, or Rafi showing up.

The man walks closer, steps slow and deliberate. He seems like a real asshole. Klepto finally opens his eyes. Definitely American. 

The American crouches down and moves him onto his back, almost effortlessly. He looks generic. Square jaw, brown hair, brown eyes. Big guy, though. Based on the few gray hairs, definitely older than him. He grabs his wrist, the one still struggling to get into his pocket, and moves it away.

Asshole.

The American takes the still ringing phone out of his pocket. Tilting his head at the phone, he ultimately presses something and it goes silent. The prick hung up on his boss. 

Shit. 

"Fancy meeting you here," The American says, carelessly dropping the phone onto the ground. He smiles down at him, a hungry look in his eyes. It makes his skin crawl. "Remember me?"

He most definitely does not remember this random fucking guy. But considering his job, being trapped in here with The American just got infinitely worse. Probably has some vendetta against him. Out for revenge or some shit.

"What? Nothing to say?" The American laughs, reaching out to rest his hand against the side of his face and slowly begins to caress it. He has a lot of colorful things to say right now, but it's impossible to get anything out of his throat. Such bullshit. "No? Suppose I'll just cut to the chase, then." The American moves his hand further down, fingers stretching around his throat. He finds himself unconsciously holding his breath.

He can't believe it. He is not about to be strangled to death on a train floor while drugged. But The American doesn't press down. His hand just rests on his throat, looking far too pleased by what he's seeing.

"Forgot how pretty you were." The American sighs, eyes slowly trailing down his body. Like he's admiring him. The implications are sobering. His entire body goes into attack mode, even if it can't do much attacking. "Belland…" Klepto finally manages to force out, quiet and mumbled. Barely recognizable. He lifts his arm to grab the hand around his throat, weakly trying to pull it away.

"There you are!" The American laughs, taking his hand away from his throat. "I'd like for you to be a little present for this. Try and keep that energy."

The American looks at his face, and then down at his crotch a couple of times, like he was considering something. Ultimately, he separated his legs and moved between them. "I'd go for your mouth, but I think you'd bite my dick off." The American chuckles, working on taking off his shoes.

This is so fucked up. He'd kind of prefer dying right now. Some random guy who he's apparently supposed to recognize is about to fucking rape him. God, this job is a disaster. 

The American throws his shoes somewhere behind him, and he finds it in himself to still be angry about the mistreatment of his clothes. The American moves further up, quickly undoing his belt and pulling it from the loops. Then, he starts unbuttoning his waistcoat. He has hunger in his eyes, hands working fast to undress him. Both sides of the waistcoat are pushed aside. It only takes a few extra seconds for him to unbutton his shirt, leaving his chest bare.

"Shit," he moans, causing him to cringe. It's like he's some fucking fanboy. The American lowers his shaking hands, slowly dragging them along his well defined stomach. 

"Like a fucking model," he says breathily. He just grits his teeth and endures it. He stares directly up at the ceiling, unwilling to look at The American's stupid fucking face while he gropes him.

The large hands leave no area unexplored. The touch brings a warmth to Klepto's chest, which just makes him want to squirm. The American tweaks one of his nipples, and it surprises him to the point that he actually makes a noise. 

An embarrassing, high pitched squeaking noise. 

That seems to get The American going, because he continues to pinch and tug on the sensitive, hard buds. Klepto grinds his teeth together and uses all of his willpower to keep the rest of his responses to himself, completely unwilling to let this man have anything.

He eventually gets bored with Klepto's top half and his lack of response, moving back down to the bottom. He unbuttons Klepto's's pants, and hooking his fingers through two belt loops, he tugs the pants down his legs. Once that layer is gone, The American doesn't waste time pulling down Klepto's boxers, exposing him completely. Klepto just hopes this is over quickly. This has been a bad day to wear SpongeBob. 

"Been waiting a long time to do this," the American says. Klepto is still staring up at the ceiling, absolutely furious, when he grabs his limp dick and squeezes painfully. Surprised by the action, he lets out a gasp. The American laughs at that and Klepto forces himself to move, pushing at the American's hand, still wrapped around him.

He sighs, grabbing both of Klepto's wrists and forcing them above his head. He looks around for a second, before taking his discarded belt and using it to bind his hands together. 

"Let's keep those out of the way," he says with a smile, patting the side of his face. It really pisses him off.

The Many Faces of Kotarou Sakamoto

1

Crack!

Fills the air,

A crying creature screams.

Snap!

Goes the creature’s bones,

Under the palm of his hands.

Remembrance.

Deep marks dug into flesh.

Cold snow and numb limbs.

Klank!

As the chains close,

Like the cuffs from so long ago.

Zap!

The cattle prod touches skin,

As another wretched scream fills the air.

Doubt. 

Fear pounding in his chest.

The darkening of an altruistic heart.

2

“I can’t Master,”

He looks his teacher in the eyes,

A whip sitting between them.

“Why not?”

His teacher stares back,

The world becomes hard to see.

“It’s needlessly sadistic.”

He swallows,

Faintly touching the scars on his back with his mind.

A disappointed look,

Crushes his heart,

“But you must do it.”

The face of the creature,

Is hard to see,

Through that hazy mind’s eye.

But his screams,

Are clear as day,

Still ringing in his ears.

3

A peaceful night,

The whistling of cars,

And the lights of a city that never sleeps.

Warm arms,

Placed tightly around his waist,

And a smile on that face.

Soft blankets,

Different from home,

But part of home nonetheless.

A man inside him,

A man that he loves,

A man that hugs him at night’s fall.

What more could he want?

Life is good,

Peaceful for once.

Yet, something is missing,

Something is wrong,

And he doesn’t know what.

4

Black eyes,

A deep facial void,

Staring deep into his soul.

A sarin gas,

Of hatred,

And of anger.

Anger to hide,

Hatred to defend,

Sadness shrouded in resentment.

To fix,

Or to heal,

Are not the same thing.

But interest,

And curiosity,

Are wedded in earthly heaven.

A mission,

A need to change,

What has been corrupted.

Whipping Boy

“There! That should be tight enough.”

Setia pulled on the ropes binding him to the tree experimentally. Sure enough, they held fast. Though trepidation swirled in his gut, he forced himself to take a calming breath. He could do this. He had to do this. All of this so Eodum would be able— and willing— to help him when the time came.

Eodum laid a hand on his arm. “You’ll be fine.”

Of that, he had no doubt. Setia gave a small but firm nod. “I know. I’m ready.”

The steadying contact of Eodum’s hand withdrew. Setia took another deep breath and tried to ready himself.

Nothing could have quite prepared him for the sting of the whip as it cracked across his back, bared for Eodum to lash and mend as he pleased. Setia jerked forward in his restraints, a pained grunt making its way through his clenched teeth. The whip had left a line of fire across his back, and Setia could feel blood making a wet trail as it oozed from the wound.

“Hm. The bleeding is similar to a normal laceration, but there’s extra damage to the tissue. There would probably be some bad bruising if I left it too long.”

There was something almost comforting about hearing Eodum’s detached musings about the nature of his injuries. It was familiar, at the very least. And the cadence of Eodum’s voice was something to focus on besides the pain. Setia let the sound wash over him as he shifted subtly in pain.

Then the whip came down on him once again, this time harder than before. The stroke crossed the existing wound on his back; the spot where they met erupted into fiery pain that caused Setia to involuntarily cry out. He pressed his forehead into the bark of the tree as though that would offer some relief and breathed sharply through his teeth. Liquid trailed down his back, and he wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or blood or some combination of the two. 

“More bleeding than before,” Eodum said, “Which I’ll have to account for in the healing. I think some of the muscle is damaged, too, not just the skin. Especially around where the two strokes crossed…” His voice trailed off for a moment, before he said, louder, “One more, Set.”

Setia just nodded against the tree he was bound to. He could handle one more.

The third stroke landed right down his spine, the cord of the whip grinding against bone through the thin layer of his flesh. The impact caused the breath to leave Setia’s lungs in a choked-off cry. He instinctively tried to buck away from the pain, but restrained as he was, there was nowhere he could move. He could only stand there, panting through the pain left by Eodum’s lashes.

He distantly heard the dull thump of the whip hitting the ground, and then Eodum was next to him. “Shh, Setia, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Eodum’s familiar magic washed over him. The pain receded and then faded away completely. All that remained as evidence of what Setia had endured was the sweat dripping down his back and the lingering tension in his muscles.

“There. All better,” Eodum said, running a hand down Setia’s now-intact back. Setia failed to suppress a shiver at the contact; the gentle touch was a sharp contrast to the searing pain of mere moments ago. Eodum grinned. “You’re up for three more, right? I want to add fire, see how that changes things.”

Setia drew in a breath through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth. He could do three more. The pain was nothing, just a stepping stone on the path to fulfilling his ambitions. But still… “Fire?” he asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Eodum nodded. “It’s a more complex wound, so it’ll be good practice. And you’re already tied up and ready, so we should do it now.”

“Right.” Eodum did have a point. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Giving Setia’s shoulder a light squeeze, Eodum stepped away again. Setia heard a soft whoosh that indicated that the whip was set ablaze. He tried to keep his muscles relaxed; tension would only make the pain worse.

The whip cracked and hissed as Eodum brought it down again. A shout of pain tore itself from Setia’s throat as he jerked forward in his restraints, only to come up short against the firm mass of the tree. He thought that the strokes earlier had burned, but that was nothing compared to the violent blaze of pain that had overtaken his back. 

Eodum didn’t pause to verbally catalogue the injury this time. He just brought the whip down again, just as quick and harsh as before. The line of fire that the whip cut across his back was excruciating. The spot where the two strokes met hurt so bad Setia could barely feel it anymore. His chest heaved with every breath he took as he tried to stay steady through the pain.

A strangled groan escaped him as the third stroke came down. Had he not been tied to the tree he would have instinctively curled in on himself to try to escape the pain; as it was he could only clench his eyes shut and pull uselessly on the ropes binding his wrists. He knew that it was counterproductive, but he couldn’t get his body to stop. His back screamed in fiery pain that spiked with every twitch of his muscles. Sweat dripped down his body and stung where it touched his open wounds. The pain was almost unbearable, but he bore it, because there was nothing else he could do.

“We’re done, Set. Well done. I’m here now.” Eodum was suddenly beside him again. Setia opened his eyes sluggishly to look at him; there was a spark of concern in the demigod’s eyes alongside his normal focus as he extended his hands. All of the pain faded away as Setia’s wounds faded under the guidance of Eodum’s magic, though it seemed a little slower this time. Still, he found himself sagging in relief. It was over. He had made it through. He could rest now.

“There was a bit of nerve damage this time in the spots where the whip strokes overlapped,” Eodum commented as he began to untie Setia. The comment made Setia’s heart skip a beat with belated alarm. “I was still able to fix it without any issue, though. How do you feel?”

“Exhausted,” Setia said. The moment Eodum had his arms free from their bindings his legs gave out from under him, and Eodum had to guide him to the ground. “I need some time before we do anything else.”

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:

[0:00:00] The click of a recorder turning on. Brief moment of silence, broken only by humming background noise.

[0:00:07] A voice begins to speak.

VOICE: Audio log begins. Current time 0600 hours, current date 43/30. Experimental subject: Dr. Fairbank, AKA myself. Blood pressure 115 over 73, pulse oximeter indicates a resting heart rate of 84-- higher than expected, but that's likely due to prior caffeine ingestion-- and oxygen saturation of 98. All within normal ranges. Experiment nature: vivisection of the peripheral nervous system, mainly the major motor nerves, of the lower left arm.

[0:00:28] A metallic sound-- source unknown.

DOCTOR FAIRBANK (DR.): I've chosen to give real-time updates on the experience of the surgery. Since all prior nervous system dissections have been performed on cadavers-- for obvious reasons-- an examination of the peripheral nervous system in the limbs in a living subject will provide valuable and potentially actionable biomedical information. Limb loss is uncommon, but the lack of regenerative potential in such situations does raise the question of developing effective prostheses should the occasion arise.

[0:00:53] A slow exhale. 

DR.: Some introductory information. The peripheral nervous system is the portion of the nervous system that transmits information to and from the central nervous system, which consists mostly of the spinal cord and brain. It is divided into two subsections: the autonomic nervous system, which controls involuntary processes such as smooth muscle movement, blood pressure, breathing, etc., and the somatic nervous system, which controls skeletal muscle movement. I will be focusing on the three major motor nerves in the lower arm, which are components of the somatic nervous system. 

I've chosen to use myself as the subject for this particular experiment. While this may compromise the experiment's objectivity, subjective observations are equally-- if not more-- useful in this case, and I doubt any other subject would remain lucid enough during this or any similar surgery to provide observations on the duration, quality, and level of pain. As this is the case, I will be performing the surgery unmedicated.

[0:02:27] A sigh.

DR.: This will be... a long process.

[0:02:30] Beat. They continue.

DR.: In order to assess the state of the peripheral nervous system in my lower left arm prior to this study, I performed several nerve conduction studies, intended to assess the speed at which electrical impulses currently travel. I placed the distal electrode in the center of my palm and the proximal electrode approximately 3 cm above my elbow, then measured conduction time and amplitude between the two. These results indicate my nerve conduction baseline and have been recorded in photo format.

For the following experiment, I have, for simplicity's sake, immobilized my arm utilizing a standard table vice. I suspect that I may need to change position during the surgery, but hopefully complications will be few.

I've decided that in order to gain useful information through this surgery, I would need to observe the nerves on a fairly large... canvas, so to speak, for better visibility of both the major motor nerves themselves and the effects of manipulating them. As that is the case, I will be beginning at points near the wrist and making several incisions, which will vary in positioning and length depending on the motor nerve I'm attempting to access. 

I had initially planned at beginning at a more distal point-- the hand or possibly even the fingertips-- but those scenarios introduced significant limitations; most of the nerves in those areas are sensory nerves, and the motor nerves I'm most interested in are harder to access, so information would be sparse. Therefore, this is the method I chose. I've also used fluorescent peptides to tag the nerves in question, so that the visuals will be clearer and I won't risk more severe damage.

The time is currently...

[0:03:12] Brief beat, presumably a result of them turning to face the clock.

DR.: The time is currently 0604 hours. Mark beginning of surgery.

[0:03:17] The sound of a sterile instrument being removed from its package, followed by a quiet sound and an intake of breath.

--

[05:12:57] Heavy, rasping breaths for a moment, before commentary resumes. Their voice is breathy, but otherwise devoid of indicators of pain.

DR.: I've begun the surgery by exposing the median nerve, which is the main nerve controlling the first two fingers and thumb, as well as approximately half of the ring finger.

I've chosen the median nerve because it's the easiest of the three major motor nerves to access from my current position. The median and ulnar nerves both run through the underside of the carpal bones into the palm of the hand, but the median nerve runs through the carpal tunnel, which is a central area dense with tendons. It's also very close to the surface, hence why most compression of the median nerve happens at the wrist-- carpal tunnel syndrome. The ulnar nerve is somewhat deeper, so I've decided to save it for later.

[05:15:09] A long pause, with several somewhat wet noises, as they examine the surgical site.

DR.: I've restricted blood flow to the area using a tourniquet. Under normal lighting, I can see some red muscle tissue and yellow fat, as well as the tendons of the area, which are a very clean, shiny white. At the most distal edge of the cut, closest to the palm, the tendons disappear under the transverse carpal ligament, which stretches laterally across the carpal tunnel. The median nerve is slightly difficult to make out within the bundle of tendons, but I've set up an overhead blacklight prior to beginning this experiment. 

[05:17:13] A click, presumably the sound of the blacklight turning on.

DR.: Switching it on tells me that the fluorescence has been very helpful indeed. The nerve is immediately obvious against its surroundings, glowing green under the UV light. 

Current pain is typical of surgical cuts without anesthetic; the stinging pain of cutting skin, and the deeper ache of muscle and tissue being separated. It's not particularly notable, though interestingly as the cut is shallower the pain does feel somewhat... sharper. As always, descriptors are difficult. 

I will now proceed to stimulate the median nerve via physical touch.

[05:18:25] Another noise, meatier than the others, followed by an inhale through teeth.

DR.: Oh. Ah. Well. I'd been expecting that, but it's still somewhat unpleasant.

[05:17:53] They clear their throat.

DR.: Even a slight compression of the median nerve creates a painful feeling of pressure extending both outwards, into the thumb and first three digits, and inwards towards the elbow. It also produces paresthesia, in a form that I would describe as a sort of tingling numbness-- not quite the pins and needles of restricted blood flow, but still uncomfortable. It cuts through the rest of the pain and creates a sensation that I would characterize as feeling near-freezing, though I have heard others describe it as a burning sensation.

[05:20:01] Their voice turns dry.

DR.: According to the traditional pain scale, my pain would rank as a 4; distracting, but I can continue my usual activities. I believe that accurately highlights the limits of the pain scale.

[05:20:56] Brief beat before continuing, in a more inquiring tone.

DR.: I wonder... I hadn't planned on stimulation via electricity, but given that I still have materials from my nerve conduction study on hand to be repurposed, and that the median nerve is so relevant for muscular control in the hand... One moment.

[05:23:23] The sound of cloth rustling, and a quiet clink, most likely the sound of a surgical instrument being laid down on a metal tray. Some other miscellaneous noises, including a quiet groan that cuts off abruptly into silence. Something being dragged over the ground.

[05:25:49] A moment of panting before they resume speaking, their voice clipped. 

DR.: I've acquired the nerve conduction equipment from its prior position. I now plan to place the stimulating electrode directly at the median nerve and observe the effects. 

[05:26:38] A grunt, and the sound of a switch flicking. They gasp, briefly.

DR.: The muscles in my thumb and first three fingers are-- are spasming, as are some of the minor muscles in my palm. I can see my tendons tensing as the fingers and wrist attempt to curl. There's the pain of the electricity; it's mild in comparison, but does twinge a bit. Interestingly, however, the pain mostly originates from the muscle spasms, rather than any new nerve pain or paresthesia. It's a strange feeling, almost cramp-like, and though they were initially mostly painless, the pain is increasing in intensity as I keep the electrode placed at my wrist. I will now turn off the current and remove the electrode.

[05:27:14] Another click, and several quiet, indistinct noises. When they speak next, their voice is tinged with relief.

DR.: Fascinating information so far. I'm going to use the free-standing magnification that I set up to take some pictures of the surgical site before I suture it, then reposition slightly and work on the ulnar nerve.

--

[11:47:19] Breathing has become more measured. In-between breaths, the quiet, wet sound-- presumably of the scalpel cutting through flesh-- can still be heard.

DR.: The speed of my work has increased somewhat as I become more comfortable with the surgery. Still, I have to exercise caution. Too fast and I might cause damage that would take too long to heal for my liking. Additionally, I suspect both my speed and my accuracy may decline as I continue to work.

[11:48:02] Swallowing sound.

DR.: I suppose we'll see.

[11:48:07] The sound stops, followed by a series of deliberately slow, even breaths.

DR.: Of the three major motor nerves of the lower arm, the ulnar nerve is the second most accessible at the wrist. Really, it would be easier to access at the elbow; it's very close to the surface there, as anyone who hits their quote-unquote "funny bone" would know. However, as I'm doing this surgery on myself, accessing the nerve at the cubital tunnel would require a very annoying angle, as well as impeding visibility. Hence, the wrist.

The ulnar nerve controls the pinky finger and the half of the ring finger that the median nerve doesn't control, as well as other minor muscles in the hand. Most often compression at the nerve happens at the elbow, a condition called cubital tunnel syndrome, but direct trauma can also cause ulnar nerve entrapment at the wrist.

[11:49:47] They click their tongue thoughtfully. 

DR.: The incision I've made to examine the ulnar nerve is similar to that of the median nerve, but necessarily deeper. The median nerve is very close to the surface as it travels through the forearm and passes through the carpal bones, but the ulnar nerve passes through what's called Guyon's canal or the ulnar tunnel, which is somewhat deeper and harder to access. I briefly removed the tourniquet in the time between suturing the incision I made for the median nerve and beginning the ulnar nerve incision in order to avoid unintentional and unrelated numbness, but have now returned to restricting blood flow.

Due to the deeper cut, more muscle tissue and fat are visible around the tendons and ulnar tunnel-- more red, more yellow, less white. However...

[11:52:18] A click as the blacklight switches on.

DR.: ...the blacklight and fluorescent tagging still allows for a very visible ulnar nerve. That was a very good move on my part, if I should say so myself.

The pain of this incision in general lacks the sharp, stinging sensation of the shallower median nerve cut, instead being deeper and carrying the sense of... well. To get very subjective, it carries the sense of wrongness that all deep incisions have. Pain is a response to a great many things, but with particularly deep wounds there's also a feeling that something that should be a continuous whole no longer is, and while the body obviously doesn't like that it's also never sure exactly how to respond.

[11:54:58] Beat.

DR.: Now, moving on to the stimulation portion.

[11:55:06] More heavy, meaty sounds. When they speak, their voice is tight. 

DR.: Ah. Hm. I had expected the pain to be similar in quality to the median nerve, but it seems I was too presumptuous. Palpating the ulnar nerve causes a somewhat similar pressure and paresthesia, but stronger and more noticeably painful, and while it does radiate into the fingers served by the ulnar nerve it's also extremely obvious at the elbow. Again, the feeling that I would describe as being temperature-adjacent, almost cold. If I tap on it--

[11:57:38] A quiet, muffled thump, followed by an intake of breath.

DR.: --I notice that it creates a shock, of the same quality that I would associate with hitting my elbow in a way that would temporarily traumatize the ulnar nerve. And, in retrospect, I wish I'd done the same to the median nerve. 

Ah, well. It's too much work to undo the sutures now. Time for electric stimulation.

[11:59:10] The slick sound of the electrode being pushed into the incision, then a switch flips. Brief moment of silence broken only by the sound of teeth grinding.

DR.: Some results similar to electrical stimulation of the median nerve. The muscles in my hand are contorted, and my ring and pinky fingers have seized. Muscle spasm pain and electrical pain aren't noticeably different in quality or quantity in the hand and fingers. However, I am now experiencing pain in the elbow and in the lower parts of the upper arm, as my muscles have tensed in that area as well. I'm unsure as to why-- am I reacting to the pain I'm experiencing? Is the ulnar nerve stimulating nerves of the upper arm?-- but I'm making a note of it. 

Turning off the electricity... now.

[12:02:37] Switch flips again.

DR.: Once again, photos, sutures, and then reposition for the radial nerve. We're nearing the home stretch now.

--

[15:34:39] Muffled cursing.

--

[15:52:44] A grunt of pain, cut off short. After a long period of silence, they begin to speak again.

DR.: We've-- ah-- we've run into an issue.

The radial nerve doesn't pass over the underside of the arm; rather, it passes through the outside of the arm, almost aligned with the thumb, and takes a more winding path. Accordingly, I had to reposition my arm and make yet another incision. The angle of approach would have been somewhat awkward no matter what I did, so I eventually decided to begin this portion of the surgery, and... well.

Mostly, the nerve is intact. However, as the radial nerve is responsible for straightening the wrist, damage to it-- in addition to being shockingly painful-- can cause something called "wrist drop", which is exactly what it sounds like.

[15:55:28] They let out an annoyed hiss.

DR: Given the current state of my arm, observation and palpation of the nerve in question is more... difficult... than I would like it to be. The natural state of the wrist is partially flexed, and the radial nerve is required to stimulate the extensor muscles enough to counteract the flexor muscles and straighten it. Due to the damage, my wrist is now partially contracted. In addition, the pain in my arm and hand has increased significantly, and while I'm not exactly a stranger to pain, it's still not what I would consider a good feeling. 

[15:57:23] The sound of something tapping rapidly on a metal surface, accompanied by thoughtful sounds.

DR.: On the other hand... this may be good. I can assess what damage feels like in comparison to mere pressure and electrical stimulation. So, in that case...

[15:57:41] They sigh. 

DR.: The sensation is a far, far more intense version of the paresthesia that I experienced with compression on the median and ulnar nerves, accompanied with significantly more numbness. It also lacks the sensation of pressure that palpating the median and ulnar nerves did. 

A large portion of my arm has lost feeling almost entirely, and other portions are... painful. As noted, I can't fully straighten my wrist or bend it backwards, and while I can control most of my fingers as usual, I can't bend my thumb fully backwards. 

It's unpleasant, and unfortunate, but I suppose at this point there's nothing to do but end the procedure and wait. Fortunately for me, time will heal all my wounds.

--

[17:09:38] They begin, once again, to speak. Their voice is more composed and slightly less strained overall.

DR.: I've been able to document several useful observations from this procedure.

First, as previously known, the Vitalichryne Engine provides some resistance to nerve damage. Despite the incident with the radial nerve, the degree to which nerve damage can be resisted did allow me to view more of the motor nerves than I may have otherwise been able to, all without serious issue. While the radial nerve was damaged, it was damaged far less severely in me than I suspect it would have been in someone entirely lacking regenerative abilities, and I suspect it will heal completely and quickly.

Secondly, and more importantly, examination of the median and ulnar nerves brought me to an interesting observation, which is that, if things weren't as they are, I would have carpal tunnel syndrome.

To explain further, carpal tunnel syndrome is caused by a variety of things. Among them, repetitive hand or wrist motions rank very highly. I do nothing but repetitive hand and wrist motions, and though my left hand gets slightly less of it, it would still make sense for the tunnel in question to be irritated, potentially enough to put pressure on the median nerve. And, in fact, I could see some inflammation, but it was extremely minor and hasn't been affecting my nerves or my work at all.

[17:08:41] A touch of amusement enters their voice.

DR.: I suspect that, in the hypothetical universe where I could or wanted to take more breaks, the issue would heal completely with no issues.

[17:09:01] Tone switches back to brisk, businesslike.

DR. Both of these observations bring me to some further questions about the means by which acute and chronic nerve damage is prevented and the degree to which minor and major trauma impact the nerve in question, but also have implications for the potential future development of prosthetics in the event of limb loss. As nerves are resistant to damage and experience easier regrowth, it may be possible to create bio-synthetic prosthetics that have a far less limited range of motion and even sensation than currently suspected.

[17:10:25] Their voice changes again, this time sounding pleased.

DR.: This study was both satisfying and enlightening. But, as I suspected it would, it raised more questions than it answered, and these questions can't be answered by auto-vivisection. Though it means sacrificing some subjective data on sensations, I'd really need other patients to gather truly extensive data on the peripheral nervous system.

Or, depending on where my research takes me, the central nervous system. We'll just have to see.

[17:11:38] A click, and the recorder turns off.

Dear Ori, I hope you enjoy this story.  I’m sorry I couldn’t write your characters.  They seem really cool, but I let myself get intimidated by the idea of them being non-human.  Your art for them is adorable though.  Also, I tried to work in all your favorite tropes that you sent.  With that said, I think I could even loosely say I worked in the “eating raw meat” request, though probably not in any conventional or sfw sense.  😉  I hope you enjoy this.  Merry Christmas.  😀 From your Secret Santa.  

Whumpee woke with a start, their head pounding.  This wasn’t right.  They were safe.  They were supposed to be safe.  This couldn’t be happening.  They’d finally found home.  A place where they weren’t scared all the time.  Where were they?  What happened?  

As they sat up, they became aware of the sound of metal clinking together.  A cold weight was wrapped around their wrists and ankles.  Chains.  No.  They were done with this.  Master - no, Caretaker - had rescued them.  They weren’t a pet anymore.  Caretaker said they would never be a pet again.  

Fearfully, Whumpee raised their fingers to their throat, somehow already knowing what was there.  Still, they gasped when their fingers touched the rough leather and metal of a collar.  They felt for the loop hanging at their throat.  There wasn’t one.  No name tag claiming them.  What did that mean?

They looked around their surroundings.  They were surrounded by cold, damp stone, and the wall in front of them was thick with iron bars. They knew immediately where they were: a holding site.  Fuck!  They couldn’t be back here.  How had this happened?

As they tried to remember, their head pounded all the more.  They’d gone to dinner with Caretaker.  They’d been holding their coats and Master - Caretaker - told them to wait while they got the car.  They’d been celebrating… celebrating… Whumpee's birthday.  A nice dinner with valet parking.  But Whumpee was getting too warm holding the coats and standing in the heat of the lobby, waiting.  They’d stepped outside for fresh air.  

Something had happened then.  A figure… from behind them? A van.  A needle.  Then blackness.  Then here.  They glanced down at themselves.  They weren’t wearing anything.  Their lovely clothes that they’d had on at dinner that had made them feel worthy and valued were gone.  Master’s coat was gone too.  They had one job, and they’d failed at it.  

A sudden sound of metal scraping against stone made their heart leap into their throat.  Someone was coming.  Footsteps proceeded down the corridor to their cell.  There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.  They held their breath as the figure came into view.  The man in front of him leaned casually against the bars.  He was tall and thickly muscled.  He had a handsome, charming face, but cruel, cold blue eyes that seemed to look right through whumpee’s soul.  No wonder he’d been able to peg whumpee as a pet.  He seemed to look them over and appraise them.  

“Hello, little one,” he said with a smile. “Nice to see you awake.  You slept for a very long time.  I think my associate overestimated your weight and how much to give you.”  

“Where are my clothes?” Whumpee asked, voice tremulous and thin.  They tried to sound confident and defiant, but again, they failed.  

“Oh, you won’t be needing those.  Pets don’t wear clothes.  I know you know that.  Everything about you screamed ‘pet’ when I saw you standing there on the street.  No collar, no name to claim you.  Wearing clothes as if you were an actual human.  No, no, no.  You don’t need those.  All you need is that collar; you know it, and so do I. We’ll assess you, see what you can do, what training or retraining you might need.  Then, we’ll auction you off with the others and you can get a nice shiny new name tag back around your neck.  You know you want that.  Pets are no good at pretending to be human.”

The words stung because they were true.  Whumpee was no good at being a human.  They still called their rescuer, Caretaker, Master for pity’s sake.  They were a terrible human.  But… but Master - fuck! Caretaker - said they were human.  That they deserved… they deserved good, soft, nice things.  They’d been good for Caretaker.  Obedient.  Why was this happening?  

“Please… I… I have a Master.  Please let me go home.  You can call them.  They’ll come get me.  They’ll pay… pay you.  I’m… I’m sure.  Please.  I want to go home to them.”

The man shook his head. “Oh I don’t think so.  I’m not going to take a finder’s fee when I could be paid for a whole new pet.  Besides, they were a terrible Master for you.  They left you on the street with no collar.  You know a collar is your safety.  If they’d collared you, I wouldn’t have taken you.  But they didn’t.  They left you vulnerable.  I won’t do that.  All my pets know exactly where they stand.”

“No.  No, please.  I… They weren’t.  I want to go back to them.”

“That’s enough.  You don’t get a say in who adopts you. You just be a good boy.  Do as you're told, and it’ll work out.  It’s less painful that way.  Now, hush.  No more talking or saying the words ‘I’ or ‘no.’ You are what I say you are, and you can’t refuse a direct order.  Now, come on out boy and let's get you up to the training room and see what you can do.”

Whumper opened the cell door and hooked a lead line to the collar around Whumpee’s neck.  The man unlocked the chains, but then cuffed Whumpee’s wrists behind his back.  Whumpee trembled as he followed along behind him, down the corridor and up the steps.  He wished he could cover himself.  The worst part about captivity was being kept naked.  He hated it.  It left him open for all sorts of abuse and ridicule.  Caretaker had made sure he had soft, warm clothes to cover his humiliating scars.  He already missed his weighted blanket and his warm bed.  He missed sitting on the couch with Caretaker while the kind man read to him in front of a blazing fire.  

Whumpee tripped on the top step, and Whumper savagely yanked on the lead line.  “Pay attention, you stupid daydreamer.  We don’t have time for silly mistakes around here.  I have to get you up to par by the next auction in three days.”

Tears clouded Whumpee’s vision.  He couldn’t even reach down and rub his now sore knee.  

“I’m.. I’m sorry.”

“If you can’t show me that you’re up to snuff, you’re going to be.”  Whumper stopped short and pulled a dirty knotted cloth from their pocket.  “Open up.”  

Whumpee did as he was told.  He wrinkled his nose at the foul taste, the knot pressing down on his tongue, and the realization that the gag was still damp from whatever unfortunate person had it in their mouth before Whumpee.  Gross.  

Whumpee took his steps very carefully after that.  He thought of all the previous beatings and whippings he’d taken before for his clumsiness or his daydreaming.  He didn’t want that again.  He had to prove he could do better.  

You’re not a pet, Caretaker’s voice reminded him.  But Caretaker wasn’t here.  What was here was Whumper and a new collar.  

Whumper opened the door to a big room.  There were lots of people here and more than ever, Whumpee wanted to hide.  Other men, more Whumpers, stalked around, some leading pets they were training, other’s just leering, on the prowl for who they could hurt.  Whumpee recognized their kind immediately.  He didn’t like the way that all their eyes turned to him as he was led into the training room.  

Whumper took him to the middle of the room and made him stand still while he chained Whumpee’s hands above his head.  He spread Whumpee’s legs and chained them to loops in the floor.  The man took his time “evaluating” him.  The man’s rough hands roamed over every single inch of Whumpee.  

Whumpee closed their eyes, their breath panicked and shallow.  They hated feeling like an object, inspected and intimately explored.  They knew what was going to be expected of them, but it never got any easier.  They hated being used like a toy, and that’s what these men always wanted.  A toy.  

Once Whumper’s initial review of his new acquisition was done, he turned his attention to Whumpee’s reactions.  A small crowd of other Whumpers gathered around to watch.  Whumpee squirmed a bit as the man took him in hand and began to stroke him.  

“Come on little one, let’s see how big you can get.” 

When Whumpee squirmed and twisted a bit, Whumper struck him hard on the ass with his bare hand, as if he was a naughty child.  Shame and humiliation flushed Whumpee, and the laughter of the others watching didn’t help.  

Whumpee let out a small whimper and then let himself go limp, holding still as the man stroked, pulled, and twisted until Whumpee was at full hardness and panting into their gag. Their hips rutted slightly into the man’s grasp. They couldn’t help it, but still, they were ashamed. 

“There we go.  There’s my boy.  Look at him, boys.  He stands up nicely, doesn’t he?  And I think he really likes showing off for everyone.  Look how eager he is to fuck my hand.”

Tears again sprang to Whumpee’s eyes and a fresh blush of humiliation washed over them.  They didn’t want this.  They didn’t want any of this.  They wanted to go home to Master, to Caretaker, to their rescuer.  It wasn’t fair.  Caretaker promised.  

Whumpee mewled when Whumper took their hand away.  They were so tired already, and they hadn’t even been awake that long.  Fear was always so draining.  

“Take your pictures, boys.  This one’s gonna fetch us a good price.  I can tell.  He’s already trained.  We just have to put him through his paces.  Who wants to help?”

The lustful eyed men all took a step closer, and Whumpee wanted to curl in on themselves, but they couldn’t.  They hated this part.  They knew what was coming.  The men swarmed around them.  Hands groped, pulling and pinching his flesh.  They squeezed and massaged his most sensitive areas, testing their every boundary.  

They moaned at the touch, the desperation and the teasing growing unbearable.  FIngers dipped inside them and massaged them intimately.  The desperation mounted and the laughter from the others grew in tandem.  Within a few minutes their body seized and they felt their release spilling over the fingers that continued to stimulate them.  Soon they were writhing and twisting as the hands continued to explore.  They desperately needed the touching to stop.  To breathe.  To be left alone.  Panting, they let their head drop back and stared at the ceiling, trying to dissociate from the overstimulation, tears running back into their hair.  

Whumper’s fingers fisted into their hair, and he growled into Whumpee’s ear.  “Now, boy.  You’ve had your fun, so it’s time you give us ours.  Your ass seems nice and tight, so I’ll leave that alone for now.  But this pretty little mouth of yours is gonna earn its keep, isn’t it?”

Tears spilled fresh from their eyes.  This is what they were always for.  It didn’t matter that they hated it.  They were good at it, and their owners always seemed to know it.  They nodded obediently in answer to Whumper’s question.  

Whumper lowered the chain that held their wrists up.  They sank to the floor, knees still spread.  Whumper locked their wrists to another loop in the floor.  Whumpee wondered how long he’d be forced to stay here, how many of these men was he going to have to pleasure.  

They didn’t have to wait long to find out the answer to the last question.  

“I want you to pleasure everyone here.  As often as they want.  Let’s see how you do.  Please me, and we’ll talk about you getting an actual meal.  Until then, this is all you’re eating, understand?”

Whumpee blinked slowly and nodded their understanding.  

“You hungry then, little one?” Whumper said, pulling the knotted cloth gag from their mouth.  

Whumpee swallowed and licked their dry lips.  “Y-Yes… Yes, sir.”

“Good boy, then.  No more talking.  It’s not what your lips and tongue are for anyway.”

Whumpee swallowed again and then nodded.  

Whumpee struggled to recall how to breathe properly when the first cock was shoved down their throat.  There was no gentleness, no finesse, just one brutal thrust into their mouth after another.  They hollowed their cheeks and kept their lips wrapped around their teeth.  They let their tongue run along each stiff member, ignoring the taste as best they could.  

When they swallowed, they were lost in their own head, retreating to their safe space.  They’d spent years as a pet, doing exactly this.  It was nothing.  Except that Caretaker had said they’d never have to do this again.  Why was this happening?

The men in the room took their time, turn after turn.  Whumpee’s stomach churned.  They weren't sure they would be able to eat anything even if it was offered.  Too much. It was too much.  Their jaw hurt, their throat burned.  Everything felt raw and stretched.  They just wanted it to be over.  When was it going to to be fucking over?

Hours or days could have passed.  Whumpee had no way to know.  How many had there been?  They hadn’t even attempted to count.  What would have been the point?

Finally, there were hands in his hair, pulling his head back.  “Just one more, little one.  Let’s see what you’ve got left in you, boy.”  

Whumper.  They just had to please Whumper.  Whumpee was so tired, but they reached deep in themselves and focused.  They hummed obediently around the cock in their mouth.  The man thrust into them, their hands trapping Whumpee’s head, setting the pace.  Whumpee worked to please him as best as he could, their tongue flicking at the slit when the man would pull back, running along the underside of him as he pressed back in, and sucking hard when they sensed the man was close.  They swallowed it all down and lapped at the man until he pulled away completely.  

“Very good boy.  You must really be hungry.”

They weren't.  Not anymore.  

The man cupped their cheek.  “Come on, little one.  Let’s get you cleaned up.”  

Whumpee leaned into their touch, the approval washing over them and turning sour inside their stomach.  

*!*!*!*!*

Whumpee was curled up on the floor of their cell.  They were tired, sore, and cold, but their belly was full.  For the first hour or so after they’d eaten, it took every bit of effort they could muster to not vomit.  The feeling had slowly subsided, and they’d managed to hang on to their meal.  Now, they were simply curled up on the floor, tears flowing silently down their cheeks.  They had no energy to actually cry.  Not anymore.  If they were a pet again, they had to lock all of that away.  

Days passed, and the horrors of that first day were repeated and tested at every turn.  They got nothing, not a single comfort that they didn’t pay for in some way.  

They didn’t know what day it was, but they jumped when the door at the end of the hall banged open.  Whumpee sucked in a terrified breath.  Show time… again.  They dragged themselves to their knees, head bowed, eyes on the floor, just like they’d been taught.  

“Big day today, little one.  You ready for your big performance?”  Whumper asked.  

Whumpee looked up at them, eyes questioning, not willing to speak.  Pets didn’t talk unless directed to.  

“Auction day.  Let’s get you cleaned and ready for your audience.  I have so many that are interested in you.  Been sending out little snippets of your best performances from the past couple of days, generating interest.  And boy, has it worked.”

Whumper was in a good mood as they oversaw the cleaning process.  All the pets up for auction were thoroughly cleaned inside and out.  They’d been cleaned like this before, but it was always so brutally humiliating.  They hated the way their stomach knotted and cramped aat the water being forced into their system and then the sickening feeling of it being flushed back out again, over and over until everything was clear.  It always left him exhausted and nauseated.  

After, Whumpee followed in a line, his collar linked to the collar of the pets in front of him and behind him.  Their arms were each fastened into leather harnesses that locked their forearms in a straight line across their backs.  

As they approached the stage where they would be shown off to the waiting audience, they were each gagged with simple black cloth gags that were knotted in their mouths, holding their jaws open.  At least it was clean and didn’t taste of a previous pet’s saliva.  

They were taken up one at a time.  Whumpee could hear the crowd approaching.  At least after today, Whumpee would belong to one person.  Hopefully, that one person wouldn’t pass him around like an unwanted toy.  Maybe they could be kind like Master - Caretaker.  Whumpee didn’t really feel like that would be true though.  Not if what whistles and catcalls they was hearing from the audience were anything to go by.  

Whumper tugged them toward the stage.  The lights were blinding.  Whumpee blinked rapidly as Whumper swung him forward towards the front.  Whumper grabbed a fist full of Whumpee’s hair and yanked their head back, making them arch backwards and thrust their hips forward toward the audience.  Whumper stroked him to full hardness in front of the lights and the jeering audience.  

“Up next is a tasty little delight.  He’s well trained, but gently used.  A few scars, very good with his mouth, hums like a champ and doesn’t even gag.  And his ass is tight as a virgin’s.”

Whumper spun Whumpee around and forced them to bend forward, showing their ass off to the crowd.  “What do you gentlemen think?  Shall we start the bidding at fifty thousand?”

There were cheers and people bidding.  A vigorous competition arose.  Whumper turned Whumpee back towards the audience and continued to stroke them, driving them closer towards his release.  

Whumpee moaned and rolled his hips into Whumper’s hand.  Maybe if they had a good show, a better person would buy him.  Or at least one with more resources.  Maybe that would trickle down to a soft blanket and a warm bed, maybe.  

Whumpee came as Whumper declared a winning bid.  Whumper let them sink to the floor, panting.  They rested their forehead on the cool mylar, a single tear slipping down their cheek to pool on the floor.  

Whumpee wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but eventually they were dragged off the stage, and a new man clipped a lead to their collar.  He fixed a name tag and loop to the front of Whumpee’s collar.  Whumpee hated how relieved that name tag made them feel.  

The new Whumper tilted Whumpee’s chin up to meet his gaze.  “You’re gorgeous, pet.  You’re going to look even better covered in fresh bruises.  Especially across that lovely, pert little ass of yours.  Now come on, let’s get you home.  I have a cage all ready for you.”

Whumpee swallowed around the gag and nodded, all illusions of a kind Master fleeing from them.  New Whumper walked with Whumpee trailing obediently and dejectedly behind them.  

Whumpee kept their eyes on the ground as they followed new Whumper out of the facility and into the cold night.  They shivered but said nothing.  Tears pricked at their eyes, and they rapidly blinked to rid themselves of them.  

“Hey!  I can’t let you take them!” A familiar voice shouted from the darkness.

The new whumper held tight to Whumpee. “Look pal, you lost the bid fare and square.  Next time you want a highly skilled pet, bring some more cash.  Till then, get lost you pathetic loser.”

“I.  Can’t. Do.  That.”  Caretaker stepped from the shadows and Whumpee’s eyes grew wide as saucers.  Caretaker was holding a gun and it was trained on new Whumper.  “Drop the lead, turn around and walk away.”

“No way.  You’re not going to shoot me because of a fucking pet.”

Caretaker cocked the gun and rested their finger on the trigger.  “I absolutely will.  And they’re not a pet.”

“The hundred grand I just dropped on them and the… rousing performance they just gave on that stage says otherwise.”

“Walk away.  If you don’t I’m counting to three and then I pull the trigger.  I’m sick of you rich, entitled bastards thinking you can just take someone from their lives and own them.  He’s not a fucking pet.  Now drop the lead.”

“No.”

“One.”

“I’ll bury you.”

“Two.”

“I’ll end up owning you too by the time I’m done with you.”

“Three.”

“You’ll both be mine an-”

Whumpee screamed into their gag as their ears rang with the deafening sound of the gunshot as it went off.  New Whumper dropped like a log in front of them.  Caretaker grabbed their lead and dragged them back toward the darkness of the alley.  They ran, without stopping.  Whumpee nearly tripped several times, but Caretaker caught them each and every time.  

Finally there was a car, a seatbelt, then screeching tires.  That was the first thing Whumpee could hear.  He grunted and yelled into the gag.  

“Shit, sorry.  We just had to get you out of there.  God ,I’ve been so fucking worried.”  Caretaker leaned over, keeping one hand on the wheel and yanked the gag out of their mouth.  “I know that was loud, and you’re really scared.  But I told you I wouldn’t let you be a pet again.”

“Y-You killed them.”

“They were gonna hurt you.  Beat you bloody and use you.  They were talking about it to the other creeps at that auction.  Saying how good you’d look with new whip stripes across your body.  I wasn’t going to let that happen.  Not again.  I care too much, Whumpee.”

Tears rolled down Whumpee’s cheek and the sobs they’d been holding in for days came gushing out.  Whumper pulled the car over and parked in another dark spot where they would be easily overlooked.  They unhooked Whumpee’s seat belt and then worked on the buckles of the harness.  

“Shhh.  Shhh.  It’s over.  You’re safe now.  I’ve got you.  I swear.  They aren’t going to touch you again.  Look at me.  Whumpee, deep breath.  Look at me.”

Whumpee sucked in deep tremulous breaths and met Caretaker’s eyes.  

“Are you okay?”

They nodded.  

“Did they hurt you?”

“N-no.  Not really.  Th-they m-made me do things… things I-I d-didn’t want to d-do.”

Caretaker pulled them close and held them.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m so so fucking sorry.”

They pulled back and reached into the back seat.  Whumpee’s sobbed harder as Caretaker wrapped their weighted blanket around them.

“Let’s get you warmed up.  I got us a new place, away from the city.  It’s temporary, but I’m hoping to make it permanent.  It’ll be just me and you.  Give you a chance to heal… again.  I… I’m so sorry I left you alone.  I will never do that again.  I swear.  I will have your back.  I’m just sorry they got to you in the first place.  They should have never fucking touched you!”

“H-He… he said that he could tell I was a pet.  He said he’d always be able to tell.  That it’s what I am no matter how I dress or what I do.”

“No.  Absolutely not!  He’s lying to you.  He just wanted to make some quick cash.”

“But he’s not wrong!”

“Yes he is, Whumpee.  You’re so much more than that.  You have always been more than that.”  

“Is it okay if I don’t believe you just now?  I’m just… I’m really tired, and so confused.”

“Yes, sweetheart.  It’s okay.  I will spend every day telling you how valuable you are.  How much you matter.  You’re my best friend, my brother, even if it’s not blood.  Now get some rest.”

The Doctor and the Devil

for @blood-is-compulsory

Content Warnings: gore (I am not kidding about this it is graphic), vivisection, genital mention (nonsexual), lab whump, vaguely intimate whumper

The Doctor always loved this part.

Today’s subject was a self-professed demon, one Lev Vendrasco, or, as the Doctor was more likely to call him, Subject 133-LV. The Doctor wished they could say they had planned their meeting, but really it was more of a crime of necessity. They supposed they should have known that eventually, someone would attempt to trace the rash of mysterious kidnappings and that if that someone was in any way good at their job, they would eventually find their way back to the source.

The Doctor was never particularly careful about how they acquired their subjects: getting away with something primarily involved looking authoritative enough not to be questioned until you had already left, and a layperson would have a hard time tracking them anywhere. So would standard law enforcement. They didn’t technically exist, and having the backing of organised crime made little indiscretions disappear rather easily. This Vendrasco, however, was noticeably skilled at his profession and had managed, despite the odds, to find his way to their sanctum, their beloved Facility Mu.

All his cleverness had done him very little good, of course. Once inside a facility at which the Doctor was head researcher, a subject of any interest found themselves hard-pressed to escape. They had been quite excited to collect another otherworldly specimen — they had used up or lost all of their others by now — and not having any new research to do left them open to perform duller activities, such as working the clinic. Now, the private investigator had no recourse but to inspect the laboratory ceiling, which was about the only thing he could see from his position on the examination table.

They had already prepared him for surgery. Their own special paralytic formulation left him motionless from the neck down, though breathing and talking would still be possible, and pain would be dulled, though not absent. They addressed Vendrasco as they pulled on their surgical mask and adjusted their glasses on their face.

“You know, it has been a very long time since I have had the opportunity to perform this procedure. I am quite excited! I am certain it will be instructive.”

Lev watched them warily. “What sort of procedure is it?”

“Oh! Did I not tell you? Translating it to English is rather difficult. What would I call it? A gross multi-system vivisection. I — gently, of course — remove particular organs for inspection and cataloguing, and, when I’ve finished, replace and reattach them. You need not worry about function after the fact. I have done this before, you know. Between your regenerative ability and my precise stitching, you ought to be restored to your previous state.” 

“Anything I can do to convince you not to do that?” the demon responded drily.

“Certainly not. If you’d like to make another agreement, I think you’ll find the price for this to be more than you’re willing to pay. You seemed not to enjoy your end of the previous bargain.” 

“Had to try, you understand,” he conceded with a shrug, or at least the closest thing a man paralysed from the neck down could produce to one. He was doing an admirable job of hiding his terror; he had worked out early on that too much whinging only annoyed them and made them more likely to do disagreeable things to him. 

“I admire your tenacity. Now, shall we begin?”

~

Lev, for his part, found pinning down the Doctor’s motivations to be a fun little diversion during his sojourn in Mu facility. They were excitable and quick to anger, but slow to act on any rage they may feel, seeming to have an intense dedication to scientific objectivity while acknowledging that true objectivity was unattainable. In practice, that meant that being compliant resulted in less pain for him, and he could sometimes delay an experiment for a full day by asking them to explain it to him. As cold and calculating as they were, they talked quite a lot and seemed thoroughly to enjoy having an audience, especially one that was pretending to pay attention.

He hadn’t been able to delay this procedure; the Doctor had been much quieter than usual, neglecting to engage him in the usual one-sided conversation and alternating between staring off into space, and talking animatedly into their tape recorder in a language he couldn’t understand, their rambling underlaid with a certain manic delight. They had answered most of his questions with some variant on “oh, you know me, always working something out.” It made him rather nervous, the delight they seemed to take in cutting him apart, but they were rather arrogant and always quite confident that it would be impossible for him to escape, and he was sure he’d get his chance some time soon.

The paralytic agent the Doctor had given him made his body feel heavy, a buzzing sort of numbness like novocaine. His breathing seemed unaffected, which was a plus, though it certainly was strange not to be able to feel his lungs inflating, and he had to reserve speaking for the natural rhythm of his exhale, given that his diaphragm wasn’t within his conscious control.

~

The Doctor had finished their preparations and was standing over the subject with their scalpels prepared and their tape recorder in its familiar place around their neck. “Well. I think we’ll just get started, won’t we? Experiment 422-12, continued observations of subject 422-LV. Experiment date, November the twenty-third. Subject classification: humanoid entity, supernatural category B. I will begin by conducting the visual inspection and inventory of the exterior…”

~

Lev thought it was definitely a little weird to have the Doctor inspecting every little bit of his body. They had pulled back the gown, the paper rustling oddly in Lev’s ears because he couldn’t feel it, and were notating his measurements in minute detail, sparing not a single square centimetre from the tattoo of the alchemical symbol for Mercury on his cheek — which they had spent several minutes yesterday reproducing in minute detail onto vellum for “realism” — to an uncomfortable amount of time spent cataloguing the details of his genitalia (really, any amount of time was too much). They seemed to have no interest in it other than thoroughness, which was reassuring, but sensing the vague impressions of pressure as their gloved hands moved over his skin was quite disconcerting, and he would have squirmed if he could have.

When the Doctor made the first cut, right above his left clavicle, it didn’t exactly hurt, but it was certainly a new sensation, and he grunted softly as his vocal cords tightened around his exhale. He felt the impression move down toward his sternum and had to make an effort not to make noises whenever he could. He still couldn’t see what they were doing, but he had no hope that whatever would happen next would be any less uncomfortable.

~

The Doctor had had to take a deep breath before beginning the Y-incision. It was one of their faults, the tendency to become too excited during a highly anticipated procedure and have their hands shake or need to step away to recompose themselves. They prided themselves on their professionalism, but when alone in the lab, it was more difficult. They were a doctor, though, and they had a job to do. With the incision completed, they peeled back Lev’s skin to access his ribcage. 

It was a little odd to think about that angels and demons would have bones of any kind at all. Their work with angels and other seraphoid beings had yielded varying results, from no abnormalities to shimmering marrow and golden blood that flowed like metal. Lev’s ribs were black, as if from ferric iron bound to the calcium deposits, though there was no guarantee that was even their composition. It was exhilarating.

“Completed primary incision. Osseous tissue is greyish-black in colouration, note to continue experimentation in other demonoid subjects to determine if any metaphysical factors affect colouration, such as the magnitude of the sin that caused the fall-“

“That’s not really how it works,” Lev interjected. The Doctor waited for him to continue on his next exhale, but either he had nothing more to add, or something about their fingers on his spleen had disconcerted him.

“I rarely appreciate being interrupted, you know.” 

“Oh, forgive me.” He paused to inhale. “ I’ll just keep any… further commentary… to myself, then.” His expression was somewhere between apprehension and indignation.

“No, no, I…“ ‘I value your input’ would be a lie, and they disliked lying while the tape recorder was running. “I am not opposed to further input. Wait until I’ve finished my sentences, though, yes?”

~

After listening to them talk, mostly to themselves, for the past several days, Lev thought that the Doctor’s speech flow left very little room to get a word in edge-wise, though the sensation of his intestines being pulled on to be measured distracted him from informing them of this. He cried out in surprise, if not in pain, mentally arching his back even though he couldn’t move.

“Hush,” the Doctor scolded. “I’m counting. Total length seven hundred and… thirty six point three centimetres. Below average, though taking age and weight into account… Hmm. Perhaps demonoids simply have shorter bowels.” Lev didn’t really know what to say to that, so he didn’t.

He very much preferred it when the Doctor was measuring: they talked less and wrote more, and were usually too focused to think of any new and horrible things to do to him. Unable to see what they were doing now, if he concentrated, he could ignore the fact that he could feel it. He had almost convinced himself that this was a completely ordinary place to take a nap when an odd whirring sound turned his blood to ice water.

“W-what’s that?” he asked hesitantly, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Bone saw,” the Doctor responded, distractedly. “Stop talking, please. This is already difficult to do while you are breathing.”

When the saw hit his sternum, Lev couldn’t have spoken if he’d tried. If he’d been able to move, he was sure his back would have arched with the agony, he could feel every inch as the teeth of the saw ground through his bone. The combination of the smell of bone dust and the sound of it turning to powder- was the Doctor… singing?

~

They did very much enjoy sawing through bone. Carpentry might have been a nice career path for them if medicine hadn’t worked out. It wasn’t going quite as smoothly as usual, but their tools were in good condition and their technique was beyond reproach, and so eventually the bone gave way, forced into submission by serrated metal. Snatches of an old folk song were stuck in their head, och jungfrun gick åt killan, hon skulle hämta vann, and they weren’t even really aware they were humming the tune to themselves.

The Doctor was tall, and the table was low, but it was still rather difficult to reach all the things they needed to manipulate on their own as they operated the rib spreader and prepared the cardiopulmonary bypass. It was times like this where they wished they had an assistant, but that would add too many variables and make everything even more difficult.

“Opening thoracic cavity… Colouration of interior organs is typical. Beginning cardiopulmonary bypass. Just a few minutes more, darling, once I have your lungs out you won’t have to worry about crying…” They began inserting the venous catheters as they spoke, soft beeps from the CPB machine providing a backdrop to the gasping sobs the subject was somehow managing to make despite everything. At least once the machine was set up, they wouldn’t need to listen to him.

~

The pain of his ribs being spread caused tears to flow down into Lev’s ears. He did his best to focus on the tickling instead of the shooting pain in his chest, but it was becoming very difficult to keep his throat from tightening up into sobs even though he wasn’t in control of when he inhaled or exhaled, and he was sure he would have been hyperventilating by now if it were an option. He could sense that the Doctor was annoyed with him again, and that didn’t bode well for the end of this experience. Whatever they were doing now was at least less painful than the spreading had been, but he was becoming desperate.

“Wait! Can we… make another deal?” he choked out, not daring to hope he wouldn’t be ignored.

“... I’m listening,” the Doctor replied slowly, the movement of their scalpel ceasing for a moment.

He hadn’t really expected that to work, if he was honest. What did he have to offer that would please the Doctor more than taking him apart right now? He sifted through the information he’d collected on them, looking for a weakness to exploit. “H-how long is this going to take?” He was stalling, and he was pretty sure the Doctor could tell, but he needed more time.

“Oh, well, I can leave you on the bypass machine for about three or four hours before the risk of complications goes up. Given your otherworldly constitution, I could probably push that another hour or two without consequence. Did you have another engagement? I was not aware you were in any hurry.” They had come around to his left side and were smiling at him in the way they always did when they were mocking him. They were always so calm, so kind-sounding, it was sickening. Like they’d invited him here for a tea party instead of having his organs on the counter. Wait. When had his spleen got to the counter?

“Spleen weight: one hundred and forty grams.” The Doctor had grown tired of waiting for him to think and put the spleen onto the lab scale almost lovingly. “Good size. Oh, my apologies, were you saying something? I appear to have become rather distracted.”

“T-that’s mine…”

“Yes. Yes, it is. I shall put it back shortly, worry not.” They tapped the scalpel impatiently on the tray, clearly eager to begin again.

What could he do? The only thing they seemed to like more than cutting him open was drugging him or… Oh. He really didn’t want them to do that, but it had to be better than sitting here with his chest open for six hours. “You cut it down to… say two hours… and I’ll… drink holy water for you…” Not much, and not more than once, but he could negotiate later.

The Doctor’s eyes glittered behind their hexagonal spectacles. “Really, now? Well, that is quite exciting. Two hours, you say? Oh, my…” They exhaled behind the mask, calculating something. “It will be close, I think, but I can probably do that, yes. I shall have to actually try for once. Perhaps it will be enjoyable! You have yourself a deal, love. You will not try to back out again, yes?”

The glee shining in their eyes was disconcerting, to say the least. “I won’t. I’ll… want to talk terms… when I can breathe…”

“Oh, of course. Excellent. I had better get started, then, you will not be able to speak while your lungs are on bypass, I will note. Sit back and enjoy the show.”

All right, then. If they were going to finish this before time, they were going to have to move very quickly indeed. They stretched their neck and shoulders carefully — marathon surgeries had a tendency to make them lock up — and took a deep, steadying breath. Time to get to work.

First, the bypass machine. They smiled reassuringly at Lev as they changed him over to assisted respiration, though the panic in his eyes didn’t seem to decrease at all. Once his heart and lungs were no longer in active use, they were free to remove them.

“Beginning removal of thoracic organs, switching to Iverson procedure due to time constraint. Operating on pleural tissue… Right lung weight: four hundred forty grams… a little light, no? Left lung… three hundred eighty. Liver. Sixteen oh-two.” Their scalpel flew as each organ was carefully weighed and laid out in storage containers to wait to be reinserted. Intensely focused, and Lev temporarily forgotten as anything more than a cadaver, they meticulously organised biopsy samples and updated the visual catalogue as they went. They were made to perform surgery, many said, and in this moment, it seemed very true.

~

Lev couldn’t really watch any of this happen. It was odd not to be breathing, though as the Doctor removed his lungs and laid them on the table, he was glad he couldn’t feel them anymore. It would have been an almost out-of-body experience, watching his insides be carefully catalogued and biopsied, if he couldn’t feel every slice of the scalpel and every movement of the Doctor’s fingers inside of his chest.

He wasn’t usually aware of where particular organs inside of him were located. As the Doctor narrated their process for the tape recorder, however, he produced against his will a rather accurate picture of where each had been before it was abruptly separated from him. He’d probably have nightmares about this…

An intense wave of nausea hit him as the Doctor weighed his stomach in their hand. He never wanted to feel his stomach moving against his will again. Could he even vomit with all the drugs they had pumped into him? He hoped not; he’d probably choke.

“Hmm. I will leave this for now. Dealing with the bowel will be time-consuming. Better to avoid puncturing it.” Oh, thank the hells.

Gallbladder, pancreas, kidneys. Each piece that left him made him feel… less. The Doctor was having quite a bit of their own fun, humming brightly again as they held callipers up to his bladder. (Or what he assumed was his bladder. He’d never felt it before.) It almost didn’t really hurt anymore, all the different missing pieces of him, in repose, without feeling, several feet away. Almost being the key word. All of his edges seared like, well, not hellfire. He still couldn’t move, but he was beginning to wonder if the anaesthesia was wearing off. He couldn’t ask about it, of course.

The Doctor brought his heart over for him to look at. “See this? A little thing the size of a fist, but without which you cannot live more than a few minutes. I have a few resin casts of these, and a few silicone. I was going to mould yours, but then I thought without the luxury of time, there would be too much risk of residue left behind. You have made quite the good bargain, if you will allow me to say so. Just a bit of a weighing and we will have it right back inside of you, you will see.” Lev was once again glad he couldn’t be sick.

Eventually, the Doctor stepped back for a glove change, and Lev would have breathed a sigh of relief if his lungs had been, you know, inside of him. Tears were still falling down his face into little tributaries that collected in his ears and dripped onto the table. The Doctor returned quickly and spoke to him again. “I think that about wraps up what I had planned. At least, that which I am confident I could complete before the time limit. About time I closed you up, then, yes?” More tears, this time of relief, spilled down to expand the puddle.

Without the anaesthetic, he could feel every little stitch the Doctor made as sharply as if they were threading glass into his flesh. When the searing agony didn’t meld into one long stripe, he could tell that each stitch was the exact same length and placed the same distance from the last as the one before. He felt like a baseball, but on the inside, a deep fatigue permeating him. The pain kept him awake, if not quite alert.

~

The Doctor was proud of their stitchwork. They had replaced and reattached every organ and still had thirty minutes to go. Now to return him to breathing with his own lungs. They had made sure the bronchial tubes were clear before returning the lungs, but there was still a risk without having him on ventilation of him asphyxiating… The heart was beating just fine, at least, with a little initial electrical encouragement.

“Here we are, love, going to try breathing now…” The cardiopulmonary bypass switched off, and they subconsciously held their own breath.

A few seconds ticked by, and they had already turned to the crash tray to reach for epinephrine when Lev gave a quick cough and began breathing. It surprised them how relieved they were, though they told themselves they were just tired and hoping not to have to save his life. He shouldn’t be able to cough, though…

“How are we? Still pleasantly numb, or no?” They would wager not if the diaphragm was under his control.

Lev coughed a few more times and let out a shuddering sigh. “It hurts, Doctor…”

“Oh, I love it when they say that…” Calm yourself, Doctor. So. Delirium, then. Most likely from the pain. Odd that the drugs wore off so quickly, it must have something to do with his physiology, but what differed from the other subjects? It was possibly something individual. Anaesthetic resistance was not totally uncommon, though it wasn’t something they’d ever encountered in a metahuman…

Lev wasn’t sure what the Doctor was mumbling to themselves about, something about anaesthetics and metahumans, but he hoped they’d remember to give him some painkillers soon. Now that he was breathing, quiet sobs kept slipping out of him and he was a fair bit worried it would annoy the Doctor and they would refuse to medicate him. It was rather hit or miss whether they would haze his mind with chemicals or just leave him to sob in the corner after an “experiment” which was really thinly veiled torture. He had to find a way to get out of here. The Doctor may be involved with the mafia, but that didn’t mean they could just do whatever they wanted. And besides, he was being paid very well to make the whole thing go away. Usually, he would have tried to cut a deal, but being personally victimised made one more righteous than usual.

His ribs hurt almost as badly going back into place as they had spreading apart, though he could feel the pain much more acutely now. The Doctor threaded the two sides of his sternum together with wire, which felt odd and was painful sitting against his skin as they stitched him up. He gasped with every pull as the wires tightened, and the Doctor rolled their eyes at him as they often did when they felt he was crying too much. Let’s see them try to endure this, see how much they cried.

Now that the Y-incision was all done up, the Doctor thought Lev looked quite a bit like a baseball, just grey and crying. They pushed the antidote to the paralytic into the IV port and thought for a moment before adding some morphine to it as well, causing the tension to bleed out of the few muscles Lev could control. “Well, my dear, I think we have had a very productive afternoon, don’t you?” They’d have data to analyse for days while the subject recovered and tens of further experiments to plan. It was as if Christmas had come early.

Transferring a patient from one bed to another was usually a two-person job, but they managed it alone with relative ease. They redressed him in more comfortable clothes and a post-thorax vest and ensured he had easy access to water and the call button.

“Now, Jeannette will be on shift tonight. If you need anything, your button will go to her. I have instructed her to make you comfortable, though you remember her, she is not easy to manipulate and I recommend you do not attempt it. I will not be available for at least the next sixteen hours, and I am not to be disturbed for any reason, understood? Excellent. Farewell!” They needed a long shower and about four hundred milligrams of caffeine, and then it was time to get to work.