You can call me Angie or Queenie (short for my username). I made this blog ~August 2024, but Tumblr deleted this blog some time in May. I got it back last week and Iâve been looking for my old fics ever since
I write for Logan Howlett, Aaron Hotchner, Joseph Quinnâs characters, Dacre Montgomeryâs characters, Sebastian Stanâs characters, Chris Evansâ characters, and Lewis Pullmanâs characters. My current obsession is Charlie Cox (specifically, Michael Kinsella).
I prefer angst and whump over smut, and I prefer x reader over character x character (except for stucky). I wonât write major character death, scat, underage/jailbait wait, significant age gaps, or mommy/daddy kink, but otherwise the world is your oyster! I also wonât write explicitly male reader since this triggers my dysphoria. Outside of these limits, I still reserve the right to reject any prompts I donât want to do. Prompts are currently open!
Royal decree: Everything I publish will be written by my own hand, never AI! All the artwork I reblog will be properly credited (unless I make them)!
the hottest thing a guy can be is barely conscious on the floor while someone lifts his head up by the hair so that you can see his glazed out eyes and the blood running down his face
More studies of Dr. Ryland Grace from Project Hail Mary, ft Rocky, aka the two bestest of friends ever from the best movie and also book ever oh my god
One of my fave moments is when Grace draws PPE onto Rocky's dome, so he can be included in big science time D:
for my contribution to the coltland twins au i bring angst!! yay!!
i like to think colt played grace when they inevitably made a movie about the hail mary. it's the first time he's ever actually had a real role but the casting directors, and colt, all knew that no one else could play ryland better. imagine colt having to act out the scene of his brother being tackled and sedated, of going up to die.
and think about if the movie came out before the beetles returned. there were definitely lots of people who didn't really knew what ryland grace looked like but had seen the movie anyway, and once the videos were released, people were in awe that the casting directors got someone who looked identical to THE doctor ryland grace!
people being shocked that the actor and the scientist that saved the planted looked so similar, and because colt's last name is seavers (which i like to think is a stage name for this au) no one knew they were actually related. (though there was definitely one person on the internet trying to convince people that they were related like guys istg they're related. my proof? trust me bro). especially since so many years had passed since the launch and before the beetles returned so they would have enough of an age gap that they would look different enough.
OH OH OH AND THE POLAROID
i like to think that the polaroid sent up with grace was not of him, but of colt. it makes me ill thinking about how ryland would have seen that and thought it was just a picture of him, because he couldn't remember he had a brother.
thinking about grace remembering he has a brother after he had met rocky and rocky being confused asf and worried about grace cause why the fuck is he slumped on the ground sobbing he was fine like five seconds ago??? and thinking about colt finding out the real reason grace went to space, having felt so betrayed for so long that ryland didn't tell him he was leaving, only to find out years down the line that his brother had been kidnapped, drugged, and shipped on a suicide mission against his will. colt having spent so many years harboring resentment and a sad sense of betrayal and then finding out all those emotions were for naught, that his brother wanted to stay so bad.
Imagine a pining Driver (The Driver x GN! Apprentice! Reader)
Watched Drive for the first time andâŚsomething about it. They injected crack into this melancholic movie. Driver is my parallel play king w/ a splash of acts of service and I don't care what anyone says. Also reader fell first but Driver fell harder WHO CHEERED
Job hunting is Hell. You are very much aware of that as you sift through ads, check out store windows, and do literally anything you can to find a stable source of income. There's a good handful of months that drive you up the wall, yet, as luck would have it, Shannon's Garage appears on your radar. You apply for an apprenticeship, praying that the Associates of Science you got isn't completely useless. It works (!!); Shannon needs the money and with the extra set of hands he might be able to get it. Either that or he's just blown a new salary on you. Only time will tell.
Your first impression of Driver is that he's intimidating. You meet while he's under a car, wedged between the undercarriage and the creeper he's on. You're sure Shannon's told him at least a little bit about you, but first impressions are vital, and if you're going to be working together, you want it to be on your own terms.
You nudge his foot from where it peeks out from the car. He slides out and even though he squints momentarily at the light, you can tell that his eyes areâŚintense. He doesn't say much of anything, only taking you in with a slightly curious gaze and nodding when you tell him that you'll be joining the crew.
He doesn't talk a lot. At first you take it he doesn't like you, then you see his interactions with othersâor lack thereofâand realize that's just how he is. You fill the silence for him, telling him about your day and what's happened through it. The first sign that something's changed is that he stops "ignoring" you.
Before he likes you, he's his usual self: avoidant, quiet, and always doing something. After, he's less entertaining you and more listening to your words. You don't notice in the beginning, but it becomes more obvious when he quietly murmurs a specific question about what you said, eyes not moving off what he's working on. You may linger silently, looking at him. He may look back, a little quirk to his lips as he waits for you to answer. It's anyone's guess.
A man of few words means that whatever he does say, he stands by it. Usually, he doesn't speak when a simple nod would suffice. Around you, however, more structured sentences start to appear. Verbal praise doesn't come too often, but when it does, it puts you on cloud nine. Whether it's a faint nod or a whispered affection, it's sincere.
On top of that, getting one of his rare smiles feels like a payday. The more he becomes comfortable with you, the more he lets go, with his blank face showing more and more emotion.
The most obvious change isâŚwell, it's that he watches you. A lot. He usually stalks you from across the garage, glancing as you walk to your car. He wants you in his sight 24/7, 365. It would be creepy if he didn't feel so safe to be around. Along with that, he takes care of you a lot more frequently, whether it's taking over for you on the bench or settling customer disagreements with one look, he's got your back.
You start to spend time with him outside of work. That might not be saying much to some people given that cars are somehow involved 90% of the time, but it makes both of you happy, so who cares?
Your place becomes his second home. He wonât spend the nightânot fully, anyways. He may spend time with you on the couch, arm wrapped around your shoulders as you watch some shitty TV show, but Driver will never stay long enough to sleep. He's always gone by nightfall, for some reason.
He loves driving you places. It makes sense, that's his whole thing. But being able to take you different spots, especially at night with slow music playingâŚit feels special. One time in particular, he brings you out to what was seemingly the middle of nowhere. You would be lying if you said it didn't make you nervous, often glancing at the little lock on the door in case you read him wrong. But then he parks the car and gets out, moving to your side and opening the door for you. You're met with the chill of the night and a sky full of stars. The light pollution doesn't reach here. It seems like nothing does. Driver wants to keep it that way, given the protective smile on his face when he sees your wide eyes.
He wants to give you worthwhile experiences, to impress you. If you're up for it, he might show you a few tricks. Nothing dangerous for you, of courseâhe wouldn't risk that. A few donuts here and there couldn't hurt, though.
After a while, Driver and yours' relationship is stuck in limbo. He doesn't want to ruin what you have, much less make you uncomfortableâŚso he simply stays in his lane. He does what he finds familiar as a substitution, no matter how much his skin buzzes with emotion. You play the waiting game with him until enough is enough. Either something is going to force him to make a move or you have to do it yourself.
It's a late night when it happens. Maybe you're high off the sleepiness, or maybe you're just fed up, but something tells you that you need to act. Your place at the work bench makes it so that your back is turned to Driver as he tinkers with the engine of a car. Casual words (mostly said by you) are exchanged. It's nice. Quiet. And then you make a joke and that gentle atmosphere breaks because Driver gives a laugh. A laugh.
You immediately swivel around to catch the ends of his open mouth in your sights. Driver glances up with that lookâthat gaze that holds so much emotion it should be illegal. It's not your fault that you get up and stride over to him, plucking that toothpick straight out his mouth. He's the one that did this, after all.
His brows furrow in mild confusion, but the quirk of his mouth tells you everything you need to know. You flick the offending piece of wood away, it landing with a sharp clink against the concrete floor. He has zero complaints when it's replaced with your mouth.
The kiss is so slow you're hanging off every touch. When you separate, his eyes seem darker. He gives that little thing of a grin, and you fall harder than you thought you could.
Even when you officially start your relationship, he doesn't let up. The honeymoon phase doesn't exist to him. You're his, and he's going to show you it as often as he can.
Feel free to use this idea for fics/art! Just credit me ;p
What I listened to while writing: did i tell u that i miss u
requested by @samuelofstrahd. Thank you for requesting this! Autistic Lars (as well as CPTSD Lars) is so dear to me. Also, I made some of these way sadder than I meant to? Sorry guys. Lars is just such an angsty character.
Lars who feels things so strongly. Sadness, anger, happiness: all of them are a bubbling brew, with all the "heat" (his experiences) making them overflow from the pot. Sometimes he just shakes in place or very loosely fidgets because it's so overwhelming (think of him in the dancing scene where he had his arms tucked to himself. stuff like that).
Lars who cries a lot. He can't help it, everything just gets to be too much and a few tears will stray down his cheeks. It's always in privateâhe never does it in front of anyone else because that's too "weird". Karin still notices and comforts him as best she can.
Lars who can mostly read social cues. This is more of a trauma response than anything, but he's subconsciously trained himself to know other people's moods. That doesn't mean he really knows what to do about those moods, but he knows that they feel them. His analysis works about 85% of the time.
Lars who stims in different ways (get ready for multiple bulletpoints of this). When he's at the lake, he traces the water ripples with his eyes, counting the amount there are each time he gently tosses a pebble in. He tries to see how many he can get as a highscore for the day. This goes along with his heavy blinking.
Lars who loves the sensory of layered clothing. There is the safety aspect of it (no one can touch him), but it's also a sort of weight that grounds him. When he was younger, he used to hide under his bed because it brought the same grounded feeling up.
Additionally: Lars who hates the sensory of layered clothing. When he has meltdowns/panic attacks, he immediately starts stripping all his shirts and sweaters. They don't feel comforting anymore, they feel suffocating.
Lars who drinks things with a straw. Don't ask him why, it's just superior (he likes the feel of the straw as well as the subtle facial stim (pursing his lips)).
Lars who is tactile with inanimate objects. He loves knitting and the sensation of the yarn under his fingers. Sometimes he'll do it for so long they turn red and he has to stop. Also this is my petition to give Lars legos, he'd fucking love them.
Lars who is very neat. Everything has a place, and if you move those things it feels innately wrong. It's also about a sense of control, what he says goes. I imagine that early in their friendship, Karin cleaned up the garage after she saw some things were "strewn about" (they were in their places. their places just so happened to be on random countertops). Lars ended up having a meltdown when he came home. She never did it again.
Along with that: Lars who hates change. Existing is already a hard endeavor most days, so adding something unexpected to it feels like Hell, especially if it has to do with other people. No surprises please (radiohead..?)
Lars who does parallel play, especially with the older ladies. He has to get used to it at first (he's used to people expecting him to talk when in their presence), but once he does, he finds it comforting. He didn't know you could quietly exist with someone in the same space and not be punished for it.
Lars who is lonely. He watches other people in their groups and feels like an outsider. He wonders what it feels like to be connected with someone like that. He gets his wish after the events of the movie take place :)).
Lars who has meltdowns. When he's overwhelmed, he snaps at people and yells. He waves his hands a lot and rocks back and forth as well in an effort to regulate.
And Lars who, when really overwhelmed, shuts down completely. It takes days for him to recover. He wears his mother's blanket around his shoulder in those moments, sipping warm drinks.
psst tell me what you think. do you agree? disagree? i want to know! i've only watched the movie once, so pardon if there's any ooc moments or inconsistencies.
as always, feel free to use for fics/art, just credit me ;p
what I listened to while writing: ăăăă¤ă¤
plus a heavier angst headcanons under the cut (tw: forced masking & child abuse by Lars' father)
To expand on Lars struggles with eye contact, imagine Lars who has his mother's eyes. As a child, his father wanted Lars to be normal, so he'd grab his face and tell him to look at him. He'd then see Lars' eyes and immediately push him away. The back and forth is just an another instability in Lars' life. It doesn't get better even when his relationships with others have changed.
Lars who was forced to have his hair shaved. Sometimes it would bother him and, if he was already feeling bad, he'd go into a meltdown. His father got tired of it and just shaved it all off. Lars never wants that to happen again. That's possibly part of the reason why he grows facial hair.
they are dragging the carewhumpee through the stone corridors, and even if they know that it's necessary to infiltrate this god-forsaken place to rescue all those who are suffering here, it's nigh impossible to not kick out and grapple away, reach for the blade secreted away and escape.
they finally reach the cell. it is small and dark and has two thin mattresses, a little sink and a toilet. whumpee lies still on the mattress near the wall, quiet and barely reacting as carewhumpee is shoved inside unceremoniously. one of the grunts kick them in their ribs before locking them inside and leaving.
the carewhumpee tries talking to the whumpee, "hello," but it's met with silence. they don't even turn around. they need information, though, and so they keep trying to ask them questions, even offering little chunks about themselves and their life outside of thisâ all fabricated, ofcourse.
but whumpee doesn't respond to anything at all, and eventually they give up. they go to lie down on their mattress besides the whumpee's, and realise that they don't have any extra sheetsâ unlike the whumpee. it's terribly cold, but it would seem that as long as there isn't a real chance of getting hypothermia, their capturers won't waste something as precious as bedding on the prisoners.
they go to lie down, feeling cold and dejected and scared, and wiped out from the day they've had. it's painful to lie on the poor excuse of a mattress, as the stone digs into their bruises and the possibly broken rib. they grit their teeth, though, and eventually sleep overtakes them.
in the middle of night, though, their training kicks in suddenly as they are gripping an exceedingly fragile wrist in a vice-like grip. a second, and anotherâ then they realise that they are holding the whumpee's hand. even as suspicion colors everything wrong, they can see the dark outline of the blanket in their hands, which they have half-draped on their body already. they let go slowly.
whumpee immediately stumbles back, leaving the blanket on them, and crawling back to their own mattress. the blanket feels slightly damp against their skin, and even as the warmth is fleeting, they feel tears prickle their eyes.
but they saw the mottled patches decorating the whumpee's arms, along with the cigarette burns and various cutsâ still sluggishly bleeding, and it's obvious that they need the blanket a lot more than them.
so carewhumpee moves to return it, but as they do, the whumpee flinches violently, scrambling into the darkest corner of the room, as if the absence of light could protect them.
immediately feeling guilty but determined still, they slowly come to their corner, and even as the whumpee flinches and ducks away from the fleeting touches and hides their face into their arms, they let them cover them in the blanket anyways. "thank you, but you need it more," they whisper, and just before they can leave the whumpee to go catch a few hours of restless sleep, a hand comes to tug on their sleeve, timid yet desperate.
they look back to see that whumpee is looking straight at them, now andâ oh. oh, their mouth has been sewn shut.
still, whumpee's eyes shine with tears of gratitude. feeling sick to their stomach, they smile painfully and will themselves to fall asleep. all throughout the night, they dream of tortured screams and ripping this wretched trafficking ring apart.
CW: EXPLICIT dubcon that becomes noncon, Jamesonâs masochism, use of⌠accessories, whipping, crop, blood, biting, bruises, conditioning, pet whump, dehumanization, stress positions
âI fucking⌠h-hate you.â
The pet hisses the words, breathless, hardly a whisper of sound to rush over his tongue. His arms ache, the muscles burn with how long theyâve been forced up over his head, stretched nearly to their limit, cuffed to a bar that hangs from the ceiling. His scalp itches with sweat, it beads up and runs down over his skin, giving stretched muscles a slight sheen in the specialty roomâs dim light.Â
Up on his toes, the petâs legs are similarly lengthened, muscles quivering under pale skin dotted with moles. The trickle of a bead of sweat down the inside of his thigh nearly undoes him, and the pet has to drop to flat-footed to the cool concrete floor - only to have the chain connected to his collar pull tight at the back and choke him, forcing him back up onto tiptoe again to breathe as he coughs, rasping.Â
Their eyes are wild, round as saucers and glimmering with unshed tears. Strapped down to the floor by their wrists and ankles, a band of metal across their throat, and their clothes plastered wet to their shivering body, Quinn looks small.
A rough hand weighs heavy on their chest as if to keep them from floating away. A curtain of bleach-fried hair hangs around a mean face twisted in the shape of concern for once. âCalm the fuck down,â Major rumbles, pushing down on their sternum.
That pressure is the only thing keeping them sane. Quinnâs hyperventilating has them so dizzy that they canât feel their fingers or toes. Their eyes rocket around the room but they find no escape, no guard to manipulate or trick. Just an empty room and a friend who canât save them.
âCalm down,â Major snaps, and those teary brown eyes finally settle on him. His hand wanders up to grab them by the jaw. âItâs coming again. You know that?â
They nearly panic again at the reminder. The chains keeping them down rattle with the shudders of mortified anticipation.
âHey, stay focused. On me. Say yes Major.â
Itâs hard to keep hyperventilating against the hand pressing down on their ribcage. Exhausting. They gasp weakly. âYe-. Yes, Major.â
âCool.â He didnât make them say it to get obedience out of them or anything, and uncharacteristically, he doesnât smirk. âItâll hurt. You need a stupid mission or something? Instructions, to think?â
A jerky nod. Their eyes flit to the clock on the wall that counts each second, ticking upward. When it hits the next minute, the shock will course through them again.
âEyes on me, bitch,â Comes his reminder, and they look up at him again, a tear slipping free to carve its way down their cheek. âItâs just pain. Just lasts ten seconds. Make it to five without a sound. Thatâs the rule.â
âFive?â They bite out, teeth nearly chattering from adrenaline. âWhy, whyâs it matter if I⌠I canâtâŚâ Their question dies out as the click of the clock warns that thereâs only five seconds left.
âBecause I said so. Just do it. No screaming, five seconds. You ready? Breathe.â Speaking in a machine-gun rapid fire now, Major grips onto their hair and forces them to look straight into his eyes, at nothing else. âBreathe.â
The restrained spy sucks in a tremulous breath, focus finding its way into their expression. And then they jolt, their body straining with all its might to fling Major away, to tear their hair out in his grip, to break their own body in the metal restraints. Major swings a leg over their stomach and straddles them, knees digging into their sides hard. And he shoves their head down so it wonât bounce off the floor like it did a minute ago.
Their mouth stretches wide, but Major growls, âFive seconds,â and watches them go red with the effort of keeping the scream in.
Ten whole seconds pass. The electricity stops, and they flop, panting.
âDidnât scream at all,â Major comments as he disentangles his fingers from their hair. âLook at me.â
Jittery, drowning eyes find him again, lost with pain. They focus enough to see Major give a grim nod. âYou did good,â He says, and their bottom lip wobbles. âGonna happen again in a minute.â
âF-forty-five seconds,â They correct on a hoarse gasp.
âWhatever. Can you handle it?â
âNnh nnh-⌠n-, I-I donâtâŚâ
âNot do you wanna. Can you? Will you fucking survive it?â
They swallow a whimper and nod slightly. âDoesnât f-feel like it. But⌠yes?â
âYeah. You will. Donât piss me off, now. You didnât scream. This time donât even open your mouth.â
Their eyes flash with doubt. âBut I⌠I, I donâtâŚâ
âYouâre a tough bitch,â Major snaps, lowering to be all but nose-to-nose with them. âYou wonât die. This is fucking easy. Say youâve got this.â
There isnât time. They have no time. They try to look at the clock again, but he leans to block it from their sight. âSay it,â He orders again.
Quinn takes a ragged breath and grunts with the effort of speaking on command. âIâve got this?â
âAgain.â Heâs petting their cheek. They donât even recognize it directly, they just lean into it and swallow a sob.
âIâve got this.â
Stormy eyes harden. He doesnât say anything else, just watches. The clock ticks, and the shock comes.
After ten seconds, Quinn sucks in air, and when it escapes them it comes out as a squeaky sob. They screamed, they think. Hard to be sure. Major moves and they flinch, eyes squeezed shut, breaths tiny and rapid.
âOkay,â Major says, and he sounds softer than before. âItâs whatever. âs actually fine if you gotta be noisy. Uh. Keep your eyes closed.â
They flinch again when he touches their face, but it doesnât hurt. His hand brushes back and forth, stiff with scars and clumsy. The side of his thumb scratches over their nose, his cracked palm slides over their forehead. There is no pattern to it, no tender cupping of their cheek. No kiss to the forehead or finger under their chin to lift it. Itâs like being a kitten curled up at the foot of a trucker who is reaching down to pet it with the same nonchalance of scraping mud off his boot.
As rough as it may be, it drags a broken sob out of them, and he doesnât stop. Maybe he can see how badly it hurt that time. Maybe his arbitrary rule about keeping quiet was only for their benefit, and if it didnât help then he wonât make them try again.
âIâm sorry,â Quinn keens, tipping their head cooperatively as he swipes his palm to rub the tears off each cheek for them.
âWhat for?â Comes the gruff answer.
âFor. For⌠I donât know. I just am.â Their voice is high and painful in their throat.
ââŚâs okay.â The click comes. Quinn nearly screams from pure terror and surprise at how quickly a minute passed. âYouâre fine. Hey, breathe.â
They do. The pain comes again. His hands, his weight, all of it disappears.
Some time later, and it might be minutes or hours later, they hear him picking a fight. Growling, yelling. Quinn tips their head slowly to see that Major is pinned by a boot on his chest, screaming in rage about⌠Quinn. About how the shocks havenât stopped, and itâs too much. How this is pointless and stupid and it wonât work because they never talk, they never break.
The click of the clock comes, but Quinn is too busy to turn their head and watch the seconds tick by in terror. They are watching Major with awe, teary eyes lit up with curiosity and pride. They must be doing a very good job holding up, if Major is so mad for them. They can handle the next shock. Major might not think so, if heâs arguing for them, but they finally believe they can. They must be very very strong to have lasted this long, to make Major actually care.
I mean if you wanna do that edging thing⌠crucible hasnât gotten an update in a whileâŚ
cw: noncon, overstimulation, edging, degradation
§ § §
Through the window, Lucas watched the villain squirm.
His dark hair was plastered to his face with sweat, eyes hazy and heavy-lidded as he writhed on the mattress. Lucas had tied him in a very careful position, one that gave the villain just enough movement to toss his head and buck his hips, but not enough wiggle room to get away from the toys. Those were just as painstakingly placed, one halfway inside Crucible, the other hovering over his groin, teasing his clit with a tiny buzz that came at random.
Enough to keep him needy, not enough to finish the job. Lucas's eyes trailed away from the squirming supervillain and up to the digital wall clock. 21:35, it read. Damn. Had they already been at this for an hour? Time really did fly when you were having fun.
He whistled a careless tune as he swung the cell door open, eyes roaming Crucible's naked form. The captive's gaze locked with his own, pleading for an end, though nothing but pathetic little squeaks made it past the ball gag wedged in his jaws.
"How are we doing, sweetheart?" Lucas asked in a friendly voice. "You ready to come?"
Crucible's eyes screwed shut in answer, his back arcing as a shudder passed through his body. Seemed like a yes to Lucas.
He hopped up on the mattress, level with the villain's thighs, and reached over the man's hips, nudging the external toy away and palming his groin. His little t cock was hard, pulsing with his racing heart, and Crucible keened behind the gag, bucking against Lucas's hand as he applied a careful pressure to it, rubbing up and down in a steady rhythm. Then, just when he sensed the villain was about to go over the edge, he stopped.
Crucible's resulting whine tugged a smile across his face, and his glee only grew as the villain continued to rut against his hand, helpless to his own arousal. He came just a few moments later, and Lucas wiped the fluid off on the villain's bare stomach with a smirk.
"I'm sorry. Did I say you could do that?"
The villain's eyes were closed, but Lucas saw him tense, his breath hitching. Come on, he wasn't this naive was he? He had to have known they weren't done here. Still, Lucas savored the moment as he crawled on top of the man, placing a knee on either side of his hips. Despite the toy still inside him, Crucible was very still, as if paralyzed with fear of what was to come.
Lucas leaned down, planting a kiss on his jaw. "Did I tell you you could finish, slut?" He didn't get an answer, but he didn't need one. Lucas reached behind him, turning the toy on its highest setting and shoving it the rest of the way into Crucible. The villain bucked his hips with the intrusion, but Lucas was there to hold him in place.
"Since you wanted to be rude about it, I think I'm just gonna let you keep cumming. How's that sound?" He squeezed the villain's nipple. Woefully bare. Next time he'd have to dig out a pair of clamps or something. He leaned in for another kiss as Crucible writhed, nipping at a bottom lip stretched painfully thin around a too-large gag.
With that, he hopped off, reaching for the second toy. Crucible let out a pleading whine as he turned up the setting on this one too, but Lucas ignored him, lowering it onto his clit. The villain seemed to convulse under the new vibrations, reaching a climax only seconds later. Lucas did not remove the toy.
By now the captive's legs were shuddering, a moan passing his lips with every panting breath, growing more desperate by the second. Lucas's own erection was throbbing by now, but he could wait. Oh, he could wait.
He pulled the toy away for a moment, spitting on Crucible's clit before bringing it back, circling the swollen head with the device until the villain was once again climaxing, his voice ragged and exhausted.
Lucas brought the vibrator down again.
This time, he secured it there, a little lower than it had been at the start of the session; enough pressure and intensity that the villain was wasting the remains of his energy to try and escape it. Satisfied with its placement, he climbed back onto his captive.
Crucible's eyes were hazy and tear-glazed, his brows furrowed, muffled pleas, weaker than before, spewing from behind the gag as Lucas kissed his damp forehead.
"Just a few more, sweetheart," he murmured, his tongue darting out to catch a tear. He rubbed himself against the shuddering body, groin to groin, letting the villain feel just how hard he was.
"Just a few more, and then you can take care of me."
(obedient whumpee, knife, female whumper, (tagging is the worst honestly))
Hurting someone who doesn't react is sooooo boring, isn't it?
****
Noah does his best not to pant. Everything hurts but breathing quickly and harshly wonât help things in any way. He tries to take slow, deep breaths. His captor sighs. She snaps her fingers a few times, and he slowly turns his head to look at her.
It hurts.
âAt least youâre obedient.â
She grabs his chin and her â clean, manicured â nails dig into his skin. She uses her thumb to wipe something near his eye and Noah doesnât know if the wetness he feels is blood or sweat.
âBut boring. I didnât want you, you know?â
She sighs again, and her fingers tighten their grip. She turns his head slightly, tilting it so Noah is looking straight into her eyes. âI donât know why I accepted that deal⌠that young master of yoursâŚâ She trails a nail along his face, tapping his cheek a few times.
âHe still has baby fat on his cheeks. Pretty eyes. He would have begged so prettily, Iâm sureâŚâ
She lets go of him, pushing him back into the chair harshly enough that Noahâs ribs feel the repercussion. His breath hitches and she glances down with a snort.
âHe would have cried and begged and Iâm sure even his blood would have been⌠prettier. Youâre boring. You donât even scream.â
It was the point of making that deal. Noahâs job is to deal with threats to his employerâs life. Heâs trained for this.
Her hand feels his chest, stopping only when Noah clenches his jaw. Thereâs a cut here, deep enough that it hasnât stopped bleeding, and she digs her fingers deep inside. Noah grinds his teeth so hard he hears a crack, head falling forward. He feels nauseous, and the blood loss doesnât help. Half of it darkens his clothes, the other slowly drying on the floor.
âI could.â
She backhands him, and it takes more time for the room to stop spinning than for him to get back in position.
âI wanted someone to break. Not a dog.â
She pulls her hand out of his chest, wiping her fingers on his cheek. Noah slowly breathes out, making sure to keep his breathing even when he sees her reach for a knife.
âHand.â
He lifts his hand, giving it to her palm up and she sighs again. She slaps it away, instead bringing the knife up against his throat. He leans away slightly, just enough to swallow, before pressing himself against the blade again.
âYouâre unbelievable. Is there nothing in your brain but obedience?â
Noah says nothing, has nothing to say. He feels a drop of blood make its way down his neck. The blade digs deeper into his skin, and he glances at his captorâs face. âAnswer.â
âIâm here to protect him.â
She sighs, again. The knife is taken away, and she looks at him for a few seconds before planting it in his shoulder. Noah groans, biting his lips to hold back anything louder. Her eyes find his, searching for something she obviously doesnât find. She twists the knife, and Noah sees only white for a second.
She pulls away, stepping over the puddle of his blood to reach the other side of the cell. She leans against the wall, eyes on her knife.
âNo backtalk. No resistance. No begging. Youâve managed to make hurting you boring.â She sighs. Noah shifts slightly and the throbbing pain in his shoulder gets worse. He keeps his mouth shut, and her stare hardens.
âCome here.â
Pushing himself to his feet is not pleasant for Noah, and he loses control of his breathing. Heâs panting, every inhalation agony against his ribs. He stumbles towards her, feet dragging against the bloody floor of his cell. Â He manages to stay standing just long enough for her to slap him, sending Noah to the floor. His head hits the wall, and he instinctively curls up, just conscious enough to hear her sigh.
âI might send you back, honestly.â
She steps over him, and the door slams behind her as Noah closes his eyes.
