now that we're dead: act i
Pairing: mafia!Eddie Munson x reader Word Count: 11.5k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, mafia themes, noncon/rape elements, constant drugging, kidnapping, nonconsensual fingering, mentions of nonconsensual oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, degradation, praise, fingersucking, physical abuse/torture, psychological torture, Eddie's actually sick hehe, reader is mafia, mentions of murder, treated like a pet, kept in cage/tied up, stockholm syndrome, references to religion (no one is religious)... A/N: I worked on this over the span of exactly one year. Um...a bit of a passion project of mine, which doesn't bode well for reader. Verrry dark. Proceed with caution. it might take me another year to finish the second part but who knows! This one is actually beta-read, so enjoy that rare privilege. (if anyone wants a beta-reader, i might like to take a look teehee) Really hope you enjoy this, because this is only the first part of this. Was gonna post all at once, but I'm impatient so...enjoy and tell me what you liked! ;)
Everything feels incredibly loud.
You can hear the sound of your own breath in your ears, the faint pulse of your jugular pounding in your neck. The chair creaks with the slightest little movements of your body shaking within it. You can smell the dust on the floor and the smallest, tiniest sound of the steady blinking of a light on a camera.
You can't see anything, so you're not entirely sure if that light is the only one on, but seeing as you can't hear one, you assume not. It doesn’t help that your brain is hazy and clouded with whatever drug you’ve been hopped up on since you arrived.
You wish you could get this fucking blindfold off your face, but with the zipties tightly fastened around your wrists and ankles, it would be useless to even try.
He'd tied rope around your legs to the chair, keeping your thighs spread apart as cool air blew against your exposed pussy. The wet patch beneath you had yet to dry.
When you figure out who sold you out, you're going to kill them with your bare hands. It must have been Boar—the son of a bitch—it had to have been, especially after that incident at the restaurant. In your defense, he was being fucking stupid.
But first you had to figure out how to get out of here. Imagining all the ways you're going to skin that Boar alive when you get back is the only thing keeping your mind in order. No high could keep you from planning out every aspect of the way you’ll torture that man.
You don't know how long you've been here, you don't know if it's night or day. You can't even fully confirm that you're in a basement—the only times your blindfold is removed, a light blinds you from seeing anything past glimpses of your captor.
His voice keeps playing over and over in your head. Questions upon questions, taunts, pet names, all the things driving you fucking insane in a whirlwind of words that keep jumbling together or fading into nonsense. He'll be the first one you kill, and then you're going to find out who he belongs to and kill him in front of the rest of his men.
The sound of a heavy door being pulled open alerts you. Your entire body is riddled with goosebumps, and it takes so much focus and effort to keep your breath steady so as not to let off how exhausted you've become. You want to sleep, but every time you start to drift off, you’re interrupted by another Q&A session or pumped full of more drugs to keep you hazy.
“Hello, Kitten.”
You don't say anything—not that you can with your torn panties shoved in your mouth and wrapped around your head. You just sit there, your back as straight as you can get it. His voice, smooth and dark as velvet, fills every crevice of the room and your mind. You steel your thoughts.
“You're not gonna say hi back?” He tuts, and you can hear the fake pout on his lips. “And here I thought you missed me.”
His hand comes down on your shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You try to close your legs—having your body on full display for him was not something you found entirely enjoyable—to no avail.
He chuckles his growl of a sound. Your thoughts flash with the memory of the sounds he'd made when he was abusing your clit, where you could do nothing but sit there and take it, try not to whine so loudly when he made you cum for the fourth and fifth time.
You squeeze your eyes shut behind the blindfold to try and force the thoughts away. Your body is on fire, buzzing with anticipation and a sick need for him to touch you again. The callouses on his hands provide the best feeling against the sensitive aching of your clit. His hands are large and warm and—stop! He is quite literally assaulting you, you should not be dreaming about the way his thick fingers feel when they stretch you out and curl.
“I have some questions for you, the same ones as before,” he says. You can hear him circling you, and it takes everything not to feel the overwhelming tickling over your skin as he does it. “Like I said, if you answer my questions well, I'll take those panties outta your mouth. If not, they stay in.”
But he won't stop. No, he'd made that clear before when he'd said between your thighs, “I could never have turned this pretty pussy down.” He'd grabbed so tightly at your thighs, laughed every time you trembled—which was a lot when being blindfolded makes being eaten out a million times more sensitive. “I was always going to have a taste of you, whether you gave me my answers or not.”
You don't know how he knew you weren't listening, but he's suddenly snapping his fingers right in your ears. His voice is a bit louder now. “Hey, pay attention.”
You huff at the disorientation it brings but continue to stay silent. The last thing he needs from you is a reaction, and you sure as hell aren't going to give it to him.
“Answer my questions,” he says, a softly spoken warning. His hands land on your shoulders once more, and you startle.
He chuckles deeply, breathing down your neck as his large hands rub intently at your shoulders, working his thumbs into the sore muscle until your eyes are fluttering and you're trying your damndest not to fucking moan. Your body feels two seconds from going limp under his touch.
“Are you ready, sweetheart?” He's met with stern silence. You can hear the wicked Cheshire grin on his face. “Perfect.”
You feel like your skin burns when his lips make contact with the space between your neck and your shoulder. You think he's just going to kiss you, but you nearly make a sound when his teeth come out to nip at your skin. It sends a shudder shooting straight to your core.
You wish you could press your thighs together, if not to hide yourself than to get the pressure you need. His lips curve into your flesh when the shocks had your thighs just hardly trembling.
The sick bastard accounted for that.
Your teeth tighten around the damp fabric in your mouth.
“Where are the rest of the assets your father owes to Pandemonium?”
You say nothing, tensing when one hand slides over the curve of your shoulder, slipping below your arm to rest against your ribcage.
“How long has the Lion been siphoning money, arms, and drugs from his drops?”
You clench your jaw around your underwear. You told him his methods would get him killed, instead it got you kidnapped, raped, and likely killed when they decide they no longer have use for you.
His hand reaches up and gropes you, squeezing your breast in his greedy palm as he noses along your neck. You feel his other hand on your thigh, experimenting. You fail to suppress your jolt—or worse, your gasp.
“Who else in your sector is involved with this?”
You imagine yourself at home. Not the mansion, not the safe houses, not even your secret place out of the city. Home, where you grew up before your father pulled you and your mother—The Coyote—back into his world before you were nine.
The tiny house by the lake where something broke every two days, and she made a game of trying to figure out how to fix it. The one that was insufferable in the summer when the air was sticky. The one with the back porch door that you refused to go through at night on account of the hoard of Daddy Longleg spiders decorating the frame (harmless or not).
Anything is better than thinking of the electric feeling of his hand finding the apex of your thigh and slipping forward toward the spent heat between them. Anything is better than feeling his warm lips at your ear, nipping and occasionally licking the spot that makes you shudder. Anything is better than his hand kneading your breast like dough and his near lecherous breathing.
“What other gangs or mafia are involved?”
His voice is so low and gentle, like honey in your ears. It sickens you, how he has the kind of voice you would shudder beneath if you'd met at a bar and taken him home. He has the kind of hands you would have let rip your clothes off and touch every inch of skin with. In the brief glimpses you'd seen through shadows of his face, you think he probably has the kind of face you would kiss stupid before sitting on. If you're unfortunate enough to learn it, the fucker might have the kind of name you'd be shouting to the rooftops, happily subjecting your father to your activities he has no interest in.
You're violently ripped from your thoughts when his fingers push inside of you. Despite the fight you try to put in, they slip in easily. You're still wet from earlier, and your stupid, dumb, traitor body is greedily sucking them in like a ticket machine at Chuck E. Cheese.
You don't mean to. It slips out, like it had before, when you whimper at the way two of his thick fingers fill you. They pump slowly in and out of you, and your legs tremble worse every time you try to make them stop.
“I really like when you don't answer me,” he breathes, his voice calm like he isn't violating your cunt. His fingers move inside of you, and you can feel each and every single movement. You feel it every time he curls them, spreads them, every time one tucks under the other before returning to its side.
Tears are beginning to sting in your eyes again, but you will them away. You don't need him to see that (again).
“This little pussy of yours is just so fucking warm and wet. I'm tempted to taste you again to see if it's still sweet.”
He hears the way your breath stutters between all of your rough ones. You can practically hear his smile. His hand moves from your tit, reaching up to cradle your throat. You tilt your head up—your reasoning being to get away from him—but end up simply baring your throat for him on full display once more.
He squeezes so gently. It cuts off no air supply, you still breathe the same as before (ragged and harsh in an attempt to hear your breath over the feeling of his fingers), but now your head is fuzzy and warm and not just from the drugs. Your pulse is hammering at lightning speed, and you know he can feel it beneath the fingers pressing against your jugular. He gets off on it, breathes a little deeper, moves a little faster.
“You always have the best reactions,” he fawns. “Even when you were fighting me before, you weren't screaming and wailing. God, you’re perfect.”
You're trying not to speak. You've already slipped a couple times (the first when you'd humiliatingly cried for him to stop before you'd come on his tongue) (the second when you were two orgasms in and said “please”; no “stop”, no crying, just “please” in a devastating whimper after his fingers fucked you through a terrible splash). You don't want to give him the satisfaction of your voice, especially when he's already enjoying the satisfaction of your determined silence and your body betrayals.
Fingers curl and rub right against your weakest spot. You keep your moan choked down, choosing to focus on your breath instead.
“Last question, sweetheart.” He rolls your earlobe between his teeth. The stubble on his cheek scratches the side of your face.
An unwelcome panic floods your system. You try to force it out, but it prevails as his hands continue to work you. He's not going to repeat his questions this time around, which means after he asks, he's done. He'll leave you be, and you'll be able to breathe again for a little while longer.
But that means after he asks, he's done. He'll leave you be, whether you've cum or not. As great as that is—it saves you a little more humiliation—you've been doing this long enough that your body has grown accustomed to the constant pleasure. It's unwelcome and entirely degrading…but he's brought you to another high that you're craving more than anything else. Between the drugs flooding your foggy brain and the hunger and thirst beginning to really make itself known in the pit of your stomach, another orgasm would be a reprieve that would sustain you for just a little longer.
The pad of his thumb finds your clit. He rubs in steady circles until he finds the spot that makes your legs shake. Focusing on it with startling precision, he builds up a high that makes you feel fuzzier than the drugs. In a low, final voice, he asks, “What else is the Pride hiding?”
Your jaw clenches hard until the panties still stuffed in your mouth is no barrier between your teeth. Your eyes are beginning to roll back behind the blindfold, and your chest aches with need. You're going to cum. He's going to watch you cum again, and he's going to taunt you and slap you and maybe even smear your own arousal all over your face again just to humiliate you further.
His fingers plunge faster and faster, a wet, sopping sound filling the air with filth. The pleasure tightens in your belly, it tightens in your fingers and toes and around your desperate lungs until–
“Okay.”
The sound you let out as he removes himself from you entirely is nearly a sob. You fail to keep it in as your body slumps as much as it can bound to this chair. The feeling of your pleasure retreats hastily, draining out of you like sand from a broken bag until you're left cold and aching.
You struggle. You forget about your restraint, you forget about your pride and your lost dignity. You yank and tug at the ropes and zip ties holding you down like a wild animal. The last amount of energy you have left in you frugally spends itself in the pursuit of anger and frustration and need as you growl and shout.
The bastard laughs. He sounds like he's having the time of his life watching you lose the last bits of sanity you feel you have left. He claps his hands together and guffaws as the strain gets to you, beating out the last ounce of strength you have left to throw your fit.
“Look at you go! Such a fucking joy you are. You never disappoint, do you?” You catch your breath, defeated for the moment as your muscles loosen into something useless. You're so exhausted now, heavy and spent without the help of a release to ease the pain of it.
You suddenly feel the warmth of his body only inches from you, leaning in close and lowering his voice to that husky sound you wish you could choke out of him. “I'm sorry, kitty, but I just don't have time to spend on making you cum. I'm a very busy man, and I have more important things to do.” A breathy chuckle looses from him. “And besides… only good kittens deserve to cum for their masters. Isn't that right?”
You huff sharply, saying nothing as your hands stay balled up in useless fists. “Maybe if you're good next time, I'll make sure you get to cum for me. How does that sound?”
You say nothing.
“Good girl.”
You feel his lips on your forehead, and your entire body tenses. A rush of cold replaces the warmth he once provided as you hear the sound of his heavy boots stepping away. “Don't miss me too much,” he says as he walks farther and farther. With the loud shutting off a thick door, he's gone.
You're left alone, exposed and shaking and wondering when he's going to come back to finish what he started.
~
You can feel yourself beginning to break.
It’s been days…you think. You don’t really know how long it’s been since you woke up in this cellar, surrounded by cold and cameras and a man who keeps using your body as a hobby. Between the drugs, his fingers, and the lack of context clues, day and night kind of fuse together into one long string of time you have no control over.
You’re trying to hold on. But the longer you try, the more you ask yourself why. Why are you protecting that man? What are you protecting yourself from? He’s not coming for you. As far as your father knows, you’ve given everything up and he now has the excuse he’s been waiting for to put a bullet in your skull.
You’d hoped, at least, that when he finally did, he’d have the balls to do it himself. But what were you expecting really? Looking for any kind of courage in a bag of dicks. That’s your bad.
Every time you hear those heavy boots coming toward you, your body strings itself up tight in preparation for what you’ll have to endure for however long this man decides to entertain himself with you. It’s becoming harder and harder to distinguish between dread and anticipation. It’s all the same to the twisting in your gut, the clenching of your thighs, the way your heart beats a little faster when he touches you. When he calls you–
“Poor kitten, can’t keep herself together.” His voice rumbles in your ear as he plunges his fingers inside of you with ruthless abandon. “All you gotta do is answer my questions, baby. You know I’ll give it to you either way. Who else in your sector is involved?”
You gasp helplessly, your voice hoarse from the labor it’s been put through from falling apart so many times and then being so crudely put back together for the purpose of being torn apart once more. You’d given up on that part of your dignity a long time ago. He’s left you shaking, crying, pleading for mercy (whether that be more or less, you can no longer truly tell). The drool that gathers at the corners of your mouth and the tears that stain your cheeks started being ignored by you days ago.
His fingers dance on the line between pain and pleasure as they curl inside you. You’re dizzy, you’re needy, and you just want a moment to breathe. “C’mon, Kitten, where are the rest of the assets The Pride owes to Pandemonium?”
“Gone!”
He stops. Briefly, the room is silenced, with the exception of your gasps and sobs. You take the moment as it comes, sorting through your thoughts and feelings to turn them into something useful. He only allows you a moment.
“Gone?” he asks, starting up again, but this time with much slower and much gentler movements. His fingers press right up against that soft spot that makes your brain fuzzy, the one that he’s been abusing for days that’s at least grateful for the moment of tenderness.
“It’s gone,” you say. Your voice is rough with overuse. You’d be humiliated if you still cared by this point. “Gambled, used, sold. He never…” You run out of breath, hanging your head as you struggle to catch it. His fingerpads prod against you. “He never keeps what he takes! It’s the f-first to go so h-he can’t be caught with it.”
He becomes forgiving again. You take it with gratitude. “Who’s he gambling with? Who are his buyers?”
Your words are thick and labored. “No name groups outside of the territories. Gangs with n-no power to oppose him.” You take a desperate breath, throwing your head back and sucking down air like water. Your legs tremble. You’re surprised you’re making any sense.
“Where?”
You shake your head. “I don’t know. Everywhere.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
The way his tone shifts has you panicking for a moment. “He knows that I disagree w-with what he does, so he keeps me out of the details. He doesn’t trust me.”
He scoffs. “You’re his heir.”
It’s your turn to scoff. Your hands clench into fists, your jaw tightening with a hatred that takes him momentarily by surprise. “Yeah. And all his shit gets dumped on me to deal with when he gets himself killed.” Your lip twitches. “Or he’ll suddenly appoint that fucking pig to keep me in my place. I’m the one trying to get him to stop to keep me out of situations like this.”
He considers then, takes a pause to let the silence linger. “What else?”
You hesitate to answer. You’re worried he won’t like your response. “I don’t know.”
The silence stretches once more. You don’t realize you hold your breath in the space between you. You wait for him to say something. You wait for him to keep going.
“That’s alright.” You still don’t breathe. “You did very good for me, Kitten.” His thumb strokes a tender path down your cheek. It tickles through your tears. You let out a breath that has your whole body going heavy.
He pulls his fingers out of you. You hear his boots beginning to retreat from you, followed by the suckling of his fingers in his mouth just a second later.
You panic. “W-Wait.”
He stops. His voice is flat, uninterested. “What?”
You swallow hard. Your thighs tremble, the cold air of the space around you is cruel against your exposed cunt. “I… You…” Your fingers flex in lieu of more useless words.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” The air shifts, you can practically feel the smirk that settles over his lips with a devilish amusement. “Aw…did you wanna cum?”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Not to this. You’ve already begged and plead, cried and sobbed when he used his mouth or his hands to fuck you within an inch of your life. Now you’re tied to this fucking chair with him so close to that fucking door…and you can’t ask him to do it again.
“Well,” he hums, “what did I expect?”
There’s another long stretch of silence. You listen to him contemplate. You listen, and you refuse to move a muscle. You don’t want to beg. You don’t want to ask.
“Oh, what the hell? I’ve got some time left, and you’ve been good.”
Mercy. He’s giving you mercy. His bootsteps approach once more, and your breath kicks up again in frantic welcome. You blame it on the drugs. You blame it on the haze. You blame it on the fact that your body has been surviving by him and his hand alone, and you crave to survive a little longer while he has you here.
You expect his fingers when he comes toward you again. You’re met instead with the heat of his mouth closing around your cunt, his tongue lapping along the seam of you to fill the emptiness he’s left behind. Your head falls back, you fill the air with the sound of your moans and your desperate breaths.
Your thighs tremble around his head as he licks you with precision and mess. You feel the mix of your arousal and his saliva leaking through your folds and making a puddle beneath you, one you’ll have to sit in once he leaves. It’ll soak into your skin as a reminder that he’s broken you.
He’s broken you, and you’ve let him.
Your hips rut against his face as much as you can manage it, relishing in the scratch of his stubble. His dull nails dig into the flesh of your thighs until you’re crying out from the pain. You can feel his smirk against your skin, taunting, knowing.
“This what you needed, baby?” he goads, sinking his fingers into you once more. They pump and curl and coax you closer to where you want to be. Somewhere along the way, the painful pleasure he’s been giving you became intoxicating, more of a drug than the ones he’s got coursing through your veins. “You need me to make you feel good?”
Your answer is nothing short of a sobbing whine as he tortures your aching clit. He laughs cruelly. “If you ever get out of here…no one will ever be able to make you feel good again.” He laps at your cunt, drinks you up with pleasure. “I’m gonna have you crawling back to me on your hands and knees, Kitten.”
Your vision goes slant, your muscles spasm with each curl, each lick, each suck. Your hips search out the pleasure. You let yourself drown in it as those crashing waves continue to approach. “G-God, please. Fuck, please, please, please.”
“Cum on my fuckin’ fingers, you little slut.”
You burst. It nearly stops your heart, has your head falling back with the intensity as you gasp. You shake with every wave. You let it take over you. And he gives it to you until you’re breaking down into a bout of humiliated sobs.
He stands, walks around you and wraps his hand around your chin. The top of your head presses against his belly, his thumb strokes tauntingly up and down your jaw. Then he removes your blindfold.
Fuck. The face that stares back at you is twisted with sick pleasure, with amusement and wonder as your breath stutters in trying to steady itself. He’s pretty, with wild hair and dark eyes, with stubbled cheeks and a big nose that he’s rubbed into your clit more times than you can count. His lips are plump, swollen and wet from your undoing.
He licks his lips, eyes almost black as he looks down on you. He grins. It’s charming and evil.
“Good girl.”
His rough hand smacks across your face hard enough to pull a grunt from you. Your cheek stings in the shape of his palm. He steps back and walks away, leaving you to sit alone in your mess, naked and shaking and still aching for him.
~
You’re startled awake by the sound of the door scraping against the floor. You look toward it frantically, straining your eyes to see past the light still obscuring your view of anything outside of it.
The first thing you notice is the smell.
Food. There’s a plate of food that is set down on the metal table in the room. It’s not a shitty snack meant to tie you over until he decides to feed you again. It’s not a shot glass of water for you to down in less than a second. It’s a bowl with soup, still warm and fragrant and calling to you. Your eyes are immediately stuck to it, mouth practically watering, tummy gurgling with a hunger you stopped paying attention to a long time ago.
Your eyes find your captor, your torturer, as he comes closer. In his other, you see an unlabeled box. You shrink away instinctively.
When he gets close, he pulls up a chair opposite you with a loud scrape against the floor that grates at the migraine you’ve been nursing since you arrived. He sets the box in the space between your spread thighs and opens it.
Bandages…and antiseptic?
You watch him flick a switchblade open, the steel glinting in the concentrated light. You brace again, just to feel the blade press against your skin, between your ankle and the zip ties restraining you, snapping it in two and freeing you by that much. He does the same to your other ankle.
Then he takes a cloth and the antiseptic in the box and cleans the cuts torn into your skin with plastic, cuts made by your fight and your resistance, which has long since faded. It burns like hell, but it’s better than an infection that would lead to amputation.
He does it again with the ties around your legs, then your wrists and your arms, until you’re free. He eyes you once your restraints are gone. There’s a warning there that you think is utterly useless. Between your utter lack of strength, the fact that you wouldn’t even be able to reach the door, and the fact that—if you somehow managed to get that far—you’d probably be shut down immediately by whoever manages to find you outside of this cellar.
You’re not an idiot. You’re just pathetic.
When he’s wrapped all of your wounds with bandages and hands more tender than you expected, he takes you by your arm to make you stand. You struggle. You stopped being able to feel anything but spasming pleasure in your legs a long time ago. They feel like jelly beneath you as you try to stand. He ends up carrying most of your weight.
Before you even have enough time to process being free from your chair, you’re being shoved into a kennel.
You stare at the floor with a clenched jaw and labored breaths. You’re locked in a fucking cage. Like an animal. You’ve spent the past—has it been a week?—being degraded and reduced down to a fucking kitten just to be treated like a fucking pet. Next, he’ll slap a collar around your neck and have you licking out of a bowl.
He sets the soup in front of you. On the floor.
From here, you can make out the shape of the bowl he’s given to you. It’s a doggy bowl. You look up to meet his gaze, entirely unimpressed and trying not to look as livid as you feel for fear of retaliation.
He lets a smirk curl his lips. “Eat.”
You don’t say anything immediately. Your stomach churns and growls at the mouthwatering smell. Your gaze meets his again as you hold yourself back. “Is it poisoned?” you ask, your voice hoarse.
He tilts his head. His smirk remains intact. “Why poison you if we can just shoot you?” It’s an honest question.
You shrug and look back down at the bowl. You’re starving. “You could dump my body somewhere and blame it on The Serpents.” You swallow hard. “Infighting, pandemonium. Like Lucifer wants.”
His smile grows. His gaze somehow darkens. He nudges the bowl closer to you, and the smell of bone broth is dizzying.
“Eat.”
He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out something balled up in his fist before tossing it at you. He closes the kennel door soon after, clicking a lock that keeps you perfectly secure. Then he turns to leave.
Your pulse jumps to your throat at the sight of him getting closer to the exit. “Wait,” you call, sounding more pathetic than you intended. He stops, but he doesn’t turn. You open your mouth to say something else, anything. You just…don’t want to be left alone again.
Nothing comes out. He leaves without a glance back.
Your head falls, looking back down to what he’s given you. Reaching out and touching the balled up fabric, it unfurls and reveals to you a pair of underwear. Well, it’s a thong. It’s not much, but you suppose it’s better than being stark naked as you clumsily slip them up your thighs to “cover” yourself.
Then you find the bowl in front of you. Your stomach growls again, and you can feel something rising in your throat, something you have to choke down to scare away the heat and the stinging. You bring the bowl shakily to your lips and moan at the first sip.
~
A sharp cry mauls its way up your throat before anything else. Pain ripples from the side of your neck like fire as you frantically claw at your skin. Your vocal chords are torn raw as you gasp and scramble up to stand, hitting your head against something loud that echoes off concrete walls before you can get to your feet.
Right…the cellar. And the cage.
You look up, wide eyed with your jaw clenched so hard that it hurts. Staring back at you is not the same man who’s been with you this whole time.
He’s got bags under dark eyes, and hair much lighter and much more tame. It falls over his ears and down to his chin in straight, brown locks. He tilts his head as he looks down on you, his thumb stroking a stick in his hand that you come to identify as a stun gun. He doesn’t seem any kind of impressed or amused. But the unmistakable anticipation in his gaze makes you feel bare, barer than you are curled up on the cold, hard floor in nothing but a flimsy thong.
It’s quiet for a moment before he speaks, his voice flat. “Get back.”
You don’t move, holding as steady as you can as if you have any kind of actual footing here. “Where is he?” You curse yourself and your voice for sounding so thin and weak. It’s better than it was before, but not by much when you’ve just woken up screaming.
His head tilts again. His tone remains the same. “Who?”
“The guy who’s been here?”
There’s a moment of silence. His tone remains the same as his fingers flex around the taser. “Busy.”
You huff. “Doing what?”
Your scrambling doesn’t save you from another shock, this time to your side, as you watch him stick his stun gun between the bars of the cage you’re stuck in. Your whole body goes tense as a silent shout strains in your throat. “Sure are talkative, all of a sudden,” he quips.
You hold yourself up weakly with your hands, trying to catch your breath and hold your tongue. “Doing. What?” Two more sharp shocks send you to the ground. You cry out once you’ve gained access to your voice again. Electricity spasms through muscle and vein.
“Get. Back.”
You don’t protest again. Dragging yourself to the far end of the cage, you watch him unlock the cage. “Turn around.” You do as you're told, though not without attitude. You feel him harshly grab your wrists, twisting them both behind your back and locking them tight with metal cuffs. Tight enough to cut.
He drags you out without a care in the world for how you struggle to keep up. He hoists you to your feet, and you have to work not to let a cry fall from your lips from the pain. It’s not long before you’re being shoved into the same chair you’d been condemned to before.
Your mind is reeling. You don’t know where the other one is, and you can already tell you much prefer him to this freak. He takes his time in restraining you further, tying you down to the chair with more cruelty. He makes sure every move hurts. He makes sure your jaw stays clenched tight.
He steps back, looks you up and down before he’s circling your chair like a predator. You keep his gaze until he’s out of sight, and then find it once more the moment you’re able. Your gaze is hard as his, though each circle makes him seem more and more eager. You watch him lick his lips and fight the shudder that rushes through your spine.
He stops in front of you. You stare.
Silence stretches and nobody moves. He crosses his arms over his chest and observes you like he’s mapping something out in his head. You watch him move closer. You watch him raise the stick. You flinch hard when he presses it into your gut.
Nothing.
You keep bracing for it, waiting, holding your breath in anticipation of the pain. But nothing comes. You slowly open your eyes again, dragging your gaze back up to his own.
He smiles.
The burning pain sears your insides, makes your whole body clench as he presses the shock stick to your gut and holds it there just a little longer than he should. He watches in twisted pleasure, his eyes lidded and his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, as your body seizes. He sinks his teeth into his lip and groans.
He says something—a question. You don’t have the strength to answer. The ringing in your ears keeps you from even being able to hear the question in the first place. Your horrified gaze finds him again, smiling like a madman as he murmurs, “Oh, thank God.”
He turns to the metal table, where you finally see a bag laying in wait. He opens it, and the first thing he pulls out is a long, thin piece of cloth, which he places over your eyes and around your head. Once again, you’re blinded from the rest of the world.
“You and I…” he sighs slowly, mirth filling his voice like he just can’t help himself as he lowers what you assume to be a rag onto your face, “...are going to have a lot of fun together.”
The next sound you hear is the heavy sloshing of water.
~
You jolt up and scramble to the corner of your cage like a frightened animal, small and helpless and shaking as tears instinctively spring to your eyes and burn. Your lungs gasp for precious air, your body already scorches and seizes from what’s to come.
You stopped being able to register the sound of your own voice pleading a long time ago—so when you’re desperately begging “no, please, please don’t, please” and blindly searching for any sign that someone is listening, you assume it falls on deaf ears. Still, you beg.
A low whistle echoes off the walls of the cellar. Your body tenses. You almost missed it over the sound of your hoarse gasps.
“Oh, poor girl,” a familiar voice hums. “You look rough.”
You don’t say a word. Your breath stops in your chest, and a cacophony of confusing feelings rushes through you and keeps you scared and confused. Is that… No, it can’t be. He left you behind days ago. You’ve already resigned yourself to the idea that he was never coming back for you.
Heavy boots continue to approach you. You tuck yourself even tighter into your corner, trying to offer yourself the allusion of safety. Every resounding step makes your heart race. It stops right in front of the cage.
“I missed you, sweetheart,” he purrs.
You feel like you’re going to cry…but you can’t tell why. For some reason, the sound of his voice makes your muscles ease up and your breath calm. He’s back. It’s him.
When you don’t respond, he continues on. “Hope he didn’t hurt you too bad,” he says.” But it looks like he went easy on you.”
Bile rises in your throat, and you can’t tell if it’s that weird relief in your gut, fear at the mention of him, or anger that this is how he chooses to greet you.
Your voice is as hoarse as ever. It’s scratchy and raw, low and cracking as you try to speak without sounding as pathetic as you look and feel. “Th-that…was easy?”
A sigh, something that could be amused if you listen hard enough. “He gets carried away sometimes.”
You don’t respond. It’s really hard to find words, to find any semblance of safety in the simple act of talking. You feel like opening your mouth will be enough to earn that same frantic suffocation, that same searing shock straight through your veins. What do you say to him? What can you say? What is there to say?
“You…” you swallow thickly, feeling yourself shudder all over again, “...l-left.”
He makes that taunting, tutting sound, his tone full of mocking. “Sorry, kitten,” there's a shift, something… something sweeter? No, you're certain that can't be it. You're delirious, sore and tired and still fucking high. Your head is full of cotton, still. It's airy, and there's an awful buzz in your ear that feels a little less harsh with his voice as he says, “I've been away, but I'm back now.”
You hear a shuffle, and then you hear the jingling of keys on a chain, one scratching against a lock before that familiar click is heard. The sound of the door creaking open makes you smaller. His voice resounds in the cellar, still low, still relatively mocking, but somehow still soothing in the strangest way.
The slightest touch of his fingers at the side of your face startles you so much that you actually yelp when you jump. You hear him chuckle before he continues, even as you tremble like a frightened animal. Then…he takes off your blindfold.
It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. When they do, the first thing you see is him. He’s…still pretty. Still maddeningly, evilly, unfortunately pretty. His wild hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a few strands curling at the sides of his face and framing him perfectly. He’s dressed in black, dangerous in a charming sort of way. Black leather, bulky rings, studded earrings, stubbled cheeks and you swear you see black liner around his eyes.
“I hear we haven’t given up any information since our last questioning,” he hums. You don’t respond, and he tilts his head with a grin. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t wanna confess to his ugly mug either.”
You remain still and silent, staring at him with wide, wet eyes. When he lifts his hand, you flinch like you’re ducking away from him. He pauses, narrows his eyes. “You’re not gonna bite me, are you?”
You stare, then slowly shake your head. His smile returns, and he continues to reach out to you. You tense and brace for the worst, shutting your eyes tight, no matter how much it hurts. His hand continues reaching out, his finger curling beneath your chin and lifting it slightly so he can see your face. He watches you carefully, assessing the damage that comes in split lips and skin, a bruise around your left eye, dried blood. Your hair is a mess, you’re dirty and your skin looks less than healthy.
The softness of his touch confuses you, but your body accepts it before your mind can as you feel yourself slowly and involuntarily relaxing. You swallow thickly, your throat sore and scratchy. You already regret speaking before you’ve said a word, but still you do.
“Y-you left…”
He hums, his eyes finding yours again. “Had some things to take care of.” Your chin is creasing, your bottom lip trembling like you’re stifling a sob. He just makes the face right back at you, looking barely sympathetic and mostly just condescending as he does it. Then it drops again as he continues to take you in, your grimy skin, exposed apart from that flimsy thong and in need of some care. His eyes find yours again.
“Your voice sounds a little rough,” he says. “You need some water, sweetheart?”
Your body seizes with fear. You flinch wildly and feel yourself scrambling uselessly, despite already being tucked into the farthest corner of the cage with nowhere else to go. Your voice trembles, cuts in and out as you whisper a barely restrained sob. “Please n-not again.”
He tuts, that same mocking sound that makes you crazy in more ways than one. His head tilts to the side and he juts out his bottom lip. “Oh, honey,” he sighs. “Did he waterboard you? He really likes that.”
You just continue to hide your face, rather than respond. Your lungs are already seizing, you can already feel your body preparing to fight for air, your mouth gaping like a fish out of water. You can feel the heavy weight of the wet cloth over your face. You already feel that panic feeding on your insides, suffocating.
His hand comes to the back of your head, cradling you like he actually cares about your potential fragility. His thumb strokes your cheek with too much tenderness not to leave you scrambled and confused.
“Don't worry, sweets. I'm not gonna do that to you.” His fingers play with a strand of hair, his voice sounding way too soothing for your own good. “I don't find his kind of torture as rewarding as he does. And I wouldn't hurt you unless I had to.”
The irony is rotten in your belly, sour on your tongue. Something bitter makes its way up your throat, and that sarcasm that lives in you slips out before you can stop it, like reflex, like instinct. “No…” you murmur in your broken voice, “you prefer raping your victims and letting other men torture them. Much better.”
You don't have time to process anything before your head is being slammed into the cage. Shock blossoms before the pain does. You cry out either way as your body slumps down. You feel the cruel pulse of the pain a moment later, your brain foggy and your vision hazy. You don't have the strength to do more than cradle yourself and try, uselessly, to shoot farther away from him.
The look on his face isn't necessarily angry. He looks at you like you've been pestering him, sighing and rolling his eyes like you're nothing more than a nuisance, a bug buzzing in his ear that he catches out of the air with his bare hands.
“I said I don't find it rewarding, not that I wouldn't do it. Show some fucking respect.” His gaze pierces you, makes you shiver like nothing more than some frightened prey animal waiting to be devoured.
His stare doesn't falter. Not when fresh, hot tears build in your eyes. Not when they spill over your cheeks as you struggle to keep from sniffling like a pathetic little creature. Not when you sway like you're seconds from passing out.
“Apologize,” he commands. His tone is flat and leaves no room for refusal.
But you can't find your voice. Your tongue is heavy as lead in your mouth, and you can hardly see straight. Blinking past the fog is its own heap of effort that requires your full attention.
His jaw ticks, and a scoff passes through him. He raises a hand to scratch at his stubbled cheek. “Okay. Let me go grab him again—maybe he can get an apology outta you.”
He moves to stand. Your heart jumps up to your throat, ice shocks your system and kicks it into overdrive, leaving you behind as nothing more than a weight being dragged around like a ragdoll.
Your words are a mess of syllables, jumbled and rushed and pitched with fear and desperation. You find yourself scrambling toward him. If you'd been standing, you would have thrown yourself at his feet and damn near kissed his boots, the way you ramble your atonement.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Please, I'm sorry,” you gasp. You can't find anything else to say. The more you try to appease him, the more you panic, the less words make sense in your brain until the only thing that makes sense is how sorry and how pathetic you are. You rattle off your pathetic apologies over and over again until he's cutting you off with a thick palm over your mouth.
“Better,” he says. He lingers a moment, looking you up and down. You don't have the energy or the dignity to try to cover yourself from his predatory gaze anymore.
He sighs, finally grabbing you again and pulling you out of the cage. You can't stand very well, your legs a useless heap of bone and muscle beneath you. You look like a baby deer, the way you struggle to walk at his side.
He lowers you back into your chair. You're terrified he's going to hurt you anyway. It's hard to tell with him, whether or not he's going to hurt you M He's finicky and impulsive. He keeps you on your toes and doesn't allow you a moment to gather yourself enough to think clearly. Even if he did, this brain fog from the pain and the drugs and the need for food and water don't allow much to work with.
He fastens you to the seat. Once you're secure, he turns his back on you to go towards that steel table you've grown accustomed to seeing nothing but weapons on. You're already bracing yourself for the incoming pain. You're already preparing to be beaten.
But when you look over, you don't see weapons. No blades, no dirty rag, no bucket of water, no brass knuckles to dig into your flesh. Instead, you see another bowl of soup and glass of water, accompanied with that same box from before that he'd used to bandage your wounds before leaving you behind for however many days.
A mix of emotions is spiraling through you and making thinking that much harder. He's wetting a cloth with antiseptic and pulling out a wad of bandages. The smell of the soup finally hits you again, and you're drooling like the dog they've been treating you as.
Your swallow thickly as you watch him sort through that box. In a weak, little voice, you murmur those same little words haunting your mind. “You left me.”
He pauses, his chin tilting toward his shoulder before continuing as before. “Had to,” he says plainly, turning around with a rag in his hand that makes you flinch. Your lungs anticipate their struggle before your brain can explain that it's not meant for them. “I had work to do, and I couldn't leave you alone.”
He comes up close, raising the rag to your brow as he gently dabs at your split skin. You win e harshly but stay otherwise still. Your gaze falls, and you're swallowing down the heat in your throat and the burning in your eyes. You sound just as pathetic as before, but there's a growing bitterness mixing with a sort of pain and disgust you wish you didn't feel.
“You left me…with him.”
His eyes find yours briefly, before averting right back to your wounds as he continues to clean you up with more care than you originally thought him capable of.
“Either that or with the rest of the dogs. I don't want to leave my girl with big scary men who'll probably kill her once they've used her up.” The thought invades your mind like a plague, the room flooding with disgusting, evil men who would pass you around like a fucking toy. They'd laugh as they ruined you, they shove your face in it the same way someone would a dog's face to their own shit on the living room floor. “At least with him, I know they won't.”
It's hard right now to listen to him and not find the rationality in his words. A lesser evil, a kinder torture than the one you could have endured. In a way, he did save you from that pain, that torment, that soul-crushing humiliation that would kill you long before they did. Was the alternative desirable? Absolutely not. But it's better than what a group of twisted, perverted men would have done to you had they just been given a chance.
But you don't want to give that to him. He protected you, sure, but he's been hurting you still. Even as he bandages your wounds, gives you food and water, touches your face with tender fingers that make you melt the way you never should…
The confusion gives way to anger. It's an easier emotion, one you could run on until your heart gave out. You give in to it because the alternative is accepting that he has had a certain extent of good intentions for you. You can't do that. You just can't.
“You're lying.” You shake your head, letting the anger fuel you enough to seethe. “You're a liar, you don't care–”
The pain is sharp and disorienting as it flashes across your face. Your vision briefly goes black as the smack of his thick palm renders you silent, other than the pitiful sniffles you struggle to contain.
You don't meet his gaze when he speaks. You can't. You're afraid it'll break you more than you've already broken.
“Sorry, baby, but I can't have you disrespecting me like that,” he says. That same hand makes you flinch before you realize he's come to cradle the side of your face with that same gentleness that baffles you. You're shaking, refusing to look him in the eyes.
He sighs slowly, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger and guiding you to look back at him. You stare past him, exhausted and in pain and confused and wanting nothing more than a break from the madness.
He doesn't speak, he doesn't move. He remains completely still until you're forced to finally meet his waiting gaze.
You always thought yourself stronger than this. You've spent your whole life trained to take the pain, to return it tenfold, to be a force to be reckoned with no matter the challenge. You've always had so much strength and power and now? Now you're nothing more than sniveling prey, trembling like a leaf and struggling to look a man in the eyes as you fear the next time he decides to hurt you again.
His gaze is intense. He's unyielding. He strips you of any fight, any sliver of strength left in you. You're nothing under his gaze, and you can't tell if it's hurting you to be so useless or if it's a relief to let go of that fortitude that's been keeping you semi-sane.
He tilts his head. “I could have left you behind and never come back.” His voice is a purr. You shudder under it. “I could have told him to kill you. I could have killed you myself.”
Something in his eyes softens. You can't take it. You're barely holding on to whatever it could possibly be that you have left to hold on to. “But I don't, and I won't. Because you're mine, and I like my things to be treated well.”
He holds your gaze a moment longer before letting you go continue patching you up. You both sit in silence for a while. He disinfects your cuts and scrapes. He covers your wounds with tender fingers. He makes sure to take extra care in smoothing his thumb over each bandage before he moves on to the next.
When you speak again, he's on his knees with your hand in his own. He's cleaning blood and dirt from under your nails, wrapping bandaids over your fingertips, which had been scraped to hell from all the torment.
“Why am I still here?” you whisper. There's no bite, there's no strength. You're nothing more than a broken down girl in a cellar. “I already told you I don't know anything else, and it's not like my father will give up anything for me. He hates me just as much as I hate him.”
He's silent as he listens to you, stroking his fingers over your own with too much care. Something in you is melting down to nothing, and you let it because you don't care enough not to at this point. You're tired, and there's little point in fighting if you're just going to get hurt again.
If it were possible, you sound even weaker. You're slumped over and you feel heavy. You're certain your body is warning you of its impending shut down. “I'm not useful to anyone anymore… So why not just kill me and be done with it?”
He looks up at you from where he's knelt. One of his hands lands on your thigh, stroking the length of it with the slowest touch. “Believe it or not, Kitten,” he says, “you're of plenty use to me.”
He parts your thighs, and your heart begins to race all over again. The cold air of the cellar is crawling over your skin and leaving you trembling. “Y-You…” you swallow thickly, “...can find anyone else to use. You don't need me.”
He chuckles darkly, pulling the thong down your thighs to reveal yourself to him once more. “No one else is as fun as you, Kitten.”
You're exposed again before long, and you're too warm and too wet for him to resist licking his lips at the anticipation of you: the taste of you, the smell of you, the feeling of you trembling against his tongue once he finally gets to have you again.
You shiver and feel yourself beginning to squirm. “If this is all I'm good for,” you gasp, “you should just kill me now.”
He laughs. You feel his fingers a moment later, his knuckles dragging through your folds. Your leg jerks against your restraints. You're not entirely sure where you're trying to go, what you're trying to do. You just know that your body is aching, and you know that he's going to give you this pleasure whether you want it or not.
“You don't mean that,” he taunts. The pad of his thumb glides along your seam before lining up with your clit. He doesn't rub or stroke, he just holds it there, applying a miniscule amount of pressure—just enough to have you yearning for more.
“Does it matter?” Your breath shakes. His eyes stay locked on you, smirking like he knows something you don't. “Once Lucifer knows I'm useless, he'll get rid of me anyway. I'm a loose end, and loose ends are dangerous.” You speak in a rush, like the words will stop him if you get them out fast enough. (Is that even what you want?)
He lets a breath pass through him, amused and enjoying the way your hips search for his touch, even if you refuse to acknowledge it. “You can keep acting strong, sweetheart,” he coos, “but you're perfectly happy being here with me.” His smile spreads like something twisted. His dark eyes glisten, his thumb presses a little tighter. “You like being drugged up and used.”
You shake your head. It would be frantic if you could put enough energy into trying to be stern about this. Your voice comes out as a weak little “n-no”, completely and utterly unconvincing.
He raises his free hand, presses his finger to his plush lips with a taunting little shush. He says nothing else as he drags his thumb down and pushes it inside of you. Your jaw drops down. Your body had gotten so used to him, you've been craving his touch since the moment he left, and the feeling of it now is far too intoxicating as you let the thickness of him fill you.
“There you go,” he purrs in your ear, a dark rumble that you feel reverberating in your spine. “I know you missed me, sweetheart. Open up for me.”
You obey. You don't mean to, but it happens anyway. Something in you relaxes, makes way for him to sink his thumb deeper. Your jaw goes slack, tears spring to your eyes. His crooked smile widens, and then he pulls his thumb out of you.
The sound you make is dreadful. He laughs when your thighs shake, but you don't have the energy to be ashamed. Instead, you meet his eyes with a needy gaze and let yourself succumb, for the moment, to your cruelest desires. He watches in real time, his eyes getting dark in a way you have yet to see. You feel so exposed under his gaze—moreso than you already are. It's like he's cut you open, split you down the middle, and pulled your skin apart just to see what was inside.
He likes what he finds.
Without another word, he pushes two thick fingers inside of you. Tears fall down your cheeks, more relieved than you will ever let on. It feels so much better than it should—like you're finally being fulfilled after having something inside of you be empty for so long. Your head falls as you moan, parting your thighs by that much so he can sink them deeper.
He buries his fingers down to the base and curls his other hand around the back of your neck. Without any kind of tenderness, he pulls your head back up and presses your forehead to his. “Watch me,” he says as he slowly begins to thrust his fingers at a steady, tortuous pace. “I want you to watch me while you cum on my fingers like the sick little thing you are.”
Something twists inside of you like a rag, tighter and tighter like it's waiting to burst. His steady pace becomes faster and faster until your cries and moans are being echoed right back at you, the slick and squelching sounds of your pussy filling your skull. Your hips search out his touch as he fucks you on his fingers, wetter and wetter as he hits that squishy part in you over and over again. Relentless, unyielding.
Every time your eyes begin to drift shut, he huffs as he shakes his head. “Eyes on me.” A command, one you listen to without protest every single time. You keep your gaze locked on his, his eyes boring into your own until you feel like he's seeing something he should not have been able to find.
Your gut tightens, something in your chest curls in on itself. The palm of his hand presses itself up against your clit. You buckle under the pressure. “Ahh, please.” Your hips buck forward. “Please, God, please.”
He chuckles darkly, shaking his head without ever relenting. “You're not gonna find God here, Kitten.”
His calloused fingers stroke inside of you, deep and deliberate. They sink into you until you're gasping at how far he's gone. His gaze holds steady. In his eyes is a darkness that stirs in your gut, it winks back at you while you try not to lose yourself in the comfort of its familiarity.
“Keep lookin’ at me. There you go.” His voice rumbles between you, sinks deep into your skin and into your brain until it's imprinting itself there. Something in you goes slack, it sighs like it's relenting to something that it had spent so much energy trying to resist. Your brain gets hazy and confused, makes it hard to see past anything but the way his gaze bores into your own like it holds a secret you already know.
“Let it go, baby.” He leans in close, and you miss the way your head tilts up to meet him until his lip curls into another dangerous smile. “That's right. Give it up,” he purrs. He gets so close, his lips brush your own, and you nearly choke at how bad you find yourself needing more.
His eyes consume you. The pleasure builds, crawling up your throat and infecting your brain. Everything else fades away until the only thing you can see, the only thing you can feel, is him. His gaze burns with possession, with a dark and twisted hunger. His fingers fuck you like he's rewiring the very processes of your brain, changing the fabric of your being.
“Please,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and ragged. “D-don't…please.” Your eyes fill with tears, blurring your view of him.
His free hand reaches up, slow and tender and deceivingly kind. He strokes your tears away with a calloused thumb, clearing your gaze so you can see his smile. Inches away, with a voice dangerously soft, he purrs, “Oh, sweetheart… I already have.”
You're blinded by the orgasm that tears through you like something dark and destructive. Your jaw goes slack as your mouth drops open to let out the choked sob that claws its way up your throat. Still watching him, still finding yourself utterly lost in the sight of him, you come apart like wet sand in his hands.
“Good girl,” he breathes, his voice something close to a growl as he works you through the ecstasy. “Such a pretty, perfect little kitten… There you go. Give it to me, baby.”
Your brain goes numb, your skin and your gut and everything else about you is on fire. It burns down until you're nothing but a crisped little thing on the ground. You find solace in his eyes, the very things that have turned you inside out and altered your soul.
His lips crashed into yours as your pleasure continues to spasm. You shake and tremble as the kiss renders you otherwise paralyzed. His hand wraps around the back of your head and holds you to him as he devours you, his teeth sinking into your lip, his tongue invading your mouth and finally having a taste he's been salivating for since the beginning. The chill of his piercing laps at the roof of your mouth, and you want to suck on it until silver is all you know.
Your mouths mash together like they don't know how to do anything else. You don't find yourself pulling away. If your hands were free, you would tangle your fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pull him so close that your bodies would meld into one.
And when he goes to pull away, you lunge forward as much as your restraints will allow and consume him right back. You breathe him in and suck on his mouth until you're unsure if there was ever a time where he wasn't with you, where he wasn't this close and more. His fingers curl cruelly against a spot in you that makes you moan into his mouth and lap him up like he's the air you've been surviving off of your entire life.
Your lungs burn, your vision goes spotty behind your eyelids. He infects you like a sickness, like a disease that leaves you aching. Incurable, chronic, hooked to him like life support.
When he pulls away this time, you can't get any closer. You chase his lips, and his laughter rumbles like a growl. He watches you through lidded eyes, and you gasp for air that makes you sick with need. Your whole body shakes when he thrust his fingers deeply into you one last time before pulling out, emptying you like he's pulled your insides out and left them exposed on the dirty, concrete floor.
You never look away from him. He towers over you, his other hand still holding tight in your hair, his lips swollen and his breath almost as ragged as your own.
You moan around his fingers when he shoves them into your mouth. He presses down on your tongue, pushes them deeper until you're nearly gagging at every movement. You suck around them as you helplessly watch him. Drool oozes from the corner of your mouth and down your chin, dripping down onto your thighs.
His head tilts back, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. His lip curls into something primal as you lick his fingers clean of your own slick. Another praise rumbles in his chest and fills your head up. You whine when he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wipes them over your chest where he smears your saliva. Your gaze stays glued to him, hooded and dazed as you gasp for breath. You don't even notice yourself drooling still, even as it slicks up your chin and your chest and the bare skin of your thighs.
He watches you like you're a sight to behold, and you drink up the darkness in his eyes like whiskey. “Lucifer doesn't want to get rid of you,” he rasps, still inches away. His eyes dart between your own and your wet, parted lips. “Like I said, you're mine now. And as long as you know that, I have use for you.”
His words strike you like lightning, and you shudder at the way it shocks you as such. How stupid you've been not to figure it out, how naive to assume someone like you would be left in the hands of a miscellaneous. It settles in the pit of your stomach, it twists itself in knots that you find yourself hoping never go away.
“Lucifer,” you breathe, your voice barely above a broken whisper.
His lips curl into something devilish. He tightens his hold in your hair, pulls you closer until your foreheads are pressed together and he fills every speck of your sight.
He pushes forward, catching your lips once more with just as much possession, just as much lust and greed. You whimper and whine, just as eager to taste the hunger dripping from his mouth like honey. He pulls away with a smack, and licks his lips for good measure.
“Please…” he purrs, “call me Eddie.”
Stranger Things taglist: @activebliss @queermaxwooo @life-on-needs @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen @emmalee-01 @sw34ter-w34ther @gublur @allofmaris @redwineandnicotine @the-cryptid @katsukis1wife @chaoticcancer @papichulo120627 @emistrash @jjmaybankswifes-blog @thegr8estpuff @lover-of-books-and-tea @xxhanililoxx @quickslvxrr @joonbread Eddie the Banished taglist: @iiiiluvhobie @eddiiiieeee @hb8301 @queermaxwooo @lovemegood @munsaniac @digital-charlie @eiriancrow @littleblondesoprano @alexxavicry @samz31 @sparkletash @fandomgirl17 @marjoriea13 @akiratoro420 @mewchiili @mischieftom @hiscrimsonangel @sadbitchfangirl @mediocredreams Taglist here...
