Creepy whumper who forces whumpee to see everything being done to him in the mirror, forcing him to not look away. He has to watch her get real close and creepy to him, before being tortured.
We both know what we want and it's this
Ingredients: creepy/possessive whumper, partial noncon stripping (unsexy), noncon touching (also unsexy), objectifying/degrading language, carved mark, noncon kiss (not on the lips)
When he wakes up, all he can see is himself. He’s never particularly disliked his own reflection, but that’s not what unsettles him. It’s that he’s tied to a chair, gagged with his own tie, that he has no idea how he got here, or why he’s here, and that whatever’s coming next, he probably isn’t going to like it.
He considers yelling for help, screaming and struggling, but the knot of his tie muffles even the smallest of noises he makes, and after a few experimental tugs, he knows he’s not going to be able to free himself from the ropes. So he sits and waits, staring at the terrified man in the mirror, trying to make him look less afraid.
Just when he’s managed to look as calm and composed as he can, bound and gagged as he is, he sees a door open behind him, the figure of a woman he vaguely recognizes stepping into the room. Her face lights up when she catches his eye in the mirror. “There’s my darling boy,” she coos, and he feels his stomach twist. The-the way she’s looking at him…the feeling in his gut only grows worse as she gets closer. When she reaches him, she places her hands on his shoulders, rubbing down the sides of his arms, and he can’t help but shudder at her touch.
“Just look at you.” She bends so her face is right next to his, her hand stroking his other cheek, fingers fiddling with the edge of his tie. “You’re so red, huh? What, are you shy?” His gaze flicks between his own flushed face and her hungry eyes, unsure which was a worse sight. “You’re so pretty, you really don’t have any reason to be so nervous. That’s why I took you, you know? I figured you’d look just perfect all helpless like this.” As she fiddles with his tie, pulling it out of his mouth, it finally clicks where he’s seen her before.
“You-you’re that woman from the party! The one that…you got me a drink and then I…” he watches his eyes widen as the realization dawns on him. “You drugged me!”
“I’m glad you remember me, darling.” She tightens the tie around his neck again, maybe a little too tight, and he shudders as she gives it a slight tug, pulling him like he’s on a leash.
“W-what is this what do you want with me I-” Her finger presses over his lips.
“Shh, quiet now dear. Don’t make me cover up that face of yours again so soon.” She runs his tie through her fingers, tugging lightly at his neck as she stares at him in the mirror. He’s powerless to do anything but stare back, cold terror creeping through his veins. A small wave of relief washes over him as she stands, but when he sees a flash of silver in her hand, he flinches, causing her to chuckle. “Not quite yet, my darling. As dashing as you look in those clothes, I think it’s time I get to see what you’re hiding under there.”
As much as he wants to protest and plead, the words are frozen in his throat, and all he can do is watch his lips tremble uselessly as she stands behind him and starts to cut off his clothes. First is his vest, slowly unbuttoned before the fabric over his shoulders is sliced, and he can’t help but wince as she destroys part of his expensive suit, despite the fact that he definitely has more pressing matters to worry about. She takes off his tie next, though he doesn’t find it any easier to breathe as the knot is loosened. His shirt is just ripped open, like she’s excited to get to the main event, buttons clattering to the floor, and he sees a small flash of disappointment on her face when it reveals his white undershirt instead of his bare chest. The cuts through his sleeves are hasty, the knife trailing up his arms nicking him as it goes, little spots of red blooming on his ruined shirt before it’s pulled off of him and tossed aside.
Now that it’s just his undershirt, she slows down, pulling the collar of it taunt as she begins to delicately slice down the front, her eyes lighting up as she sees what’s underneath. He doesn’t understand, it’s just him, there’s nothing special there, so why is she looking at him like that, with so much hunger in her eyes? She makes quick work of his sleeves, and then she pulls away the shreds of his shirt, and he’s left with nothing to protect him from her knife, from her gaze.
“You’re so perfect.” Her hand explores his bare chest, snapping up to grab his chin when he shudders and looks away. “Watch, darling. You’re so pure and unsullied, which means every little mark on you can be from me, and I want you to see them happen so you don’t forget.” He trembles as the knife dances lightly over his skin, he doesn’t know how he could ever, ever forget this, forget the way the ropes around his wrists feel, the way she’s looking at him like she wants to eat him alive, the sight of his own terrified face as a knife trails over his exposed torso.
“So many options,” she muses, “I just don’t know what to do to you first. I want it to be special, you know? To commemorate your first day as my pretty little thing.” He opens his mouth to…what could he even say? That he doesn’t belong to her, that he’s a person, that he’s not going to be her plaything, that he doesn’t want this? She wouldn’t care, she’s made it obvious that he doesn’t have any say in what’s going to happen to him, that any further protests from him will earn him a gag and nothing else. He doesn’t want to be silenced like that. He likes having the option of talking and choosing to stay silent. He doesn’t like the way he looks with his tie shoved in his mouth. He’s already helpless enough as it is.
“Oh, I know just the thing!” She finally comes around in front of him, crouching off to the side so he can still see himself as she begins her work. He watches in horror as she slices a red line on the right side of his chest. He watches the blood bead behind the knife, watches it trickle down his chest. He watches her make cut after cut, careful and neat. She’s writing something, forming letters, and even though they’re backwards in the mirror, he’s able to make it out, able to realize what she’s doing to him.
It’s a name she’s carving into his skin, her name, she’s signing her name on him like a child would their toy, claiming him. He looks away from the blood and the letters for a moment, eyes flicking up to see his face, and he sees tears, he’s horrified, he’s crying, he’s already reduced to nothing, he’s never seen that expression in the mirror before, he hates how he looks right now, he can’t stop watching, he can’t stop looking, even when she finishes, because there’s her name on his chest, his blood dribbling down from each letter like the title screen of some cheap slasher, her fingers running over the letters, smearing the red all around.
“Oh, my beautiful darling, there’s no need to cry.” She bends and kisses his cheek, and he swears he sees her lick up one of his tears. “You’re all mine now, see?” He shakes his head, no, no, he’s not, he can’t be, no, please, no-
Something in him breaks, and he finally allows himself to scream.
Villain Forced to Work for the Heroes Continuation #2
This was originally sent as a submission, so sorry for being awkward but I didn’t want to answer it as a submission in case I got more requests through that inbox.
@myhusbandsasemni
Part 1
Part 2
Sorry if this gets confusing with Villain and Other Villain, but I’ve tried to be as clear as possible. This one is pretty whumpy, so just be aware of that if you aren’t so keen. Not gonna lie, I am invested with this series and I really want to write more. I have 2 or 3 free days at the end of January and another continuation is looking good.
Villain didn’t move as the group of Heroes was taken away, aside from handing over the knife when a guard ordered for them to hand it over. They didn’t look to see Hero’s face as they tried to get their attention. They hated everything that was going on around them and it chewed at their gut. Leader was going to suffer, really suffer, but for their own sake, they had to keep out of that. It just wasn’t right. At least Villain trusted Other Villain’s word though, and they were sure the others would be released. They were useful for keeping other Villain’s in line and maintaining order in the city.
Villain let their gaze drift up to Leader, kneeling on the ground with their hands being held high above them, like a teddy pinned by its paws on the washing line to dry. Sure enough Leader was dripping just like a stuffed toy that had been in the washing machine, only they were losing blood instead. It was a pitiful sight, but there was nothing they could do to help.
They watched as Leader’s hands were secured in front of them with a stronger restraint than was necessary. Their hands were shackled in front of them, and that attached to a rusty metal collar fastened around Leader’s neck. They leaned away from it but didn’t have the strength to fight. A fistful of hair was enough to keep them still until they were secured. The chain attaching the collar to the shackles was short, really short, with barely enough leeway to put their hands together and pray. It wasn’t the usual way of being bound, that was for sure.
“Why did you come here tonight, [Villain]? Purely to take me?” Other Villain asked.
“Yes, or at least, as far as I am aware. They caught wind that you had a new plan in the works and hoped to stop you.”
“I see. Who knew you were all here tonight?”
Villain lowered their head. “I… I really don’t know, sir/ms.”
Other Villain looked to Leader. “Care to fill in the gaps?”
Sidekick removed the gag for them. Leader was quiet for a moment. “The Government approached me asking for us to take care of it.”
“And?” Sidekick pressed, putting a knife at their throat. Leader didn’t react.
“They knew I was going to, but… I didn’t say it was tonight.”
Other Villain nodded. Sidekick moved the knife away.
Villain stepped forward meekly. “Why… why would you need to know that?”
Other Villain turned and faced them with a grin. “Because thanks to [Leader], my base has been uncovered, even one as secluded as this, so now I will have to move.”
“And… the other heroes?”
Leader’s ears pricked up. They understood, but before they could demand an explanation the gag was shoved back into their mouth and tied.
Other Villain waved their hand in dismissal. “Temporarily imprisoned, but that’s only for a few days until I’m able to move my men. Once we’re mostly moved I swear I will release them. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Villain nodded slowly. The Leader tried to shout through their gag, only to receive a punch in the face. Sidekick didn’t mess around Villain noted.
Villain’s attention was snatched up by Other Villain when they walked closer with a knife in their hand. They didn’t move as Other Villain ran their hands over the metal loop around their neck. “Cheap,” they tusked. “Not even the decency to buy you some quality. Still, its certainly difficult to remove by yourself. A nasty devil when it gets switched on too.” Other Villain’s fingertips brushed against Villain’s neck, over their softened skin from the cream Hero had used earlier.
“Sir/ms?” Villain gulped, their heartbeat racing. Feeling the heat of Other Villain’s breath just touching them was enough to make them want to scream at them to get away, but they didn’t have the courage. Get off, get off, get off! It played through their head over and over again.
Other Villain smiled. “I’ll tell you what,” they turned to face Leader. “Prove yourself to me, right here, right now, and I will have that thing removed by the morning. Fair?”
Villain very quickly put two and two together. That was only confirmed when Sidekick handed their knife to Other Villain, who then pressed it into Villain’s clammy hands.
“Carve your name onto their back.”
Villain’s eyes grew wide, but Leader didn’t react. They didn’t resist or try to shout through their mask. They let their head drop, even as the guards forced them to turn around, as they held them in place by the shoulders and their head, exposing their whole back, and with the bindings they were in, Leader couldn’t stop them. Part of Villain wanted to enjoy the opportunity- to get back at them for hurting them so much, but the rest of them was appalled by the very idea.
Villain stared down at the knife, “Don’t suppose there’s a substitute punishment I can do?”
“Not this time. The heroes haven’t made you a goody two shoes have they?”
That was not the impression Villain needed to give right now. “No, no I’m just- this isn’t something I do. It’s a pretty personal punishment... I was just a thief.”
Other Villain pushed them forward. “And now you’re mine.” Villain nodded and approached with a deep breath. They didn’t want to test Other Villain’s patience. They cut Leader’s shirt away and Leader flinched badly at the movement. Their back was already marked in places, but not like what they’d been ordered to do.
“Nice big writing now, all across the back of their shoulders- and deep of course. We want it to scar.”
Neither of them spoke as Villain cut into Hero’s bared back with their hands shaking. Leader hissed and tried to arch their back, but the guards held them still. Villain could hear their haggard breathing, the hissing and grunting in pain, how it slowly turned into whimpering as Villain neared the end of their name. Blood dripped down Leader’s back like tear stains, soaking into their trousers.
Villain tried not to take notice but it was impossible. They felt the heat of Leader’s skin beneath them, the way the knife sliced through so easily. Seeing Leader trying in vain to move sent Villain’s stomach rolling, like a snake coiling and writing around itself to escape from danger. Villain noticed everything and they hated the power they had in their hands, but no matter how hard they tried, there was the slightest whisper in them that loved it.
Villain finished their name and stood up quickly, their world spun. Leader let out one more whimper, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
It took Villain greatly by surprise, especially the fact they’d waited until afterwards, how they hadn’t made a peep in terms of begging for mercy, they still didn’t, and they hadn’t tried to make it any harder for Villain. Then hit Villain like a hammer to the face.
Leader thought they deserved it.
Other Villain plucked the knife out of their hands before they could drop it, but Villain couldn’t stop staring.
“Not bad for your first attempt, [Villain],” Other Villain said, making the point of reading the name from Leader’s back. “Rather shaky, but we’ll toughen you up quick enough.”
Villain yelped as Other Villain suddenly grabbed them by the cheeks and squeezed hard. Villain winced and struggled to hold back a whimper. They heard Leader shuffle on the floor.
”Hesitate or question me again, and you’ll be kneeling beside them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir/ms. I’m sorry,” Villain said quickly.
“Good. Now then, let’s see about removing that collar. I’ll warn you now since you’re being so good. I can put it back on just as easily as I take it off, and you really don’t want me to do that.” Villain smiled like a cat, showing their teeth. Villain couldn’t look away from the dangerous gleam in their eye. “I rather enjoy pushing buttons.”
Like my stuff and want to support what I do? Then maybe consider buying me a Kofi? Ko-fi.com/morallygrey
Who: Merrick Lockwood, Asta SwiftbladeWhat: Asta gets her prize.When: This isn’t canon! It’s something that could happen in the future, but is merely speculative for now.How: M+, TW: implied sexual assault, torture. Not as graphic as it could be, but obvious where it’s going. Heed these warnings. Asta is about as tame as a bag of angry cats.Want to submit a prompt?
A low bass hum thrummed through his entire body and gently pulled him muzzy-headed from slumber. Even in his befuddled half-waking the checklist began: a soft bed, silk sheets; a very dim light beyond his yet-closed eyes; that low hum, susurrus of turning pages; incense, perfume. Familiar perfume. He twitched one hand, found a rope around his wrist. The other.
Asta. Fuck.
“Oh.” He opened his eyes to a ceiling tented with diaphanous scarves tied around a central light and affixed in the far corners, the dark metal of what he now presumed to be an airship’s quarters beyond. The book closed, and he tested his voice: nothing, of course. “You’re awake.” The book settled carefully against a hard surface, and a chair lifted and settled with a soft tmp against carpet, which muffled the ensuing foot steps.
Merrick began casting one-handed: fire to burn the ropes. It was a short, simple gesture, but before he could finish a spike of cold shot through his palm, followed by a spear of agony and a heavy, solid sensation. He arched up off the bed, screaming soundlessly, and the part of his brain that reflexively catalogued sensations on waking dimly noted his ankles were bound, too.
“No, love.” Her weight settled on the bed, and there she was, blurry through his now teary vision. “I’ve heard all about that.” He saw the flash of it this time, a long stiletto almost like a railroad spike sharpened to point, before it drove through his other palm and into the mattress–he didn’t bother trying to bite back the noise that couldn’t rip itself from his throat.
“I just bought those sheets, you know.” She smiled, and the bed dipped further as she drew both legs up, gathering herself next to him. “But that’s fine. We were going to ruin them anyroad.”
She leaned in and kissed him, lips smooth against his, reached down and ran two fingers along the line of his jaw. Merrick shuddered, the memory of someone else’s fingers tilting his chin ghosting across his skin, and twisted his head away from her. She laughed, and he squeezed his eyes shut. There had to be another way. He’d gotten out of worse situations with less.
The bed shifted and he opened his eyes, craned his head down in time to watch her throw one leg over his waist and straddle him. Her weight pressed against him when she leaned forward, and he let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. “You know where we’re going,” her hands gripped the collar of his coat, fingers dipped beneath to trace the firm line of his collar bone, “but the mark doesn’t say what shape you have to be in when you get there. Or what I can and can’t do on the way.” Steel cleared a sheath. “We can have some fun. Like old times.” Her hands moved and the silencing poison turned his relieved sigh into a heavy breath, one he immediately regretted when she started slicing at the leather around the fasteners on his coat.
“How many people have you rutted with since we last saw each other? Learn any new tricks?” One hand pulled up the edge of his coat while the other worked with the knife. “That cute raen girl, the one who’s besotted with you–did you fuck her?“ She gave a soft, short laugh. “Of course you didn’t. I’ve heard all about that, too. And I can gather what I didn’t hear from context: you haven’t touched a soul.”
He twisted, trying to make it harder to cut off his coat. Asta reached up and wiggled a stiletto, and this time he did almost throw her off, but not intentionally. Merrick stilled, reeling from pain and the awful gaping feeling in his hands that was almost worse. “You’re mine,” she hissed, “aren’t you?” She straightened up, hands going back to their methodical work. Her voice returned to its sultry, playful tone of before. “I know how much you hated that. People trying to possess you, to keep you. Like a prize to be won, a thing to be owned. They could tame the wind if only they said the right words. But you wouldn’t be the wind any more if they did, would you?” She ripped the last buckle off, impatient, and leaned forward, pressing herself against him and forcing him face to face with the blade pressed to his neck. “And I’ve won you, like a prize. I’ve tamed the wind. Ruined you for anyone else. All I had to do was try to kill you.”
He’d realized in retrospect that all the signs were there, that she’d been like this, but keen to her own appearance and good at playing a different kind of wild and savage, one carefully crafted to fit neatly into his life. But knowing it and hearing it from her mouth were vastly different. Having more than a panicked moment in which he thought he was dying to confront it drove the iron spike of her betrayal resting against his breast for so long down through his heart. It was heavy, as heavy as the memories it colored, twisting months of beautiful lies into their right axis. That weighed him down against the bed as surely as the ropes held fast and the stilettos pinned him, their time together finally aligning correctly in his brain. All the things he thought she’d been. All the things he’d let her do.
For a long moment she stayed like that, gazing into his eyes, and Merrick didn’t dare look away. Whatever she took from him, he would give her nothing. He only hesitated a moment before slamming his forehead into the bridge of her nose. It jerked his hands against the stilettos through them, sparked white behind his own eyes from the impact. But it sent her recoiling, one hand flying to her nose as blood bloomed beneath it, so as he tried his damnedest not to writhe in pain he did so with pride.
Then she laughed, the bright sound stifled by her hand, by whatever damage he’d done to her nose. “There you are! Oh, that’s the man I’ve missed.” She composed herself somewhat, then leaned down to plant one elbow beside him, and peeled back his coat to slice open the shirt beneath. The tip of her blade kissed his flesh right over his heart. “Let’s make this formal, shall we? How do my initials sound?”
When the knife bit in he tensed, but he didn’t dare thrash or buck her off–it’d be such a simple thing to slip, to miss and cut deep, and he wouldn’t take that route until they were at Garlemald’s threshold. There was no point in holding back a cry, so he didn’t. She traced it first, A S in a flowing script, like calligraphy, the knife sharp enough that this was easy. Then again, deeper, and she paused to smear welling blood away so she could see her work. Once more, this time angling the blade, making a mess of his flesh most likely because she knew it wouldn’t scar unless it was hard to heal. He screamed himself hoarse while she worked, all without a single sound.
By the time she finished he was sweating, aching with the strain of not pulling against the stilettos through his hands, little motes of darkness crowding his vision. She leaned back to survey her work, and him, with a soft, thoughtful hum.
The bloodied flat of the blade tapped his chin, sticky and warm. “I don’t like what you’ve done with your hair. Too bad you won’t have time to grow it back out.”
The Knife is everything. It saws at the edges of the world, tests and then snaps each stand of consciousness tethering them to reality, and Fern hurts.
They hurt in their hands, tied behind their back, burned palms raw and open to the dirty air. They hurt in their arms, pinched and bruised from being dragged around, shoved and pulled and pinned by Jeremiah's erratic rage. They hurt in their back, where the Knife dug into them, deep and straight, then deep and straight and curved, then deep and straight and straight and straight. They hurt in their legs, in their right thigh where the Knife stabbed in and in and in, and in their knees and ankles, lashed so tightly they can't feel their feet.
Most of all, though, they hurt in their stomach, where the Knife still sits, embedded hilt-deep in their abdomen. Every shuddery, labored breath taps the hilt against the floor, sending spasmodic shivers through the flesh around the Knife as it moves minutely.
Fern reads. They've been reading the Knife for hours, or maybe days, and they know, intimately, the details of everything it has done. Flickers, random by now, surface atop the well of cruelty and pain embedded in their side.
The Knife, skinning a trapped raccoon. Jeremiah's hands, smaller, childishly inept.
The Knife, sliding flat across their own tongue, giving them an upside-down, backwards reflection of their own memory and terror.
The Knife, carving Jeremiah's initials into the first Path he was given as a handler, a stiff, silently dying class-E.
The Knife, sinking into their stomach fast and sharp, punching the air out of them as Jeremiah rants against the pursuit that has made him move them quicker and quicker, take less time than he wanted on his revenge, on all the things he wanted to do to them with the Knife.
The clatter of the Knife against the floor as Jeremiah drops them, head whipping towards a distant sound that Fern can’t decipher. The vibration of its handle as his heavy boots tromp away from them.
The Knife, the Knife, the Knife-- it's everything, the Knife and the pain, the past and the present, and Fern falls.
*†*†*
"His phone was here," Dominic says, scrolling across the tracking program on his tablet. "Got the radius down to the end of the street, could be any of those four houses."
"Was?" Axel picks up on.
Dom shrugs. "Hasn't pinged my program anywhere else yet. Either he's still here, or he hasn't turned on his phone since it was here."
Ezra shifts from foot to foot, eyeing the houses. All dark, quiet or abandoned in this dead-end street in the corner of a dead-end town. It’s been days. Days. Long enough for his voice to come back, long enough for him to have a better handle on the flickers of things he knows aren’t real that still try to haunt the peripheries of his vision and his dreams. Long enough for Jeremiah to have done anything to Fern. Too long.
"C'mon," he says impatiently. The thought of Fern in one of those houses, blindfolded and wedged into a corner, forced to wait for the unknown interval before Jeremiah's hands descend on them again - he shakes his head and walks harder, stomping his boots against the pavement. No soft-soled canvas shoes, no stiff agency scrubs. His leather jacket wraps around him like armor, warding off the creeping thoughts that whisper of darkness and the decay of his mind. He's fine. Fern likely isn't.
The first house is empty. Trash and dust and a few abandoned nests of cardboard and broken needles litter the floor, but the only footprints disturbing the detritus are their own.
The second house is guarded by the living remnants of the first, and after checking the dazed inhabitants for ginger hair and wide green eyes, Ezra is all too happy to leave.
The third house is a home. The child who opens the door is thin and large-eyed, just like the father who urges them away from the intruders on their doorstep. He has not seen anyone matching Fern or Jeremiah's description. The Paths apologize and move on.
The fourth house is empty, but for the trail of footprints next to a swath of disturbed dust. Drag-marks. Ezra fingers the knife in his jacket pocket and stalks deeper into the dim interior. Axel splits off, circling through the rest of the house.
They're in what was once the living room, deposited in the middle of the floor like a prize, a child's discarded toy, the bait of a trap. Ezra runs anyway, drops to his knees anyway, blocks out the rest of the world anyway as he sees his fiddlehead.
They're curled up on their side, bound knees drawn partially upwards towards the knife buried in their stomach. Their hands are tied behind their back, wrists cut open and bleeding sluggishly onto the floor from the cruelly tight lengths of cord. Their face is grey, drawn pale and wan. The blindfold wrapped around their head is creased with dust that clings to patterns of tears dried long ago.
The palms of their hands are burned in crisscrossing, overlapping lines of bright red. Their shirt is cut open, and on their back, drowning in red, JH has been carved between the jut of their shoulder blades.
"Oh my god," Dominic says faintly.
Ezra jolts. This is real, real, and it's a blessing and a terrible curse. If it's real he can fix it. If it's real, Fern has to endure it.
"Fern," he breathes. "Fiddlehead, are you in there?" He brushes feather-light fingers over their hair, rests two fingers on their knee, where the agency scrubs, dirty and thin as they are, still provide shelter from the storm of his emotions.
They don't stir.
Ezra squeezes their knee and nudges the blindfold up off of their face. Their half-lidded eyes are empty, dull green gazing vacantly out at nothing. "C'mon, fiddlehead," he whispers.
Axel returns, stopping with a sharp inhale at the sight of Fern. She starts forward in the next moment, kneeling by their head and digging gloves out of her pockets.
"Here," she offers Ezra a pair. "We've gotta get them out of here, fast."
Ezra takes the gloves numbly. He should have known that, acted on it - instead, he froze. Got lost in his head, just like at the agency. Some fucking help he was.
He flicks out the knife in his pocket and goes for the ropes lashing Fern's legs. Something sharpens in Fern's dull gaze, and they whimper, softly and hopelessly terrified.
"Hey, fiddlehead, there you are," Ezra's voice cracks. He reaches for their hair, trying to calm them, and they flinch away from him with another terrified noise.
"Ez," Axel reminds him. "We've gotta go, we can't wait around."
Ezra retracts his hand and focuses on cutting the ropes around Fern's knees, then their ankles. One leg is soaked with more blood, and he realizes they've been stabbed there, too. His hand shakes as he slices through the rope around their ankles, drawing fresh blood from a small nick.
Axel frees their hands, and then Ezra scoops them up. Fern sobs drily, too dehydrated for tears, and shudders in his arms.
"I've got you, we've got you, it's okay, we're gonna get you out of here," Ezra stumbles over his words, but his steps are smooth. He won't jostle them.
Fern's eyes flutter, then roll back, and Ezra tells himself it's relief speeding his pulse and not fear. It's good, that they don't have to be conscious through this anymore. It has to be better than being awake.
Axel drives, and Dom sits in front with her. Ezra sits in back, pillowing Fern's head and shoulders in his lap, keeping one hand pressed around the awful knife embedded in their side and the other on the matching hole in their thigh. Blood seeps, lethargic and cool, around his fingers. Fern's face is so pale. Freckles, even leached of color by weeks without sun, still offer stark contrast against the bone-white pallor of their skin. Their eyes flicker occasionally when Axel takes a sharp turn or brakes abruptly, but their unconsciousness persists, and Ezra is afraid.
"They need a doctor," he says tightly.
"No shit," Axel retorts. "Where are we gonna find one who will treat a Path?"
"I don't fucking know!"
"Then why the hell-"
"Um," Dominic's attempt at interjection goes unnoticed at first.
"They're gonna die if we don't do something, Axel-"
"Do you think I don't know that?!"
"Uh-" Dominic's sheepish hand-wave draws their attention. He shrinks a little as Axel swivels her head to glare at him, but perseveres. "I, uh, might know a doctor."
"Might? Are they a doctor or aren't they?"
"He is. It's just." Dominic fiddles with the corner on his tablet case. "You might have to. Uh. He's not a fan of Paths. But he might help, if I can. I dunno. He might help."
Axel meets Ezra's eyes in the mirror, and he knows they're thinking the same thing. They don't have much choice.
"Can you navigate us there?" Axel asks, tension knotting her fingers around the wheel.
"Yeah. Um." Dominic squints at the street signs passing. "Take your next left, and then left again at Braeburn."
Ezra focuses on Fern. Their face pinches as the car sways under them. Blood soaks Ezra's hands, the seat of the car, his clothes. It's too much blood, far too much; even through the gloves, he can feel how cold they are.
"Stay with me, fiddlehead," he whispers. "C'mon, Fern, hang on."
He only had to fake for a little longer, and then he could save his friends and get the hell off of this shithole of an island.
He was being led through the tunnels by a small group of Chen’s cultists. The only light to pierce through the inky darkness was the occasional torch along the wall. All day, he’d been trying to call forth his fire, but to no avail. His body still ached from when Chen stole it.
They came to a stop in the Anacondrai Temple, Kai ending up between two cultists who were both much, much taller than him. He wasn’t used to feeling so short, and it made him kind of uncomfortable.
In fact, this entire thing made him uncomfortable, because in his experience of the past day, he’d been left to his own devices. If he was needed, he would be called, not led by a group like he was being right now.
Unsurprisingly, Chen was sitting atop his chair, as usual. He also seemed really, really excited, which also seemed to be the usual. But something about his excitement right now struck different. It was the kind of excitement he expressed when he knew one of the tournament battles was about to get bloody.
This was definitely a very bad thing.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here,” Chen said, in the tone of voice that a little kid would use when they could only barely hold back their big news.
Kai nodded hesitantly. He almost didn’t want to know.
“It has come to my attention that, as you’re now allied with me, you ought to be… properly initiated.”
Oh, that definitely didn’t sound good.
“What exactly are we talking about here?” Kai asked, trying to mask the nervousness in his voice with curiosity. He really hoped it was working.
“Oh, you’ll see.” Chen said, clapping his hands like an excited toddler. He motioned to one of the cultists, who stepped forward with a knife in his hands. Oh FSM, he wasn’t going to be expected to slice his hand or anything, was he? He could handle a little pain, but that was going to be so annoying next time he used hand sanitizer.
From one of the many dark hallways leading into the cavern, Skylor emerged.
“You called me, Father?” Skylor asked, making her way over to stand somewhat near Kai.
Immediately, Kai felt some of the tension in his body release. Skylor may have been working with Chen, he was her father, but there was good in her. At the root of it all, she was really, truly good, and that was one thing he was absolutely certain of.
“Skylor, my darling!” Chen exclaimed brightly. “Yes, I did. I need your assistance with something.”
Skylor nodded, awaiting her task. Kai shifted a bit awkwardly.
“You see, I realized that since Kai here is allied with us, he needs to be properly welcomed! But then I realized that a regular, boring old welcoming would be much too bland, so I decided to spice it up a bit!”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“I’m sure you’re aware, Kai, of the anacondrai tattoos everyone has, here.” Chen said, and Kai was getting a very, very bad feeling. “Now that you’re one of us, you get one too!”
Oh fuck no. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on that,” Kai said, preparing to back away before he couldn’t.
“That’s my favorite thing about being boss! I don’t make requests.” Chen said, and before Kai could even register it, the cultists on either side of him took hold of him. “Now, do try not to struggle too much, we wouldn’t want it to be messy!”
“Over my dead body!” Kai yelled, struggling against the iron grips of the two cultists holding him. “Let go of me!”
“Hmm, shame. Oh well, we’ll make it work!”
Kai wasn’t quite sure what happened next. He was forced down onto his knees, and his shirt was practically ripped off. It was all happening so fast, his vision was blurring as he was jerked around, and it was all he could focus on. Kai was scared. He didn’t like to admit fear, loathed doing so, actually. All it took was a little drop to get his head spinning, and not in the desirable way.
“Father…” Skylor was saying, and she sounded so sad, so reluctant. What had he missed in those few moments? “Okay.”
Skylor accepted the knife, then moved to stand behind Kai. At first, Kai couldn’t put the pieces together. But when Skylor gripped his shoulder, and he felt the cool of the blade against his back, he understood.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.
“No, wait—” Kai said, fully prepared at this point to beg, but he couldn’t get any more words out when Skylor began to drag the knife through his flesh. He grit his teeth, breathing heavily through the pain.
It wasn’t the absolute worst thing he’d ever experienced, but that almost made it worse. He could tell that Skylor was trying to be gentle, but it hardly helped.
He tried to think of something else. He thought of his friends, hoping that they were okay. He thought of his sister, and prayed she’d not yet been caught. He thought of Chen, and how badly he wanted to kill that sadistic bastard.
He was almost able to block out the stinging as the knife dragged along his skin, creating the intricate anacondrai pattern. Finally, he heard Chen speak.
“That’s enough, Skylor.”
Kai breathed a sigh of relief. That wasn’t so bad! Sure, it would leave a nasty mark, but he was sure Wu had some kind of tea for that.
“Clouse,” Chen said, and the sorcerer took the knife from Skylor, replacing the redhead behind him.
The cultists continued to hold him down, and for a moment, the only thing he could feel was his heart plummeting. The tip of the knife touched where Skylor had begun the mark, and with almost no warning, the blade was plunged in.
Kai couldn’t help the scream that tore itself from his throat. Where Skylor had been gentle, only making shallow cuts, Clouse knew what Chen wanted, and wouldn’t hesitate to deliver. The knife stayed buried in his back for what could have been seconds, or what could have been hours. All Kai knew for sure was that his entire body was on fire. For a second, he almost thought he’d activated his powers, but then he remembered that Chen had stolen them.
The knife was yanked back out just as brutally as it had been buried in. Kai tried, so incredibly hard, not to show any more weakness. While he was able to calm the scream in his throat, he couldn’t help but release the horrible whimpers of pain as blood flowed down his back.
The knife was shoved back in, and just when Kai thought that it couldn’t possibly get any worse, Clouse began to practically saw it through his flesh.
The blade was sharp enough that it could make a pretty pattern, but not so sharp that it didn’t tear his skin quite a bit.
Kai could do nothing. He struggled feebly, but the men holding him down and the fire that rained down his back were too much.
Finally, finally, Clouse forcefully yanked the knife out of his back. Kai hardly even registered it, too focused on the pain that was running through him like his powers used to.
The cultists released their hold on him, and Kai slumped to the floor unceremoniously. Weakly, he pushed himself up. He was stronger than this. A little pain couldn’t deter him.
But FSM did it hurt…
“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Chen asked, rhetorically. Kai pushed himself up a little further out of spite. “Skylor darling, take Kai back to his room, would you? Tonight’s a big night!”
Right. The ceremony. The one and only chance Kai had to stop Chen and save everyone. No big deal.
“And you there,” Chen continued on, gesturing to one of the cultists who’d been holding Kai down. “Wouldn’t you accompany our guest? We wouldn’t want him to get any… ideas.”
In that moment, there was only one thing Kai could think of. He wasn’t thinking of the pain, or the fear, or even his friends. One thought was pulsing through his head like a glitching computer: Chen knew. He knew of Kai’s plan to take him by surprise. He knew, because of course he did.
If Kai had actually eaten anything in the past two meals, he would have thrown up. He’d never been more grateful for an empty stomach.
