thinking about the intimacy of healing again. about how perfectly situated you have to be, fingers curled around ribs and nerves and sinew. about how much they have to trust you, have to relax into your palm as you dig in deeper, have to let your hands sink between their ribs and lungs and heart. thinking about the glow of warmth that starts in the pit of your stomach and the light that dances around your fingertips as you pull more, harder, letting the magic take you where it will, knitting together bone and strength. thinking about the trust in their eyes as you stroke over the wound, tempting out the pain with strong fingers and a bloody hand.
There is something I think of as the kink relationship event horizon.
Basically "You're playing, until you aren't." Or as I say in hypnosis sessions - "It's a game until it's trained reflex"
I've got a few friends that are clicker trained to react in a certain way - at first it's just a game. Haha, I hear the noise I do the thing. You're playing.
Until you hear the click and react without choosing to enact your conditioned response.
You're just playing Hound and Handler with your friend until one day getting called Hound or by your name in that scene brings you a deep sense of peace and centered completeness.
It's a FASCINATING mental shift to experience, see or engineer. Honestly I can't recommend casual kink play enough if that's your thing or you're curious about it, just remember it's Risk-Aware Consentual Kink folks.
i was going to start this post by saying that the declassified MKUltra documents are probably the origin for most modern torture and brainwashing fetish material. that was a Church Committee revelation (1975) and then the declassification in 1977 so I didn't think our ideas about "brainwashing" predate that; truth serum, psychic driving/'depatterning', hypnosis had earlier origins but hypnosis for brainwashing must be that, right? like of course the ideas didn't pop up out of nowhere but that is probably the driver of what our images of psychological torture look like, right?
But I was wrong! The concept of truth serum is older than that (earliest that I can easily find is 1920s on scopolamine but my guess is the concept is older based on the way it's discussed), the hypnosis pieces I'm talking about ("the splitting of mental aspects in hypnosis (or hysteria) so skills and memory could be made inaccessible or recovered") [wikipedia source] were discussed in the 1880s, it's all older. so never mind about all the other stuff I had to say about reading the real literature on torture in order to do a better job writing about torture, because it's not like I'm getting it from the original source either.
However, I still genuinely recommend reading the KUBARK interrogation manual from the 60s if you are going to write about this subject. It's not very long and some parts can be skimmed. go forth and improve your fiction and roleplay
You're a bestselling author, abducted after a book signing. You find yourself trapped in a concrete room by a man whose obsession with your words has twisted into a dangerous fixation.
However, his gentle care blurs the line between devotion and control. As you fight to resist, his relentless tenderness chips away at your defences, igniting a forbidden connection that feels like both salvation and surrender.
This isn’t what you expected. You’d imagined a futon on the floor, or at least a sliver of space between you on the bed, a boundary to keep your plan intact. But the moment you slip under the cool sheets, Takuma wraps himself around you like an ivy. His arms encircle your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his warmth seeping through the silky pyjamas he dressed you in. The room is dim, lit only by a sliver of moonlight creeping through the curtains, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above.
“I never dreamed this would happen” he whispers, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. You fight the urge to shudder. “I can’t believe you’re here… in my arms.” His voice is soft, each word sinking into you.
You nod silently, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the slow, hypnotic spin of the fan blades. Your plan is clear, stay awake, wait for his breathing to slow, then slip away. The glint of the key in his pocket burns in your memory, a chance, a lifeline.
“I love you, Y/N” he murmurs, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady, stirring the fine hairs on your skin. You can’t explain why your heart flutters, why those damn words get to you.
His hand moves gently, stroking up and down your arm with a tenderness that feels both soothing and suffocating, the scent of laundry detergent and soap rising from him, clean and safe.
You tell yourself you’ll stay vigilant, that you’ll just wait. But his warmth wraps around you like a fog, the rhythmic stroke of his hand acting like a lullaby. His whispered words, “You’re mine,” “I love you”, blend with the fan’s hum, tugging at your resolve. Your eyelids grow heavy, each blink longer than the last, and the promise of escape slips further away. The bed is soft, his embrace unrelenting, and as sleep drags you under, you hate how part of you welcomes the surrender.
…
The house feels less like a prison after that night.
When Takuma’s home, he lets you roam freely, the pastel blue room he crafted for you, its soft sheets and fluttering curtains, now yours to sleep in. Some nights, though, you find yourself back in his bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you.
His gaze follows you everywhere, not with the cold edge of surveillance but with a quiet, adoring intensity, as if you’re a painting he can’t stop admiring. You catch him leaning in doorways, his silhouette framed by hazy sunshine, or sitting at the worn kitchen table, a soft smile lighting his face as you move through the house.
His eyes linger, not to control, but because he can, because you're here, because you’re his.
When he leaves for work, the concrete room becomes your cage again, its damp walls and cold metal bed a stark reminder of your reality. But he always returns in a rush, the front door banging open, his footsteps hurried on the creaking floorboards. He sweeps you into his arms, his breath uneven, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“I’m so sorry” he murmurs, over and over, his voice thick with guilt as he pulls you close, your body pressed against his sweat-dampened shirt. “I hate leaving you in there.” He always says.
He'll alway cooks your favourite dishes, draw you a bath, and wash your hair with meticulous care, his fingers gentle as they work through each strand, as if trying to wash away any reminder of that room he's forced to lock you in.
You’re caught in a war within yourself. Part of you burns with hatred, for the locks, the concrete cell, the freedom he’s stolen. It’s a fire that flares when you’re alone, staring at the grey walls, plotting escape with every passing second.
But another part, a traitor you try to smother, grows stronger each day. His persistence, his gentleness, the way he hums softly while cooking, the way his hands tremble with care when he brushes your hair, how he murmurs words of love and adoration into your skin, chips away at your defences.
You hate how his smile, earnest and unguarded, stirs something warm in your chest, how his apologies feel like they actually mean something. You fight to keep your emotions in check, to hold onto the anger that keeps you sharp, but every tender gesture, every adoring glance, pulls you deeper into a dangerous grey space where hate and care blur into something you can’t name. Why was a man you’d never met, a man who kidnapped you and locked you up, saying word’s you’d never heard in your whole life, not even from your own parents? Who did he think he was?
You have to do something, but it goes too far.
…
“Takuma” you whisper, your voice trembling, each syllable a tightrope you’ve spent all night gathering the courage to walk. He’s kneeling behind you on the pastel blue sheets, gently squeezing water from your damp hair with a towel, his fingers brushing your skin at every opportunity.
The room is heavy with the scent of lavender from your skin, golden sunlight filters the curtains casting soft shadows across the room. You keep your eyes fixed on your lap, unable to meet the warm brown gaze you know is brimming with anticipation.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is laced with worry as he leans around to see your face, his hands pausing mid-motion, the towel still warm against your neck. The concern in his tone is so genuine it twists something in your chest, but you push it down, steeling yourself.
“Will you sleep with me?” The words slip out, fragile and deliberate, hanging in the air like a held breath.
He laughs softly, a sound that’s both gentle and oblivious, resuming his task. “Of course, you never need to ask me.” His fingers move again, careful and rhythmic, as if the question was as simple as sharing a bed.
You grit your teeth, the weight of your intent pressing against your resolve. “No, I don’t mean like that…” you trail off, letting the implication linger, heavy and unspoken. His hands freeze, the towel slipping slightly, and you feel the bed shift as he slumps back onto his heels, the frame creaking under the sudden movement.
“You want to sleep with me?” he repeats, his voice softer now, uncertain, as if not trusting his own ears. You nod, eyes still averted, your heart pounding. His silence stretches, thick with anticipation, and you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze. His eyes are wide, glistening with unshed tears, searching your face for a truth he desperately wants to believe.
You scrunch your eyes shut for a moment, summoning every ounce of courage, then open them to offer a soft, practiced smile, tilting your head to feign innocence.
“Isn’t that what two people in a relationship naturally do?” Your voice is light, almost naive, calculated to mask the true intent. His mouth falls open, a tear slipping down his cheek, his breath catching.
You push further, letting a flicker of hurt cross your face, your voice trembling just enough. “Unless you don’t want to?”
“I do” he breathes, his voice shaking, his body trembling. He doesn’t move, just stares at you, wide-eyed and frozen, as if waiting for you to shatter the moment, to take it all back. His vulnerability is a crack in his control, and you cling to it, knowing this is your chance, a moment where his love might blind him.
But his gaze, raw and adoring, threatens to pull you under, too, and you hate how part of you wavers in the face of it.
Takuma’s hands move to the hem of his sweater, peeling it off with a slow, deliberate care that makes your breath catch. The fabric reveals a physique you hadn’t expected, lean muscle, taut and defined, betraying a strength he’s never hinted at in his loose clothes.
Your eyes linger, unbidden, on the lines of his chest, the evidence of discipline that feels incongruous with his boyish demeanour. He doesn’t pause, fingers deftly untying the drawstring of his sweatpants, letting them fall to the floor in a soft rustle. His boxers strain against the outline of his arousal, larger than you’d anticipated, and the sight sends a jolt of unease through you, mingling with a traitorous warmth you can’t ignore.
You swallow hard, doubt creeping in, but there’s no time to retreat. He reaches for you, his hands gentle as they lift the silken pyjama top over your head, the fabric whispering against your skin. Your pants follow, leaving you bare on the pastel blue sheets.
Your body betrays you, a slick heat pooling between your thighs, and you hate how he’s the cause, his touch, his gaze, his relentless devotion. You want to hide, to shrink from the exposure, but the bed feels vast, pinning you under his adoring stare.
“Oh, I should take these off too” he murmurs, almost to himself, pushing down his boxers. His erection springs free, glistening in the soft light, larger and more imposing than it seemed beneath the fabric. “Now we’re the same.” He flashes a toothy grin, earnest and disarming.
He crawls onto the bed, parting your legs with a gentle nudge and kneeling between them. His gaze travels down your body, slow and deliberate, drinking you in with a reverence that makes your skin prickle.
“You’re so beautiful, Y/N” he breathes, his voice thick with awe. The words burn, intimate and intrusive, and you turn your head, unable to bear the weight of his feelings.
Why? Why does he have to say these things?
His hand reaches out, tentative, fingers brushing your heat with a cautious, exploratory touch. It’s not skilled, but careful, reading every twitch of your body like a map he’s desperate to memorise. When his thumb grazes your clit, a gasp rips from your throat, sharp and unbidden.
He pauses, eyes flicking to your face, then presses again, lingering on the spot. You twist away, pressing your cheek into the pillow, but he nudges it once more, grinding his thumb in slow, deliberate circles. The pleasure is searing, a tight coil in your navel, and you bite down on your finger to stifle a moan, shame flooding your chest.
“Is that good?” he asks, his voice soft but eager, studying you with an intensity that leaves you feeling like a lab rat. He alternates between rubbing back and forth and tight circles, each movement twisting the coil you’re trying to ignore. “I can see you clenching” he murmurs, a note of wonder in his tone.
Heat floods your face, and you try to close your legs, but his hand clamps gently on your thigh, spreading them wide again, his touch firm yet careful.
“Can I touch you there?” he asks, his eyes searching your face, almost pleading. Shame burns, but you nod quickly, your finger still pressed against your lips to silence yourself. His long finger slides inside, tentative at first, prodding gently against your walls.
Then he reaches deeper, his fingertip brushing a spot that makes you thrash, your head snapping back into the bed, a muffled cry escaping around your hand. He lingers there, pressing and teasing, drawing you closer to an edge you don’t want to cross, until he stops abruptly, his breath uneven, like he’s the one being subjected to this.
“Can I lick you?” he asks, his voice trembling with a mix of hesitation and desire despite the crudity of his words, his fingers slipping free.
“Oh god” you whimper, hiding behind your hands, the words a reflex born of shame and surrender. “Just… just do whatever you want.”
He bends forward, parting your folds with hesitant fingers, his breath hot against your skin, and flattens his tongue against your clit. The sensation, wet, warm, and overwhelming, rips a choked gasp from your throat, teetering on the edge of a scream.
Your body betrays you, a rush of heat flooding your senses, making you feel untethered, as if you’re floating above yourself. The creak of the bed frame as you writhe echos beneath your ragged breaths. He drags his tongue again, slow and deliberate, from bottom to top, the tip of his tongue flicking against your clit with a precision that sends sparks dancing through your core.
You’re unraveling, moans spilling unrestrained, your hands twisting into the sheets, knuckles white as you anchor yourself against the tide of pleasure.
He takes your clit into his mouth, sucking hard. It’s too much, a white-hot intensity that threatens to shatter you. You reach for his hair, fingers tangling desperately, trying to pull him away, but he doesn’t budge. His eyes flick up to meet yours, wide and adoring, gleaming in a way that makes your stomach churn.
He mumbles something against you, the vibration of his voice shooting through your core, amplifying the pleasure until it feels like a burn. Your legs tremble, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer, your body at war with itself.
His finger slides inside you, deft and sure, finding that sensitive spot with an ease that feels like he’s memorised it. He presses against it, relentless, while his tongue flicks your clit once more before he takes it between his lips again, sucking with a gentle ferocity. You thrash, a cry tearing from your throat as your legs clamp around his head, instinct overriding shame. You rut against his mouth, desperate to reach that peak that feels within touching distance.
The pleasure crests, sharp and blinding, and you arch off the bed, your body bowing as you come undone, a raw, shuddering moan echoing in the suffocating room. He doesn’t pull away, his touch softening but lingering, as if savouring every tremor, every gasp, as proof of his devotion.
You collapse back against the sheets, chest heaving, shame and exhaustion washing over you like a cold tide.
He sits up, his eyes soft but searching as he leans over you. His fingers brush a damp strand of hair from your face, the touch light yet possessive. “Did I do okay?” he asks, his voice hesitant, almost childish. “I’ve never done that before.”
You freeze, staring up at him, a flicker of irritation sparking in your chest. Who is this man? The earnestness in his tone, the vulnerability in his wide brown eyes, clashes with reality, making your head spin.
Despite the urge to lash out, you force a nod, your throat tight. His face lights up, a beaming smile that feels too bright for the shadowed room, and he lowers himself onto you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.
“I’m glad” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, his voice thick with relief. You feel his length, hard and pulsing, pressed between your bodies, a reminder of the line you’re crossing. “I just wanted you to feel good”.
“Don’t you want to…?” you trail off, the words slipping out before you can stop them, uncertain why you’re pushing this further. He lifts his head, eyes darting between yours and the space where your bodies meet, a flicker of surprise in his gaze.
“Aren’t you tired?” he asks, his hand rising to stroke your cheek, the touch tender. You should stop, pull back, but something reckless, desperate, drives you forward. You shake your head, your hands trembling as they reach up to thread through his hair, tentative, as if afraid of your own intentions.
He rises onto his elbows, his gaze locked on yours, searching for permission, for certainty. His hand moves between you, gently spreading your legs again, positioning himself at your entrance. You tense, your body caught between anticipation and dread.
He presses in slowly, the tip stretching you open, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He rocks into you, inch by careful inch, his movements deliberately slow, as if savouring every moment of your surrender.
The sensation is overwhelming, too much, too full, too everything. You wrap your legs around his waist, an instinct you hate yourself for, your hands clasping behind his neck as if to anchor yourself to him. He’s everywhere, above you, inside you, his hands tracing soothing circles on your waist, grounding you even as he splits you apart.
“I’m sorry” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple, his voice a soft tremor against your skin. He continues, pressing deeper, each inch stretching you further, until his hips are flush with yours.
You’re a writhing mess, moans and gasps spilling unbidden, tears pricking your eyes as pleasure and shame collide. The bed creaks beneath you, the fan above spinning lazily, its hum a faint counterpoint to your ragged breaths.
Takuma’s gaze never wavers, his eyes drinking in every twitch, every sound, as if your pleasure is a gift. You’re caught in the storm of him, your plan to manipulate teetering on the edge of something you can’t name, a dangerous pull that threatens to drown you. And you give in.
“Please…” you whimper, your voice trembling, barely audible over the creak of the bed frame. “Please, move.” The words are a plea born of desperation, not just for release, but for an end to the storm of sensations threatening to destroy you.
His hands tighten on your waist, his fingers warm and possessive, as he begins thrusting, each movement driving the headboard against the wall with a rhythmic thud. You roll your hips to meet him, a reckless instinct that pulls him deeper, his length reaching places that feel impossibly intimate.
His lips find your throat, sucking and nipping, leaving a trail of marks that burn against your skin. The sensation is both tender and claiming, his mouth moving up to your ear, hot and insistent.
“I want you on top” He pleads. You nod mindlessly, lost in the haze of pleasure. He flips you both with ease, his back hitting the mattress, and you hovering above him, his length still throbbing inside you.
Your hands press against the firm planes of his stomach, steadying yourself as you lift your hips, sliding along his length with a slowness that makes you shudder. At this angle, he feels impossibly deep, each movement sending waves of pleasure that overwhelm you.
You lean back, panting, your body trembling, the intensity so sharp it feels like you’re teetering on the edge of madness. He sits up, his hand sliding under your butt, lifting you and guiding you down onto him with a desperate force, his grunts mingling with the creak of the bed.
His mouth latches onto your nipple, sucking and biting with a fervour that blurs pain into pleasure, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin. You thread a hand into his hair, pressing him closer, hating how your body craves the contact, how it betrays your resolve.
You’re unraveling, the pleasure so intense it’s almost unbearable. Every man before him has been selfish, chasing their own release, not caring if you were left unsatisfied. But his every move seems to be for you, each thrust, each touch, all focused on your pleasure, as if your climax is his only purpose.
“Beautiful” he grunts, his lips still wrapped around your nipple, his eyes lifting to meet yours, gleaming with adoration. “So beautiful.”
“Stop” you cry, your voice breaking as you bounce on him, rhythm dissolving into frantic need. His hands guide your hips, thrusting up to meet you, each movement driving you closer to the edge.
“My beautiful Y/N” he murmurs, biting gently on your nipple, the sharp sting melting into the pleasure coursing through you. “I love you.”
“Oh god” you sob, collapsing onto his shoulder, your arms wrapping around his neck as tears spill down your cheeks. The pleasure is a tidal wave, drowning you as you clench around him, your body shuddering with release.
He doesn’t stop, guiding your hips with desperate urgency, slamming you down onto him until he follows seconds later, a low groan escaping as he spills inside you, his warmth flooding your senses. You cling to him, breathless and trembling, caught in the aftermath of pleasure, your plan dissolved like mist.
You lie there, limp and trembling, your body heavy. Takuma lays you down gently, lie a jewel upon a satin pillow, and slips from the bed. His absence is brief, he returns quickly, a damp cloth in hand, its warmth startling against your oversensitive skin.
His touch is achingly gentle, each swipe of the cloth soft and deliberate, tracing your curves with care. Residual pleasure sparks through you as he brushes over tender spots, drawing soft gasps and shudders you can’t suppress.
“Did I hurt you?” he mumbles, his lips grazing the back of your neck as he slides under the sheets, moulding himself to you from head to toe. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, your legs tangling with his.
His warmth envelops you, his breath stirring the hair at your nape, and you shake your head silently, words caught in the knot of your throat. Shame gnaws at you, a cold weight in your chest, but something else, contentment, affection, or something you can’t name, creeps in, filling the cracks in your resolve. You hate it, this traitorous warmth that softens the edges of your anger, but it’s there, undeniable.
“I’m sorry that I… that I—cum-” he stammers, his voice faltering, embarrassment tingeing his usual earnestness.
“It’s okay” you cut him off, your cheeks burning as the memory of his release floods back, your hips shifting involuntarily against the sheets. The words feel like a concession, another step in the dangerous dance you’ve been playing.
“You were amazing” he murmurs, his arms tightening, his face burying deeper into your hair, inhaling as if to memorise your scent. His voice is thick with adoration, each word a weight that pulls you further from the fight you’ve been clinging to.
You close your eyes, exhaling shakily, your body relaxing into his hold despite the voice in your head screaming to resist. The warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his breath, feels like a lullaby you shouldn’t want, and for the first time, you let yourself sink into it, no longer willing to fight the tide.
You always wanted love, and now you have it, who are you to fight it?
…
“Will you come back to me?” Takuma’s voice trembles, his warm brown eyes searching yours, raw with vulnerability and a fear that lingers despite your promises. He stands in the doorway of your honey-toned house.
You smile gently, slipping on your heels, the click of them against the worn floorboards echoing in the quiet. Rising, you reach out, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing his lips softly. His skin is warm, his gaze unwavering, pinning you in place.
“I will” you swear, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. His hand covers yours, pressing it tightly against his cheek, his fingers trembling with a desperation that seeps into you like ink. “I promise, Takuma. I’ll be back.”
His lips curve into a fragile smile, relief flickering in his eyes, and he releases your hand, stepping aside to let you slip through the door. The world beyond is sharp with the scent of dew and distant city hum, but it feels incomplete without him.
That night, when you first surrendered, wrapped in his arms under the pastel blue sheets, you let go of the fight. His love, consuming, overwhelming, maddening, filled a void you hadn’t known existed, a piece of you missing until his devotion carved itself into you.
Maybe that’s what he meant when he said your books “spoke to him,” as if your words, your stories, were a map to the parts of you he now holds. Each day since, he’s let you walk free, but the fear lingers in his eyes, the dread that you’ll vanish like the others he’d lost.
That first day, when you returned to find him curled on the cold concrete floor of your old cell, tears streaking his face, he’d nearly knocked you over, crushing you in his arms, his sobs muffled against your shoulder.
Today is no different. As you step through the door, the creak of the hinges announces your return, and Takuma is there, waiting in the shadowed hallway. His eyes are wide, glistening with unshed tears, his breath held as if he’s been waiting for this moment all day.
“You came back” he breathes, rushing to you, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline, tight yet careful, as if you might dissolve into the air. You nod against his chest, the familiar scent of laundry detergent and soap grounding you, and hold him just as fiercely, your heart settling into the strange, broken rhythm of this life you’ve chosen.
“I said I would” you murmur, your voice soft as you rub slow, soothing circles on his back. His sweater is soft under your fingers, his warmth a tether you no longer resent.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice thick with relief, his face buried in your hair as if to anchor himself to you.
“I love you too” you reply, the words, once unthinkable, now slipping out with a quiet conviction. They taste like truth, heavy and sweet, a confession you never imagined you’d mean. You hold him tighter, the world outside fading, your love for him, a messy, twisted thing born from captivity, now the force that draws you back, day after day.
I feel like I fumbled the ending, but how does one end a kidnapping fic? Eh...
