the moment of whumper forcing whumpee’s legs open is such a particularly scary, threatening moment. it’s got the overpowering and loss of control of manhandling, the terror and intimate implication of nonconsensual touching and rape threats. it sends such a clear message of i will do whatever i want with your body and you can’t stop me. you’re mine to play with, use, abuse. and it’s a promise of what’s about to happen. even if no further assault follows, that moment of certainty that violation is imminent is all-consuming.
(so sorry if this is a bad time but I got the idea and NEEDED to scream about it with someone) So this is kind of a sequel to my Buffalord Soldier au, but IMAGINE:
A Midnight Scrum au where, Hiccup never learns that Viggo was the one to administer the Scourge's cure to him. The Riders are too ashamed maybe, or they're just so relieved and want to put it all behind them—point is, they unanimously agree NOT to tell Hiccup that Viggo saved him for some reason. It slips out, however, when Viggo puts out that bounty (which we KNOW doesn't actually mean he wants Hiccup dead, wdym lmao), and Snotlout or Tuffnut bursts out, "ugh, can this guy make up his mind already? First he wants to save Hiccup and now he wants him dead? I mean, seriously!"
And everyone freezes.
"WHAT did you just say?"
The secret is out, and so Astrid tentatively explains things to Hiccup, and he's... Hurt. Confused. So beyond stressed.
The events of the episode follow as normal, with the added angst of Hiccup not understanding Viggo's motives, only this time, Hiccup actually reaches Viggo.
In a moment of panic, Hiccup asks Viggo why he saved him when he wanted to put out a bounty on his head anyway, and Viggo says, "I'm afraid my brother might've misinterpreted my motives. I don't want you DEAD, my dear. I told you, some things money simply cannot buy me."
"Am I supposed to understand what that means? Because I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't exactly speak PSYCHO."
Viggo proceeds to kiss him, and maybe his hands wander too far or something more happens, but the motive is this: to leave another "mark" on Hiccup's psyche. Something for Hiccup to DEFINITELY remember this time.
(and THEN the Riders save him. Maybe. :P)
Omg, I didn't realize that was you that wrote the Buffalord Soldier AU. (I didn't piece the usernames together. Oops.) Anyway, loved that story to pieces. I'm going to go bookmark it after I answer this ask, actually.
And holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, the ANGST. The BETRAYAL. The HURT. Ohhhhh, this is a great idea and I'm so glad you sent it to me! It's absolutely wonderful and so in character for Viggo. I love that line as well, about things money simply can't buy him. Because, technically in this case, money can almost buy him Hiccup, but it won't win him his true affection. Oh, this is so angsty. I love it!!!
Warnings: lady whump, implied/referenced torture, nonconsensual touching
Word Count: 1,402
Summary: Anaria is once again captured, and faced with a realization that may break her.
"You're lucky."
Anaria, chained to the wall, laughed. It was a dry, sarcastic sound. "Am I?"
Her wings were spread behind her, held there by rope. She wished she could pull them into herself, remembering too well the time the man in front of her had sliced off her feathers. But no - now, she was exposed and vulnerable.
Hakur stepped up to one adjacent wall, put the torch he was holding in a sconce. It was too bright for Anaria's eyes after being left down here for so long. She wondered if it was the same cell she'd been put in the first time. There was a blood stain on the stone floor.
"Yes, Anaria, you are."
His voice was smooth and rich... and she hated it. She wanted him to shut up and leave her be, let her go, do anything but come closer to her.
But, come closer he did. He ran a hand almost reverently over her right wing, and she flinched and growled. She wished she could turn his organs to fire, see him squirm as he was burned from the inside out. Her magic, however, was blocked by the collar around her neck. She hated that damn collar.
"Did you know that the magic of the Nessari isn't attached to the wings like they think?" He continued speaking as he pet her wing, as if his touch wasn't bothering her.
"And how would you know that?" Anaria snarled. She was scared though, terrified out of her mind. This man had hurt her, and now here she was in his clutches once again. She was traumatized by him. Everything in her was shriveling into a ball as if it was going to die, but she couldn't show any of that. No, she would show anger instead.
Anaria continued speaking before Hakur could answer her question. "Bet you cut off a Nessari's wings and just watched them suffer."
Hakur chuckled, shook his head. "If only." He lowered his hand from her wing, turned his back, folded his hands behind him.
"What do you mean?"
The torch on the wall suddenly flared, flared so tall that the flames roared and reached the ceiling. It spread, closer and closer, but did not touch Hakur, or even Anaria. It filled the whole room with terrible heat that made her skin tingle and sting.
Then in an instant it was gone, over, the torch back to its normal bearing on the wall, the flames flickering there as if nothing had happened to it. Anaria was gasping for breath, and realization punched her in the gut.
"Y-you..."
"Yes, Anaria." Hakur turned to face her. "I am Nessari."
"But... how?" Anaria didn't even know where to begin asking questions. Why was he revealing this to her? Why had he never used his magic until now? Had he been hiding it from her just for this grand reveal, this explanation? "You could have used your magic a million times with me, and yet you didn't. Why?" Sweat dripped down the side of her face, onto her eyebrow, and she had to blink it out of her eye.
"You see, princess, many people don't like us Nessari. They loathe the royal family especially."
"You mean like you?"
"Princess, they would see you dead."
Anaria wanted to say she wished that he would kill her, but then she thought of her father, Hali, Girad. She'd never see any of them again if he did. She would die here in this miserable dungeon away from the ones she loved. And it would be a betrayal from a fellow Nessari.
"I was... raised, in a sort of way, by humans," Hakur said. He'd circled around to her other side, was now stroking her left wing. Anaria tried her best to move it away, to flutter it, to pull on the ropes, but all the movement and struggle did nothing but strain her muscles. "After they removed my wings, that is."
"Removed your wings?" She was so startled by this. She'd heard of poorer Nessari having their wings brutally cut off by humans, but Hakur wasn't poor. He had a castle, status, an army. How had this happened to him?
"Yes," he said. He suddenly clutched Anaria's wing by the base quite fiercely, making her give a sudden cry of fear. "Took a bone saw and cut right here. Didn't care about how I screamed or begged. They seemed to relish the blood, almost."
"Why?" She was trembling, frightened that he was going to do the same thing to her. She wasn't going to lie to herself: she cherished her wings. She couldn't lose them, especially not as the Nessari's princess. Dear gods, what was he going to do?
"There was a plot," he said, loosening his grip to stroke her feathers once more. "A plot to get rid of the royal family. It didn't work, of course, given that you're here. It went wrong. So wrong."
"What are you talking about?" Something fluttered in her gut, a sense of dread.
"Did your father, Sol, ever tell you about his brother?"
"I don't have an uncle!" she snapped. "I'm pretty sure I would have known that if I did."
"Oh, but your father is tricky, you see," Hakur said. He let go of her wing to step up to face her. He clicked his tongue at her. "Always hiding something."
"No," she said, in complete denial of what Hakur was telling her - because, really, she did know what he was saying, but she didn't want to believe it. She couldn't believe it. "He's not like that. He's... he's better than that."
"Then why did Sol never tell you about his older brother?" Hakur asked. There was a cruel smile on his lips. And now, Anaria recognized those lips, his cheekbones, his nose. She hadn't before. Before, it was like she'd been blind. She knew all those facial features because they resembled her father's... her own. "His older brother who was stolen from the castle in the dead of night and never seen again?"
"Does he know?" Anaria asked. Gods, she felt like she was going to be sick. She turned her head away, swallowed back bile.
"That I'm still alive?" Hakur clarified. "No. He does not."
"So... so what happened to you?" She still wasn't looking at him.
"The humans took me far away," Hakur said. "By ship. I was sold at the slave markets of Esken. The person who sold me... he had me chained by hand and foot and cut off my wings."
"And what of him?" Anaria asked. Her father was old, much older than her. He was in his early hundreds. Hakur had to be older.
"I killed him once I escaped," Hakur said. "But, a Nessari cannot grow back their wings." He sighed sadly. "No matter how hard they try."
Hakur turned, to walk away, leave the cell. He was taking the torch with him, though now Anaria knew he didn't need it. Perhaps, during his slavery, he'd gotten used to not using magic.
She felt like she had to say something. She was never going to accept Hakur as a family member, not after what he'd done to her, not after all his atrocities. But she had to say something.
"I'm sorry," she called out to him. "I'm sorry they did that to you."
Hakur stopped, went rigid, seeming to be surprised. His back was to her, a back that had once bore wings. She couldn't help but wonder what colors they had been.
He turned his head slightly towards her. "Are you, princess?"
"Yes."
"No. You're not."
Anaria wasn't going to deign to argue with him. There was no point. She really did feel sorry though, sorry that he'd been uprooted from his family, that he'd suffered so much, that he was now wingless.
Hakur left the cell, and she could see his eyes glittering through the grate in the iron door.
"But you will be," he said.
Anaria wanted to scream as he left, just scream until she ripped out her own voice. So Hakur was going to hurt her for reasons she couldn't understand. He wanted people to understand his pain, but he was going about it all the wrong way. He was inflicting pain instead.
Anaria looked at her wings, hoping against all hope that she would not also become wingless.
Iesin being muzzled and and bound leashed to a pole in the middle of some bursting city with a guard standing over him. Bystanders get to pay for opportunity to toy with a fae.
"Five terces, just five terces to touch a live fae! Come on, I can tell you want to sir! Come sate your curiosity, it's perfectly safe!"
The enterprising guard who dragged Iesin from cell to pole in the grey pre-dawn slaps a too-familiar hand down on Iesin's shoulder, grinning at Iesin's flinch and muffled hiss. Bound as he is, with his arms wrapped around the pole and his back presented to the world, there's little else he can do. His feet are shackled with iron, the short chain between his ankles hooked to the base of the pole. The muzzle stretched tight across his face abrades at his scars and at his awareness, sending skittering panic and the creeping dull reminder of hopelessness and unrelieved terror coursing through the hollows of his bones.
Metal clinks on metal, a sweeter chime in copper tones than iron's dull hate, and then a hand hesitantly strokes down his spine, sliding their fingers through short, soft feathers. Iesin's yelp dies inside the muzzle as he jerks against the pole, scraping his face across its rough wood in an effort to glare behind him at the human. Their hand yanks away, accompanied by the guard's laugh.
"It's safe, see? Can't speak, can't catch those talons in ya. Go on, try again."
No, don't- the human touches him again, this time running both hands over his wing, bound down by a harness of thin leather straps. Iesin shudders, and the human makes a sound of surprise at the way the feathers along his spine lift and bristle.
"Strange, an't it," the guard grins.
Iesin glares over his shoulder, scraping his talons against the post as the human, emboldened by his inability to escape, combs fingers through his hair. Iesin jerks his head, sounding off a muffled protest again. The guard snaps the end of his baton across the base of Iesin's spine, just under the edge of his wings, and Iesin arches away from the cracking pain, keening high and sudden.
"Be still!" the guard snaps. "Behave yourself, beast."
Around the post, passersby murmur, impressed by the show of dominance and Iesin's trapped helplessness. The guard resumes his call, selling moments of touch for the clink of copper into his palm, and another pair of hands descend onto Iesin. This time someone yanks his head back with a hand fisted in his hair, and Iesin's neck twinges as he's forced to gaze into slate-green eyes under lowering brows and a twisting, angry mouth.
"Beast," she spits. Flecks of saliva strike across his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. "Where's my child, hm? Where's my little one? Your kind took them, I saw. I saw, and couldn't move for the wicked song ye put on me. Where are they? Where's my babe?"
He doesn't know, but ignorance is no defense; the muzzle digs into his jaw, pinning his mouth closed and stifling any sound torn from him. Her hand tears at his hair, ripping strands free, and then she spits on him again and shoves his head away, knocking it against the pole. Iesin staggers, clinging onto the wood of the post for support as blackness spirals across his vision and his hearing rings with brief discordant panic.
He's dimly aware of the guard shooing the woman along, but it's only moments before another human takes her place, this one tugging at a handful of feathers, tearing them free with a laugh. Iesin shakes, pressing his body into the post with a gasping, stifled sob.
All around him, humans chatter and press past one another, intent on completing their day. They stare openly, devouring him with their eyes, and it sends humiliation and instinctive unease skittering under his skin, but it's far worse when they stop to exchange coin for touch and -- too often -- pain. Then, unease spikes into fear, ramping swiftly towards abject terror as the morning brightens and warms. They touch his wings, his back, his feet, his hands. They pull his head back and exclaim over his pupils, watching the way they tremble and contract to narrow slits as he is forced to gaze into the sun's rays. They pinch his hands against the post, stifling his efforts at scratching any who come within his meager reach, and twist his talons back and forth. One produces a short dagger and wedges the blade against the post, leaning down to sever the tip of one of his talons near his finger.
The guard beats him when he jerks away from their grasping, greedy fingers. They like that, and sometimes he beats Iesin for no other reason than to see him yelp and stagger, losing his footing and yanking his arms painfully in their sockets against the hook keeping his hands pinned to the opposite side of the post. His wings bleed and shiver, growing patchier as more feathers are claimed as trophies for those brave enough to come near the captive fae displayed in their marketplace.
The sun climbs, and with it Iesin's misery. His breath is stifled and hot against his skin, too shallow and too warm. A lull comes in the press of people wanting at him, and he tips his head against the post, leaning on it and rubbing the edge of his muzzle against the rough wood. The guard trades places with one of his fellows, and they take up the cry, pacing around Iesin's pinned, drooping form and encouraging the arriving afternoon crowds to come and touch the fae. Iesin listens dizzily, closing his eyes against the too-bright glare of the sun-warmed ground. Lost in his half-aware state, he doesn't hear the clink of coin on coin that signals another oncoming touch.
The hand that pins his neck is long and firm, descending too suddenly for him to do more than gasp and jerk before the fingers begin to squeeze, pinching air and thought away in a slow, remorseless vice. Iesin's body heaves, hands seizing uselessly in the iron shackles keeping them restrained. His head bucks against the post, knocking against it, and darkness begins creeping in at the edges of his vision. The hand is terrifyingly unmoved by his thrashing, not twitching in the slightest even as Iesin grows increasingly panicked. Through the dimness leaching the strength from his body, he hears words tossed above him at the guard.
Gonna try the 30 Day Robowhump Prompt Challenge by @whumptopia!
Tag List: @kawhump
Masterpost | Previous | Next
Day 23: Objectification
>MMRY_RTVL
Able cannot move. His limbs are dead, motor wiring unresponsive to prompts. Sensory arrays booted up. When had he shut down?
He ran a memory retrieval, recalling the dim morning light creeping into the streets. The Doll was gone. When had they left? There was something on his back. There was pain. Darkness. And now, numbness. Light.
Bright light, glaring down at him where he stood, limbs locked in place. His optics adjusted, surveying the warehouse and its contents. Droid. Lots of them. Dolls, mostly, but every few human-like bodies was interrupted by the shining black shell of a CTRL unit.
They all stood still, restraining bolts tight against the back of their necks. He scanned the other CTRL units for Net connectivity, for their blue barcode on their arm. The Deadzone of the warehouse district kept Able from communicating with the units, and with the barcodes on their arms scrubbed beyond pattern recognition, he couldn’t identify them visually.
“Yes, I have a few models like that, this way,” The voice was soft, speaker across the warehouse. Three sets of footsteps. Two adults, and a child. “Of course, these units are difficult to procure. Dolls are one thing, but this, ah, it’s gonna cost you,” A mutter of agreement. An affable laugh. Able’s processor ran a statistical prediction of his situation, with one likely conclusion.
Black market.
Able had heard of such exchanges and sales. In rumors and whispers, muttered threats from the Before. A horrible place used to keep Dolls in line, a place that existed only in a Jennys’ bedtime stories or an Upper’s speculative investigation report.
But here he was, flanked by Dolls of every model and version, standing in dead silent rank beneath the hot white lights of the warehouse.
The source of the voices came into view, the seller’s white suit freshly pressed but screaming a lifetime of use through its worn seams and carefully bleached stains. He assumed she was the seller, a restraint bolt release swinging on the silvery bracelet that encircled a thin wrist.
The woman beside her was tall, her blue striped suit in pristine condition. The briefcase in her right hand as heavy, weighed down with credits, but locked securely. What drew Able’s optics was neither of the two women carefully inspecting and discussing another CTRL unit the row ahead of him.
It was the familiar Doll, the Ami model watching him with careful eyes as they followed the saleswoman dutifully.
“This one is damaged,” The buyer muttered, holding the cracked helmet of the CTRL unit between her hands. “Both aesthetically and functionally. That leg won’t get it far,”
“You did ask for damaged goods, Ms. Aesha,”
“Yes, yes, it will serve its purpose…do you have a more intact model, Aris? Something I could fix up with the extra parts from this one?”
“Most of the other models are complete…” Aris trailed off before a thought hit her, voice turning to the Ami model. “Ven, be useful and find the one you brought back this morning.”
“Acknowledged, ma’am,” Ven said, voice as soft and as gentle as it was when they fell asleep beside Able.
“Got to keep a tight leash on this one,” Aris said with a smile to the buyer, the two women following Ven to the end of the row. “Nearly lost ‘em last night. Bolted the second they could in a Deadzone.” Her laugh was airy, voice a whispered hiss. “Thank goodness for trackers.”
“Some droids need a firmer hand than others, my Misha has one just like yours. Too independent for child-emulators. Had to burn her decision making node, make her entirely reliant on her parent, like a real child.” Aesha’s voice softened. “Could always adjust the little one, for a small discount,”
“Oh, Ven? No, they’re – they have learned their lesson.” Aris’ voice was laced with discomfort, forced enthusiasm in her gestures as the trio reached Able. “Here it is – relatively intact, helmet isn’t even cracked.”
“Impressive,” Able frantically scanned the buyer’s face, her grey hair pulled into a smooth ponytail and skin showing the wrinkles of graceful aging. “What is defective in this droid then? Would hate to take perfectly good stock out of your inventory for a damage price.”
“Ah, the wrist,” Aris said, lifting Able’s limp arm and turning it over in her hand. “Connection is misaligned, mechanics clearly were in a rush. Bolts straight through, the wrist would snap if it tried to lift more than an Ami model.”
“Mechs, always so lazy, such sloppy work. But it’s what CTRL gets for hiring prison slaves,” Aesha’s hands were freezing, sharp nails scratching the paint that hid the silvery bolts in Able’s arm. “Any other notable defects?”
“Some programming issues – Ven’s data files say it was nonhostile and did not attempt to self-destruct prior to capture. Hence the well preserved helmet armoring.”
“Very interesting,” Aesha hummed, tracing her hand across Able’s faceplate and slowly turning his head from side to side. “I’ll take them both. E-97 and this one…”
“NI-4,” Ven supplied, eyes dulled distant as they ran an inventory program.
“Wonderful! Ven, prepare them for transport. Ms. Aesha, may we settle the money in my office?”
“Of course, my dear, always wonderful doing business with you,”
The two humans left, footsteps fading echoes as Ven set about prepping the droids for shipment. Able watched from his row, the Doll carefully pinning a guidance bolt to the other CTRL unit’s arm and releasing the restraining bolt. The Doll approached able, guidance bolt gun in hand.
“Sorry,” They breathed, moving efficiently and carefully as they placed the bolt on Able’s arm. Ven followed the CTRL units as they shuffled towards the front of the warehouse, crates lining the shipping bay where a large transporter sat.
There were dozens of droids, guidance bolts drawing them to designated crates. Most on the floor were Dolls, the frightened eyes and trembling lips of some starkly contrasted by the dull expressions and languid pace of others.
Able had been fulfilling protocol a long time. How had he not encountered this? CTRL units swept the warehouse district almost daily, investigating each unit monthly. There was no way an operation of this scale slipped by <CTRL_CNTR> completely unnoticed.
Able’s guidance bolt sparked, and he kept moving.
The CTRL unit paired with him was in rough shape, limping as quickly as it could to avoid the painful bite of the guidance bolt. It was almost familiar, its helmeted head wobbling on its neck joint as it surveyed the floor. Its head swiveled to lock its optics on Able as they both marched dutifully along the floor. He felt like he knew them.
The crate was small, but between himself and the other CTRL unit, it would be far more spacious than a normal transport. The other unit stepped inside first, pressing its back against the side of the crate to leave enough room for Able to follow in suit.
Ven removed the guidance bolts from their arms, lips trembling and parting to speak. A human worker steps between the Doll and the crate, lifting the heavy cover to the wooden frame, and bolting it down.
Able stared at the unit across from him, and they stare back.
Dark!Tony finding hurt/passed out Spider-Man after a fight and taking advantage of him before taking him to the hospital? Pretty please?
I hope you like it ;)
(for anyone curious, here is Part 2!!)
“I’ll take you to the hospital.”
Peter didn’t question Tony’s words when he found him after a nasty fight, wounded and barely conscious. Why would he? Tony was never anything but protective of him, he would make sure Peter was safe. The boy looked up at Tony with a heartbreaking look in his eyes when they started flying, but Tony knew he wasn’t fully there.
“Did I do okay, Mr. Stark?” Peter asked with his sweet, almost shy voice and Tony felt his stomach clench. He could barely look away from the blood dripping down into the boy’s eyes from the cut above his eyebrow.
“You did good, kid,” Tony said quietly, but his mouth was dry. Peter was about to black out, he could see it. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”
Instead of heading towards the hospital, however, Tony suddenly landed on top of a building and put the boy down carefully. He got out of his suit in a heartbeat.
Peter was still awake and utterly confused, especially when Tony’s hands suddenly took one of his own and pressed it onto the spider on his suit to deactivate it.
“M-Mr. Stark?”
“Shh, kid,” Tony said almost feverishly, his eyes dark and focused on his hands undressing Peter. “I got you, just stay still.”
After months of lusting over the teen, Tony couldn’t hold back anymore. Peter wouldn’t be able to defend himself, he was maybe a minute away from passing out, so even if he remembered anything, Tony could claim it was because of his injuries.
Peter shuddered when Tony’s hands were suddenly on his skin, but when he tried to speak his throat produced no more than a gargle. The hands weren’t hurtful or caused pain, but deep down Peter knew it wasn’t right for Tony to touch him this way, especially not i his current situation. Those weren’t innocent touches, not at all.
Tony’s breath hitched when he let his hands roam the boy’s body, so soft and yet so firm from all those muscles, absolute perfection, even with the bruises forming on his pretty skin. He didn’t have much time, Peter really needed medical attention, but it was an opportunity he couldn’t let pass.
“Sir, I-” and that was it, whether from the pain, his exhaustion or what Tony was doing, Peter passed out cold. Tony looked at him for a long moment before he was convinced the boy was actually unconscious. Then, he pulled his cock out. At least Peter wouldn’t realize what he was going to do, it was a faint comfort, but it was something.
“You’re such a good boy, Pete,” Tony groaned as he stroke himself, a hand still brushing over the kid’s body and taking in every up and down of his skin and his muscles. He knew it was sick, that he was risking Peter to be hurt even more, but his need was too strong at this point. When he leaned down and kissed the boy’s lips, he could feel the warmth still in him and the shallow breath and it made him groan again quietly.
It was in no way pretty when he jerked off over Peter’s unconscious, severely wounded and bruised body and even less pretty how he kept touching and kissing him, but it was desperate and when he finally came, it was with a half-suppressed growl.
Ten minutes later, Tony entered the hospital with Peter in his arms - wearing his own shirt and pants, which was no problem since Tony was back in the suit. He claimed he found the boy in the streets, promising to pay for all the bills as long as they treat him right. Peter was still unconscious. When Tony visited him the next day, the boy could barely remember anything that happened after the fight and he was slightly relieved.
“It’s alright, I got you to the hospital, you’ll be fine soon,” he said, patting the boy’s shoulder carefully.
At least for now, his sick need stayed a secret. The question was just: For how long?
Jack checks the timestamp in the corner again. The seconds on the videostream still tick away in a perfect match to the clock at Phoenix. Confirmation that their missing agent is still alive.
And torture for Jack.
Murdoc’s fingers trail across the IV line, lazily following the dip and curl of the plastic until it disappears beneath the delicate skin of Mac’s arm. The blonde is slumped sideways in a metal chair, eyes closed and breathing slow. He gives no reaction as Murdoc’s fingertips slide up the smooth stretch of his wrist. Mac doesn’t even shift.
Murdoc glances back at the camera, a derisive smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jack grips the war room table hard enough that the plastic edging creaks.
Jack’s in full TAC gear, weapon heavy on his hip and feet ready to leave hours ago. But instead, he’s been stuck in this damn room, waiting for the team to scrounge up some clue on Mac’s location. Trapped here in front of the screen. Watching.
Riley has been pulling plugs and tapping displays since the link went live. She doesn’t glance up at the stream anymore, trusting Jack to watch the feed while she scours the code.
Murdoc tilts his head to consider Mac’s still form. “Sleepy Angus doesn’t even care I’m here,” the assassin coos. He presses down on the IV site, and Mac furrows his brows at the sensation - but still doesn’t stir.
Murdoc sighs happily. “One of my favorite cocktails for keeping a hostage docile. They’re so cute when they’re asleep...” His gaze shifts sideways to the camera, flat black irises reminding Jack of the dead eyes of a shark. “Don’t you think, Dalton?”
Jack can barely growl his answer. “He’s not asleep, he’s drugged to the gills, you psychopath. Get your skeevy hands off him before I damn well r-”
“It’s almost a shame I can’t hear your snappy retorts,” Murdoc says. “One-way connection and all that. But I can savor the fact that it’s just me and MacGyver down here.” His hand drags up Mac’s arm, outlining one shoulder and tickling across Mac’s collarbone. His fingers hesitate at the edge of Mac’s splayed shirt collar. “No yapping guard dogs to interrupt our… quality time.”
Murdoc rolls the edge of the fabric against his thumb, pulling slightly to bare more of Mac’s neck. Mac shivers at the first cold touch of the assassin’s fingertips, and Murdoc gives a sharp inhale of pleasure. Jack fights a wave of nausea at the sound.
He’ll kill him, he’ll tear this maniac limb from limb for every second he laid a hand on Mac.
But Murdoc just keeps reaching. Pale fingers flare across Mac’s windpipe, coming to rest lightly above both pulse points. Murdoc stares down at his captive as if transfixed by the steady rhythm of blood beneath his grip. Fingers curl in agonizing slowness... gently, carefully circling Mac’s neck as Murdoc’s palm presses forward. The edge of Mac’s tan skin fades to white as the pressure starts to increase.
Jack watches Murdoc squeeze and sees red.
Murdoc huffs a laugh as if he can sense the boiling fury under Jack’s skin. He releases his grip, and Jack can breathe again when the hand moves away from Mac’s throat. Murdoc hums, turning to brush the backs of his knuckles along Mac’s neck. The touch is almost tender - a disturbing mockery of a lover’s caress.
Mac shifts, and for a second Jack thinks his partner is waking. But Mac’s eyelashes barely do more than flutter. As the blonde’s head turns restlessly, Murdoc sweeps a caress across the roll of his jawline. The hand lingers at his chin, tipping Mac’s face upward for a better look.
One finger traces the curve of Mac’s lower lip, pressing in the middle to catch and drag at the soft swell of his mouth. Murdoc leans closer, fascination clear on his face.
Jack can do nothing but watch.
A small part of him wonders over the ringing in his ears… Is it better or worse that his partner is unconscious? Mac is helpless right now, face slack and body defenseless in the assassin’s grip. Jack itches to slap the hands away, to throw a punch and twist the offending arm behind Murdoc’s back until he screams.
But would it be worse to watch Mac recoil, see the disgust on his face as he pulls away from the lingering touches? Watch him struggle to fight back as Jack stands here uselessly?
As it stands, Mac may never know just how dangerous the line of Murdoc’s obsession runs.
Murdoc traces absent circles against the skin of Mac’s jaw, thumb moving to press against pliant lips again. A sudden beeping interrupts the motion, and the assassin jolts.
He turns his focus away from manhandling Mac and looks at something beside the camera, scowl clouding over his features. “I see Miss Davis has been muddling around in my code. She’ll be be able to tell you in a minute that the signal is bouncing through too many towers to track.”
Riley mutters a curse and types faster, but it's all the confirmation Jack needs.
“So let me just save you the trouble,” Murdoc continues. Mac's head lolls when his captor turns to reach toward the camera. The extended arm hovers as if ready to flip a switch.
“No!” Jack's feet move on instinct, moving toward the screen as if he could somehow step through to grab his partner. Before it’s too late.
Every trace of perverse joy on Murdoc’s face has dropped, voice chillingly serious. He speaks directly into the camera. “I’m in control here. Keep digging, and I’ll cut the stream immediately.”
No. No this is their only clue, their one lead.
Murdoc finally blinks, eyes narrowing menacingly. “And then you’d be leaving little Angus alone with the big bad wolf, now wouldn’t you?”
Riley freezes, eyes wide as she looks up at Jack. Murdoc’s not bluffing. Riley must be able to see it in the sprawling code. They could lose this feeble connection to Mac at any time. And right now it’s their only chance at finding MacGyver before Murdoc is done with him.
Jack shakes his head in warning, and Riley slowly lifts her hands from the keys.
“That’s riiiight. No more poking and prodding, Miss Davis.” Murdoc moves to stand behind the metal chair, one hand gripping Mac’s shoulder possessively. He reaches over to the bag feeding the IV and fiddles with a nozzle on the side.
Murdoc’s excitement bleeds back into his words. “Always such a tricky thing, finding the right dosage. Balancing just on the edge of consciousness.” When he finishes adjusting the drug, he brings his hand over to sweep through Mac’s hair. Blonde trickles through Murdoc’s fingers slowly, ending with a firm grip on the strands at the back.
Jack’s heart pounds as he watches the assassin tilt Mac’s head slightly, lifting back to expose his throat. Mac’s fluttering pulse has sped up, breaths stronger as if in distress.
“Now that I have your full attention...” Murdoc winks at the camera. “Let’s wake him up, shall we?”
I went to a concert this week and the security guard who patted me down was super gross about it, commenting that I seemed "a little too eager to get the pat down" (as if getting touched by his disgusting presence was anything but a speed bump in the night's adventure)
Like dude if you can't handle the thought of touching queer men then don't fucking work there.
