submissive men…. submissive puppy eyed men that melt in your touch and kneel for you obediently like it’s in their nature…. god. how i love submissive men.
Read part one // Master-post // Continued from here
The concrete steps cut into her cheeks like a razor's edge, her shoulders hitting the walls and her feet tumbling over her head until she crashed and bashed every point of her body on the way down. She landed on her stomach, blood dripping from the side of her head, breath stolen from her chest. She tried to push herself up, but a hand grabbed the back of her neck and dragged her stumbling to her feet again.
She was going to be sick, nausea clung to her skin like oil, stuck in a twister of Supervillain’s strong sharp movements that she couldn’t anticipate with her pounding headache raging.
“Now, here we are,” Supervillain said. He shoved Morgan forward again. She cried out as she tripped over her feet, her ankle rolling as she tried to stop her momentum in vain. An edge of something metal caught her around the hips, and she fell forward, her torso folding with an oomph. A click and the room flooded with light. Morgan squeezed her eyes shut, the light burning compared to the pitch black it was not a moment ago.
Morgan squinted taking a quick survey of the room, searching for an escape, but no, no, no, no. There would be escape from this room that was just a concrete square of torture devices. Morgan’s heart jumped into her throat as she glanced down at the metal bench below her hands. It was a table. A surgical table. Her stomach bottomed out as she gasped involuntary, stepping back and right into a solid chest.
Her blood froze, ice in her veins, and she couldn’t stop the tremors of fear tearing through her. Two strong hands settled on her shoulders, and she flinched despite herself, her entire body trembling, her eyes and brain disoriented from the fall and the lack of oxygen and her fucking pounding headache. And she was really starting to wish she didn’t open her mouth.
Morgan let out a sharp breath, a claw of panic grabbing at her chest as her eyes scanned the room searching for a window or anything that would tell her she wasn’t underground right now. She couldn’t… couldn’t breathe, oh fuck, there were no windows, there was a window in the cells, she gasped, pushing back against the chest shaking her head.
“Oh, that’s right,” Supervillain cooed behind her, his voice painted with sick delight as his fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Villain told me you were claustrophobic. Does being underground trigger it, Morgan?”
Morgan drove her elbow back wildly hitting her mark, but Supervillain didn’t flinch or even grunt. Instead, he grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm up and around her back, the other going to the back of her neck and slammed her down against the table.
“You really have no manners, Morgan, do you know that?”
“F—fff— fuck you,” she said between fretful breaths. Every action, every movement was lessening and lessening, she only had a little bit of oxygen left in her lungs that was stuttering out. The walls pulsed closer, shrinking and she squeezed her eyes shut. At least the metal of the table was cool under her cheek.
Supervillain pushed her wrist further up her back until Morgan cried out, trying to kick back at Supervillain to get him to stop but the lack of oxygen in her lungs was dizzying as she scrambled. Her brain stuttered as she tried to remember any of her combat training as panic seized her throat.
She splayed her fingers, mind reaching, the invisible pull of her blades familiar as they rushed back to her hands. If she could just— two clangs against the door upstairs and Supervillain straightened, letting up some pressure. Morgan pulled and pulled, trying to rip the daggers through the obstacle but Supervillain grabbed her splayed fingers and pushed them back down into a fist, smothering her connection to her daggers, her safety.
“No!” Morgan wailed, struggling furiously under him, kicking back, trying to do anything, get anywhere away away away away from the danger, be able to breathe again properly. Her tears hit the metal table with wet, metallic drops, like a leaky tap dripping into the sink.
“What did I tell you about using your powers, Morgan, hmm?”
“Let go of me, you fucking psychopath!” Morgan cried, anger flooding her veins. With Supervillain’s hand off her neck, Morgan threw herself back with a roar of adrenaline mixed with fury. Supervillain’s grip tightened on her wrist, about to push it up but Morgan wedged a knee up between the table and shoved until the pair went stumbling.
Morgan slipped free of Supervillain’s hold in his stunned state, but he recovered quickly, grabbing at her hoodie but Morgan was too quick, and she was ascending the stairs, her breaths getting heavier but her breathing becoming even the closer she got to the surface.
She got to the door and grabbed the handle and shoved it open.
Only.
It didn’t open.
Morgan stared. No. No. No, no, no, nonononono!
NO!
Morgan slammed an open palm on the metal, screaming. “FLYNN! FLYNN I’M SORRY PLEASE! Please!”
Footsteps sounded on the staircase. Morgan slid down the door, banging weakly against it and crying out for Flynn to save her as Supervillain advanced again.
“Did you really think I’d leave a handle on the way out of this room, Morgan?”
Morgan swallowed the lump in her throat, focusing all her energy into the glare she shot at him, hoping he would melt right on the spot. Which he didn’t.
“You can come down and your punishment will be less severe than if I have to drag you down.”
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice cracking halfway through. She splayed her fingers again and wished, hoped, prayed that somehow, they would get through the thick metal door she was trapped behind.
Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! What was she going to do? There was only one option for her right now and that was down, down into a tight, underground nightmare that was threatening to kill her. She needed— she needed to be able to breathe to think clearly, but even thinking was difficult at the thought of being dragged back down to Supervillain’s torture chamber.
Supervillain sighed, a few steps away from her. “Okay, Morgan. Have it your way.”
He reached down and grabbed her ankle and turned to walk down the stairs. Morgan kicked at him, landing a few solid ones on his arm and back before he was dragging her down and Morgan’s head smacked off the concrete steps. She didn’t even have time to scream or groan or whine, small gasps at every bounce fogged her vision until she was back on solid ground.
Supervillain appeared above her, grabbing her, one arm under her shoulders, the other her knees as he bent and scooped her up. She protested weakly, her brain rattled and her reaction time non-existent. Supervillain placed her on something cool under her skin, but she could feel something wet on the back of her head.
She reached a hand up to find the source of the wetness, but Supervillain grabbed her wrist before she could investigate and strapped it down to table in leather. He pulled the cuff tight around Morgan’s wrist, so tight she couldn’t move it left or right, just up and down. She whined when he took her other wrist and restrained it the same way by her side. Then he moved onto her ankles and soon Morgan couldn’t move an inch, her eyes glazed over and staring blankly above her.
Supervillain grabbed Morgan’s cheek, appearing in her scope of vision, but there was two of him now, a shadow or a clone. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“Hmph, you spoiled some of my fun, Morgan. I was hoping to teach you this lesson to remember, but, oh well. I guess I’ll just have to leave a reminder for you when you’re more conscious, won’t I? Something you can’t ignore.”
Morgan blinked at him, the entire world moved like cotton, and she was completely out of it, Supervillain’s words echoing around her head. On loop over and over again, but still seemingly so far away.
“Lemme go,” she pleaded weakly, pulling at her restraints.
Supervillain smiled a wicked smile down at her. “I’m thinking something like a three-strike system, Morgan. Like tally marks or something to that effect. Something easy to understand, strike one was your insolence at dinner which will not be tolerated. What to do,” Supervillain mused stepped away from the metal table and out of sight.
Morgan pulled against her restraints, trying to loosen them as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Flynn… she thought hopelessly. Please, please, rescue me. Please.
Supervillain returned to the table, a hunting knife in hand. “Wait, no, please.” Morgan didn’t even know what she was protesting, but the words fell from her mouth anyways as Supervillain grabbed her right hand.
“Three strikes, Morgan. While I know I could cuff you in power dampeners and leave you down here to hyperventilate all night I think this will be far more effective.”
“Tell me Morgan,” Supervillain began as he started undoing the cuff of her right wrist. “Is it all knives you can summon with your ability?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Any will do.”
“Fascinating. And do they all sharpen your senses when you feel them in your hand?” Morgan glared at him as he freed her wrist and turned it, so the back of her hand was positioned above the metal table. Morgan didn’t bother asking him how he knew that, because she knew the answer he would be all too happy to supply. The reason Supervillain knew everything about her; Flynn told me.
“It depends on the knife,” Morgan answered, the pained fog of her mind ebbing and flowing allowing some coherent thoughts to pass through her brain. “None are as good as my blades, but that’s because I made them myself.”
“I will never cease to be awed by adepts and their crafts,” Supervillain said fondly, tracing the tip of the hunting knife up Morgan’s elbow and forearm before pinching it down slightly on Morgan’s wrist. Morgan didn’t dare struggle or move, afraid if she did the knife would slip and she would be dead. “But now that you’re more conscious, I’ll repeat your punishment.”
“We will do a three-strike system, this is strike one. With every strike I will leave a wound on you, a scar that will remind you not to make another mistake again, okay?”
Morgan shivered at how easy he explained his punishment system for her, as if he was telling her that her car needed a service or one day it would just stop. “Three strikes, and I will drag you along to watch Sidekick being murdered and you’ll know it was all your fault. Okay?”
“You’re a fucking—”
“Wonderful.”
In one quick movement, Supervillain slid Morgan’s right hand over the rim of the table and plunged the hunting knife in all the way through her palm. A howling, banshee’s scream tore through Morgan’s throat as she bucked against her restraints, howling and screaming please, please, stop! Stop!
Tears and snot clogged her senses as she shook her head, her arm violently trembling against the trauma and Supervillain’s tight hold. Morgan splayed her fingers on her left hand, trying to summon the knife out of her hand, but Supervillain’s grip was too strong, or Morgan’s pull was too weak, and he twisted the knife in her hand instead, pulling more shrieking screams of pain from Morgan.
“There, now. The first two strikes will be in your palms, Morgan. To remind you that even if you try to fight back, with your knives or your words or otherwise… you,” he said, stressing the final words, “will fail.”
Morgan sobbed as her fingers tried to curl around the blade but could barely move more than a flinch in any direction. Morgan wouldn’t be able to summon her blade for this hand for a while, until the wound healed and even then… Would she get physio for the muscles and tendons Supervillain just cut through with a terrifying amount of strength?
Supervillain put a hand on Morgan’s hair, brushing the strands from her face like a parent would a child who’s eating an ice cream and threatening to get their hair stuck in it, chiding but fond.
“This doesn’t have to happen again, Morgan. We can be civil with each other. You and Flynn, I know you have a special connection. A bond. You can have a nice life here, free from the burdens of being a hero in this city, of always fighting uphill battles hmm? Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Morgan shivered, staring up at Supervillain and she knew she probably looked sickly pale and ashen as she felt the blood harden around the blade in her palm, dripping down to the floor on the other side. She knew it would leave a scar, the reminder that Supervillain wanted her to know in her gut and it made her sick.
“So, Morgan,” Supervillain beamed, smiling down at her. “Will you behave?”
Morgan’s bottom lip trembled as she nodded, warm tears flooding her cheeks as she sniffled. Supervillain’s smile turned softer, comforting, like a concerned parent. “Use your words, Morgan.”
Morgan sniffed. “Y-yes,” she croaked.
“Yes, what?”
Morgan sucked in a breath. “I’ll… I’ll behave.”
Supervillain smiled. “Good. Good. Excellent. Now, let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?”
Supervillain removed her restraints and sat her up on the metal table, and said he’d be a minute getting the things he needed around the room.
Morgan sat upright shaking violently and trying to hold her hand steady by supporting it with her free hand at the wrist. She stared blankly ahead, both staring at nothing and staring resolutely at one white painted brick, where the groove was a faded, paler white, less glaring at her while Supervillain gathered supplies.
Before too long Supervillain was in front of her, setting bandages and gauze and rubbing alcohol down on the tray beside the bed. Along with other stuff Morgan wouldn’t think was necessary like a ruler and Q-tips and other supplies. He was wearing surgical gloves as well, and despite herself Morgan was thinking about what he did for a living.
“Are you a doctor?” She asked, her voice hollow.
Supervillain smiled a secretive smile at the question, as if he just found her out. “Ah. You’ve noticed, have you?”
Every once in a while, Morgan forgot that Supervillain was her nemesis of the last year, the Moriarty to her Sherlock Holmes, the Joker to her batman, although really more like the Riddler with how elusive he was. When she considered Supervillain’s job back before she knew him, she suspected it would be something as cerebral, like a lawyer, or a judge, or a doctor. She didn’t feel good that she was right.
“Yes, I’ve been a doctor since medschool. Long hours, overworked conditions, but I won’t bore you with hospital tales, and luckily for you I happen to be an acute trauma surgeon,” he told her, smiling at her through his lashes. “So, your hand won’t have too much lasting damage. I didn’t hit any of the important muscles or tendons.”
Morgan gasped, which sounded more like a bewildered laugh, “thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She hissed as Supervillain pressed down on the wound. He smiled. “Sorry, I just have to make sure I didn’t hit anything important. Okay, yes.”
He took a Q-tip from the table and said, “okay, Morgan. I need you to remain as still as possible while I do this. Try not to move too suddenly.”
Morgan let out a sharp gasp of pain as Supervillain inserted the Q-tip through Morgan’s wound until it almost poked out the other side. “You’re doing great Morgan.”
But she wasn’t. She was going to be sick as he pulled it out and she saw the blood. The smell had never annoyed her before, but now the metallic kiss hung on the air like a factory that had to suddenly cease operations, a promise of something suspended between functioning and closure, hinting at something to come.
He set the Q-tip on the table and measured the blood stain against the ruler. Morgan stared down at it, her vision blurring slightly as her mind went woozy and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Supervillain was standing over her hands on her shoulders sitting her back up again. Morgan blinked, bile climbing up her throat.
“Here,” Supervillain said and shoved a bar of chocolate into Morgan’s hand, the wrapper already opened. Morgan blinked at it dumbly, and Supervillain gently guided it to her mouth. Morgan took a small bite of the sweet, velvet chocolate. “You fainted. You’re okay. It’s normal with this kind of injury, but I would like you conscious while I tend to it.”
Morgan blinked at him. When he was certain she wasn’t going to faint again he released her shoulders. This time Morgan remained upright.
“If you’re a doctor…” Morgan said, her head spinning, but she was determined to get this out of her head. “Didn’t you take an oath to do no harm?”
“Ah,” Supervillain smiled. “Yes. The Hippocratic oath. I did.”
“Then how can you justify this?” Morgan asked, nodding to her hand. That was a mistake as nausea swirled in her stomach. Supervillain remained silent for a moment, dabbing at the bleeding of the wound, staunching the blood and cleaning around it. His movements were so methodical, so clean and purposeful, Morgan found her eyes drawn to it as she took another bite of chocolate.
“Where I stabbed you, Morgan, is a very delicate place to be stabbed. There is a flurry of activity in the centre of your palm.” Supervillain squeezed just below the wound and Morgan squirmed with a groan. “Here is your carpal ligament that controls the movement of your thumb, index and middle finger.”
He squeezed Morgan’s thumb and said: “and here are all the muscles for full use of your thumb. If I went too far to the right, I could risk damaging the ligaments that connect to your other two fingers or hitting a clump of nerves.”
Supervillain dropped Morgan’s hand and held up his own, pinching the spot the dagger went through Morgan’s palm. “Here, there is a hole in your hand. No bone, no muscle, no nerves or ligaments. Minimal damage and less time for recovery. No need for more than standard hand physio and six weeks recovery at most.”
Supervillain smiled at Morgan. “The Hippocratic Oath is an oath all doctors must take to do no harm. However, all doctors must accept that in order to make something better, there must first be pain. To treat the sick, they must make the sick endure the pain, and fight infection, the body must fight.”
“Your defiance, in the long run, will make you worse than if I curb it now. So, I am doing no harm, by ensuring that you quit fighting me unnecessarily. The same way I am trying to stop this city from running straight to ruin. I must do no harm,” his smile was warm, “as a doctor. But as a civilian I can’t stand by and watch this city burn. Does that answer your question?”
Morgan stared. Then shrugged with her good shoulder. “Not really, but I’m kinda woozy from blood loss right now.”
Supervillain laughed. “Mmm, let’s do something about it.”
Supervillain worked fast, careful to only press too hard when Morgan gave him a snarky reply, and later on she would wonder how she got so comfortable with the man bandaging her up, when he was the same man that stabbed her in the first place. She would attribute it to blood loss and Supervillain would bandage her head and help her up the stairs he threw her down before, and when they got into the kitchen, he gave her painkillers and water.
Flynn rushed through the doors, his heart racing when he saw Morgan. Her head bandaged and her hand bound so tight and thick that Morgan couldn’t close her fingers even if she wanted to.
“M-Morgan?” He asked, breathless. Morgan smiled at him when he came in and waved. Flynn was by her side in a second, while Supervillain stopped chatting to her about why they chose to replace the black and white tiles for the floor in the kitchen. “Are you okay? Morgan, oh—”
“She’s fine,” Supervillain said lightly. “We’ve cleared the air, haven’t we Morgan?”
Morgan nodded, smiling at Flynn. Something she’d attribute to her concussion later because everything was just a little too smiley, a little too comfortable, a little too easy, and she wasn’t entirely convinced that Supervillain didn’t give her the floating, high-end painkillers.
“I’m fine.”
“I heard the screaming,” Flynn said, his hands going to Morgan’s cheeks, checking her over and looking for any sign that she was lying to him. Other than her too large pupils she seemed okay. “I— your daggers— you—”
Morgan grabbed Flynn’s hand with her unbandaged one and interlaced their fingers. “I’m okay. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
Tears brimmed on top of Flynn’s bottom eyelids as he looked at Morgan, his Morgan, acting so unlike herself. So compliant and soft. It made him ill, the fact that he was the reason Morgan was injured in the first place. That she was being subjected to the whims of his family.
God, he didn’t think Dad would do this…
“Will you stay with me tonight?” Morgan asked with wide eyes.
Flynn ran a thumb over her bruised cheek, his touch featherlight. “Of course. Will you give out to me tomorrow about it?”
She shrugged happily. “Probably.”
Flynn laughed and leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’d love to.”
Flynn helped her stand and wrapped his fingers around hers keeping her close. “Be sure she doesn’t sleep for the next hour or two.”
“We can watch a movie!” Morgan said, her voice light and chirpy, so like it was when she’d get excited before that it made Flynn’s heart ache.
“Yeah,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat as he guided her out of the kitchen, away from his father and up the stairs to her room, terrified that if he dropped her hand for even a second, he would lose her forever. “We can watch a movie.”
