Summary: Meeting your soulmate doesn’t quite go as you’d hoped.
Warnings: Soulmate AU, angst
~ Aeons ago, I answered this ask and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. So, here’s a fic ~
~~
Ding.
The automatic bell above the door chimes as you enter. The grocery store bustles with activity, people fresh from work hurrying to finish their shopping before returning to their sleepy suburbs. It’s barely-controlled chaos.
Retrieving a basket, you check the post-it note list in your pocket. Just a few things.
Aisle 3 first.
You’re slower than the rest as you scan the shelves, eyes unfocusing at random, the different brands of aluminum foil failing to hold your attention. Your mind is elsewhere.
Shelly found her soulmate today.
You knew the moment she walked into the office this morning. The sparkling eyes, the lovesick grin, they way she seemed to float with each step; it’s a look you’ve seen on others before. So, so many others.
Try as you might, you had not been able to avoid her for long. Pairs, as they’re called, could never keep it to themselves for long, seemingly intent on torturing you with their newfound wholeness.
They’d met on the train. She’d been running late and had to take a later line than usual. It was fate, she said. They never would have met otherwise.
Blah, blah, blah. You wanted to puke.
Everyone in your office had found their soulmate, one way or another. Everyone but you. Shelly was the last, the only coworker to whom you could relate. Now, you’re alone in more ways than one.
It would happen, they all told you. One day, your eyes would meet theirs and you would feel it: That spark, that final puzzle piece snapping into place, that pure feeling of absolute plenitude. It’s not something you could comprehend until you felt it, they said.
They’d meant to help, to give you hope, but their words only served to deepen the wounds of isolation. The malignant ache of loneliness festers a little more every year you go without meeting your other half. You’ve almost resigned yourself to a life of solitude.
It has been known to happen. Some unfortunate people go their whole lives without meeting their soulmate. It’s heart wrenching to see them out and about, a single, lonely figure in a sea of Pairs.
Would you be one of them?
Hastily, you shake your head, coming back to yourself and swallowing the acrid tang of self pity creeping up your throat. You slink to the next aisle over. A quick glance at your sticky note prompts you to retrieve a jar of pasta sauce. Bread is next.
You round the corner, eyes on your list. Bread, waffles, maybe you should get some ice cream—
You run headfirst into a solid chest, the impact so jarring you drop your basket. The glass jar of pasta sauce shatters, marinara splattering all over your shoes and the other’s scuffed boots. Strong hands seize your upper arms to keep you from toppling backward.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—
The words die on your tongue when you meet the dark eyes of the man with whom you collided. His expression is one of cold fury. It chills you to the bone, freezes your soul, invokes a terror so deep in your mind you cannot draw breath. Then….
Click.
Your eyes widen. Fear dissipates instantly, replaced with unequivocal certainty. A spark ignites within you, warms your heart, sends a thrill racing up your spine.
It’s like that final puzzle piece snapping into place. No terror, only perfect completion.
Wholeness.
Now, you understand. Now, you see.
You stare in stunned silence at one another, his now shocked expression mirroring yours. A tremulous exhale spills from your lips. The grip on your arms tightens.
You take him in, as much as you can while keeping your gaze locked with his. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. “Powerful” is the first word that comes to mind. His strong jaw is peppered with stubble, the barest hints of gray flecking it and his brown hair. With your eyes, you trace the thin, white scars littering his face: One through his eyebrow, one through his lips, more slashed across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. His eyes…. His eyes are so dark—black?—and they glitter like beetle’s wings.
You inhale, part your lips to say something, to break the tense silence, but then his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips press into a thin line. The cold scowl returns.
He releases your arms like you’ve burned him. Stepping away from you, he spins on his heel and quickly strides away. Incredulous, you watch the back of his jean jacket as he retreats, acutely aware of the knowing looks your exchange has garnered.
“Hey! Hey, wait!” you call, slipping a little in pasta sauce as you hurry after him. You pass a disgruntled employee and murmur an apology, you’ll help clean it up, you promise, you just need one moment….
The door chimes again as the man—your soulmate—all but flees to the parking lot. You pursue, half-jogging to catch up
“Stop! Please, why are you—
He turns to face you so fast you barely register what’s happening. A palm returns to your upper arm, another wrapping around your throat as he seizes you, spins, and shoves you up against the nearest vehicle. The noisy thud as your back collides with steel disturbs the muted hustle of post-work suburbia.
You gasp, equal parts shocked and impressed by the show of speed. You’re bewildered by your feelings, heart thudding in your chest, face hot. He just slammed you into a car and you’re blushing for chirst’s sake.
His own expression is pinched, strained. His voice, so pleasantly deep and rough, is terse as he speaks through his teeth, “You do not want to go down this road with me.”
You blink, your frenzied mind racing to process his words. “I…yes, I do. You’re—
“Forget this happened. Forget. It.” You flinch like he cut you, his words stinging like alcohol in a wound. You shake your head.
“…How?” you whisper. Your eyes burn. There’s no way you could ever, ever forget him now, not in any sense of the word. You’re connected on the deepest level, your very souls entwined. How could he say something like this? How could he want this? Does he not feel this bond like you do?
His jaw clenches. He pushes you away, not hard enough to make you fall, but firmly enough to make a point. Keys jingle as he retrieves them from his pocket. They rattle against the truck door—the one he’d pushed you against—until the lock clicks. He doesn’t look back as he slides into the driver’s seat, slams the door. The engine roars to life.
You watch, frozen to the spot, adrenaline and distress thrumming under your skin as the vehicle pulls away. It ambles through the parking lot, makes a left turn onto the street, disappears into traffic.
Your eyes burn.
Slowly, like your arm weighs a ton, you reach up to touch your cheek. It’s wet. You’re crying, you realize.
A new wound opens up, settles into your chest next to the loneliness:
After rushing out from a Jigsaw survivors meeting, you meet another survivor who isn't exactly intent on attending group therapy. A companionship blossoms, and then a friendship. And then, something else.
Rating: Explicit, NSFW 🔞
Fandom: Saw
Pairing: Amanda Young x AFAB!Reader
Word count: 5.1K
Content warnings: Gore, mentions of self-harm (both in the Jigsaw trap context and the more typical context), trauma, PTSD, angst, discussions of disability (since a lot of Jigsaw traps are disabling), Saw is its own warning, smoking, alcohol consumption, flirting, kissing, making out, biting, vaginal fingering, friends to lovers, as is Saw tradition gay shit goes down in the bathroom, reader is AFAB but gender neutral
AO3 link: Here
Author's Note: And here’s Blood Fest Week 3, with the keywords “twisted” and “fixation” and the prompts “traps” and “rage”!! “Traps”, of course, got me thinking about Saw. And since I’m down terribly bad for Amanda and have seen appallingly few fics for her…. well, why not? Underrated characters are kind of my signature anyway. Hope y’all enjoy! <3
“Hi everyone. My name is Brandon and…. I’m a Jigsaw survivor.”
A subdued chorus of Hi Brandons echoed around the small church room. You barely even bothered to mouth the words. The gesture felt about as empty as the tipped over plastic water bottle you’d discarded by your chair some time ago. There was coffee at the sad makeshift snack table too, as well as a box of pastries that looked a few days past their prime, but you figured you didn’t need the caffeine to make you any more jittery than you already were. Your leg was bouncing enough as it was.
“It’s been about a year since uh. Well.” Brandon smiled nervously and made a vague, fluttery gesture with his hands. “Well. You know.”
A quiet, obligatory response from the other people – a murmur, a nod of heads. You stared at your bouncing knee.
“I’ve made great progress with my recovery. My knees have healed really well. I can fully walk on them again, even run if I’m careful. My dog Rex doesn’t really like it when I’m careful though.” He laughed fondly. A couple others offered the obligatory chuckle. “They hurt if I get too eager with stairs. Or if it’s too humid. But it’s going really well. I’m really, really proud of the progress I’ve made.” He nodded, as if assuring himself.
He’d had to break both his knees in order to get out of his trap. Was in a wheelchair for months and only recently started moving around without it. Or so you’d been told.
You weren’t sure you’d be able to break your own knees.
“Somedays, though.” Brandon looked away from the loose circle you all formed. Blinked rapidly. “Somedays, it feels like I haven’t made any progress. Somedays it’s hard. Really hard. And it feels like I didn’t survive that trap. Or if I did, some part of me got left behind.”
Everyone else was nodding, some with sad, understanding smiles on their faces. Your own pulse thundered in your ears like a distant, approaching storm.
“It’s really hard to have hope on those days, but…. what else can I do?” He shrugged, a helpless smile on his face. “Give up? Wallow around in my own misery? I can’t live like that. No one can live like that. Not forever. You just have to choose. You have to make a choice, just like the choices we made to be here. You have to choose to live. You have to choose hope. Or else you just can’t survive.”
You shot to your feet, heartbeat pounding in your ears, chair scraping back. Every face in the room turned to look at you. The church felt too small. Your ribs felt too tight. You felt too…. seen.
Who was he to judge you for wallowing in what you’d fucking gone through?
You spun around and bee-lined for the exit.
The cool city air against your face was a relief as you barged through the church’s double doors. But you stopped in your tracks as you spotted someone else already there. A woman was sitting on the church stairs. She twisted around, eyebrows raised and half-hidden by the choppy, irregular bangs across her forehead.
“Uh. Hey,” you said, somewhat awkwardly.
She paused, as if uncertain. Of what? You weren’t sure. “Hey,” she eventually said back. Then, after another pause, she twisted further around, a frown crossing her features. “Is the meeting over?”
“No. I just needed some air.” Fuck, you needed something to calm yourself. You dug around in your jacket pockets until you found a lighter and a cigarette. “Um. Do you mind if I…?”
She stared at the cigarette in your hand with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher, but eventually shook her head no. You internally shrugged and lit up. The first drag uncoiled the tension that had built up in your muscles, and you breathed the smoke out on a relieved sigh.
The woman glanced between you and the church doors. “Having fun in there?”
Did she know? The place didn’t exactly advertise, but it wasn’t exactly a secret either. You scanned her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place her. Had you seen her in the meetings before? “Oh, yeah, lots. You know. Fun therapy shit.” Supposedly, anyway. It was supposed to be some sort of Alcoholics Anonymous shit, but instead it was for the few survivors of an active fucking serial killer. Jigsaws Anonymous or whatever the fuck.
“Must be going well if you’re out here,” she said dryly, resting her chin on a propped-up fist.
You shrugged, taking another drag. “Well…” Did you really want to tell her about how Brandon’s words had hit just a little too close to home? How they’d made you feel too small, as if the sticks you’d used to prop up your fragile post-trap reconstruction of the world had suddenly snapped, and the weight of it all was now bearing down on you? She was a stranger waiting outside the church. She could’ve been some Jesus freak for all you knew.
Not that she really looked like one. Not with the sheer red shirt over a black bra and fishnet undershirt, or the combat boots, or the sheer exhaustion around her eyes.
She looked less like a Jesus freak and more like you did on the days you could bear to look in the mirror.
So you just shrugged again. “It can be a lot,” you said. “What about you? What’re you doing out here?” You hesitated. “There’re still seats open if you wanted to…”
“No thanks. I’m good.” She offered you a close-lipped smile. “I’ve heard enough of the sob-stories.”
Yeah. You could understand that.
She didn’t look like she was going anywhere, and you didn’t exactly have plans of your own. So you gestured to the stairs next to her. “Mind if I sit?”
“Be my guest.”
You sat to her right so the wind wouldn’t blow cigarette smoke into her face. The smooth grey stone steps were wide enough that it didn’t feel quite so awkward sitting in silence together. Even though you could feel her analyzing you as you took another puff.
You blew the smoke away and smirked dryly at the cigarette. “Think Jigsaw’s gonna put me in another deathtrap for smoking?” You ignored the tightening in your chest as you said the words. Ignored the tremor of unease. Surely it wouldn’t be enough. Surely lightning wouldn’t strike twice.
“He wouldn’t do that.” She said it with such simple certainty, as if it was an inarguable fact. Even still, you found yourself stubbing the cig out and searching for a trash can to toss it into. You didn’t want to just flick it into the grass. Maybe Jigsaw would get you for littering. Maybe he was really passionate about saving the planet.
Who needed to be God-fearing with the possibility of Jigsaw watching your every move?
You shook the thought off. Introduced yourself to the woman. You smiled awkwardly. “Um. I’d offer you my hand but my, uh–” Personal hell “–Trap involved a hand thing so. I’m not a big fan of handshakes these days.” It had taken a long time for the nerves to repair themselves in your hand. A long time and a shitton of agony and medication and physical therapy. You still hadn’t totally gotten rid of the tremor. Fine motorskills were still harder than before.
Before. That.
But the woman just gave a rueful, understanding sort-of smile. Funny how people smiled so much in the presence of trauma and pain. “Amanda. I still have trouble going to the dentist sometimes.”
Shit, that’s where you knew her from, wasn’t it? You’d heard of her, read about her before, seen a clip of her punching a journalist square in the nose when she tried to follow her. All the photos you’d seen had been such shit quality that you hadn’t recognized her immediately.
Amanda Young. The person who killed a man and rummaged around his guts to free herself from the machine hooked into her jaws. The first person to walk away from a Jigsaw trap. The first survivor. In a weird, fucked up way, it was almost like meeting a celebrity. A celebrity for the most depressingly specific thing possible.
You weren’t sure whether it would make things weird to bring that up. So you just nodded. “So. What’re you doing here then? Are you waiting for someone?”
“Mm no, not really.” Amanda scraped at the chipped black polish on her nails. “I just like to come here sometimes.”
You stared at her. Something about her reminded you of a deer, twitchy and ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. Or maybe not a deer. Deer looked like they’d snap in half if the wind blew too hard. Amanda…. did not. She was twitchy, but for some reason you got the feeling that she was just as likely to start kicking as she was to start running
Permanently caught between fight or flight.
You went with freeze, yourself. Or wallow, as Brandon had put it. Anger and embarrassment burned against your ribs.
“Hell of a place to visit.” You weren’t sure if you meant it as a light-hearted joke or a deadpan remark. The words came out somewhere in between.
“You’re one to talk.” She finally turned to you. It was the first time she’d actually met your eyes, you realized. “You actually believe all this bullshit?” she asked, gesturing to the church.
“Not really,” you admitted. “My therapist wanted me to go. Said it would help me to be around others who understand what I went through. That it would help me get closure or something. I didn’t want to. But he insisted.” You shrugged. He’d pestered you about it until you finally gave in a few weeks ago. He thought it would be good for you. Would help you heal. Really, it just made you want to fling yourself out of one of the church’s fancy stained-glass windows.
Amanda gave a derisive snort. You almost took offense until she said, “Half of the time these therapists don’t even know what they’re talking about. It’s a bunch of bullshit, too.” She propped her cheek on her fist again, giving you a side-long grimace. “People don’t change until they have to. Or until they’re forced to. A bunch of psychoanalyzing isn’t going to do anything.”
You…. strongly disagreed. But the slim scar peeking out from her sleeve kept you from saying that. “Bad experience with a therapist?” you asked, flicking your gaze away.
“It never really worked for me.”
“What did?” you asked cautiously.
She paused. Thought about it. Stared at you with an intensity that had you wondering what the hell was going on inside her head. Until eventually, “Jigsaw.”
You blinked. Stared. Tried to figure out how to respond to that.
She thought…. Jigsaw helped?
You didn’t want to judge. Fuck, that was exactly why you’d stormed out of the church. You were self-aware enough to realize that. Different things worked for different people, and different people responded to trauma in different ways, but….
The church doors squealed open. You both shot to your feet and turned around. Your fellow Jigsaw Anonymous members were leaving, the meeting over, spilling out from the doors with all the speed and excitement of molasses being poured out from a jar. You stepped to the side to let them come down the stairs. Amanda did the same, arm brushing yours, and you wrestled the urge to jerk away. You weren’t sure of the last time you’d actually touched someone, or the last time someone had touched you, aside from the gentle but coldly professional hands of doctors and emergency personnel. It was as startlingly foreign as it was familiar.
Amanda seemed completely unaware of your clashing emotions as her gaze locked onto something. You followed her stare to Brandon slowly making his way down the steps. A man with sandy-blond hair and a cane was with him, chatting, the both of them completely oblivious to either of you.
Did she know them? She was staring at them with such an undecipherable intensity and it was the only explanation you could think of. You glanced at the two men again, then back at Amanda. No… she wasn’t staring at them. She was staring at the blond man specifically.
It really wasn’t any of your business, but you couldn’t help but ask, “Do you two know each other?”
“Sorta,” was as much of a response as you got.
Once Brandon and the man reached the bottom of the ramp and went separate ways, Amanda turned back to you. It was just the two of you on the stairs now. And it was a little embarrassing how flustered you were just by her proximity. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even know her.
Maybe your therapist was right. You did need to get out and be around people more. So you could remember how to fucking act normal again.
“Well.” Amanda bumped her arm against yours again. This time deliberately. You were pretty sure the facial expression you made was not a normal one. “See you round.”
Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants, hopped down the steps, and just. Walked away. You stared after her for longer than necessary.
She was impossible to get a read on. Weirdly confrontational, weirdly evasive, and weirdly magnetic anyway.
You kind of hoped you’d see her again.
She didn’t appear for the next few meetings you obligatorily dragged yourself to. It wasn’t until about a month later that you found her sitting out on the steps again. When you, again, had rushed out to clear your head when the room got too small.
“Hey stranger,” she said, tone somewhere close to teasing. It made you smile. Just a little.
“Hey,” you replied, approaching the stairs. And again, you gestured to the space beside her. “Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest.”
And so you developed a bit of a routine. She appeared on the steps about once a month, for a reason she never shared and that you never really minded. You would sit on the stairs with her, and the two of you would shoot the breeze. It was a comfortable, casual companionship born from a common factor and convenience. It was never anything very deep. Neither of you were there for therapy, not really. You kept it light, casual. That was the point, wasn’t it?
At least until one day when Amanda was standing by the stairs before the meeting had even started. You didn’t bother to hide your surprise as you approached her and exchanged your usual heys.
“You coming in today?” you asked.
“No. I thought we could head somewhere else.” She tilted her head at you. There was a playfulness to her expression, her smile. A playfulness that made you both a little bit cautious and a little bit excited. “Somewhere a little more fun. Unless you want to stay here. For therapy.” She pointedly lifted her eyebrows at you as she said therapy.
You glanced at the church doors behind her. Really, talking to her about anything but the fact that you were both Jigsaw survivors had done a lot more for you than going to these stupid fucking meetings had.
“Only if you promise not to put me in a death game for smoking,” you joked. Or tried to, at least. It really wasn’t that funny. You winced at yourself. But Amanda, to her credit, just linked her arm through yours. You almost preened at the friendly touch.
“Deal,” she said.
She ended up taking you to a bar. A gay bar, more specifically. You were a bit surprised she’d clocked you so easily but never said a word – but then again, neither had you about her. So you supposed you couldn’t be too surprised.
From there, your casual companionship escalated into something much more like a genuine friendship. You got to know each other properly. You talked about your personal lives and hobbies and interests. You even talked a little bit about Jigsaw, and everything after that. You told her how you’d been struggling with insomnia and how you’d lost your job when you stopped showing up. Because of, y’know, being stuck in a deathtrap. And being too terrified to set foot outside your door for a while after. You told her about the new job you’d gotten and struggled to adjust to. And you told her about your hands.
Nails through the palms Jesus-style. Because according to the hoarse voice on the tape that now haunted your nightmares – “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop”. She’d winced as you told her the story one evening. You’d winced as you’d recollected it. The pain shooting through your fingertips, up your arms, into your very fucking bones. The squelch of blood and muscle, the way you hadn’t been able to stop from screaming or the tears from spilling as you twisted and ripped your hands free of the metal spikes.
It was a miracle they didn’t introduced any infections into your bloodstream, the doctors had told you. A miracle.
You told Amanda how your hands still shook, were still a bit weak. How some days they were worse and some days they were better. And how fine motor skills had become hard now, whereas before you’d taken them for granted. God, had you taken them for granted. You’d been able to write your name, use a knife and fork, all that shit, so damn easily.
It had taken a lot of getting used to.
Amanda has just listened and nodded her head. Understanding. Not offering the grating sympathy people so often flung your way, all the while looking uncomfortably unsure of what to do with your presence and your hands and your experience and your trauma. But Amanda understood. Because of course she did. She knew what you’d been through and where you were coming from.
And she’d even smiled a bit mischievously, glancing down at your hands on the bar counter, and said, “Well, if you ever need help with anything, I’m pretty good with my hands. I could always lend a finger or two.”
Maybe it was the little smirk on her face, the glint in her eye when she said it. Maybe it was the loneliness and then the sudden friendship. Or maybe you’d just been a little too buzzed, but her words had remained lodged in your mind as you tried to go to sleep that night.
Amanda had shared things about herself, too, in the time you’d spent together. It had taken a little longer for her to open up – she was a bit slower, a bit more cautious. She seemed a lot more eager to listen than to do the talking. And you couldn’t fault her for that. But eventually, you learned that she worked as a mechanic, knew a lot about fixing and building machines and shit like that. She had a pet guinea pig that she’d acquired entirely by accident. His name was Pigeon. Her favorite color was red, her favorite bands were Nine Inch Nails and Hole, and her favorite movie was The Princess Bride. Her dad was a piece of shit she hadn’t seen in over a decade, and her relationship with her mom was strained at best. She was an only child.
You’d also learned more about her Jigsaw trap. How she’d become a drug addict in prison, how she’d woken up in a Jigsaw trap for it. How the little puppet with swirls on its cheeks had rolled out of the darkness on a tricycle and told her that she’d survived. And how she’d ended up in a trap a second time, a hellish prison of a house with several other people, most of whom had died.
The news had nearly brought your drink back into your throat. Lighting did strike twice after all. He did pick the same victims more than once.
God, maybe you really did need to quit smoking.
Amanda had placed her hand on your arm. Touch gentle but grounding all the same. And she’d assured you that that wouldn’t happen to you, Jigsaw wouldn’t choose you again. He had no reason to. She said it so confidently, and you so desperately wanted to believe her. That you wouldn’t be taken a second time. Or that she wouldn’t be taken a third. Not that she seemed too concerned about it.
That was the strange thing about her. When she told you about what had happened, she stared down at the counter. Her hands shook a little bit. The memory terrified her.
And yet…. she had this fixation on the idea that Jigsaw had helped her. The trap had gotten her off drugs. It had put her on a completely different path in life. Rather than dying from a drug overdose, she’d gotten clean. He saved me, she’d said, eyes wide and earnest and afraid.
You’d fought against the urge to argue that, to say No, he didn’t save you, he almost killed you. The idea of Jigsaw possibly helping – all while you struggled to sleep and were plagued by nightmares as you did, while you struggled to make your handwriting legible, while you fought the urge to bolt back home as soon as the sun started lowering in the sky? The idea felt like swallowing glass.
Had Jigsaw ever made anyone do that?
But you didn’t say any of that to her. People dealt with trauma in different ways. You supposed this was just her way of dealing with it. And it wasn’t really hurting anyone, so who were you to judge?
It certainly didn’t stop you from going to the bar with her regularly. It didn’t stop you from laughing with her, from getting close to her both emotionally and physically till the edge of your seats were almost touching and your arms were practically interlinked.
It didn’t stop the spark of warmth in your chest when she offered a genuine smile. Or the electric feeling that shot through your veins when she traced her fingers over your knuckles one night, after the conversation had lulled and your drinks had gone lukewarm.
“I wanna try something,” she said, voice soft enough that you would’ve missed it had you not been sitting so close your thighs were pressed together.
Eye contact right now would’ve been like staring into the sun. So instead, you stared at her hand on top of yours. Her knuckles were scratched up as if she’d gotten into a fight. “Sure,” you said slowly. “What did you have in mind?”
Amanda turned to you. You cautiously met her gaze. Christ, it really was like looking at the sun. Warm and beautiful but intense. Burningly intense.
Confusion turned to shock as Amanda hooked two fingers into the neck of your shirt and tugged you closer till her lips were hitting yours. You must’ve made a noise of surprise, because she drew away almost immediately. It was all you could do not to chase her and ask why did you stop? A small crease appeared between her eyebrows and she opened her mouth. And God for a second you thought she was going to apologize, when in fact she really didn’t need to because holy shit.
“Oh thank fuck,” you blurted. “You were flirting with me.”
Concern turned to surprise. Then Amanda laughed, the sound pure relief. “Yeah, I was. Did it take you that long to figure it out?” she teased.
“Uh.” Your face warmed. “Maybe.”
She grinned, then grabbed you by the shirt and kissed you again. Gentle but insistent. Her other hand curled around your nape. You didn’t know what the hell to do with your own hands until one curled around her back and the other ended up braced against the bar counter.
The bar counter. Right. You were very much in public. Sure, it was a queer bar, but it was still public.
So you reluctantly pulled away. Amanda looked confused for a moment before you said, “Hey, maybe we should… do this somewhere else?”
She blinked at you. Then, wordlessly, she wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you off your seat. She dragged you past the other patrons and tables – it was a quieter night, so you didn’t have to fight through a sea of people – and pushed through one of the bathroom doors, yanking you in with her and locking the door behind you.
“There,” she said. There was a look to her eyes, a look that made your heart stumble and your entire body go warm. “We’re somewhere else.”
This time when she kissed you, you let her fully take the lead. You slid your arms around her and melted into the kiss, sighing against her. It just made her more eager. She prodded at your lips with her tongue, slipped inside with a sweet little moan that had your heart racing. Sent your head spinning. You backed up till you hit a wall, dragging Amanda with because fuck you weren’t breaking this kiss. Not as she was getting to know you with her teeth and her tongue. She tasted like alcohol and peaches, smelled of loam and sweat and faintly of men’s store-brand bodywash. It was heady, intoxicating. Addicting.
Her hands slipped under your shirt. You shuddered at the exposure to the overly air-conditioned bathroom. Shuddered harder at her warm touch roving across your skin, the slight drag of fingernails over your stomach. Amanda broke the kiss with a wet smack as your muscles tensed underneath her.
“You’re so cute,” she teased. She dragged her fingernails over your skin again with just a little more pressure. You arced into her touch. Fuck. Fuck.
You wished you could come up with some kind of response. Something to convey just how much you were aching for her, both emotionally and physically. How badly and how deeply these emotions were running through you. But words were currently beyond your grasp.
Amanda leaned in and nibbled at your neck as her fingers slid past your waistband and teased the edge of your underwear. You clamped your teeth down on your bottom lip. Heat swirled through your veins, in your stomach, at the base of your spine. You moved your hips a little, just a little, to urge her on. Nails dug into the soft flesh there. A whimper escaped.
“Mandyyyyyyy.”
“Yeahhhhhhh?” She was all mischief and smugness as she looked back up at you. It just made you more desperate.
“Mandy. Please?” You gave her your best pleading look.
“You’re so impatient.” She said the words lightly, playfully. But she must’ve been impatient too, because she was pushing your underwear down. When her fingers brushed against your clit, you gasped and dropped your head back against the wall. Fuck, God, yes, right there –
“You sure you only just figured out I was flirting with you? You seem pretty fucking wet already.” She punctuated her words with a slide of her fingers against you. Because yeah, you were fucking wet. It would’ve been a little humiliating if you weren’t so achingly desperate for her touch.
“Yeah, well.” You drew in an unsteady breath as she circled your clit. A teasing touch that wasn’t quite enough. Fuck, it was impossible to form a coherent thought. “You’re just…. really fucking hot.”
It was hardly eloquent. But her breath puffed against your neck in a laugh. And you figured it would do for now.
She kissed the hollow of your throat, firmly rubbed her thumb against your clit. You practically bucked against her. Her other hand hooked under one of your thighs and lifted, and you threw your leg around her waist. Let out a moan at how it changed the sensation. “Yeah, like that,” Amanda breathed. “Just like that.” She said it as if you were touching her, as if she wasn’t the one doing all the work, wasn’t the one making you writhe and whimper and leak over her precise fingers.
Christ, you hadn’t felt this good in a while.
The pace was languorous, exploratory, testing what made you shiver and dig your nails into her shoulders and gasp for breath. As if she was intent on taking you apart and finding out exactly what got you going – a machine to figure out and put back together. Slowly, slowly, but in a way you savored, you felt the tension inside of you building up and coiling tight like a spring. You were quivering. Your clothes clung to your sweat-sheened skin. The music spilling into the bathroom from the bar wasn’t quite enough to cover the ragged breathing and wet, rhythmic noises, and it just made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Especially with how Amanda was panting against you, as if she was getting off just from you getting off and fuck it made you clench.
When she picked up the pace, you weren’t able to stop the gasps and moans that spilled out of you, the way you panted and pleaded her name. The sound of her fingers squelching against you had you burning. And when your release hit you cried out, clenching, shaking, clinging to Amanda’s shoulders and digging your nails in as you rode out the high. She didn’t stop, didn’t relieve the pressure against your clit. White hot pleasure burned through your body till tears pricked at your eyes. Distantly, she said something. Soft, sweet words that didn’t quite reach your ears as they rang from the intensity of your orgasm.
She only stopped when you went limp against her. Only pulled away from the mess you’d made – that she’d made too, really – to wrap her arms around your hips and kiss you, deep and slow, as if trying to commit you to memory. You lazily brushed your tongue against hers. Your muscles felt like taffy, worn out in the best way.
“You were right,” you said when you parted. “You really are good with your hands.”
Amanda grinned so widely and genuinely that you couldn’t stop yourself from capturing her lips again. Fuck. You might’ve been a little bit in love. Or maybe that was the post-sex endorphins talking. You weren’t sure. You didn’t particularly care either way.
“I think I owe you an orgasm,” you said.
Amanda brushed her nose against yours. For the first time since you’d met her, she actually seemed truly, fully relaxed. As if she’d properly lowered her guard just now, just in this moment, just for you. “Maybe next date.” The words sent a flutter through your chest. Next date. There’d be a next date. “But first,” she said, moving away to grab some paper towels, “we gotta get you cleaned up.”
Halloween was a cursed time at Haddonfield, and that was a fact. Every window and door got locked during the night. Parents dreaded their children going trick-or-treating for it might be their last time seeing them.
Every year the town holds it’s breath waiting for the Boogyman to strike again. Sometimes he doesn’t, but that doesn’t make the situation any better.
And every year there were people foolish enough to roam the town at the dead of night and taking the situation lightly, unaware of the dangers their actions hold. Guilt doesn’t begin to describe the feeling that dawns after that.
And here you are, as guilty as ever…
Unfortunately you were one of those foolish people, and now you’re tied in the basement of some stranger, but that stranger is no other than the Shape Of Haddonfield himself, Micheal Myers.
You were tied and way that left you exposed. Hands behind your back tied at the elbows down to your wrists, thighs and knees bound with painful knots to the old heater behind you that scraped your back, and your mouth taped shut. Even your neck had a rope around it that threatened to choke you with every move.
Looking around you frantically, you tried to understand what is going on. Last thing you remember was Micheal chasing you and then nothing, something it you on the head and you didn’t know whether it was him, or you hit a brick wall or a tree, but the ache in your head is very much true.
The basement had an acrid smell of mould and smoke, smoke so strong it brought tears to your eyes. The only light came from a small window next to the sealing. Looking up, you could make out flames, and panic rose up again. The place was burning…
Your breath was frantic, and you started to fight against the ropes bounding you.
What made you stop your movements close to none was the figure emerging from the dark, far end of the room. The Boogyman himself.
Fear doesn’t begin to describe the feeling that crept through your body. The sight of his chalky white mask sent shivers down your spine.
Your throat went dry, more tears sprung to your eyes and your breath quickened with each silent step he took towards you. The blooded knife in his hand shined, reflecting the light from the fire up ahead. Is he staying her to burn with you? You kept asking…
You thrashed away at your restraints as they burned through your skin, definitely leaving marks. Micheal kept coming closer as you screamed through the tape on your mouth. Whatever plans he had in store, you were sure they won’t be empty of blood, and that knife was a witness for his never ending thirst
Hopelessness started creeping in, the realisation that the situation you found yourself in is inescapable started pouring down on your soul like cold water..
Micheal stood in front of you, inches away, the fire burning behind him made his form look large and looming compared to you. Death personified. He took one step closer, and went down on one knee to closer at you as your restraints make you vulnerable beneath him. His gaze under the mask make you feel ten times smaller, it was dangerous, malignant, yet curious, like he was looking at a shiny toy.
Michael’s right hand that was holding the knife moved and you jumped shutting your eyes close, bracing yourself for whatever’s to come, but it never did. Scratching sounds hit your ears and when you opens your eyes to look, he was carving something on the wooden floor.
When he was done, it was a singular crooked looking word that made your heart sink like it gained a thousand pounds over..
Hello and welcome to year two of Blood Fest! I am so stoked to be hosting yet another year with all of you, my beautiful death angels. Thank you to everyone who has shared and spread the word about year two, I appreciate you all so much! I will be here, rain or shine, with less turnout or more, I am ready to have a fun time with everyone in my favourite month 🤍🔪
(Just adding in a small intro for everyone new or for old mutuals coming back since the community has shifted a lot, and I know for myself, my writing subjects have changed as well. So, welcome everyone! My name is Bree, I am 24 years old and write for horror and Call of Duty characters. My blog is a safe place for all and so is this writing event, no exceptions. If you'd like to chat or get to know me, never be shy; my DMs and inbox are always open.)
[YEAR ONE MASTERLIST] ——[MY MASTERLIST]
RULES:
Be nice and supportive! If there is any hate towards anyone, I will cancel the event as a whole. Everyone is welcome with any character or OC
Must use the keywords provided
Can use one or all prompts provided weekly. Go wild and mix them if you please
Post your story with the tag SFBF23 so that everyone, including myself, can see them. Also to make sure you will be featured on the Blood Fest 2023 masterlist
There is no limit to creation, go have fun and let your imagination run wild
FOR ARTISTS - Pick one (or more) prompts and one keyword to create your piece, please tag with SFBF23. I cannot wait to see what you come up with!
WEEK ONE
prompts: Fire. Wound(s). Suburbs. Bondage
keywords: Acrid. Malignant
WEEK TWO
prompts: Found Footage. Gore. Corruption. Monster
keywords: Nightmare. Ravenous
WEEK THREE
prompts: Trap(s). Ritual. Threesome. Rage
keywords: Twisted. Fixation
WEEK FOUR
prompts: Mask(s). Vemon. Knife/knives. War
keywords: Enliven. Raw
WEEK FIVE: BONUS
Create a Halloween-themed story or piece of art. You have full control to make whatever you want. OR take the challenge to write/draw for my oc Andrei Kulokova
WOAH Look at me I actually finished something!!! Insane right? This time around, I managed to kick my ass into gear and write something for @the-slasher-files Blood Fest! I decided to do something with my OC Alan, and while it doesn't get into smut territory, I think you'll all agree that a tad bit of murder can be erotic.
Warnings: Murder, knives, stabbing, allusions to noncon
Word Count: 1.2k
Prompts: Found Footage. Gore.
Keywords: Nightmare. Ravenous.
She looked so small on his phone screen. Even smaller than she was right now, tied up on the floor, tears streaking down her cheeks, whining pitifully. He was silent as he circled her, getting her from every angle. He wanted to make sure this moment was captured forever. Considering the mess she had made for him, he wasn’t going to let this go without some sort of consolation prize on his end.
Alan crouched down to the woman, who was struggling to sit up with her hands tied behind her. Feeling oh so generous, his free hand gripped her hair, yanking her up as she yelped sharply, her eyes meeting his. He could never get over the frantic look in a person’s eyes when they realized they’d fucked up royally. They were looking at the person who controlled their future. And that future was incredibly bleak.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sharpe-”
He yanked harder, causing her to cry out. “Oh, I’m sure you are. Considering you got caught.” He clicked his tongue. “How stupid to think I wouldn’t find out.” He couldn’t fault her too much though. They’re called hidden cameras for a reason, after all. He wouldn’t have put those other gaudy obnoxious security cameras in his own home. Even he would feel a bit uneasy with that.
The woman wouldn’t meet his eye, so he dragged her harshly until she laid back on the kitchen floor. She looked up at him and cried out as he knelt over her body, the phone still capturing this moment. Her wails were pitiful, and he might have cared if she were a halfway decent cleaner to begin with. He thought he’d vetted her properly, but apparently not. Perhaps he’d gotten a bit lax. That was his fault.
“You’ve seen things you shouldn’t have. Been in rooms I told you were expressly forbidden.” He snorted. “Are you really that dense not to realize there might have been a reason for that?” When she didn’t answer, merely continuing to cry, he continued. “Well, sadly for you, it wasn’t valuables I was hiding in my office for you to pawn.”
“I won’t tell-”
“You’re goddamn right you won’t tell,” Alan’s voice dropped low, venomous. “We’re going to make sure of that.”
Deft fingers slid to his pant leg, lifting it up just enough to reveal the knife holster. For times like these. She struggled beneath him, but he held firm, keeping her still between his knees as he brought the blade to her face, the camera capturing the stillness of her expression as he traced the sharp tip over her features. He flicked a lock of hair back, nicking her in the process. She flinched, bottom lip sucked between her teeth as she closed her eyes and tried to escape this nightmare. How foolish of her. It wouldn’t be that easy.
Alan traced the cut on her cheek with his thumb, collecting the little red line before sticking it in his mouth to taste the metallic tang. Her fear was palpable, and he couldn’t deny that everything he did now was explicitly to prolong the inevitable. But she didn’t know that. Perhaps she thought there was still some sort of way out of this. Some little glimmer of hope. He’d have to snuff it out.
“Tell me, what exactly did you see?” Alan asked, leaning forward to force her to look him in the eye. “I’ve got quite a few files in that desk. Could’ve been anything.” But there were more in the safe behind the wall. There wasn’t a chance in Hell she could’ve sniffed that one out. “Maybe we can work something out. Depending on what you saw.”
It was a lie. He knew there was a good chance she’d lie. It didn’t matter what exactly she saw, but that she saw any of it. He supposed she’s regretting not just minding her own business and doing her job now. Considering how much he was paying her to clean an already tidy penthouse.
“Bank statements for overseas accounts, that’s all! I swear!”
The knife twirls dangerously close to her throat. “Are you certain?”
She blubbers some sort of affirmative. He doesn’t really care. He’s growing a bit tired of the game.
“I’ll do anything you want just please, don’t kill me!”
And there it is. Words he’s heard so many times before. He chuckles darkly, cocking his head as he taps the flat of the knife against her cheek. “Whatever I want, hmm? People say that all the time. But they never really realize what that truly means.
“First,” Alan’s voice lowers as he grabs her throat, breath hot against her cheeks. “I’d use you however I see fit, considering you’re a bit tied up at the moment.” His knife trails down her throat, skimming her exposed clavicle. He toys the tip of it around the top button of her blouse before trailing back up. “Then, I’d have to spend a few days making sure no one would be looking for you. Send some emails, texts, doctor some images on Instagram, all of that good stuff. That’s the hardest part.” His thumb presses into her throat, enough to make her breathing stutter. “Only after all that is settled, will I keep you for myself until you either break down completely or amuse me enough to keep you around.” He smirks as he looks into her frightened eyes. “Doesn’t that sound like a lovely time?”
She says nothing and simply continues to cry. Alan looks down at her, this pathetic woman who can barely hold herself together. He’s given her an out, of course, but it seems she doesn’t want to live badly enough. Not many do when he explicitly lays it out for them what he wants.
“I thought so.”
Before she can even realize what’s happening, the blade comes down hard on her sternum, a wet crunch filling the air as she desperately gasps for air. The phone is dropped and forgotten by now. He wants both hands for this. His grin widens as he briefly removes the blade and plunges it down again, her breath wet and ragged. With his other hand, he smacks it down on the holt, pushing it even deeper with a sickening crunch as blood stains his hands. Weak hands try to push him away, but he pulls the blade down with both hands, tearing into the viscera and hitting bone. He twists the blade, the notches catching whatever hasn’t already been shredded.
There are cleaner ways to have killed her. But something within him keeps craving that warmth spilling out of her, staining his suit and hands and face as he pierces her flesh over and over. His arms feel like lead each and every time it comes down onto her torso, but it doesn’t matter to him. This insatiable and ravenous need to tear her apart, make a mess, and take his stress out, was the only thing he could care about.
Finally, at long last, he let the knife clatter to the floor beside her. Her eyes had been long since void of life. He pushes himself off her, sitting on the linoleum with his legs still thrown over her body, catching his breath. Bloodied hands run over his face and through his hair, a low groan as he looks over the carnage. It already feels tacky on his skin, like a face mask that has overstayed its welcome. Ice blue eyes narrow at the sight before him, fingers tangled in his black curls before his shaky hands fall back beside him.
How ironic that the cleaner was the one who’d make such a goddamn mess?
“There’s a good boy,” you praised, pressing a light kiss to his shoulder. The whimper he let out skittered along your nerves. “Just relax. Breathe and relax. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”
Rating: Explicit, NSFW 🔞
Fandom: Malignant 2021
Pairing: Gabriel May x GN!Reader
Word count: 1.5K
Content warnings: sub!Gabriel, Dom!reader, bondage, shibari, praise kink, making out, kissing, body worship, masturbation, sort of?? masturbation by way of crotch rope, light teasing, light denial, begging, mentions of medical abuse, dealing with trauma through the power of KINK and HORNY, Gabriel’s inexperienced and horny
AO3 link: Here
Author's Note: Well well well, a fic from me? In the year of our Lord 2023? Wild. Who’d have thought. I’ve been meaning to write for Gabriel May from Malignant for a while now. And technically I have, but nothing I feel is post-onto-Tumblr material. But I thought Blood Fest 2023 would be the perfect opportunity to write something that is! I’m super happy with how this turned out. This week’s keywords were “malignant” and “acrid”, and the prompt I used was “bondage”. Hope y’all enjoy! <3
He wasn’t used to this kind of treatment.
He’d told you more than enough details about what it was like back at the Simion Research Hospital. Any time he misbehaved, anytime he got too cranky or aggressive or disobedient, he was punished. Strapped to a chair or bed and injected with relaxants. Or, if things got really bad, plugged into a machine and electrocuted. All while the medical staff told him he was a monster, a tumor, a cancer. Something to be fixed and discarded. As if he wasn’t a person at all.
It made your stomach fold in on itself. It made your hands curl into fists till your nails bit into your palms. It made you want to track down those fucking doctors and every person who’d let this happen.
But you couldn’t. Not least of all because Gabriel had already done it himself.
So you settled for this instead. Helping out in the here and the now.
In…. slightly less than conventional ways.
“Just breathe.” You brushed your fingers against his shoulders. Gabriel twitched, and the muscles of his face tightened as if in a frown. But he kept his eyes closed. Like you’d asked him to. You’d said that he could open them anytime if he got too nervous – it wasn’t necessary, just an “if you can”.
But he’d kept them closed. Even as the muscles of his back – his front, you supposed, from his point of view – rose and fell just a little too quickly, a little too unevenly. Even as his body was pulled taut with nervousness. He kept his eyes closed. And waited.
“You’re doing an amazing job,” you said, keeping your voice soft. Making him feel as at ease as possible. He somehow managed to both shrink into himself and sit a little bit straighter at the praise. Praise and affection, you’d realized some time ago, were the ultimate aphrodisiac for him.
So you slid your fingers around one of the loops of red rope and tugged him closer to you. You brushed the long tangle of black hair out of his face and pressed your lips to his teeth. Slipped your tongue into his mouth as he melted against you, turning the kiss messy and open-mouthed. The taste of blood was sharp, but it didn’t bother you. Not with the way his breath stuttered, how his body jerked and a deliciously broken little sound skittered out of the nearby speaker.
You gave him a sweet smile as you pulled away. He leaned forward as if to follow you, before tensing again and shuddering with a gasp. Satisfaction settled in your gut.
“How do you feel?” You brushed his hair out of his face again. His eyes were screwed shut, breath even more uneven now.
“Un…. usual,” he grit out. His voice was laced with static as it emanated from the speaker.
You glanced up and down his form, examining the ropes woven around his body. The front of his body was turned away so you could see his face, and his arms were tied at the front so they’d be behind him. It had been a bit of a challenge figuring out how to do this, how to adjust the ties for his backwards body. But you’d done it. And now he was sitting in front of you, legs curled under his body, adorned with red ropes and knots – including a rope that passed between his legs and sat snugly against the black fabric of his underwear.
“Good unusual or bad unusual?” you asked. You didn’t want it to be the bad kind of unusual. But considering how little experience he had with this sort of thing, it was possible.
“I don’t…. I don’t know.”
You paused. “Do you want to stop, or–”
“No.” The word came out harsh. Harsher than he must’ve meant it, because Gabriel seemed to flinch at the sound. “No,” he repeated, softer. “I…. I don’t want to stop.” He shifted, and his breath caught on something halfway between a gasp and a word. “I don’t…. dislike it.”
Satisfaction curled deeper. And a hot little spark flared deep inside you, too.
Evidently, the crotch rope was doing what it was supposed to. And that knowledge, the knowledge that he was getting off on it? That he was so unused to this that just a length of rope and some sweet words had him slowly turning to putty in your hands? Now that was something you could get off to.
But you’d deal with that later. Right now, your focus was on him.
“There’s a good boy,” you praised, pressing a light kiss to his shoulder. The whimper he let out skittered along your nerves. “Just relax. Breathe and relax. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”
You were going to show him that being restrained didn’t necessarily have to mean punishment, or pain, or anger. Being restrained could be nice, too. It could be calming. Pleasurable.
So you took your time, brushing your fingers along his neck, his shoulders, his arms, along his spine and down his hips, sometimes gently scraping your nails against his skin. And sometimes leaving saccharine kisses in their wake. Some just a brush of your lips, others open-mouthed so you could taste the slight saltiness of sweat-sheened skin. His warmth leaked into you. His arousal and the little gasps and moans that bled from the speaker urged you on, even as you took your sweet, sweet time in exploring him.
You’d expected him to talk more – to play it off, to act like he wasn’t as obviously affected as he was. But he didn’t. His breath came in short, shallow puffs. The only sounds from the radio were small, half-suppressed moans and the occasional whispered fuck.
And it wasn’t just from what you were doing.
You hadn’t failed to notice Gabriel’s squirming and twitching. The movement of his arms behind him, jerking in an unsteady rhythm. Pulling and moving the rope between his legs, moving the small knot pressed against the fabric of his underwear where his clit was.
Desperately chasing that unusual, unfamiliar feeling.
All because of some praise and kisses.
“You’re being such a good boy for me, Gabe,” you murmured, curling your fingers around the ties at his hips and tugging, shifting that crotch rope and its knot. A startled groan came from the speaker, barely audible through the crackle of static. You smiled to yourself. “You’re so pretty like this.”
“Like–” His breathe hitched as his body jerked again, “–L-like what.”
You leaned in close, nuzzling the crook of his neck. Strands of hair tickled your face. He smelled of metal and something acrid, and something else fainter underneath – something soft and floral like fancy bodysoap. “Oh, you know. Tied up. Blushing. Needy.”
The flush that had spread across his neck and shoulders turned deeper. “I’m not… fucking needy,” he bit out.
“Oh? So you don’t want me to touch you?” You tugged at his hip ties again. He writhed, then sharply stopped as you slid your fingers around him and teased the front edge of his underwear. And the rope that passed there. “You don’t want me here?”
“No,” came the strained reply.
“No? Aw, that’s too bad.” You pulled your hand away, knowing full well that’s not what he meant and masking it with a pleasant smile. “You just look so pretty when you’re desperate like this. But if you don’t want me to–”
“Noplease!” Gabriel blurted. His eyes snapped open and he lurched forward against his restrains, and God he really did have the most gorgeous turquoise eyes you’d ever seen.
“Don’t! I – f-fuck.” He squirmed, writhed as if trying to escape his restrains, jostling the crotch rope and its knot even more, and there was no stopping the garbled flurry of gasps, moans, and curses that spilled out of the speaker. “Fucking C-C-Christ, please, don’t stop, I–” He bit off another moan. You’d by lying if you said this didn’t have you squirming a bit too, the heat in your gut flaring as Gabriel struggled against himself. “Please. I. I do want you. Fuck, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. I want to – I want you to–”
“You want me to what?” Almost there, he was almost there. “Use your words.”
He whined, low and soft, the noise coming from his own throat rather than the speaker. Fuck, he really was desperate. Your skin burned.
“I want to… I want to c–” He struggled to get the word out, flush so intense he was practically radiating heat. But another shift, another movement of the crotch rope had him crumbling before your eyes. “Fuck, I want to c-cum. I want you to make me cum. I feel like I’m in hell. And I want it to stop but I want it to keep going. Please. I want to cum.” He stared at you, open mouthed, eyes wide and pleading, breath sawing in and out of his body.
You pressed a kiss to his teeth and slid your hand back around him. You gently pressed a finger against the crotch of his underwear – and the thoroughly damp fabric there.
“Of course you can cum. All you had to do was say please.”
Warnings: Noncon/dubcon, rope play, blood, knife play, fingering, threesome, degradation, humiliation, orgasm denial, overstimulation, the boys are meanies.
~~
The voice startles you both, makes you gasp and move to cover yourself, but—no, no—your arms are securely fastened behind your back. Your head whips around, gaze falling on Asa. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, black eyes reflecting the dancing candlelight.
Vincent jumps to his feet and places himself in front of you, blocking you from Asa’s sight. At least he seems appropriately upset by the intrusion. Your cheeks burn, mortified Asa has seen you like this. How long has he been standing there?
Asa holds out his hand in a placating gesture. “I asked to see your process, did I not? The entire process.” A moment of silence passes. You watch Vincent’s back carefully, your eyes growing wide when his tense shoulders relax a little, his posture losing its vexation. Asa continues, “I had hoped you would be open to constructive criticism.”
More quiet, more careful weighing of words. Fire snaps, the boiler hisses, wax bubbles in its pot. Christ, he can’t be considering—
With measured steps, Vincent moves to the side, revealing you to Asa’s scrutinizing gaze once again. “Vincent!” you beg, but he holds up a finger, silencing you.
Asa pushes away from the door and strolls over to where you sit, defenseless, on the mattress. Your chest rises and falls in rapid, anxious breaths, your heart slamming itself against your ribs. Is he going to touch you? Will he hurt you?
“The piece,” he’s talking about you, “Shows vulnerability. Fragility. But, I feel it’s missing….” His hand slips from his pocket as he produces the knife, thumb easing the blade free until steel glints under flickering candlelight, “Color.”
“Vince, please…” you beg, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
“Shhh,” Asa coos as he crouches down before you. He reaches out, calloused, scarred fingers tracing your cheek and snaking into your hair to grip the side of your face, holding you in place. Vincent watches intently and leans forward slightly to get a better view.
“Red,” Asa murmurs, “Gives much needed emotion to a piece.” The knife tip presses just under your collar bone, drags through your flesh until you shriek and sob. Asa’s thumb digs roughly into your cheek when you attempt to twist away from the pain. Crimson wells up under the blade and spills down your chest, staining the wax in violent scarlet, like some kind of twisted ritual.
Beside you, Vincent’s breaths shudder behind the mask. You struggle to reign in your own frantic breathing lest to succumb to pure panic. Asa’s eyes leave your face to admire the trickling of blood. Gently, he dips his fingers in red and traces them across your belly, your hip, painting you.
Next, he wets his whole palm with blood and wraps it around your throat. A perfect, scarlet handprint stains your neck when Asa lifts his hand away and Vincent nods excitedly in agreement. Asa ignores him, not yet finished.
“Open,” he instructs, smearing your lips with tangy iron. Tears spill down your cheeks as you hesitantly part your lips to accept the metallic fingers. They stroke your tongue and push into your throat until you gag. Blood-tinged spit dribbles down your chin and splatters onto your chest to join the mess coating your skin.
“Good girl,” Asa whispers, fingers finally vacating your mouth. You suck in a startled gasp when he leans forward and crushes his lips to yours. His tongue replaces bloody digits and laves against your own, overwhelming you with the taste of cigarettes and mint and blood, always blood. His teeth tug on your lip and the moan that bubbles up from your throat brings more burning heat to your cheeks.
This is the kiss you wanted from Vincent….
Asa pulls back and holds you in place with the hand in your hair when you try to follow. The corner of his bloody mouth curls up in a grin as he surveys your half-lidded eyes and swollen lips, parted and painted with scarlet.
“I think you were meant to beg for something, correct?” he murmurs, deep voice huskier now. You blink and attempt to come back to yourself. You’d almost forgotten about Vincent hovering next to the bed.
“P-please,” your voice breaks. You try again, “Please Vince. Touch me?” You look up at him, needy tears clinging to your lashes. He’s nearly trembling on the spot, so enraptured by the display, wholly fixated on the ardent painting Asa has made of your skin. Hastily he kneels, grips your hips, pulls you to the edge of the bed.
The knife slips under the band of your underwear and saws through the fabric. You’re completely bare now and both men can see how you glisten in the flickering light. Vincent wastes no time, dexterous fingers sliding over your folds and brushing your clit before sinking in deep to ease the ache.
Asa grips your face when you keen. He twists your head so you’re looking directly at him as he seats himself next to you on the mattress. His nose brushes yours, lips hovering just inches away, teasing, your panting breaths and desperate moans—are they for him or Vincent—washing over his face.
Your hips buck, Vincent curling his digits until your eyes clench shut. Shamelessly, you hump his hand, dizzy with heat, desire, confusion. You shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want his hands on you, but you think you’ll die if he stopped touching you now.
Your thighs tense, your hands balling into fists, toes curling in anticipation. “Vince, I’m gonna—
“Manners,” Asa chides, his grip on your face tightening. Your eyes widen, breath stuttering in your chest. Oh no, you’re so close, burning tightness deep in your belly about to implode, can you stop it in time?
“P-Please! Please, I need-can I please—
“Please, Sir,” he corrects causally, like you’re not about to cream all over Vincent’s fingers any second. If he would just slow down a little….
“Please SIR, god I can’t hold it, pleasecanIcum—
“Please, Sir, may I cum?” he instructs and you cry out in frustration.
“I CAN’T—
It’s too late. You bow forward as much the rope and Asa’s grip on your face will allow, walls clenching on Vincent’s pistoning fingers, euphoria roiling in your gut. The knowledge that you fucked up is almost a distant memory in the wake of such pleasure.
But not for long.
Fingers dig into your hair and tug you upright, a frail whimper falling from your panting mouth. Cracking open your teary eyes, you timidly peer up at Asa. His mask of indifference hasn’t shifted, but there’s something glinting there in his dark gaze. Something eager.
“Untrained,” he comments, then looks to Vincent. “There’s a simple enough fix if you’re willing to put in the time.”
The knife returns, slips past your parted lips, blade tapping against your teeth as the flat edge settles on your tongue. You freeze, wide eyes flicking from Vincent to Asa and back again. What if he slips, what if he pushes deeper? Not there, please not there….
“Proper incentive is key. Let’s try that again.” Asa nods to Vincent. A delighted snicker slips from behind the wax mask. Your mouth goes dry. There will be no mercy from either of them, you realize, when Vincent scoots closer to you, his shoulders hunched with barely contained exhilaration.
It reminds you of how he looks when he’s working on a new project.
Vincent curls his skilled fingers once again and the whine that leaves you is distorted by the steel seated in your mouth. Your back is ramrod straight, every muscle focused on keeping you still to prevent the knife from slipping. You’re almost thankful for Asa’s hold on your jaw.
Still, past trepidation and dismay, pleasure blooms in your belly. Your eyelids flutter, displacing tears until they’re streaking familiar paths down your face. Unable to swallow, the saliva pooling in your cheeks spills down your chin. Damn those fingers, damn him, damn them both….
Close, fuck, you’re getting close, you need to ask for permission, but you’re terrified to speak. You look to Asa, pleading with your eyes, but he merely smirks in response. Minutely, his head tips to the side like he’s waiting for you to risk speaking.
Are sliced gums preferable to more of Asa’s discipline?
You decide they are.
You try to ask properly—please Sir, may I cum—but your speech is slow and garbled as you attempt to keep your tongue from touching the blade. Hurry, hurry up, you’re climbing the precipice too quickly, please Vincent just slow down for one fucking second!
“I didn’t catch that,” Asa taunts, leaning in to hear you better. You sob and turn your pleading gaze to Vincent. He doesn’t stop his assault on your cunt, choosing instead to circle your oversensitive clit with his thumb until you choke on a shout.
Desperation takes hold and you force yourself to speak clearer, heedless of the knife, “Pleashh Shhir, mnay I cuh!” Your face burns in humiliation and ire, messy chest heaving, spit dribbling onto your belly, twitching muscles pulled taut to keep you from careening over the edge.
Asa chuckles and releases your jaw to condescendingly pat your cheek. “That’s a good girl. You may.”
Instantly, your vision whites out, eyes rolling back, a scream ripping from your throat when your walls ripples around Vincent’s fingers. Thankfully, you have the presence of mind not to tip forward lest you impale the back of your throat.
A trembling gasp brings you back to reality. You ache, the intensity of the last climax still prickling across your flesh. Finally, you feel the knife slip from your mouth. Asa tilts your head up again and you crack open damp eyes to peer up at him.
“You’re a quick learner,” he purrs and some annoying part of you relishes in the praise. Gently, Asa wipes the blood and tears and drool from your face with his sleeve. He orders you to stick out your tongue so he can assess for injury. You’re too exhausted to do anything but comply.
Vincent withdraws his dripping fingers and you whimper, slumping against Asa’s solid frame. You flex your tingling hands, only now realizing you’ve lost feeling in all your limbs.
“Vince…my arms…” you mumble. Vincent stands to pet your hair, but doesn’t move to untie you. You frown and glance up at him. The room is too dark to see the good eye behind the mask.
Asa hums in understanding, a breathy laugh leaving him. You lift your head, looking questioningly from Asa to Vincent.
They can’t be serious….
Realization hits like a punch in the gut and you shake your head in protest, but Vincent is already digging his fingers into your hips and flipping you onto your front. Your babbled pleas fall on deaf ears, Vincent’s eager cock already lining up with your slippery entrance. The scream you loose when he buries every inch in your cunt is deafening, even to you.
