A New Enemy Has Entered The Arena
The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 6
Content: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, tied up/handcuffs, (brief) dissociation, noncon partial undressing, noncon touch, attempted noncon
Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters Dr. Vaughn Verhulst
["Make them fear the wrath of god, then remind them the only god they should fear is you."]
“So, this is the capture, hm?” The new voice drawled. Despite the exhaustion and the agony lacing throughout every part of his body, Stan's managed a look up at the new situation. Directly into a pair of steel blue eyes that made his breath stutter. The eyes twinkled with amusement.
“He’s smaller than I thought he’d be. Not much to look at… Pretty, though, I think the boss will enjoy that just as much as you seem to be.”
Stan scooted backward, but Deeby seemed to beat him to the same idea, stepping in front of the man and completely blocking him from view.
“There's no way you're the one doing the pickup. What are you doing here?”
The new man tried to side-step Deeby. “Don't worry, I'm not trying to interrupt your encounter, I’m only here to make sure you haven’t broken out new toy–”
Deeby stepped in front of the man again, the man barely stopping short of crashing directly into him, just long enough for Stan to gather his scattered bearings and realize there was a new person here and all the distinct possibilities of what that meant for him.
And suddenly he felt lightheaded again.
“I’m sorry,” the man laughed without any inkling of humor, staring Deeby directly in the eye.. “Am I in your way?”
“What…” Deeby insisted slowly. “Are you doing here?”
This new guy… honestly, not much to look at himself, from what Stan saw. He couldn't have been too much older than Stan, fluffy light brown hair, the probably European accent he couldn’t quite place… kinda german? But not that. He also wasn't wearing any sort of mask or anything to hide his face, which was only vaguely concerning, Stan decided to believe. Not to mention, this new guy had been wearing a knit sweater vest? It looked soft. Stan almost had to remind himself that the guy must be a threat, just like Deeby, or why would he even be here?
He just looked so… corporate.
“I told you, I’m checking on the capture. Making sure you didn't mess up the very simple plan, or kill him. It’s a real concern with you, I'm sure you understand.”
The man tried to side-step Deeby once again, and once again the mercenary blocked him. Stan started to scoot back away from the two, his ankle chain softly clanking as it dragged across the floor. Whatever was going on between them, he wanted no part of it.
“He's secure. He’s alive. Not fatally wounded, and will continue to stay that way.” Deeby stated. “You can leave now.”
Sweater-vest ventured an exaggerated glance over Deeby's shoulder, just barely giving Stan another view of his narrowed steel-colored eyes. Something about them made his heart skip a beat.
“You’re sure? Excuse me for not trusting your expertise, but he is absolutely covered in bruises and blood–”
“Yup, I’m sure. Go away.” Deeby didn't even entertain a glance back. “Buh-bye now.”
“Well, excuse me for not trusting you as far as I can throw you.” Stan could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied the scoff that Sweater-vest let out. “I’m not just here to annoy you personally, Deeby. Lana wants you to call her.”
Stan stopped scooting dead, an icy coldness surging through his chest, a sudden darkness swirling around his head. Lana. That sounded like a real name. Why was this man using real names? Deeby didn't use a real name, he was very dead set on that! Hell, the man used the Deeby fake name in the same sentence! Why was this new man using real names?! Real names were bad why was he using real names–?!
Deeby also stiffened at the name. His hand clenched for just a fraction of a second. Then he shook his head and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Why didn't she just call me instead of sending your british ass to deliver the message?” Deeby finally seemed to settle on.
“And I’m not giving a shit.”
Sweater-vest's eyes flicked over Deeby, up and down, before an unnerving grin spread across his face.
“I know something you don't know~” he sang slowly, like some sort of horror movie villain.
Chills and gooseflesh, Stan twitched from the sensation.
“You planning on telling me?” Declan asked, unphased. “Or you just gonna stand there like a skin-walker.”
“As soon as I verify the little super lives up to our wildest hopes and dreams.”
“Y’know, technically we’re supposed to be on the same side.”
The man sidestepped Deeby one last time, and this time, the mercenary just let him pass by. Stan shrank back as the piercing gaze of Sweater-vest appraised him, looking him up and down as he slowly walked closer.
“A bit worse for wear, no?” Sweater-vest noted, almost to himself.
“Yeah, little shit tried to escape. Got pretty far too, he's stronger than I thought.” Then he noticed Stan had backed up halfway across the room instead of staying in place on the floor right behind him. And sighed. “Kinda a wuss though…”
“Die,” Stan growled, scowling at the mercenary even as he clutched his knees to his chest.
“Oooooh,” Sweater-vest cooed, and Stan nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized how close the man had gotten to him. “Feisty little guy, huh?”
Stan kicked out at him and skittered back, only to realize he was almost out of room to skitter. So he reluctantly stood his ground. Well… Sat his ground. “Get away from me!”
“He's mostly talk,” Deeby called again. “Mostly.”
Stan barely even registered what Deeby said. His vision completely tunneled on Sweater-vest as he slowly advanced on Stan, like a predator stalking its prey.
“You really have a handle on him… don’t you?” Sweater-vest's eyes never once left Stan's. It was nearly entrancing. “Leashed and collared, like a little puppy dog… “
Stans cheeks burned. He glared at the man as hard as he could, jaw clenched so hard it could have broken, because honestly, how dare he?!
Deeby sighed, like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was now. Stan could relate.
“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.”
The man crouched directly in front of the trembling Stan. “Hi,” he said softly, disarmingly, giving Stan just the slightest tilt of the head. “My name is Vaughn, or you can call me Dr. Verhulst. It's–”
“Christ man, would you cut it out with the names!” Deeby yelled, causing the both of the smaller men to jump as he marched over. Stan reflexively curled up into a little ball, gut swirling with a new and terrifying form of dread and suddenly very aware of his restraints once more, while Sweater-vest–... Vaughn… sprang up to face down Deeby.
As much as Stan was absolutely terrified of Deeby, he had to admit he agreed with the bounty hunter on this one. The way Sweater-vest threw out names like that felt… Dangerous. On a visceral level. He hugged his legs closer to his chest.
“Why?” Sweater-vest taunted. “It's not as if he'll live to tell anyone.”
“Nothing's ever 100% with these things,” he growled. “Unless you want to get fifty to life in the states as well. You'd be doing me a huge favor, honestly, bring Lana down with you while you’re at it. But leave me out of it.”
Sweater-vest hummed, considering. Glanced Deeby up and down. “Don't you have an important phone call to get to, Deeby? I’d hate to have to tell Lana that her least favorite ex disobeyed her direct orders and needs to be dealt with.”
The mercenary stared down Sweater-vest. The intensity of it almost entranced Stan, it seemed to go on for an eternity. Then, finally, Deeby let out a small grunt, and took a slow, deep breath.
“Stan!” he yelled. Stan nearly yelped. “If he tries anything, kill him. And you.” he turned his attention right back to Sweater-vest before Stan could stutter out some sort of question or affirmation. “Don't fuck with him.”
“Aw, so protective, falling in love already?”
“I'll be back in a few, don't try anything!” He yelled as he made his way toward the door. Then, only slightly under his breath, “Pinche pendejo.”
The smile on Sweater-vest's face immediately dropped and he whirled around.
“Krijg de tering, vuile teringleier!”
The door slammed shut, the crack of metal against metal deafening in the sudden silence. And they were alone. Together.
Stan stared at the floor and clenched his fists, trying to calm his racing nerves. Did his best to keep his breathing even. Be still, not show weakness while also not challenging the man he was now alone with. He never thought he would ever actually miss Deeby's presence. But here they were.
“Brute.” Sweater-vest seethed under his breath as he sauntered back over to Stan. “Truly, we should've just put him out of his misery years ago.”
Then his demeanor completely shifted once more as he stood over Stan. More professional, more cold, more demanding.
“Anyway, stand up, let me get a look over you.”
“Are you ‘the guy?’” Stan blurted out before he had time to even realize he was doing it. Anything to break the sudden, unbearable tension.
Sweater-vest tilted his head with a raised eyebrow and a small laugh.
“Yeah…” Wow, suddenly he wished he never said anything. “The uh, the guy. You know the guy…” Stan's voice wavered as the man scrunch his nose at him. As if Stan was speaking an entirely different language. “Like. Like the guy. The guy who, uh, who…”
He took a deep breath, and blurted out, “The boss guy who had me kidnapped!”
A brief pause. The man stared at him.
“No,” he snorted. “No, no, I'm not ‘the guy.’ Your ‘guy’ is actually a lady, the lovely Ms. Lana whom I mentioned earlier. I wouldn’t make that mistake again, she doesn’t take kindly to that.”
Stan shrank into himself slightly. “Oh…”
Where had he heard that name before?
Stan didn't have time to ponder the question, though, as the man surged forward and reached down toward Stan's vulnerable neck, and Stan screeched and jolted back trying to get away, but the man was surprisingly fast for a guy who could be mistaken for an office drone.
Then suddenly Stan was choking as the two fingers looped under his collar and dragged him upward, squeezing Stan's windpipe fully shut with Stan gasping and clutching at the collar trying to free himself and allow his body the sweet air it so desperately begged for the whole short distance up. And when he was finally standing and the collar loosened just slightly, Stan coughed and wheezed and tried to double over on himself to lessen the pain, if only the man wasn't still holding him straight up by the collar. He finally managed to get his own fingers under the collar just enough to pull it away from flush against his throat, his body shifting from world-shaking coughs and gasps for air to shuddering wheezes and shivers, and only then did he realize that Vaughn’s other hand wasn't just sitting idly by. No, instead it settled on his arms and ribcage, pressing into the tender bruised flesh that marred his entire body.
He felt a sudden sharp pain at his side and twitched away from it, only for a steadying hand to fall straight onto another bruise on his waist and press in, clutch at it, holding him in place and sending jolts throughout his entire body that made him dizzy. All the breath left his body. He froze.
“What– What're you–?...”It felt almost taboo to break the sudden stillness. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his collar just tightened, knuckles pressing harder into his neck as Sweater-vest continued to press into his side. “Stop, let go…”
“Shhhhhh, dropje. Just let me do my work.”
“Your work?...” The hand pressed into his broken rib, and Stan yelped out and shoved the offending hand away from the tender area.
“STOP! Stop touching me! Stop!” Stan cried. This was too much. What was even happening here?
The man's dark gaze fixed on the place that had made Stan cry out, calculating, jaw set. Stan withdrew into himself sightly before he remembered himself, and stared defiantly right back. Then the gaze drifted slightly lower, softening with an almost mischievous smile and a low hum before he finally, finally, looked Stan square in the eyes.
Stan's heart turned to ice.
“WHAT?! No! You’re insane!”
Stan managed to rip free of his grip and launch backwards, only for his back to slam directly into the wall. He saw stars, and the world rocked around him.
He pressed into it regardless, held his cuffed hands up in front of his torso as some sort of measly defense. “Get– Get away from me! I'm not taking my shirt off! You're crazy, get away!”
He scowled, then reached into his pocket with a deep sigh. A glint of steel gleamed in the light as Vaughn pull out a pair of very sharp-looking scissors and waved them lazily at Stan's chest.
“You will,” Sweater-vest stated simply. “I'm a doctor, dropje, I have to take a look at your body, make sure that ass didn't leave any lasting damage. It’s no stranger to me seeing someone nude or fully clothed. You worry too much.”
Sweater-vest suddenly went to reach around his arms and get at the top button of his shirt, and Stan slapped them away, earning himself a glare from the man as he stepped closer once more and boxed him in completely.
“Stan… Schatje…” he spoke lowly, voice sickeningly sweet. The scissors drifted so close to his throat. “I'm going to make this so simple for you, yes? I'm cutting your shirt off now. If you make things difficult, then your shirt won't be the only thing cut, is that clear?”
Stan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to become so small. Small enough that the threat wouldn't see him anymore and he could run away and never have to deal with it again. This was insane. This was insane, right? This guy was insane!
“No, no, no, no, no, don't, get away from me, get away from me.” He tried to inject as much hissing venom as possible into the words, but they still didn't come out much above a squeaking, shaky whisper.
Vaughn reached for his top button, and though Stan pressed into the wall as much as he could, arms up and ready to strike at any moment, this time his fingers weren't stopped from undoing the top button. Then, continuing down from there. Then he gently grabbed Stan's wrists and moved them downward and continued unfastening, all the way down until the front of his shirt was completely open, the cool air giving Stan goosebumps.
“Oh,” Vaughn said, almost to himself, running his finger over the strap of Stan's chest binder. “I didn't realize you were transgender, Stan.”
The swirling mass of thoughts in Stan’s head finally meet the one overwhelming his gut and crashing down upon him, breaking the fragile spell keeping him paralyzed.
“DEEBY! HELP!!” Stan cried out, loud as he possibly could. As if Deeby would ever help him. As if he would save him. All Stan knew was that in that very moment, he would prefer the physically abusive mercenary a hundred times over this guy, the guy who looked at him like a lion at an antelope, the man who feigned kindness, whose smile seemed just a bit too perfect, who made weird cryptic comments and who threw names around as if it didn't matter whether or not Stan knew them. As if Stan would never live to escape. As if the horrors Stan would endure were cursed to echo the walls in which they occurred, never to be heard by another soul.
“Shhhh, shh, shhh, Stan... He's busy,” Vaughn dismissed, quickly pulling down the sleeve of his shirt and cutting it open down the seam. Stan's weak attempts to slap away the scissors or otherwise stop his disrobing were all but brushed off by the ‘doctor.’ A quick but very intentional blade to the neck was all he needed to freeze Stan up and allow him to continue.
Very soon, Vaughn had the shredded fabric that used to make up Stan's shirt sprawled across the floor at their feet. Stan didn't even feel the coolness of the room goosebumping his skin anymore, not with the burning red in his cheeks and the again wandering hands of Sweater-vest to keep him unbearably warm.
He could scarcely breathe. His brain started to feel farther and farther away from his body. His hair was standing on end, shivers running throughout his entire body, making him twitch. And he wondered if he should even put in the effort to ground himself. Maybe it would be easier if he were far, far away for all of this anyway.
“It's not like I care. It doesn't matter to me. I'll even let you keep your chest thing on, if that’d make you more comfortable... Stan.”
He snapped a few times in front of Stan's eyes, and Stan despairingly snapped back to reality. So close too. Just for Sweater-vest to smile his weird, creepy smile at him. There was no way to misconstrue the malicious gleam in his eyes, the one that made Stan's own eyes go wide and his breath halt entirely as he stared into them. His other hand was on Stan's back now. He was practically holding Stan in a facsimile of a hug. Pressing on his lower back. Lower. Just a bit too low for comfort.
“I'm serious, I can work with that,” he reassured, hand now dipping under Stan's waistband, and before Stan could react, he pulled the captive in close to him, pressing his pelvis securely into Stan's lower stomach while brushing to closed blades of the scissors along Stan's jawline and up his cheek. “It's not what I was expecting, but it doesn't change what I'm going to do to you.”
And that's when Stan pulled back and punched him square in the jaw.
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