[The door opens into a large, ornately decorated room. Down the center is a massive dining table, with complicated place settings but no food. There is one chair at each head, with plush, royal blue fabric upholstery. A single locked door is located at the far end of the hall, an ornate peacock carved into its wood.
At the seat closest to the door, a folded note stamped the same as all the others sits on the plate.]
Hello Cadet,
As your host, it would be most rude of me not to feed you. But I learned from your refusal of my earlier gift that you have no intention of partaking in the meal I spent so long preparing for you. Therefore, we’ll have to skip dinner and go straight to the show.
-🦚
[There is a loud thunk from the ceiling and the whirring of gears before a trap door opens up in the roof, and Jimmy descends from above, a mechanism holding his limbs up by the ribbons Andrew had tied around him. His head lolls against his chest, his fingers are limp, and if it wasn’t for a reddish flush to his skin, he would look more like a corpse than a person.
The machine continues its mechanical humming as it walks Jimmy clumsily along the table, knocking against silverware and fine china and creating wrinkles in the peacock-print tablecloth. His body sways side-to-side as his arms are forced wildly up and down, left and right, marionnetted by the machine. Then, when Jimmy is towering over Andrew, he comes to a stop, the ribbons snap, and Jimmy’s body comes tumbling down.
Jimmy falls onto the floor, taking a not insignificant amount of tableware with him. As he lies limply on the ground, blood pools from several scrapes on his arms and legs, as well as a large laceration along his forehead. His left knee is bent at the wrong angle, and bruises have formed where the ribbons were digging into his skin while holding him up. Despite his grievous injuries, his eyes finally start to flutter open, blearily taking in the scene before him.]
“A… rew…” he whispers before unconsciousness once again consumes him.
[A key falls from the shrinking gap in the ceiling and clangs against the floor. The clock strikes ten.]
(Andrew clicks their tongue under their breath as they scan the words.)
Oh, how kind of you to take note of my... dietary restrictions—what the fuck—
(He breaks off at the horror show being played in front of him. His frie—acquaintance jerked around like a literal puppet made of flesh of blood, the machinations controlling every movement of his, as if Jimmy is some wooden doll who can't feel pain.....)
(Andrew has imagined quite a few possibilities for what this peacock person has in mind for Jimmy. This is nothing like what they had remotely prepared themself for. He nearly jumps out of his skin as Jimmy crumbles right in front of him. They dive after, trying to catch Jimmy to no avail.)
Jimmy? Jimmy! (They pat his cheek lightly, cupping his face and—oh god, that's a lot of injuries all over Jimmy, blood trickling down his head, bruises everywhere, and his left leg is definitely broken. Andrew winces; Jimmy isn't like them, Jimmy is stupid. Naive. Soft. Good. Someone not meant for this kind of pain.)
Jimmy? Yes? It's me, yes, it's Andrew—
(They shake him again, but Jimmy has fallen unconscious again. Maybe it's better for him this way, to skip over the pain for a while.)
(The clang of metal calls his attention. Andrew scrambles to fetch the key, looking around wildly, Jimmy's head still cradled in their lap. He can't make out an exit, but there has to be an exit, what else is the key for? What is it for? Why lock them up and then give him a key?!)
What do you want from us? I don't get it, what's the point of all this—(a heavy, tired sigh)—I just.... I don't get it.
(Jimmy is as unresponsive and unhelpful as ever. Andrew lies him down on the floor gently, tearing off another strip from their shirt to press against the cut on his forehead that's oozing blood right now. The leg looks awful; best leave it to the professionals, if they make it out alive.)
(When they make it out alive. He hasn't survived Nigel to die in the States, fuck's sake.)
(Distantly, they note that it's ten o'clock already. Probably ten at night. Hopefully. If they didn't give him a fake clock to gaslight him. They settle for looking at the floor, the walls, knocking on it inch by inch, trying to feel for anything that could indicate an out.)
[Once the scarf is placed, an envelope slips under the door. Inside is an ornate bronze key, a note, and four lengths of green ribbon.]
Very good, Cadet. I noticed you fiddling with the lock, and it would be most inconvenient if you were to break it, so I’ve provided you with the key. In the room next door, you’ll find the next lesson I’d like you to learn. Before going in, do me a favor and tie those ribbons around your little friend’s wrists and ankles. I promise you, disobeying me has dire consequences, and besides, it would be rude to deny your host.
I recommend you proceed with haste, also. Staying in one room for so long can be positively suffocating.
-🦚
[From a small crack in a corner between the cement walls, a hiss sounds as gas begins to fill the room.
Jimmy is still asleep, it seems likely he won’t wake up for a while.
Distantly, a clock chimes nine times.]
What the fuck......?
(Andrew whips around, eyes darting around wildly. If they can see him trying to pick the lock, then that surely means they're watching—of course they are, of course, you're never alone even in a locked room, he should've known—! They're watching. Through what?)
(It has to be somewhere they can see the door lock, and preferably the rest of the room. Either of the two back corners of the room makes the most sense.)
(wildly, fingers flying in BSL) What do you want from me? Why him?! (Then, back in spoken,) I don't get it, what's this whole game? What's the—
—Shit. I'll—I don't—(he tears a strip of fabric from his shirt, tying it over his mouth. It's the thought that counts, for his own comfort)—Fine, fine! I'll—(he grabs the ribbon, minute tremors in his hands)—I'll—I'll fucking do it, you bitch.
(It doesn't take long to tie his ankles and wrists to the chair, although he does his best to make looser knots. Just as a fuck you. They almost book it for the door as soon as they're done, before their eyes make the connection.)
What if Jimmy suffocates? Is the face mask enough to keep him alive?
.....Probably not.
(They run back, taking off their jacket and haphazardly blocking the crack in the walls, quickly finding it by the sound.)
(What will he find in the next room? What's lying in wait for him?)
If you're thinking what I'm thinking, and you want me to stop what I'm doing.... over my dead body.
(There's not much for them to live for, come to think of it. Earth's been a pretty shitty experience lately. Leaving the party early is no shame when the party's been giving you nightmares and flashbacks and paranoia.)
IVE BEEN DROOLING OVER THIS ALL DAY WAY BEFORE I EVEN GOT THE ASK.....i really do need them to snatch me omfg..
I love many many yandere stsg flavors, but it ALWAYS has to be oblivious, delusional and insanely sweet, no matter the reader, they'll always believe they're doing what's best for you.
They both have equal chance of stalking you first. Either Satoru thinks you're incredibly cute and believing its just a silly little fascination, he just likes to watch you from afar after bumping into you at that one coffee shop early in the morning, its not really his fault you happen to show up wherever he has business? OR Suguru finding you in a moment of need and desperation, a situation where he as a stranger had to step in to shield you from potential harm, and it just triggers something within him and he begins to feel such visceral responsibility for you, he already does feel a sense of duty towards what is weak and defenseless or just...small..., he'd actually actively look for you though....
COULD BE BOTH AT ONCE!!!!! But i do love the idea of one of them becoming absolutely infatuated and alarming his husband, then putting him on the stalking afterwards too lol
They definitely have the power to manipulate your world in order to coax you closer and closer to them, they wouldn't hurt you tho. I think whats more their style would be luring you into their home after fostering a friendship then never letting you out again... "why dont you stay for dinner?" "Its late, we'll drop you off first thing in the morning" "oh your boss called to let you know no work today? Hmmm..how odd, oh! Seems muffins are ready!" "Why dont you stay for the weekend, we're having a wonderful time aren't we?" And then it turns into more borderline threatening/intimidating responses TT disappointed stares, kiiinddddd of reprimanding, 'That’s weird, why do you want to leave?' Energy. I wouldn't say they're trying to gaslight you bcuz........ they believe the lie as well LMFAO
Then the "call me this and call me that" starts, it makes complete sense tho doesn't it? They nurture and take care of you, deep down it just feels so right. Before you know it its exclusively mommy and daddy now, and its something they reinforce with rewrads and gentle reprimand, like you're being trained .. isn't that fun...
They strip you of your privacy of course, they monitor the fuck out of you just very very smothering, coddling, all under the pretense of worry and protection tho, because "we don't keep secrets, do we sweetie?" But they will be trying to merge with you TAT its very overwhelming (In a less toxic dynamic they might SUBCONSCIOUSLY frame this much openness as the rite of passage into their relationship TvT)
But yeah, they're very patronizing TvT still give you a lot of passes fully believing you're being silly and not knowing what's good for you...... HONESTLY......you should just be okay with it as crazy as it sounds LMAOOO, be their little pampered cat. I think they do very very well with a willing....captive? TAT
So like….i always thought Inho styles his hair in season two to resemble Sang-woo’s, right? Kind of a subtle manipulation tactic to get Gihun to maybe trust him sooner…
What if Inho kept Gihun with him after the second games? What if Gihun called Inho Youngil but stopped after a couple of years after being…punished…
And what if, when Inho thought Gihun would FINALLY only call him by his real name…
Gihun would say to him, “I love you Sangwoo.”
….yes there will eventually be a story with this premise…
Selected Passages from the Journal of Dr. Nathaniel Adams, 2009-2010
Summary: A collection of journal entries from the scientist who gave Stiles his powers, recounting the early days of Stiles’s captivity.
TW: captivity, abuse, medical torture (described matter-of-factly)
I wrote this short story, sort of a monologue, and I quite like it. For context, the scenario I pictured is that a man is holding his romantic partner hostage, and they haven’t seen each other for quite some time, he feels guilty (to clarify I’m not trying to make this character sympathetic, its just from his POV) so he’s trying to make up for it with a typical British method of calming things down - tea. Hence the title, ‘Tea’. I’ve tried to leave it open for interpretation so you can choose which pairing you want to use, or how it might end, but I enjoyed writing something a bit darker and I hope you enjoy it:
Is it okay if I come in? …Hello? Did you hear me? I was just wondering if I could- oh, okay, I’ll just open the door then. Hi, it’s been a while since our last chat, are you alright? Well, I guess ‘alright’ isn’t a word we can use right now, of course you’re not ‘alright’, silly question really. But still, are you… okay? You’re shrugging, is that a yes shrug or a no shrug? …Since you’re still not talking, I’ll be an optimist and hope it’s a yes shrug.
Anyway, that’s enough rambling, I promise you can get back to your book soon. It’s just, um, I made a mug of tea. For you, not me, I hate the stuff. I suppose I never asked, actually, do you drink tea? I just figured that, well, you’re British, so it’s a safe bet? Right? Oh god, I’m not trying to spread stereotypes, that sounded so stupid. A lot of British people don’t like tea, maybe you prefer coffee? Or… water? It’s a lot more bland, but would you prefer a glass of that instead? It’s already a warm day so a hot drink might not be… I’m rambling again, sorry.
I wish you’d just talk to me. Sorry, that sounds rude. What I mean is, I wish you felt comfortable talking to me. I know this isn’t the best situation, but I’m trying, I really am. Oh, please just look at me. It’s been so long, I don’t even know what drink to get you. Some input would be really helpful, I’m messing it all up, which is embarrassing for me and probably really annoying for you when you just want to be left in peace. Sorry again. And sorry for all the apologies, it just seems like the right thing to do, I’ve got so much to apologise for…
Anyway, you’ve been cooped up in this tiny room for ages. I thought, maybe, we could take a walk later? It’s a nice day today, the sun’s shining, not many clouds, probably won’t rain. Not like last week, last week was miserable. So much grey sky, never-ending. God, I’m still holding this bloody tea. It’s going cold now, should I reheat it? No? Okay, should I leave it? …Are you sure? You haven’t had anything to drink for hours, you must be feeling parched at least.
Okay, look, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll just leave the mug here on the table, shall I? In case you want it later? There’s biscuits too, the chocolate ones you used to like back home. I thought maybe you’d like them. Is it alright if I just slightly move this little stack of books you’ve got, just an inch? Don’t want any tea splashing on the covers, is all I was thinking… no? Yeah, you’re right, I’d probably drop them or mess up your order, I’ll just leave them alone.
Sorry for barging in, I know you don’t want to see me right now. I miss you. I promised I wouldn’t say that sort of thing, don’t want to be clingy. But I do. Enjoy your tea, I brought milk and sugar separately, not sure what your preferences are and it felt like a strange question to ask out of the blue. Of course it might just make me seem like a very poor host, essentially forcing you to make your own tea. I’m not very good at this sort of thing, am I?
I’ll just leave you be, now. I hope we can actually talk, soon, it’s weird seeing you so quiet. Are you sure you’re okay for now…? Sorry, sorry, I’ll go. Call me if you need anything, I love you. Oh, and happy birthday.
Two whumpees grow close dispite the wall between them, their cells are next to each other and they’ve never seen eachother but they talk all the time, about their past and all the stuff they wanna do when they get outta there, they comfort each other after sessions with whumper (weather that be torture or experiments, etc)
Then one day the other doesn’t answer. Or they finally escape together and get to see what each other looks like, hug each other.
TW: Kidnapping/ Abduction. Captivity. Drugging. Restraints. Threats of Violence. Stockholm Syndrome Themes
Summary: After being caught in a hunter’s trap and lured in by a false sense of kindness, a young faun, Oriel, finds himself held captive by a man who vacillates between gentle care and terrifying threats of violence.
note: I’m calling Oriel a fawn although a faun is part human part goat with two goaty legs, but Oriel is part deer. A Cervitaur is like a deer centaur, having 4 legs. So, I will simply refer to Oriel as a Faun. I'm doing my own thing!
-------
He had caught many fauns before, their fur and antlers caught a pretty penny down at the market, their meat a delicious treat that could be enjoyed year around if frozen.
This It wasn't part of Flint's plan to take the little faun to his home and keep him, but he was so small compared to the others he had caught before, not much meat to him at all. But it was those big brown eyes that really made him change his mind. And his soft voice, it reminded him of her.
—--
The faun tried to break free when he saw a man, tall and gruff, approach, but his ankle was crushed, firmly held inside the iron jaws of a hunter's trap. “Go away! Please, just go away! Leave me alone!” he cried.
“Calm down, little one. Let me help you.” Gently, the man approached the frightened boy.
He reached out his hand to release the trap. “A mean old tick, this is,” he murmured.
Oriel flinched at the wave of pain, but felt immense relief as the heavy iron jaws released their grip. The pressure was gone; the trap was no longer digging into his skin and bone.
“Can you stand?” the man asked. He helped the creature stand on two skinny little deer-like legs. Oriel shook like a leaf, then collapsed when he tried to put any weight on his injured limb.
“Thats no good. Let me take you back to my cabin. It’s not far, just this way. I can wrap it for you.”
Something deep inside Oriel told him not to trust the man, to run even if it hurt, to get far away. But he took the man’s offered hand. The man scooped him up easily into his arms and carried him a few hundred meters to his home.
The cabin was bigger than the faun had expected. It looked as if the whole structure was made of stacked logs and stained a deep mahogany.
At the door, they were greeted by a large dog with big, droopy ears. Oriel jumped, and still in the man's arms, he wrapped his arms tightly around the man’s neck, clutching the fur collar of his jacket.
The man's booming laughter radiated through Oriel's whole body.
“Oh, don't worry about him,” he said, shooing the dog away. “He’s a big softy. He won't bother you.”
Inside was warm and cozy. The man set him gently by a dying fireplace; the few glowing embers left offered a small, welcoming warmth.
The man disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a hot cup of herbal tea. “I added a good ol’ heap of honey.”
Oriel sipped the tea and it warmed his belly, giving him a moment to take in his surroundings.
The living room was small, centered around the stone hearth. A braided rug lay beneath him, and the mismatched but comfortable furniture, including a plush armchair draped with a faded quilt, suggested a simple, settled life.
The man brought over a tin box with all kinds of bandages inside. “Can I take a look at that?” he gestured to Oriel's wounded ankle.
Oriel nodded and readjusted himself so the man could get a better look at his leg. The man's hands were large and calloused, marked by years of hard work, yet he handled Oriel with a surprising gentleness, as if the faun were made of glass.
“It might be fractured. For now, let’s clean and wrap it,” he said, inspecting the wound.
“A lot of people don't know this, but it's better to skip the harsh antiseptics like peroxide or alcohol; it can damage the good tissue,” he explained, carefully wiping the blood from the puncture wounds and scrapes, Oriel winced. “All you need is a little mild soap and water.”
The man rubbed a thin layer of antibiotic cream on the cuts before wrapping his entire leg firmly with gauze and a support wrap, which helped to stabilize his limb.
“What do they call you, little one?” the man asked.
“Oriel, sir,” the faun replied.
“Your fur is very beautiful, Oriel.” The man's eyes lingered on the soft tan and white fur covering his legs, which peeked out from under his trousers.
Oriel blushed, his deer-like ears atop his head twitched. “Thank you for helping me, sir.”
Soon, Oriel felt incredibly sleepy, as if he simply couldn't keep his eyes open. Listening to the crackle of the fire, he fell into a deep sleep...
Oriel woke up the next day in a different room, tucked into a plush bed. He thought nothing of it at first, assuming he must have fallen asleep and had been a terrible burden, taking the man’s bed. He was now wearing a large, baggy shirt, it fit him like a dress. He flushed red knowing the man must have changed his clothes after he had fallen asleep.
He sat up on the side of the bed, noticing a heavy weight on his wrist. He raised his arm to find a metal cuff, clamped around his wrist, connected to a chain. Oriel’s heart plummeted. Oh no.
He stood and pulled at the long chain, its other end attached to the wrought iron bedpost with a padlock. He tugged at the cuff, as if he could slip it off, then tugged at the chain, hoping to break it from the post.
“No, no, no, no…” He began to panic. He was trapped. He knew he shouldn't have trusted the man.
“Good morning, my little doe.” The man’s voice greeted him from behind. Oriel spun around, nearly falling over, unbalanced on his wounded ankle.
“Did you sleep well?” The man stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
Oriel held up his cuffed wrist. “Why?”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s just a precaution,” the man assured him, offering a warm smile. “I don’t want you going anywhere just yet. You need plenty of time to heal.”
“I want to go home,” he protested. “I have to go home.” Tears blurred his vision.
“Don’t fret, little one,” he said, turning to leave. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Please, you can’t keep me here!” Oriel rushed toward the door to stop the man, but the chain yanked him back, causing him to stumble and fall to the floor.
“Awe, come on now. Don’t work yourself up. I’ll be back soon with breakfast.”
Oriel curled in on himself, frustrated and terrified. He cried.
His captor did bring him breakfast later. A tray with juice, toast, eggs, and juicy sliced tomato, salted and peppered. It looked great.
“It’s not drugged this time. I promise,” he reassured the faun.
Drugged? The word hit Oriel with the force of a punch. He had been drugged. Of course. He thought back to last night and remembered nothing soon after drinking the tea.
Oriel didn't touch the food despite the man's promise.
He told him he would leave him alone for a while so that he could acclimate, and that he didn't want to scare him. Though Oriel was terrified.
Then he brought him dinner, just broth.
He didn't touch that, either.
“You have to eat,” the man told him, checking in on him later in the night, seeing the cold, untouched broth. Oriel ignored him, staring out the window into the night sky, the moonlight illuminating the room, his back to the door.
“You're a hunter.”
“I am,” the man confirmed.
“You set that trap.”
“I did,” the hunter admitted.
There was a long pause; the air felt stiff. Oriel wanted to ask if he planned on killing him, but he was too afraid of what the answer might be.
“Please, let me go,” he tried instead, his voice hardly a whisper.
The man ignored his plea and left him alone in the room, his prison, once again.
—
The second day of Oriel’s captivity the man brought him breakfast again. “If you don’t eat today, I’ll have to force feed you.”
He picked at the toast and sipped the juice. He had no appetite. How could he eat, knowing he was trapped, at the mercy of a hunter who might skin him alive at any time? Who would even look for a little runt like him? He had no one. Not really. His family probably didn't even notice he was gone, or were relieved that he was.
All day he picked at the lock on his wrist, breaking multiple fingernails, trying to use his saliva as lubricant. No luck.
—-
On the third day, the man came with nothing. “Will you have breakfast with me downstairs?” he invited instead.
Reluctantly, Oriel agreed with a simple nod. He wanted out of this room, maybe he would get a chance to run.
The hunter unlocked the chain from the bedpost. Oriel made a mental note of where he put the key, in his pocket, and what it looked like: a silver skeleton key with a piece of red string tied around it.
The man picked him up and took him downstairs. Photos in mismatched frames lined the wall down the steps. He sat Oriel at the table in the kitchen, the chain padlocked to the chair.
Oriel began to pay attention to his surroundings, making note of doors and windows in case he had the chance to escape. Everything was very simple: wood, minimal decor. Just a table, two chairs, a range, stone oven, a fridge with papers and magnets stuck to the front, and a quilted rug on the hardwood floor. The air smelled sweet.
“What’s your name?” Oriel asked bravely.
“I haven’t told you?” The man set a plate of pancakes down in front of him.
“Flint,” he introduced himself. “And this is Hart,” he gestured to the bloodhound lying on the rug beneath the table. “Like heart, but no ‘E’.” He drew a heart shape with syrup as he poured it over the pancakes.
Flint threw Hart a piece of pancake, and the dog caught it midair, flashing its canine teeth. Oriel still felt a little uneasy around the hound, though it hadn't shown any aggression at all.
The faun merely forked at the pancakes in front of him, and took a few bites to avoid the threat of force feeding again. Flint wolfed his down, all six of them.
What did this man want with him? Why was he being kind? Hunters aren't kind; they kill creatures like him.
After a few awkwardly quiet moments, Oriel spoke.
“I want to go home,” he requested.
Suddenly, Flint stood, the chair flying out from under him. He grabbed the faun by his hair, pulling his head back to force eye contact.
“You say that again, you ask me to let you go one more time,” he spat, hot maple breath on the little faun’s face. “I’ll stuff and mount you above my fireplace.” He was not his usual, strangely nice and intimate self. He was serious; his eyes were cold.
Tears sprang to Oriel’s eyes.
“You understand?” Flint bobbed his head around for emphasis.
“Yes. Yes, sir.” Oriel let his tears fall freely.
Flint immediately calmed down after the outburst, acting as if nothing happened. He sat back down and to eat, forcing Oriel to remain terrified and restrained while he enjoyed his breakfast. His casual cruelty was highly unnerving.
