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criticalkinkThe rules are under the cut for you to read if you haven't already checked out the profile!
Welcome to the kink meme for Critical Role!
This community is open to all fans of Critical Role no matter what your preference for pairing may be. You do not have to join the community: you can either watch it or just track the post. Anon commenting will always be on, and IP tracking will be off. So feel free to stay anon if it makes you more comfortable.
What is a Kink Meme?
It's pretty simple. You post a prompt and your fellow fans get inspired and write fic based on that prompt. As it is a "kink" meme, a great deal of fic will be of the smutty variety, so if you aren't into that or not of a porn-reading age, this place won't be for you. Not all fic has to be smutty, but it does have to be kinky.
Clarification: This is a kink meme, therefore prompts must be kink-based. It is not a general prompting/headcanons meme. There have been a couple of people confused by that, so we're just making it extra clear.
Please only post one prompt per comment so to avoid any confusion.
How do I prompt?
Post each prompt as a new comment to the main post. Include pairing (or threesome or more if that's your thing) and anything else you want to add. You should put, at the very least, the pairing in the subject line along with a specific kink if it applies. You can put the whole prompt in the subject if it will fit, but if it doesn't, use the comments. For example:
Subject line: Beauregard/Jester, friends to lovers
Body of comment: Jester's been letting Beau use her for sparring practice. That kind of proximity does things to a tiefling.
I see a prompt I want to write! What now?
Go for it! You don't have to claim it, and fills can be written by more than one person. Once you've finished you must post it as a response to the original comment. Responses should use a subject line that includes the pairing, rating & any necessary warnings (i.e. incest, non-con, etc.). If you have titled your fic you can also include that. Also, as LJ limits the size of comments, if your fic goes into multiple comments, please note that your comment is part 1/5, part 2/5 and so on. Using the prompt above, the subject line could read:
"Punches and Pastries, Jester/Beauregard, M, 1/3"
And now some rules...
While we want this to be a relaxed and cool place, we also don't want people to feel uncomfortable being here. If you have suggestions or comments on how this community can improve please address to them tocriticalkink in a PM or drop a comment on this post.
The most important rule of all? HAVE FUN.
Now go forth and prompt!
Welcome to the kink meme for Critical Role!
This community is open to all fans of Critical Role no matter what your preference for pairing may be. You do not have to join the community: you can either watch it or just track the post. Anon commenting will always be on, and IP tracking will be off. So feel free to stay anon if it makes you more comfortable.
What is a Kink Meme?
It's pretty simple. You post a prompt and your fellow fans get inspired and write fic based on that prompt. As it is a "kink" meme, a great deal of fic will be of the smutty variety, so if you aren't into that or not of a porn-reading age, this place won't be for you. Not all fic has to be smutty, but it does have to be kinky.
Clarification: This is a kink meme, therefore prompts must be kink-based. It is not a general prompting/headcanons meme. There have been a couple of people confused by that, so we're just making it extra clear.
Please only post one prompt per comment so to avoid any confusion.
How do I prompt?
Post each prompt as a new comment to the main post. Include pairing (or threesome or more if that's your thing) and anything else you want to add. You should put, at the very least, the pairing in the subject line along with a specific kink if it applies. You can put the whole prompt in the subject if it will fit, but if it doesn't, use the comments. For example:
Subject line: Beauregard/Jester, friends to lovers
Body of comment: Jester's been letting Beau use her for sparring practice. That kind of proximity does things to a tiefling.
I see a prompt I want to write! What now?
Go for it! You don't have to claim it, and fills can be written by more than one person. Once you've finished you must post it as a response to the original comment. Responses should use a subject line that includes the pairing, rating & any necessary warnings (i.e. incest, non-con, etc.). If you have titled your fic you can also include that. Also, as LJ limits the size of comments, if your fic goes into multiple comments, please note that your comment is part 1/5, part 2/5 and so on. Using the prompt above, the subject line could read:
"Punches and Pastries, Jester/Beauregard, M, 1/3"
And now some rules...
- Since we're all supposed to be adults here, let's act like it. Be respectful to your fellow posters.
- Your kink is not someone else's and their kink may not be yours. If you don't like it, don't read it. It's really that simple.
- Please no bashing of other pairings. Just like with kinks, everyone has their own flavors, and this is neither the time nor place for ship wars. This meme is meant to include the entire fandom.
- Crossover prompts are allowed, but they must include a Critical Role character as a main part of the prompt.
- RPF is also allowed, but please prompt it over here!
- Het, slash, femmeslash? You're all welcome here. The more the merrier!
- It's not a requirement by any means, but writers love feedback, so if you read something you enjoy, take a second to tell the writer. Whether it's a one word response or something longer, it's always appreciated.
- Please follow basic kink meme etiquette by not linking the cast or crew to this meme.
While we want this to be a relaxed and cool place, we also don't want people to feel uncomfortable being here. If you have suggestions or comments on how this community can improve please address to them to
criticalkink in a PM or drop a comment on this post.The most important rule of all? HAVE FUN.
Now go forth and prompt!
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 5/?
Date: 2021-07-15 10:38 am (UTC)A knee in the center of his back, atop sluggishly bleeding wounds.
No. No no no.
Everything speeds up. Slows down. Hurts. It hurts. Dawnfather, he knows what is about to happen and it hurts. Anticipating makes it hurt more. He remembers that much. He has to relax. He needs to relax.
“Funny man,” says the interrogator.
Caleb wants to say I’d like to think so, or perhaps Well, Zemnian humor is very dry, you know. But he can hear the sound of flesh against flesh and knows what is coming. His voice freezes up in a way it hasn’t before now and he feels shame, a vile, deep shame, at how he still has difficulty enduring this. Even after all his training so long ago, even after Vergesson, even after crossbow bolts in his stomach and demons playing in his brain, this is still the one thing he is incapable of handling with amusement or indifference.
Well —
burning flesh not his own, shadows against the curtains, banging at the door, smoke in the chimney like it’s normal, the cart’s blocking the door, they can’t get out they can’t get out they
— one of two things.
Caleb feels the warm wetness of spit against his ass and tries to relax. But it is so difficult, it is so difficult when his body is already both loose with exhaustion and tense with pain. So difficult when he has no energy to fight but no calm to allow himself to relax. He wants to imagine better times, wants to imagine other encounters, imagine men and women from the road or Eadwulf or even one of his friends, but he can’t, he can’t…
You must endure, Bren. Yes. He must endure it. He must not be so weak. This time you can fight it. And This time pretend you like it. And This time you can cry. And This time you must orgasm. And This…
But this time all he can do is whimper when he feels the drow’s finger push into him and hold him open. Twitch when it’s replaced by a cock. Have the wind knocked out of him and sob when the bastard shoves in with a foreign curse. He can’t even scream.
“Were you trained for this as well, then?” The interrogator is still circling.
Caleb is trying to breathe. He can’t… can’t breathe…
“I asked you a question, dog. Were you trained to take cock during your interrogations? You’re not very good at it.”
He almost coughs but can’t, can’t muster the breath needed to do so, can feel more wetness on his thighs, probably blood, gods he can’t breathe…
“Not even a decent fuck, eh Vadin?”
The bastard pumping into him, pounding, splitting him in half and making him bleed, has the nerve to laugh. Caleb shouldn’t be angry. He shouldn’t be crying. He knows this. But he’s crying anyway and he can’t make himself stop.
“Ah, at least he’s warm,” says the guard pulling out all the way for a moment before thrusting back in. This time he does manage to scream.
“Still hasn’t answered my question, though.” The interrogator completes the circle and approaches Caleb where he is lying, pressed to the floor, being raped. (He hates using that word. Hates thinking it. Hates it. Makes him feel weak and passive. He is not ‘being’ anything, he is enduring. That is what he is. He is enduring. He is a soldier of the Empire and he will serve his intended purpose. He is a soldier.)
The interrogator squats in front of him, smiling as one would at a child.
“I asked, dog,” the drow repeats, pulling Bren’s head up by his hair. “Were you taught to take cock while you were being trained to murder peasants and slaughter babies? How do you heathens fuck in the Empire? In a pool of innocent blood, perhaps? Were you trained to serve your betters on your back?”
In between his choked off gasps Bren finds himself shivering and drifting, back in that half-there state he used to get to during sessions. Floating, dazed, outside of his body but still tethered to it. Bren manages to speak through gritted teeth:
“W-why not tr… t-try my mouth and f-find out, crick.”
He wishes the insult came out with more bite, but he’s not exactly there right now. The man just laughs.
“Delightful. I wonder, was it your scourger friends who fucked you? Your handlers? Did your King pay you a visit to clean his cock? Or did they loan you out for favors and information? No wonder they brought you in so easily! My men captured an Empire whore instead of a proper scourger! Tell me, did you mean to steal state secrets from beastmen in the pubs of Asarius while you were on your knees for them, or was that just for fun?”
The guard is pressing down on his shoulders and he can feel the excruciating sting of still open wounds, the ache of bruises, all paired with the feeling of being torn open…
(Bren feels Eadwulf on top of him, guilty and reluctant but determined. He feels another student, enchanted, empty eyed, likely one of Master Ikithon’s next pupils, and he wonders if Trent had him do this last year when they visited for their interviews. He feels a rich man from Port Zoon he is told to seduce for information. He feels a noblewoman who he thought would be gentle, but she…)
No. He will endure. He is a soldier.
“Is that what you were for that crew of yours? Your little band? Did they take you all together or did you just belong to one of them, ah? Lift him, Vadin.”
Crew? Band?
Bren can hardly process what is being said before his head is pulled farther up, his back arching, his body protesting every movement. He’s lifted by his hips and hair and placed on his knees, held fast to the man still thrusting into him from behind. His dislocated arms still hang limply at his sides,
He’s crying. His vision is fuzzy. He’s so confused. He will endure. He is a soldier of the Empire.
“I wonder, was it the half-breed that took you first?”
Half-breed?
He feels a hand around his dick. He can barely move but somehow his weak attempts to squirm away push him further back towards the man destroying him from the inside. The guard behind him laughs. The interrogator moves his hand slowly, fondling Bren’s flaccid length, watching Bren’s face. He tries and fails to maintain an expression of disgust rather than despair.
How disappointing, Bren.
The guard behind him lifts him up bodily and drops him, and this time, Bren screams as something is slammed inside of him, causing his whole body to jerk and his cock to twitch in the interrogator's hand. He feels it sharp as pain, hot as pleasure, and it makes him want to die. No, no no no don’t feel that, don't feel that, don’t feel good, that’s how they do it, that’s how they—
“Hah!” The hand around his cock tightens and the guard’s next two thrusts hit that spot inside him again, pushing a desperate whine out of his throat. Caleb focuses on the pain even as the hand slaps his hardening cock from beneath, making his hips twitch with need. “So it was the half-orc! Were you spying on him, then, or did your Assembly give you to him as a pet? Did you warm his cock at night? Did he bring you around Asarius on a leash?”
Half-orc…
“Did he share you with others? The tiefling perhaps, or the angel-blooded—”
Bren doesn’t know who…
No…
They…
He…
Bren remembers his name and Caleb screams.
He can feel blood in his throat as he strains his dried vocal chords, can feel blood everywhere all over him, wants more than ever just to die, to die while he still knows who he is, while he still remembers his friends, he can’t lose them, he won’t lose them, he can’t, not Beau, Fjord, Jester, Nott…
A noise from the door, a bright light, it’s blinding, he can’t see, the men around him move suddenly, as though panicked, one of them grabbing his shoulder and pushing and it’s like a white hot lance of pain his arms his back he can’t he can’t—
Caleb passes out.
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 6/?
Date: 2021-08-04 12:57 am (UTC)—————————————
When Caleb wakes he is lying down on a padded cot. It is not comfortable, but he is… whole?
And there is no one on top of him. In him. That is relieving.
He is, of course, still in pain. Caleb almost doesn't remember what it’s like not to be in some measure of pain. His upper body is propped up, somewhat, allowing him to look down at the rest of him in the dim light: his shoulders are both tightly bandaged, but he sees no open wounds on his front. He has small clothes on, and a blanket as well. There is an ointment on his fingers, and the skin there looks raw and red… but there is skin there, where there was none before. Recalling what happened to him yesterday (today? How long has he been asleep?), however, brings about both nausea and the fear that they have healed him only to start over again.
Two Drow are conversing quietly in the corner. He doesn’t recognize either of them, but they are unarmored.
“Is—” Caleb coughs as his voice fails him for a moment. “Is this the c-carrot, then?”
Both drow turn sharply, as though surprised to find him awake. The one on the right — long hair, long face, purple and gray clothes, and quiet footsteps — moves quickly, bringing him water in a small cup that they lift to Caleb’s lips. He has enough sense to take it and not enough pride to be a shit about it. He swallows the water though it feels like broken glass. Dehydration will do that to you, he recalls. He lifts his hand and is quickly dissuaded by the drow with the cup.
“Nunuhno, do not move. Your arms and shoulders are still badly damaged. Only so much can be done in this place. Please, lie still.”
Their voice is oddly soothing, light and lilting. Whether they’re a secondary interrogator or a caretaker or what have you, they’re good at this. Caleb sips from the cup a little more before they take it away and place it next to a pitcher. He sees them throw a stern, warning look at the other drow, who simply nods.
“If you could, Grithis, I would be most appreciative,” comes the polished voice of the other drow, a slight man who gestures to the door.
“Do not move your arms and fingers overmuch,” Grithis speaks softly to Caleb. “Your back is better, and the… your other injuries have been tended to, though we shall still be checking for infection regularly. It is the nerve damage which is concerning, though that should heal given adequate time.” They — she? He does not know — turn back to the other man, their voice considerably more stern. “He should be moved to a healing room.”
“You know we cannot do that as of yet.”
“So you say, Shadowhand.”
“I do indeed. For now. Thank you, Hearthweaver.” He says with a slight nod, clearly dismissing them. Shadowhand and Hearthweaver. Interesting. Recalling the minotaur titled Sunbreaker, Caleb wonders if all Kryn ranks or postings are so evocative.
The Hearthweaver, whomever they are, leaves, and the Shadowhand steps closer into the light.
As he approaches, the slight figure resolves into someone around Caleb’s height, which is surprisingly tall for elvenkind. The man’s hair is short and neatly styled, shorn on the sides in a way that reminds him oddly of Beauregard, and his form — unlike with the interrogator or his guards — is completely enshrouded by a heavy cloak.
“What was it you asked, then?” The man’s tone is gentle, inquisitive, though not overly kind.
“I asked,” Caleb swallowed again, still finding speech someone difficult. “Is this the carrot.”
“The… Ah, yes. A Zemni idiom, yes?”
“Fairly c-common across Wildemount, actually,” corrects Caleb, voice still rough. He wonders if that is useful information, if he shouldn’t have said it, and immediately chides himself for the foolish thought.
“I see. This… Well it is not the stick, as it were. I suppose you could say it is the carrot, though I am not sure yet.”
The drow’s hand appears from within his cloak and waves a light gesture.
“I find it h-hard to believe that you are not certain of what you are doing, Herr Shadowhand.”
“Fair enough,” replies the drow, drifting over to a chair a good six feet away from Caleb. The chair is positioned such that Caleb need not turn his head overmuch to see the man. Odd. Usually they attempt to foster a greater sense of intimacy in these encounters, or make the prisoner strain to ask for help. But this man does not look contrite or sympathetic, nor is he sitting close and making prolonged eye contact. And yet he is attempting to make this unobtrusive, comfortable, but without a sense of urgency.
“What is the game, then?”
“I only wish to ask a few questions—”
“If you say the word ‘mission’,” Caleb interrupts, coughing after the first few words, “Or ‘report’ or whatever the fuck else he were asking, you might just as well bring your man back to have me raped or beaten again. I am not whoever you think I am.”
The Shadowhand doesn’t respond for a moment. Nor does he twitch. He is… frustratingly difficult to read. Caleb’s eyes have since adjusted to the dim light of these dungeons, but he still hates the idea that his tormentors are able to detect every nuance of his face while he is still at a visual disadvantage. Though he isn’t sure whether his inability to suss out what this man is thinking is due to the low light, the other man’s training, or his own exhaustion.
Eventually the drow speaks.
“The Taskhand has… been removed from this posting.”
“Taskha… the interrogator?”
“Correct.”
Caleb scoffs. “Ja, and I suppose you mean to tell me that the Kryn Dynasty does not go in for torturing their poor hapless prisoners?”
“Not at all,” comes the reply with a surprising level of calm. “Torture is a standard part of the interrogation procedure. Certain… other behaviors, however, are not permitted. The Taskhand committed acts that would typically have one locked in here as well, but I’m afraid that would not be possible for someone of his stature. Tasithar has been censured and moved to a different posting. Away from prisoners. I’m sure this is of little comfort to you, of course.”
‘Fucking insulting,’ Caleb thought. ‘Oh, that wasn’t our rapist, we didn’t ask him to do that, we just mean to benefit from it. Aren't you grateful we gave the bastard a nice little desk job across town?’ At least they had the decency to admit that torture was on the menu.
“Was it ‘Tasithar’? I’m afraid I never got th- the man’s name. You know how these casual affairs go, like ships in the night.”
No flinch, no trace of guilt, but no scoff or rolling of eyes either. Tough crowd.
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 7/?
Date: 2021-08-04 06:16 am (UTC)Caleb laughs, coughs, sighs. He’d only heard the term for the first time in these dungeons while they were bringing him in. Wasn’t hard to figure out what they were talking about. Whom they were talking about.
“I know only pieces.”
“Pieces?”
“Just stories.”
“You would have me believe you were not trained as a Scourger,” the man in the chair responds, more a statement than a question.
“They are a tale parents tell their children. Be good or the shadows will take you to become a monster. Don’t wander or the Waldhexe will get you and eat your heart or your eyes.”
“We have those sorts of tales too, you know,” says the Shadowhand, false warmth in his voice. As though they’re casually chatting round a fire.
“Natürlich. Every culture does.”
“So you are not of the mind that we are all beasts in the Dynasty, then?” A leading question, though there is perhaps a hint of curiosity there.
Caleb nearly laughs, but it comes out a dry, wheezing cough, instead. “Of… of course you are a beast. You are torturers; one does not get this job by being a normal person. The people outside of these dungeons though, living their own lives… no, they are not beasts.”
“I have not tortured you so far, have I.”
“Do not take me for a fool. You are clearly superior in rank to my previous interrogator, and obviously more skilled at the art besides. I was tortured, if not on your orders, then under a regimen you no doubt condone.”
“Fair enough,” the drow nods. His placid expression is getting annoying. Caleb is too tired for this.
“Ask your questions so I can tell you to fuck off already, please. Either let’s get back to the honesty of torture, or let me get some sleep.”
The Shadowhand sighs heavily, the first real reaction Caleb has seen from the man.
“Very well,” he says, removing a wand from his coat and muttering a quiet command word. As Caleb feels the zone of truth take hold, he braces for pain and feels his whole body stiffen as though in fear. But after another moment he calms his breathing and wills his muscles to relax.
“Go on, then,” Caleb offers.
“What is your name?”
“Fuck off.”
The Shadowhand sighs in annoyance. It almost makes Caleb laugh; he did warn the man, after all.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” says the drow, his lips slightly pursed though he maintains a refined and collected demeanor. “I would really rather get this over with. At least answer what you are willing to, I shall not press you on the rest.”
An odd interrogation strategy, Caleb thought. No offers of aid or clemency, no offers to withhold torture, but no threats either. Offering ‘not to press’ could be interpreted in many ways within the zone of truth, so he is not comforted, but he is… curious.
“Alright,” he returns.
“Your name?”
“Caleb.” He’s almost surprised to find he can say it.
“And was that always your name?”
Silence. How did he know that? How did the Kryn… how much did they know?
“Did they give you the name Caleb?”
“I named myself.”
“When?”
“I was arrested for stealing bread a year ago. They needed a name, I gave them one. It… seems to have stuck.”
The drow nods patiently, though Caleb thinks he notices some confusion at the statement. Is he wondering why a suspected scourger would be arrested for stealing bread, or if Caleb has somehow managed to outwit the zone of truth? Or perhaps it is just another layer of deceit for the purposes of this interrogation. Caleb doesn’t flatter himself to believe he can know for certain.
“Are you in Xhorhas on orders of the Cerberus Assembly?”
“No.”
“Are you in Xhorhas on orders of King Dwendal?”
“Never met the man,” Caleb can’t resist saying, obnoxious though it may be. Both of them know that isn’t an answer, though enough to satisfy the zone of truth. At a reproachful look from the drow, he sighs. “Fine, no, I am not in Xhorhas on orders of King Dwendal, or any of his officers or subordinates.”
“Thank you. And are you here by orders of any Empire or Concord affiliated organization?”
“…No.” Thank the Dawnfather. Given their meeting with Beauregard’s teacher from the Cobalt Soul, Caleb is relieved he can say it.
“You hesitated. Were you expecting not to be able to say that?”
“I am simply very tired, Herr Shadowhand.”
“Hmm.” The drow pauses. Caleb suspects he isn’t fooled. “Have you ever been affiliated with a member of the Cerberus Assembly?”
Caleb opens his mouth and finds he cannot speak. He stops cold. He does not want them to follow this thread. Sighs. “Unfortunately. I knew one once. Long time ago He was a piece of shit.”
“How did you know him?”
“He… visited my hometown,” Caleb says reluctantly. Trying not to think too hard. Trying not to remember too hard. “Ruined quite a few lives. I'd rather not get into it.”
“Fair enough. Have you been in contact with any member of the Cerberus Assembly or King Dwendal’s administrators in the last decade?”
“No.” As far as he knows, anyway. It only occurs to him after saying so that stabbing a Volstrucker to escape the Sanitarium might count, but it wasn’t a willful mistruth.
“Thank you,” says the Shadowhand, and for a moment Caleb wonders if he’s done. Then he speaks again. “You arrived in Asarius with a group of six mercenaries, yes?”
A chill runs down his spine.
“You know this,” Caleb objects.
“But I should like to hear you confirm it,” the Shadowhand calmly retorts.
“Yes, I arrived with six mercenaries. We travelled to Asarius together.”
“Hmm. And you proceeded to eliminate not one but two abyssal rifts within the city, one beneath a well in the northern square.”
“A service for which I was rewarded with kidnapping and torture. Vielen dank, mein herr.”
“Who told you of these rifts?”
“No one really told… We went to buy some moorbounders.” The man looks surprised at this. “The shopkeep, he said there was something wrong in the basement, and we offered to take a look in exchange for a better price. That’s where we found the first one. A bugbear who was having nightmares led us to the second. Or… rather he was targeted by the creatures from the second.”
“You are speaking much more than I expected.”
“I am tired,” Caleb offers. “And have been tortured for days. Forgive my verbosity, but I have not told you much more than I offered the missgebildete Scheißkerl back there.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes. Hmm.”
Another twitch of the man’s mouth. Hmm.
“You are exceptional at withstanding interrogation for someone who claims not to be trained.”
“Who said I wasn’t trained? There are more people who torture than just King Dwendal’s shadows in the dark.”
“You are also exceptional at dissembling within the constraints of a zone of truth,” speaks the Shadowhand, and Caleb swears he can hear a note of admiration in the drow’s voice.
“I don’t kn… What are you getting at?” He corrects himself midstream. No lies, Caleb.
“You said you only knew pieces about the Scourgers. King Dwendal’s ‘shadows in the dark,’ as you call them.”
“I did. It was the truth.” It was. Caleb is still humbled by how little he knows about his own past associates, by how hopelessly outclassed he is in the face of such institutions of power.
“Not all the truth, I think. Was it the Cerberus Assembly who trained you to withstand torture?”
Caleb tries to swallow a few times to cover for his mind racing for a new answer. Eventually he asks for water. The Shadowhand brings him some, holding the ladle to his lips as he sips slowly. The man is… disquietingly gentle about it. It worries Caleb. The gentle ones are always the most dangerous, he remembers.
“As I asked,” the drow repeats after seating himself once more. “Was it the Cerberus Assembly who trained you to withstand torture?”
“I have been beaten by many people in my life. Growing up in poverty teaches these things.”
“Of course.” The Shadowhand is clearly not convinced. He didn’t really answer the question and they both know it. “Yet you are a Scourger nonetheless, no?”
Caleb shakes his head before remembering the spell and speaking aloud: “No.”
“Hmm.” The drow seems surprised by this. “The scars on your arms say otherwise—”
— They do? Do all Volstrucker have those scars? Were those experiments standard practice, then? Had they not been experiments at all, but only framed as such to see how far Trent could push them? Had that been going on for years before Caleb’s arrival, or had he and his friends been the first? Had their assistance with the experiments borne fruit, led to more children having their arms sliced open —
“—though you have no tattoos, but we have time for that later. Tell me, what do you think of the Empire?”
Caleb scoffs, but as he starts to speak finds the words caught in his throat. It’s odd. He didn’t expect that to be a lie. Or perhaps he always knew it was. He breathes deep.
“I… have many mixed feelings about it. Growing up, I… I loved my country. But after the things I’ve seen and… the things…” Caleb stops. “It’s complicated.”
“How so?”
“The people are good. Mostly. They’re people, same as it is everywhere. I love my country for their sake.”
“That’s not what your mercenary friends say.”
“They… what?”
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 8/10
Date: 2021-08-08 10:03 am (UTC)Caleb knows the man is responding, can hear the vague shapes and taste the sounds of words from the drow’s mouth, but it’s all dulled by the roar of blood in his ears and the panic spreading throughout him. They have his friends. Fear, sudden and sharp and worse than anything he’d experienced in here, worse than forgetting, so much worse, he’d rather forget then get them hurt, it’s just like the Iron Shepherds, just like his parents, he has failed them again, it’s happening again, he lets people in, he loves people and then he gets them killed—
“Calm yourself,” that same voice from before, only closer, too close. “Hearthweaver!” The voice calls loudly, sound bouncing off the far wall, and then it’s in his ear again. “Young man, you must stop, you will hurt yourself if you— shit.
Caleb is shaking, is wrenching himself upward despite the pain, despite the feeling of something tearing all over again in his left shoulder. Something is suddenly holding him down and oh god, it’s happening again. It’s all happening again and it will happen to his friends as ell.
“Be calm.”
He feels a wave of magic wash over him and he is too weak to fight it off. Oh gods. Oh gods what will they make him do…
He is calm. A pressure leaves his upper body and he realizes belatedly that it was the man’s hands. The Shadowhand had apparently risen from his chair to restrain Caleb. Caleb doesn’t mind. He is calm. They have his friends. He is sad. He is heartbroken. He has failed them completely but he is calm, and—
“What happened?” The Hearthweaver is back. She sounds very frustrated.
“I don’t… I thought he…” the Shadowhand sounds genuinely flabbergasted. Has he never seen a prisoner crack before? That does not make sense. “I was trying to tell him that his friends were here—“
“You what?!”
“I did not exactly get the chance to explain, Grithis.”
“You don’t know how to talk to people other than to torture them, do you?” No response. Caleb is breathing evenly now. It is a relief. Breathing is important, after all. “Float somewhere else for a while.”
It’s funny. The man does look like he’s floating as he moves to the door and exits. Heh. Jester would like that… Jester would… Nott… they… but he’s breathing… he’s calm, and…
“Your friends are fine,” says the Hearthweaver, pulling a chair to sit by his bedside and getting more water to ladle into Caleb’s mouth. “They have petitioned for your release. The Shadowhand insisted on a little more questioning before they let you go, but then they found you in… the state you were in.”
“My friends are fine,” repeats Caleb. He feels muddled, confused.
“Yes. They have… requested the release of you and another prisoner. He has already been put into their custody.”
Good. That was good.
“They should leave,” he murmurs, knowing it to be true.
“I do not think they would agree,” responds the Hearthweaver.
“It is not safe here for them,” he objects, feeling the tendrils of emotion beginning to seep into the sides of his body, like soothing fingers releasing his brain back into his own burning hands.
It’s then that Caleb starts to hear a clattering in the hallway, even through the thick wooden door. He hears the Shadowhand’s voice and… and someone else’s… it’s screeching and it… no, it’s low and worried… it’s cursing?
The Shadowhand opens the door, but steps aside immediately lest he be knocked down by the small figure that comes flying in. Nott the Brave runs into the center of the room, yellow eyes wide and worried, locked onto Caleb immediately.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HIM?!”
Nott has nearly leapt upon the Hearthweaver when fast brown hands are suddenly there, snatching small green limbs right out of the air. The hands are holding Nott back, a voice both soft and rough — like fur being stroked the wrong direction — bidding her to stop. Beauregard.
“Nott, Nott, NOTT,” exclaims the monk, still struggling to keep her grasp on the small figure in her arms. “You gotta cool it or they’re not gonna let us talk to him!”
They are a Hearthweaver,” the Shadowhand projects his voice a little nervously from the door. “They… they are a healer. Be calmed, if you would.”
“LEMME SEE HIM! LET GO OF ME—“
“Nott, you’ll hurt him!”
Caleb is just staring in amazement, his eyes welling with tears. They’re here. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make any sense. They’re here…they’re here and they’re not in chains. They’re here and they’re not screaming in pain. They’re here and no one is demanding he talk under threat that his friends will be tortured. No one is holding scalpels or brands to them. No one is… they’re really…
“A-are you here?” Caleb asks, his voice sounding so small even to his ears.
Nott immediately stills in Beau’s arms as though only now fully grasping his presence before them. The monk lets her climb down and they both approach tentatively,
“We’re here, Caleb,” says Beau. He wants to believe her. He really really does.
“D-did they hurt you?” he asks.
“What? No, they haven’t done anything to us.”
That makes it harder to believe that it is truly them. Their appearance could well be an illusion. And there are ways to read the surface thoughts of a person — Ikithon used to do that. It was a parlor trick, to him. He cannot ask them a question if they can pluck the answer from his mind…
“What is something… something you have never told me?”
Beau and Nott look at each other nervously, unsure how to respond. Caleb understands: either it is truly them and the request is confusing, or it is not truly them and they need to come up with something on the fly.
“I wrote Astrid a letter,” comes the rough, scratchy voice of the goblin before him. “A while back, I wrote a letter to—
“Nott told me that in the well. Something else.”
“Oh, but uh, details, details, right,” Nott wrings her hands.
“Wait,” interrupts Beau, “You wrote Astrid a letter? Like his Astrid?!”
“We’ll talk about it later, Beau! I-it was stupid, okay, I know. But look, Jester said she heard you say Astrid’s name one time, and she told me, and so we thought we’d try to… I dunno, reconnect you or something. So we wrote her a letter claiming that her uncle had died and she’d inherited a large sum of money—”
“Oh my god,” Beau was now groaning, her hands over her face.
“And we were his attorneys and she should contact us about the estate, that was all. And we said it was from Nott and Brave Legal Practice at the… Pillow Trove, yeah, okay, that was maybe really stupid…”
Caleb sits there, stunned for a moment.
Such a tremendously sweet, tremendously stupid gesture. So terribly dangerous, so ludicrously foolish, so deeply well-intentioned. And just outlandish enough that he did not imagine any Kryn interrogator could have fathomed it. But none of that matters. None of that insane risk matters because it means she is here. It means she is real.
“It… It’s really you, then?” His voice quavers and it shames him even more than the tears on his cheeks. “I c-cannot see you very well…”
“Oh, ah fuck,” Beau removes her goggles and cringes, turning back to the Shadowhand. “Can we get some light in here or something? Fucking shit, it’s dark in here…”
And the image becomes only clearer as the Shadowhand summons a small globule of gentle light. Even this low light almost hurts his eyes, but it is a blessing to be able to clearly see someone’s face rather than having to guess at their features and expressions. Caleb breathes deep, the air feeling somehow cleaner for the clarity of sight, and looks over each of his friends carefully, blinking tears away. They don’t look injured. Beau looks like she always does when someone’s hurt and she doesn’t know what to do about it, and Nott has that look on her face she used to get when he was sick or starving. The look that made so much more sense, so much more, when she revealed that she was a mother. He missed her face so terribly.
“Caleb,” comes Nott’s quiet, gentle rasp. “D’you need some water or something? Uh, a pillow?”
Sweet girl. Always so good to him. Better family than he deserved. Better family—
“Fam… Wait, wait, N-Nott, your husband,” he interjects, sniffling.
“Oh, we got him out already, Yeza’s fine.” She’s already rushing around to the basin and carrying the water-full ladle back to him.
“He’s… fine?” Caleb repeats, hackles rising again at the impossibility of that statement. But Nott is already carefully bringing the ladle to his lips, brushing that one strand of hair out of his face the way she always did.
“Well,” she pauses, weighing her words carefully. “He will be. He was in a cell upstairs; lower security I think? They said you were much more suspicious. I mean, he was being held by the Assembly, but he’s no soldier, he was pretty obviously terrified, not very threatening.”
“Much more…” Caleb moves to wipe the tears from his face and a drop of water from his lips before remembering that he cannot move his arms and wincing at the pain from his aborted movement. Nott wipes his mouth with a small handkerchief before he can say another word. It looks new. She must have gotten the itch recently.
But it’s Beau who clocks the pained twitch of Caleb’s arm.
“They saw your scars,” she says, and Caleb cannot help but stare at her face, her beautiful face, gods he had missed these women so much. “They said it meant you were from… Caleb, why can’t you move your arm?”
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 9/10
Date: 2021-08-17 05:42 pm (UTC)“I… it got… dislocated,” he responds softly. “Their doctor says I should not move it for a while.”
“And how’d that happen,” she asks with no real inflection, barely bothering to mask her anger. When he looks up, he sees Beau’s fists and teeth are clenched, and the Shadowhand looks… uncomfortable. Like he doesn’t want to tell them the truth, but does not want to provide a lie for Caleb to contradict.
Interesting.
Possible leverage? But unexpected. He needs to understand more.
“The, ah,” Caleb clears his throat as he thinks. “The guard who did it has been punished and removed from duty, so says the Shadowhand.”
“Indeed,” confirms the drow. “One has been arrested, one stripped of rank.” still fairly composed under the gaze of the two standing members of the Nein.
“And what,” asks Beau, “the fuck did your guards do to Caleb?”
Why are they attempting to intimidate the Shadowhand in his own dungeons? How is it that they almost appear to be succeeding? Caleb does not understand, and he worries for them. Though he admittedly relishes the drow’s discomfort, he still worries for Beau and Nott’s safety, worries that they will keep asking questions and hear answers that will lead to violence. So he answers in the Shadowhand’s place.
“Ah, beat me to shit, you know. I got, uh, got a bit mouthy and might have upset him a little bit, you know. You would have been quite proud of me, I think, Beauregard,” he manages with a halfhearted smirk. Levity. Bonding. Their mutual anti-authoritarian streak. “But that, that does not matter, I… you… how are you two here? What are you even doing here?”
He sees his friends soften at the question, though Beau gives him the ‘we’re talking about this later’ look (which he is, by now, distressingly familiar with). Nott sags under some invisible weight as she answers.
“Caleb, you didn’t really think we were just going to leave you here, did you?” Her voice cracks more than usual, like it breaks her heart a bit to even say it.
“Well, I had hoped you would, ja.”
“Gods, Caleb, you’re such a dick.” Beauregard looks rather like she wants to punch him right now and he thinks he has never been more fond of her.
“This is true,” Caleb says, and he tries to convey a shrug with only his eyebrows. “I suspected you would try, yes, but… I had hoped…”
“Well that’s stupid!” Nott looks positively offended at any implication to the contrary. “We rescued Fjord and Jester and Yasha, didn’t we? And we didn’t even know them that well back then! Of course we’d come for you!”
“I know, liebchen, I know. I just…you know, I worried for you—”
“Well that’s dumb,” interrupts Beau.
“Super dumb,” agrees Nott.
Sheiße, he missed these two infuriating women so much.
“Yes, yes, we have established my foolishness, all well and good, ja, but how? They would not just let you in, no? Is everyone else alright?”
“Everybody's fine,” the monk interjects. “We looked for you for, like, the first day or two before we realized you’d been taken out of the city completely. So we went back to Lady Olios about that favor, and she brought us to Ghor Dranas.”
“Rohsona,” corrects Nott.
“Rohsona, fuck,” Beau corrects herself.
“Ah… that is where I am, then?”
“Yeah,” answers Nott. “We even met the Bright Queen, who is like, super gorgeous by the way, and crazy intimidating, but uh… it got a little… hairy.”
“Hairy?” Caleb asks with trepidation, knowing full well that the Shadowhand is standing watch, listening to every statement.
“We’ll tell you later,” she says, stroking the hair out of his eyes. “The point is they were willing to give us Yeza, but they didn’t want to release you yet. Cause, y’know… cause of your… past—”
“Nott—!”
Caleb almost shouts her name, which sends him into a coughing fit, sending pains all down his sides. This time it is Beau who fetches water, but she seems oddly calm given what Nott has revealed, what must have happened, and how stressful these negotiations must have been.
“They already know, Cay. They look one look at your arms and they told us they knew you were, like, a crazy torture spy or whatever. So we told them the truth,” a cold shiver runs up his spine. “You were trained bu—”
“That is quite enough,” interrupts the Shadowhand for the first time in a few minutes, causing Nott to nearly jump when she remembers his presence. “Apologies, but if I am to complete questioning, I must be able to verify what information is revealed independently, without… I suppose you might say, cross-contamination. Correct?”
“That is c-correct.” Caleb’s voice is hoarse, but he understands. It is not unreasonable.
“Look, the point is we told them the truth, alright,” adds Beau, deft as ever at cutting to the point. “Not details or anything, just… the truth. And if you tell them the truth too, the Bright Queen says this dude’ll let you go.”
“If I deem Mister Widogast is not a threat to the Dynasty,” the Shadowhand corrects, and gestures to the door. “And as such, if you would not mind, we can continue our questioning and see where that shall take us, yes?”
“Wait—” Caleb tries to put his hand up instinctively and lets out a pained yelp. It takes another few moments to collect himself before he can ask. “I just… how long? Have I been here?”
His three friends look at each other, obviously concerned that he doesn’t know. He knows the feeling.
“It’s, uh… been about a week,” says Beau.
Just a week?
“F-feels longer,” Caleb murmurs. “Or shorter, perhaps.”
“Yeah, uh, Floaty Boy over there said time sorta moves weirdly in here. Some kind of magic thing, I dunno.” Beauregard looks sad again, but all Caleb can think is ‘time magic’ and the word ‘dunamis’ scrawled in a book at the Cobalt Reserve. “Negotiating this took a while. Paperwork. We wanted to see you yesterday when they finally agreed to it, but they said you were unconscious.”
“That and… and I…” Nott looks ashamed. “I got Yeza out first. I focused on getting him out first. I’m sorry.”
“No, Nott. Do not be sorry. You chose right, my friend.”
“I'm still sorry, Caleb, I’m so sorry,” she goes to clasp his hand but looks afraid that she might hurt him, instead gently resting her fingers on his as tears fall over her wide green cheeks. Oh sweet girl. Oh, Nott the Brave. Caleb wishes he could kneel beside her, take her by the shoulders, and reassure her now. His pain was nothing compared to her husband’s life.
“We came here to reunite you with your husband,” he utters, trying to force every ounce of certainty he can muster into his voice. “That was the mission. You did good. And I am fine, you see? Alles gut. I shall see you soon, Nott the Brave.”
“Okay. Promise?”
Caleb just smiles and blinks slowly as a placeholder for a nod. He still can’t lie in the zone of truth.
“We’ll be upstairs waiting,” says Beau, her tone less comfort and more a demand. Oh, Beauregard. Ah, the awful sister he never wanted. She is a gottverdammt blessing and he does not deserve her either.
Beau takes Nott’s hand as they walk out of the room together.
Caleb feels the air leave his lungs when their faces disappear and the door shuts, leaving him alone with the Shadowhand again. He does not know if the lack of air is terror at being left there, or relief at seeing his friends alive, or any number of other sensations, all he knows is he is suddenly exhausted.
Re: FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 9/10
Date: 2021-08-18 04:00 am (UTC)FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 10/10
Date: 2021-08-22 09:29 am (UTC)“They are an unusual bunch, my friends,” Caleb responds with a quiet fondness. The Shadowhand almost seems to smile at this, and he sits down again, calling his blue light closer. For the first time, Caleb gets a good look at his new interrogator. The man is quite handsome, young in appearance, though for elves that could mean anything. His white hair is short on the sides, though longer than Beau’s is, with a neatly maintained coif at the top. Delicate jewelry on his ears, though that seems the common fashion for drow in Xhorhas, and an elaborate mantle rests upon his shoulders atop a long, all-encompassing cloak.
“Yes, I find I have come to understand as much in the short time I have known them.”
Caleb feels his face scrunch up at the statement and internally scolds himself for displaying so much emotion in the last few minutes. But it is hard, so hard, not to let all his emotions bleed onto his face after seeing two pieces of his own heart before him, entering the room and walking out again.
“Have you spoken with them much?” is the most neutral question he can think to ask.
“A bit. I have been named their liaison during their time in Xhorhas,” the drow responds, but he looks uncomfortable as he continues. “I must… I apologize for causing you distress before. With your nebulous status as a scourger, I thought it likely they were little more than a convenient group of mercenaries to you, or that perhaps you meant to infiltrate their band. I realize now that was an inaccurate assessment.”
“You do not have to apologize,” Caleb would lift his chin at this, but the stiffness in his neck forbids it. He does not want this arschloch’s pity. Nor does he need it. “I am your prisoner, I assumed causing some distress was rather the intent.”
“Certainly,” confirms the drow. “But part of professionalism is controlling the amount of damage done. There is, after all, a difference between striking a man where it shall do some small damage, and finding you have severely aggravated an old injury you knew nothing of. I did not intend this result, and therefore it was a failure on my part. A lack of information, or perhaps my own biases played against me.”
Caleb supposes that is fair. And strangely merciful while also being entirely reasonable. But still cold, the veneer of falsehood shining across it, reminding him of the two friends, lovers, that he left behind when he went mad.
But another thought still baffles him:
“…the Nein have a liaison?”
“Indeed they do,” responds the Shadowhand, regret and discomfort retreating behind a mask of professionalism once more. “Perhaps I can tell you more if you can confirm some of what your associates told us.”
The Shadowhand pulls out the same wand and speaks a word, and suddenly Caleb feels that wave of enchantment energy wash over him again. Ah. Another zone of truth. Right. The man turns to his chair and looks at Caleb expectantly.
“You were a scourger?”
“No. I was… which parts did Nott tell you?”
“That is not how this works, which I believe you know. You were a scourger?”
“No. I… I believe I was being trained as one, when I was a boy. I did not even know that’s what they were called until this week. We, ah, we knew another name.”
“Wollstrecker?”
“Volstrucker,” Caleb corrects, though he suspects the mispronunciation was purposeful. Make him underestimate the man. Make him comfortable enough to let things slip. Well fine. Fuck it. Fuck him and fuck the Empire.
“I was a student at the Soltryce Academy. Myself and two others were singled out for special training, which we received for a year.”
They are both silent. The white haired elf looks expectant.
“And that is it. I had a year of training, and did not make it.”
“There is no evidence to suggest that people can simply leave the Scourgers,” retorts the Shadowhand, his voice even and conveying little to no tone or even interest.
“I did not ‘simply leave.’ I was imprisoned upon failing my training, and I escaped from there.”
“After only one year of training. You escaped them.” The elf doesn’t believe him.
“It took time.”
“How long?”
“Eleven years.”
That gets first a small smirk, then a pause, then a look of genuine surprise. Caleb cannot tell if that is disbelief on the drow’s face or if the man is a little bit impressed.
“Eleven years as prisoner of the Scourgers?”
“I do not remember much of it,” Caleb verbally hand-waves the time. The eleven years of his life stolen from him.
The drow almost chuckles. “It is no wonder, then, that you were so unimpressed with our interrogators.”
“Natürlich. I do hope those were not your best,” he snarks, trying to keep the loathing out of his voice.
“They were not.”
“That is good. What an embarrassment for the Empire it would be if that was their great and terrifying enemy. His methodology was pathetic, and that was even before their pricks got involved in the matter,” Caleb spits out, a deliberate attempt to push the man off balance. Another pause. A veiled look from the Shadowhand. It might have actually worked.
“I must reiterate,” speaks the drow, “The tactics… the crimes he committed against you, his assault on your person…”
“I assume you refer to the rape in particular?”
“…Yes. That was never approved, nor would it be.”
“You must forgive me if I do not believe you.”
“You think we would do as such?” The man is either trying not to look offended, or trying to look like he’s trying not to look offended? Sheiße, Caleb hates this game, and he is so out of practice.
“You? I do not know that you would have the stomach for it,” Caleb says, feeling Bren in the back of his mind, and he doesn't know if those words are an insult or not. “But I do not doubt that you would order it done when it was necessary.”
“And you believe such things are necessary?”
“The Volstrucker do. That is what I was taught, at least. I do wonder, is this yet another game, or are you really so naïve as to think this is not a tactic employed by your own torturers? Why else would we be trained to endure it?”
The drow still has that strange look on his face. Caught between a myriad of different expressions, but all masked behind a veil of indifference. Caleb isn’t sure what to make of it. Is that a hint of pity in the corner of his eyes? Is that a smirk hiding in a dimple? When he looked down, was it to avert his gaze in discomfort or to analyze Caleb’s own behavior? He used to be better at this. He used to be so much better at this.
“So. You escaped. How long ago?”
Caleb sighs. He feels an odd shame, being so forthright in some ways with this fucking drow. He has failed to withstand interrogation after all. It had been months before he could tell the Nein even the bare bones of his story, and most of them still don’t even know the horrid details of his crimes. Most of them don’t know about Vergessen.
But they saw fit to tell this man some of it, and he cannot risk what might happen if he contradicts them. He cannot risk the Nein. If nothing else, he will not risk them.
“Five years now. Perhaps six.”
“And you have been on the run ever since.”
“Yes. Now I have two questions,” Caleb adds, hoping the audacity of his demanding answers will either surprise or amuse the interrogator enough to humor him. Indeed, the man’s mouth twitches at the corner and he nods in acquiescence. “Are these cells protected from divination magics?”
“These ones, most certainly.”
“Good Good.”
“…Do you believe they are looking for you?” His gaoler raises a perfectly arched white brow.
“For me?” Caleb scrunches his forehead and thinks about it critically. He feels embarrassed by his conclusion. “…no. Probably not. I was a mess when I escaped, they might have assumed I have long since starved to death or the like. But it is a possibility I do not wish to risk.”
The Shadowhand nods. “Understandable. And your other question, Mister Widogast?”
“…do all the Volst— the Scourgers, I mean. Do… do they all have these scars?” At the Shadowhand’s look of curiosity, Caleb’s eyes dart to his forearms. The ones that gave him away. He thought it had just been them. That they had been Ikithon’s guinea pigs, his little experiments. Had they not?
“Neater than yours, but the same positioning, yes,” responds the drow. “And some have tattoos to cover them. Though it is a recent development, within the last twenty years perhaps.”
“I see,” responds Caleb…
And he alights upon an idea.
A crumb. Just a crumb, for which he might gain more.
“…I thought we were the only ones,” he says, not even needing to make his voice sound tired or sad, only needing to stop hiding it. “In the experiments.”
And indeed, he sees the drow’s eyes alight with curiosity, fascination behind the façade of cool indifference.
“Experiments?”
Now is not the time to play coy, but he must at least pretend he is doing so.
“Not relevant to me any longer, and rather distressing to think about,” Caleb notes offhandedly, a blatant tease, before employing a tone of voice he has not used since he met the Nein: the voice of intrigue. Not quite flirtation, almost flattery. The voice of I-have-something-that-you-want:
“Perhaps I shall feel more comfortable discussing it,” he posits, the slightest and yet most blatant offering, “Once I am safely returned to my friends.”
He sees the drow’s eyebrow twitch. The corner of his mouth as well. Amusement. Curiosity. Mutual interest in the information the other could offer.
“I suspect such a mutually beneficial arrangement could be put forth,” offers the Shadowhand, the slightest and most sly of smiles upon his elven face. The Shadowhand rises from his seat and moves to the door, calling Hearthweaver Grithis back in. As he is about to step over threshold, he looks back at Caleb: “Perhaps this exchange of information is exactly what the Dynasty has need of.”
He has no intention of helping the Dynasty with anything. From where he lies, they are no different than the Empire: bloodthirsty, vicious, willing to sacrifice ethics and morality and the lives and dignity of its people, but unwilling to account for its own actions. Just as with the Empire, as with the Cerberus Assembly, they would have to be brought low. All of them. This man, this ‘Shadowhand’ would have to be brought low. Caleb might have deserved everything the world could throw at him, but he was certain he must not have been the first. Others did not deserve their monstrosity.
“Perhaps it is,” responded Caleb with a polite nod.
And perhaps, should this arrangement go in the right direction, Caleb might learn what “dunamis” means. Perhaps that would be the key to bringing both the Empire and the Dynasty to their knees. Caleb Widogast could think of no goal more worthy.
—————
A/N: So this… got away from me a little bit? It started with one little awful idea and then it became “but how would that change his outlook on the entire war, how would that change what he thought of the Nein giving the Beacon away, how would that change their relationship to Essek” and now I might be turning this into a longer thing out of sheer curiosity for myself. But that’s neither here nor there.
Re: FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 10/10
Date: 2021-08-23 01:55 am (UTC)Re: FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 10/10
Date: 2021-08-23 09:57 pm (UTC)Hope you enjoyed it regardless!