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put your hands around my throat.

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The pain isn't what registers first, nor is the throbbing at your temples that almost beg to be silenced. 

No, no. It's the goosebumps that sprout all over your skin like freckles, hairs on end and a quiver to your lips that wasn't quite present prior. Is it out of fear? It would soothe you to think so, so the excuse is made nonetheless. But you know, just like he knows, that is just another little, white lie. One that goes to be shoveled with the rest of the pile you've accumulated, empty words that hardly provide the sort of solace you need.

"Fucking hell, you're disgusting." Fuck. Just the sound of pure disgust is enough to make you stiffen - or is there a bit of bemusement in his tone now? His voice echoes, which is either resulting in the fact that you're close to losing grip on reality, or the fact you're cooped up in some abandoned warehouse, in the near pit of the basement chained to a metal chair. Yes, the latter would make much more sense, though your sanity is wearing thin. It isn't until something is pressing against the underside of your jaw, cool and slick and sticky. 'Ah,' you think, lips twitching. 'That must be the knife, then.'

It'd be easier to determine this if you could properly see.

So, imagination takes root. You imagine his face - his pale skin and leering grins, accompanied with a gaze that was more befitting for a shark. Befitting for him even more, then, much to your unfortunate discovery. He's probably smiling right now, debating on whether or not he should carve that other, pretty eye from its socket or digging his blade across your skin some more. At this point, where he's cut you has slipped from your thoughts, only with the caked blood cementing itself against flesh as a foul aftertaste. You assume the shock is the reason why not all of the torture isn't driving you to the brink quite yet. Or maybe, it's just like he said. You're disgusting, because a little bit of you.. loves this. As if on cue, Edgar's shoes shuffle when he circles round you, tapping the stained steel against your exposed collarbone, lips pursed and a feigned sigh of guilt whistling past them.

"Y'know, it's not much fun if you don't talk. It might even persuade me not to gut you up like a pig! Unless you want to keep sniveling and whining... We both know you always did have such a big mouth..." You cringed and it earns a barked chuckle on his end. There has to be something wrong with you, because the fact you're even mildly focused on how attractive the sound is, or wondering whether or not he truly does take some twisted interest in the suffering of others should be enough of a red flag. A cough urges up from your throat in a garbled wheeze, sending your body reeling as far as the rope tightly bound around it forwards. Blood pours from your lips and spatters on the ground, dripping down onto the scuffed surface of your shoes. And tears? Begin to burn at the edge of your eyes - or rather eye, trailing down your bruised cheeks in burning streams. Malice grips at your reply, even with how weak it is.

"F... fuck you.

Another chuckle, edging on near annoyance - he's so terribly moody you begin to wonder how he fakes that precious, little teacher's pet act for as long as he has. Cold fingers grip suddenly at your chin, sending a tremble down your battered spine. He had warned if you kept talking back, he might cut your tongue, but you never thought he was being actually serious...

"Again? Aren't you just a needy, little bitch. I think you're forgetting the.. circumstances you're actually facing. You're miles away from home. No one knows where you are - not that I would expect them to care- ". His insult hits a sore spot and it only sends the ends of his cheshire smile curling further. " - and if you haven't noticed, this isn't the first time I've had to dispose stupid, fucking idiots that waste my time. You are, in all terms of the word, screwed. So as adorable as your little protests are, I don't have the patience for it." God, you hate this. You hate how he so easily overpowered you, how he scared you so easily - he was horrible and entitled and rude, traits that seemed to be amplified with the fact he was fucking insane - how did you even get here? Sputtering, it's clear that his speech didn't necessarily pertain to you screaming, for his hands were clutched against your throat the moment he had strode behind you. It didn't matter how much you strained to scream then, even though it's instinct, ( though he will never admit it he likes how noisy you get when he hurts you ), shrill shrieks vibrating against the smooth surface of his palm.

How he manages to have nice, soft hands when he's twisted, broke and snapped so many other's that were fated to cross his path is beyond you. The world begins to look fuzzy in your obscured gaze, woozy feeling making your headache - or rather, head trauma from Edgar swinging a bat across your skull with the eagerness of a professional baseball player - start to send your thoughts into overdrive. The jerk of your limbs against rope only cause the burns they have slashed into your skin to irritate, one leg managing to loosen and kick around weakly..

And then, you're right back where you started, with his voice in your ear and the hilt of his blade spinning around in your blotted peripheral, his timbre as condescending and rueful as always. Though, you do hear a slight airiness to his words. He's holding back and had you had both of your eyes? You would have seen him clearly - how his chest heaved with each jolt and whimper your body expressed, or how his cheeks had bloomed with color and started to develop a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Even his mouth were dry.

Anyone else would have been dead or at least passed out from shock by now, but here you were, still attempting to get an upperhand in a situation that you were hopelessly fucked in.

He wonders if the sockets will be warm even if he does choose to off you...

"Shhh, shhh. Calm down, quit your yipping puppy." That earns nothing but another wild thrash that hardly sends the seat screeching forwards. He always likes to compare you you to a dog, because of how easy it is to make you do stuff. You'd lick the bottom of his boot if it meant he'd promise he'd leave your life entirely, he's sure of it. And while he's already had his mundane fun with him - fucking your mouth with tears gushing down your cheek can only give a man like him who craves the things he does so much pleasure, Edgar's certain that you crawling around with a leash and a collar would be positively adorable. ""Hmmm... I think I've made my decision." The way he cups your breast as if it's a normal action, a normal sort of 'affection' you should be appreciating, sends bile coating your tongue. But it's not as if you can do much to bark out dismay, especially with how your nipples perks against his hand in a matter of seconds. It's not natural. It's the attraction you just can't deny having for him and you want to kick yourself for it each time.

No worries, though - Edgar's well aware of all of that.

"I'm gonna keep you around, for now. But I'm going to have to keep up your appearance, soooooo..." Leaning over, the weight of his chin settled on your shoulder, heated breath fanning across your skin. "How about helping me with a story?"