Chara(s): A god of Mischief (OC*)
Fandom: Org Fic – Fae Apoc xover
So this. This is a series of stories taking place in my universe, Fae Apoc, at the time just before the aforementioned apoc. Portals are opening up to one other world at that time, and in this story, well, they happen to open up into a whole BUNCH of worlds.
And from those worlds, a bunch of poor soon-to-be-victims-of-bad-things who bear some resemblances to fandom characters happen to slip through some portals. And then bad things happen to them.
Because that, after all, is the name of the Bingo.
Content warnings: bondage, capture, humiliation
This is technically Chapter Four. Chapter Three (Genius) and Chapter One (Asset) will return later.
He’d really pissed off someone this time.
Mischief wasn’t sure how they’d taken him down; generally he could get out of any trap. That was, after all, what he was known and made for. Causing chaos. Getting out of trouble. Causing more trouble.
But right now, he was in a cage, and they had put a muzzle on him.
The worst indignity of all, the thing that was making him glare at the bars as if without words he might be able to tear them off their hinges, was that they hadn’t even done that specially for him.
There were people in three of the other cages, and they were all wearing muzzles and wooden collars.
After that, the indignity of being naked seemed hardly important.
But he was Mischief, and he wasn’t going to put up with anything like that. He could pull on illusion without speaking. He could pull on illusion without his magic. He could pull on illusion while half-dead and bleeding out.
He pulled his favorite court jacket and trews out of the air and wrapped them around himself. He tried for a smirk, but the muzzle pressed at his lips and his cheeks.
It was a nasty thing – splintery wood, like the collar, and metal, a piece over his tongue in metal with little spikes in it, and bands under his chin and over his nose. He had been muzzled before – by the court of his father, for being what he was. By the enemies of his father’s court, for the same reason. Those muzzles had been frustrating, annoying, and in the end, had shown that he had been caught doing his job, being exactly what he was supposed to.
They hadn’t hurt.
And they hadn’t been ugly.
The woman who tended to them came by. “Are you ready to admit that you’re mine?” she asked him cheerfully. She had a nice smile and a beautiful face, a sweet voice with a little lilt to it and a ready laugh.
Mischief trusted her not one bit.
He shook his head. He had been a prisoner. He had been an outlaw, a captive, an exile, a hostage, and once or twice or thirty-seven times he’d been tied up, gagged, humbled – or put in humbling positions, at least.
He’d never been owned and he had no intention of starting now.
She held out the plastic cup with the straw, then pulled it back. “Clothes. Off.”
He raised an elegant eyebrow at her and gestured with shackled hands.
“Don’t bullshit me. You can still starve to death, you know. You can still feel pain. You can still feel fear.” She raised her eyebrows back at him.
He tilted his head, as if he didn’t understand her. She was threatening him? She? She had no idea what he was.
And then she held out her hand and chanted at him in some heathen language. And a moment later, Mischief began to feel pain.
He bit down hard on the blasted gag, his teeth biting into the wood and finding metal, and did not scream.
Even as his feet felt like they were on fire, like every single nerve ending was being individually destroyed, like nothing would ever work again, like there could not be this much pain.
When it moved on to his hands he had to focus on sitting up as straight as possible and staring at her, his jaw clenched around the horrible gag, to not scream.
When the pain faded and he could not feel hands or feet, when they did not answer his commands, then, much to his shame, Mischief whimpered.
“There,” cooed the woman. “Now you start to understand. Now. I can bring back the feeling. One finger. One finger when you take off this clothing illusion. If you do it now, I’ll even let you pick the finger.”
Mischief stared at his useless hands. Without hands, what could he do? Without feet, sure. He could still move. But his hands? Whatever powers he had that weren’t tied to his voice – which was most of them – relied on his hands.
He would ruin her. He would see her broken and kneeling in a cage like this one. He would –
He would get his hands back first. He let the illusion of his clothing vanish.
“Which finger? Oh, I suppose you can’t really tell me, can you? Here, we’ll go with the right pointer, since you were so cooperative. And just for that, you can have dinner, too. Just come a little closer.”
He could already feel feeling returning to the finger she’d mentioned. He moved forward in the cage, not getting to his feet but shuffling along the floor on his knees.
Some day, she would crawl. Some day, all of them would crawl. And maybe that would wash the bitter taste from his mouth.
He let her put the straw in the little hole in his muzzle. He couldn’t really taste the stuff she squirted down his throat with the bar against his tongue, but from what little sometimes lingered in his mouth, he thought he was glad of that.
“And here’s a little water.” She replaced the first straw with another and he focused on not choking on the cold stream going down his throat. The first time, he’d nearly drowned in the damn stuff. “There you go. Now, if you’re a very good boy, tomorrow, I’ll give you back another finger. Would you like that? Say yes, mistress.”
Mischief looked down at his useless hands. He knew the muzzle would bite into his tongue and cut it raw when he tried to talk. He knew that’s what she wanted.
“Ehh, ih-eh,” he managed. The taste of his own blood mingled with the lingering cold of the water on the gag.