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Their eyes open, unfocused and hurting, in an entirely different environment. Their ears aren't ringing. They're inside. Their hands aren’t tied anymore. The truck and the men with the gun are gone, and they're alone.
They blink once, twice, until the room resolves itself around them. It's an office. It's got a desk and two chairs (one high-backed, regal and ornate, but still with rollers. The other has armrests and Naomi). They've been here before, and—
“Didn't expect to see you back here so soon,” she croons. Naomi's whole body jerks and they look right across the desk.
She's sitting across from them, sprawled back in the chair but still more intimidating than any person could be. Her face looks like a mannequin’s would if it were evil and wanted to kill you. Something's different about her than last time, but the chemicals flooding Naomi's brain make it hard to concentrate. As exhausted as they already were, they seemed to have found a never-ending well of adrenaline to pull from.
“Uh,” Naomi manages. Their mouth is too dry and they're immediately and embarrassingly aware of their nakedness.
Her mouth pulls into a grin. “And just when it was getting good,” she murmurs. “I was watching, of course. You did your best.”
Naomi stiffens. They suddenly become aware of the soreness between their thighs, their aching ass, the cum leaking out of their pussy. There's dried blood and cum all over their body, and they're not sure how many of the bruises are visible yet but they know they're there. Worst of all, the bullet hole in their head was still seeping fresh blood.
They press a futile hand to the hole. “Uh, wait, do you have a towel or something I could borrow?” Naomi asks. She looks amused. “I don't— I guess I'm dead, I think they shot me so I would definitely like to not be dead anymore if we could do that, but I'm also, uh, I don't like blood and it's kind of gonna get all over me and also the chair. So.”
She looks so amused. “I suppose I could stop the bleeding, if that's what you want. I could even fix that pesky hole. But you and I already have a deal, and I certainly haven't collected what I'm owed yet.” She raises an eyebrow, and there’s no pupil in her eyes but Naomi can tell her gaze is sweeping over their body. “What's in it for me?”
“Well, um, sunk cost fallacy?” Naomi suggests sheepishly. “If you think about it, I'm like an investment that you've already made soul-wise and in terms of deals and everything, so probably it'd be good to keep me around. You don't have to— like, it's okay if I forget about this one too, I think I'd actually like to forget the whole past day if that's an option, but it doesn't have to be a whole thing if you don't want it to.” They shift uncomfortably in their chair.
She hums and tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. Naomi has no idea how to interpret it. Again, something's different about her, but it's hard to tell what. Her suit is more disheveled than usual (usual being “not at all”, from the scant few times Naomi has seen her). One of her sleeves is rolled up partially, and the claws at her fingertips are glistening weirdly.
Naomi freezes and does some quick unfortunate math in their head.
“Sorry wait. Why were you watching.”
She shrugs, but there's a clear grin on her face. “I enjoyed it. Frankly, it got a bit repetitive at times, but it is quite funny to watch you beg,” she says flippantly. “They got rid of you right as I was getting close, though. Shame, considering that it's much less appealing when I have to do it.”
Naomi doesn't really know what expression their face is making right now. It's certainly a new one.
“Okay. Awesome. Yeah that's great and really cool. Insinuations about you—” they wave their hands around “—masturbating to me getting raped I guess??? Really awesome. Whatever. Okay. Can we just make a stupid deal and you bring me back to life already. I need to go take a nap or cry or something. Or shower actually. Would love a shower,”
Naomi's babbling cuts off as she stands. They shrink back in their chair. Her movement hurts Naomi's eyes, edges of her body blurring and changing, so they close their eyes. At least, they try to, but she still shows up as red, neon outlines. They can feel her moving through the world— or maybe the world is moving around her. Maybe the desk is moving out of her way, the chair they're in dragging itself slowly forward, their chin tipping forward to meet her fingers.
Naomi's eyes fly open. She's right in front of them, larger than life and grainier than a migraine aura, and she’s reached out and tilted Naomi's head up until they’re straining to look at her. They whimper a little bit, which they definitely did not mean to do and she definitely enjoyed that they didn't mean to do it. She smiles. They can feel the outline of her nails along their chin, brushing down against the column of their throat.
“As a rule, I generally don't partake in others’ sloppy seconds. I will, however, take that bullet out and send you back right as rain as long as you behave yourself.”
Naomi stares up at her. She raises one eyebrow.
“Do you accept that deal?”
They breathe in and steel themselves. Because yeah, they don’t want to die, but fool them once. “If I remember it. And I have to— whatever I give you, it has to be right now. I don’t want to owe you anything.”
She smiles.
“Oh, you’re not giving me anything,” she murmurs. “But if it makes it easier to think of it that way, I suppose I can’t deny you that.”
She releases Naomi's chin and straightens up before stepping forward and straddling Naomi’s thighs (???). She sits (????????), and Naomi is forced to crane their neck back to avoid being facefirst in her chest. They swallow unconsciously.
She doesn't feel like the full weight of a person. At least, that's what Naomi assumes, having never had someone sit in their lap before. They’ve been squished and pressed and manhandled too many times already today, but nobody has ever sat on their lap . Instead of a body, it's like pins and needles across their thighs. There's an uncomfortable buzzing in their hips.
“What— um. Uh. Could you. Um. Why are you doing that. I feel like you don't have to be that close and also sitting on me?” Naomi's voice pitches embarrassingly at the end of their statement. They very firmly ignore the flush in their cheeks and the fact that they're almost certainly getting wet again from this. Basically the only places for them to look were up at her carnivore grin (scary) or directly at her boobs (hot and scary), so it wasn't going great for them libido-wise.
“I can do anything I want,” she says, slowly and clearly. “This body you have right now? I made that. I own this body, Naomi, and I own you . Do you have to explain your decisions to your property? Besides, I did say I was close.”
She grabs the hand Naomi's currently coating in blood and moves it away from their head, lifting the other hand as well.
“Under your thighs,” she instructs. Naomi blinks at her for a second before they seem to get what she's asking, tucking their hands under themselves against the chair. She squeezes her legs around Naomi's arms where they're pinned at their side.
“Don't move,” she says. Naomi can't seem to look away from her face, but her hands are moving in their periphery.
“What? Why?” Naomi asks before realizing that she's gripping their head with one hand. Sharp little pinpricks dig into their scalp where her nails land, and Naomi realizes what she's going to do.
“Oh, no, no no, just use magic please,” Naomi blurts as two of her fingers begin pressing at the entry point. They shiver as the nails start digging in. At first it's like her other hand, then it becomes more intense and more and more until it's unbearable.
“No, no, don't, no no no, no, don't, no,” Naomi pleads, voice cracking.
She keeps digging in. Naomi tries to tug their hands free, but their whole body feels frozen in place. It hurts .
“Stop it,” they whine. They try to tilt their head, to wriggle away from her hands, but when they move unthinkably sharp jolts of pain hit them. So they hold their head as still as they can and keep trying to get her to stop.
They can tell how deeply into their brain her fingers are from the rest of her hand. The palm is pressed flat against their skull. She probably has a ring, since there's this cold hard spot against their head, but it's hard to tell through the pins and needles and pain. Naomi squeezes their eyes shut and tries to feel normal.
It doesn't work. She keeps going until it feels like her whole hand is in their skull.
“Stop, please, you're hurting me. Just— just take it, just take it out magically, fuck, stop, it hurts, stop it, I don't— no no no, fuck, no, don't. Please. Please , it hurts, I'll do anything, fuck, you're hurting me— please ,” they wail.
“There we go. You're cuter when you're begging,” she muses. “Like a starving puppy.”
She twists her fingers. Naomi isn't sure if they actually hear the squelching noise or just feel it, but they're jerking under her lap. They're kind of screaming, they realize. The amount of pain has moved past “unbearable” to “not registering”, except it is registering on some level, because Naomi can tell it hurts. The world is kind of weird and hazy around them and her.
She's on their lap, and it smells like iron and static, and they can see her lines through their eyelids, and their hair is soaked with blood, and they're howling, and they can feel her fingers moving around in their brain tissue. How long is this taking? Is this real? Is this happening? Did she do this last time?
“You're being too noisy,” she tells them, still literally working her fingers in Naomi's brain. If they were capable of coherent sentences or maybe just thoughts, they would complain about this. “Open your mouth.”
Naomi does, instantly, and feels her hand grasp their jaw. She puts her thumb against Naomi's lips and they suck at it, clenching their teeth.
They're still moaning and crying around her thumb, but at least it's muffled. Biting down to ease the pain seems fair, considering what she's doing right now, but Naomi can't exactly ask if it’s alright. They’re just trying to ride it out and not think about what she’s doing, how it feels, how it’s making them feel.
After a genuinely unknowable amount of time has passed, her hand comes to a stop.
Naomi doesn't quite know how they know, but they know her fingers are pinched around the bullet. That's good, right? Yeah! That means that she's going to just take it right out and patch them up and everything will be fine. Yeah, totally. Awesome. Except she's not taking her hand out, and she's not moving it, and Naomi is calming down a little enough to realize how bad the situation is.
“What part of your brain do you think it ended up in?” she asks rhetorically. Or not. No, actually, not rhetorically, because she takes her hand off Naomi's jaw and leaves their mouth hanging open and raises one eyebrow expectantly.
“Hhhhh,” Naomi manages. She purses her lips. One of her nails digs in their head and they yelp.
“No! No! Okay, um. I. Unh,” they say, desperately trying to remember a single area. “Uh. Frontal lobe?”
There's this loud cracking noise that doesn't really make sense. A few seconds later, Naomi's face stings sharply and they realize what just happened.
“I thought you used to be a neurologist. Where’d all that knowledge you’re so proud of go, hm?” she asks. “Parts of the brain should be basic for you, very 101. How disappointing.”
She slaps them again, hard, and Naomi realizes their head is essentially bobbling around where her fingers are rooted inside. They whimper.
“Cer— cerebral cortex?” they answer, already tensing in anticipation of a slap. Instead, she sighs.
“Specifically, the cingulate gyrus, but I suppose that's good enough,” she says. She tilts her head, as if considering whether to hit Naomi again just for the fun of it, but ultimately doesn't. She brings her hand back up and rests it, loosely but with more weight than the entire rest of her body until now, around Naomi's neck.
When her hand isn't moving and Naomi manages to keep their trembling to a minimum, the individual spikes of pain fade into a vague all-encompassing zone of pain. There are occasional little blips, but it's there all the same. The situation is almost equalized enough that Naomi can start having thoughts and feelings about it again, which isn't good for several reasons.
Firstly, it hurts. No duh. That one is kind of a given— and frankly, Naomi's not sure when the last time they weren't hurting was— so, moving on.
They're scared, obviously. She has the power to hurt them and is very much exercising it. Plus, their life is still technically on the line. What if this time they don’t come back? What if she asks for more? (Never mind that they still don’t technically know what they gave her the first time).
Most of the other emotions they might be having right now have sunk beneath a layer of physical exhaustion. Embarrassment, anger, humiliation, fear again, horny, so on and so forth. This was partially because they were physically exhausted, and the only thing keeping them running was their (frankly, very depleted) supply of adrenaline, but also partially because they really really didn't want to think about them.
With a start, Naomi realizes that they've both been sitting there motionless. They frown.
“Are— are you gonna take it out?”
A grin spreads across her face lazily. She tightens her grip on Naomi’s throat and they squeak a bit.
“I could. But I could also leave it in your skull, give you a little reminder of how… disposable you are,” she teases. “After all, I have magic, right? I could simply bring you back with a hole in the side of your head. A permanent reminder of the best way to use you.”
Naomi stares at her. Her eyes are red and dark and flat and old and empty.
“It would happen again,” she says nonchalantly, beginning to move her fingers. “Maybe with another group of random men. Maybe with your friends, although you'd have to ask very nicely. Maybe for me , and that would be easiest, wouldn't it?”
She pushes her fingers further in before pulling them out, up to where her knuckles might be if she was approximating more than basic human anatomy, before pushing back in. Oh , Naomi thinks slowly. She's thrusting. This is like sex.
“I already know what you are, Naomi. You wouldn't need to explain yourself to me. I made you and I will unmake you.” It sounds like a promise. She's speeding up. “I can give you what you want. What you need. I can use what little you have to offer me and then dispose of you.” Naomi wishes it hurt more, so they weren't capable of comprehending her. “That's what you want, pet. What you've always wanted. Someone to wring you out and drink the drops.”
She fucks them faster. Slick, wet sounds and fresh blood smell. Naomi's throbbing, and every time their hips buck up against her thighs involuntarily they want to. Well. They don't know what they want to do. Or maybe they do, and that’s the terrible part.
She grins at them, shark-like, and Naomi realizes they’re wheezing. A familiar feeling is coiling up in their stomach. Their clit is already so fucking sore, and they don’t want to come again, especially not now , but she’s drawing these little gasps and whines out of them and her hand keeps pressing against their throat and it’s all too much, too much pain, too much sensation.
“Please,” they mumble in between fast shallow breaths.
“What are you asking for? Use your words, Naomi.” Her fingers curl inside their skull, dragging against the bone and the brain and the meat. Each time she rips into a new cranial nerve, fireworks go off behind Naomi’s eyes. They can’t , they can’t, it’s too much, and they don’t even have the ability to beg but she’s asking them to, she’s telling them they need to say something or else— or else—
They gasp and jerk beneath her. An animal in its death throes.
“Please, stop. Stop.”
She leans down. Her face is close to Naomi’s, too close, close enough that they can feel her eyes boring into their own.
“ No .”
Naomi sobs, thrashing and coming beneath her. Whatever else they want to say is cut off by her grip, now choking them completely, and they just squeeze their eyes shut and try to think of anything else. They can’t. They’re stuck, writhing and gagging, and their vision is just fuzzy bursts of static. All of their limbs are buzzing and far away. It hurts. She’s hurting them, and she’s not stopping, and she’s going to kill them. They’re going to die here, again, because she wants to hurt them.
“ Fuck, ” she hisses. Naomi’s underwater, only hearing her from a thousand miles away, but for a moment it’s like they can feel her sighing on top of them.
All of a sudden, there’s the swift feeling of her fingers leaving their brain. Naomi can suddenly hear and see just fine, despite what they know about the extended effects of inhibited airflow to the brain. Something small and metal clatters across the ground. The air feels cold and wet around their head, and Naomi can’t even tell if they’re still bleeding because of the amount of blood caked on their skull already.
“You really came from that? That's a little pathetic, especially considering all that pleading,” she says. Naomi tries to shake their head no, but she still has them by the throat. “Don’t lie to me,” she purrs.
Horrifyingly, she’s still sitting on their lap. She makes this clearly disgusted noise looking past Naomi’s head at something they can’t see. They try to turn, to look up, but her hand is firm around their neck, pressed snug against their thyroid.
“It’s you,” she says, lifting her hand that was (for lack of a better phrase) just inside Naomi. There’s blood and brain tissue coating her fingers. White, tiny fragments cling to her skin and Naomi realizes those are bone shards from their skull. Droplets of cerebrospinal fluid dribble down her arm, disappearing into the sleeves of her suit.
Naomi moans quietly, eyes wide and fixed on her hand. “I think I'm gonna throw up,” they murmur roughly.
She clicks her tongue. “At least clean up your first mess before you make another one, pet,” she chides them. She pries Naomi’s mouth open unexpectedly and forces her fingers in.
Naomi gags around her fingers, eyes wide. It tastes like painfully salty uncooked meat. They try to say something around her fingers, but it’s muffled and quiet and her nails scrape the inside of their mouth when they try. She rolls her eyes, purposefully drawn out and mimed, and Naomi gets the abject sense that she’s humoring their ignorance. Or refusal. It’s hard to tell.
“Come on, Naomi, you’re supposed to be the smart one. I told you to clean me off. Or, I suppose, clean you off of me , but that’s just semantics.”
Naomi grimaces around her fingers. She’s still looking down at them, intimately close, and they can’t really do anything but look back up at her and start tentatively sucking her claws. They clumsily lick her fingers, trying really hard not to slice their tongue open. It’s not like they could really tell, considering the amount of blood already there, but still. They close their eyes and try, unsuccessfully, to ignore the way her gaze keeps boring into them.
“So obedient,” she says after a few minutes pass, and Naomi’s not really sure whether they’re supposed to respond or just sit there. They’re still sucking and licking at her hand, despite the fact that it— well, it doesn’t taste like there’s still anything on it, it just tastes like what they imagine licking an old TV screen would be like. It’s clean, is the point.
Idly, her other hand (the one that isn’t— you know) comes up behind their ear. They flinch, jumping a bit, and she chuckles. She starts stroking their hair, dragging her claws along their scalp just hard enough to leave pinpricks of pain. Naomi shudders.
At some point, she pulls her hand back out of their mouth. They blink their eyes open.
“You’re drooling,” she observes. Naomi realizes that they are, and swallows hurriedly. Their mouth tastes foul .
She’s still petting their hair, but Naomi can feel her other hand snaking down their front. Her spit-damp fingers trace over their pussy (which is damp from other fluids) and Naomi whines.
“Have you been getting off on this the whole time? Oh, you have, haven't you,” she purrs.
“No,” Naomi tries to argue. She moves further down, caressing their clit and their hole, and they know both of them can feel how wet they are. “No, I’m not— please don’t,” they whimper.
She stops petting their hair and Naomi feels her claws dig into their scalp. “Make yourself cum for me,” she croons. She isn’t rubbing them anymore, and her fingers hover just over their clit. Their hands are still trapped. She drags their head back, craning their neck painfully over the chair’s top rail and forcing their back to arch up.
Naomi shifts. “I don’t want to,” they mumble.
“I don’t care,” she responds.
Naomi bites their lip and awkwardly lifts their hips. They can only manage a few centimeters, but it’s just enough to meet the pads of her fingers. She doesn’t move.
“Make yourself cum,” she tells them again. Naomi accepts, vaguely, that whatever smudge of dignity they had left is dead in a ditch somewhere, and starts humping her hand.
They were already aroused, before, because apparently they’re wired wrong enough to like when evil inhuman women make them eat their own brain tissue. Or maybe their body is just newly, permanently horny and sensitive and fucked up. Who’s to say? But then she starts talking.
“I could rip you apart,” she whispers. “Do you like that? Are you looking forward to it?”
Naomi whines, bucking against her hand and throwing their head back into her grip. They’re crying, despite how dehydrated they surely must be by now, and they can feel her licking tears off their face.
“Maybe you’re getting killed on purpose; maybe you like it when your body is used like this,” she’s saying. “Maybe that’s what I do when you come to send me back to hell. I’ll open you up and all your friends can watch me fuck your skull. Would they be surprised, do you think? Or can they tell how much of a desperate slut you are?” They gyrate their hips harder, pressing against her so hard they can hear wet squelching noises, and she laughs. “You’re pathetic , Naomi.”
They come again, so hard their vision blanks out. She laughs and laughs and laughs.
When the world resolves around them, she’s back on the other side of the desk. Naomi is slumped in their chair, thighs trembling and dripping, and everything hurts and they’re so sore and their head is pounding.
She’s sitting across from them and looks perfectly composed. She smiles beatifically.
“I’ll see you next week, then?”
Something twinges in their stomach. A little bit of anger that had, for whatever reason, waited until after she’d raped them and mocked them and tortured them (but not until after she brought them back to life, which, bad timing).
“Why are you like this,” Naomi mumbles. “Why don’t you just. Be a good person? Why can’t you be normal?”
She looks over the desk at them, eyes narrowing. “Don’t repeat yourself, Naomi, it’s unbecoming.”
“Huh?” Naomi asks, but the world is already going dark around them.