Archive of Our Own

The brothel is a dangerous place, Sue had said. Going in alone is not a good idea.

Reed had ignored her. He didn't think she was underestimating his power, and he knew underestimating Mister Fantastic was not her intention. Sue meant well. She was worried. But Reed knew — or so he thought — he could take care of himself.

Perhaps it was Reed who overestimated himself. Perhaps his mistake was that he thought this was just like any other brothels, not that Reed had ever hung out at a brothel for a quick fuck or two before (sleeping around and doing drugs were never in his nature, and he wasn't going to start trying them now), perhaps it was the combination of both; his being overly confident and his naively belief — that this place was no more dangerous than any other lairs of his enemies that he'd set foot into alone and came out of unscarred in the past — that served as the final nail in the coffin for him.

He had come here to gather evidence, in hope of achieving the goal of the Fantastic Four's current mission; helping the FBI take down an international human trafficking ring. He ended up finding himself in the back of a van with his wrists and ankles tied and his power out of reach.

Maybe this was the part where Reed started panicking now.

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It didn't start because someone spiked his drink. Reed's downfall.

He was smarter than to allow himself to consume anything here. But Reed guessed he wasn't smart enough to cover himself more properly; he wasn't cladded in the famous Fantastic Four bodysuit and, apart from the coat, he wore a hat and a pair of thick sunglasses; they weren't enough, it turned out. Because someone must have recognized him still.

A needle to the side of his neck. It came from behind. Reed yelped, but by the time he spun around it was already too late — horribly so. The substance in his system — whatever it was (and that was the worst part, Reed didn't know what it was he was injected with) — acted fast; less than ten seconds after the surprise attack and Reed was already feeling it creep through his bloodstream, paralyzing him as it went. His muscles turning into rocks, heavy and inanimate. A bag was placed over his head and then a pair of strong arms started dragging him to God knew where.

And even paralyzed, Reed could feel them tying him up, the rope bit into his skin and the burn was enough to make him whimper. He didn't mean to. Didn't mean to make any sound that would give them the satisfaction of knowing he was scared. But he was scared. For once. And he could feel himself choking on his sobs.

His attackers were only kind enough to remove the bag after they threw him into what appeared to be the back of a van with his bound and paralyzed limb.

His friends weren't here to save him. By the time they knew he was in trouble, missing...

This isn't going to end pretty for you, the voices in Reed's head were cruel, but they spoke the truth.

There was no window in the back of the van, and when Reed tried to move his mouth (scream at the top of his lungs), his body would not comply. He was still paralyzed, but his mind wasn't, at least. If he could... try to figure out where they were taking him by keeping tabs on the turns. Left or right. How many minutes it took until another turn was made. If he could stay focus enough —

He panicked and lost his place. Reed grunted with a sudden urge to slam his own head against something hard, if he could only move.

An hour. Maybe two. Perhaps three. Or even four. Time seemed to melt together, and Reed wasn't sure if the drug in his system was wearing off or if his body was having some sorts of allergic reactions to it. The fact he couldn't tell should probably, too, be alarming. But nausea was rolling and churning uneasily in his stomach; they didn't gag him, at least if he were to retch, the chances of his choking on bile and vomit were probably not that high. Reed didn't want to find out though, not when he was still paralyzed, he figured, even with the ropes keeping his wrists and ankles in place, he could feel those weight in his muscles — like he was trapped inside a corpse in the sense that moving was not possible. And keeping his thoughts straight was proven a fruitless attempt.

He could already be out of town, somewhere far away, and the chances of his team never finding him again were real and high.

The vehicle came to a stop. For real this time, Reed figured. He heard someone get out of it and then the back door was open. Two rough hands grabbed his shoulders and carelessly yanked him forwards. Reed fell to his knees and whimpered (he could do that at least) when the concrete cut his skin open; the scratches were superficial, but those complied with how he was being manhandled by three men who were at least twice his size and the overall situation he was in was enough to promise droplets of tears.

He wasn't going to show them a single sign of fear. Why then are you trembling, even while paralyzed?

"Doctor Richards," said one of his kidnappers. The guy hovered tall over Reed's head with his shadow on top of Reed, swallowing him whole as Reed stayed where he was dropped.

A fallen hero on his knees. Trembling and terrified. Reed hadn't realized how small he really was until now.

"I must admit it's been an honor having you here with us," he continued. His voice was gentle, polite, it made sickness in Reed's stomach intensify. "Alone. Without your team. Aren't you gonna look at us?" he reached down and tilted Reed's face upward with two fingers under his chin, forcing eye contact. "A man of such nobility like yourself, surely, you must know how rude it is to avert your gaze when you're spoken to."

Reed jerked, face still in the man's hand, and realized it was a sob threatening to tear itself free from his throat. He earned himself a widened smirk from his kidnapper, before his head was slammed against the van with no warning.

His breath and consciousness knocked out of him fast, he tried to hold onto wakefulness. That, too, was a fruitless attempt. Something wet at the side of his head (no doubt blood), and then he was pulled under, darkness devoured him alive.

Reed wasn't sure if he'd open his eyes again.

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He wasn't wearing the clothes he wore when he next opened his eyes. After God knew how long.

He wasn't wearing anything at all. To be precise.

That should have terrified him. And it did. His own nakedness just didn't terrify him as much as the restraints did; the collar around his throat was decorated with a barbed wire wrapping around it and his neck, and the chain around his ankle was unyielding. Looking around, Reed could tell he was in a basement of sorts, cold and windowless, but that was the most he could tell in regard to his surroundings. His whereabouts was utterly unknown to him. Underneath his body was an old air mattress, dirty and worn down with crimson red strain on it. A prison, that was probably what best described the place, except there was no cage or bars. Knowing what he knew — what the human trafficking ring did to its victims — a state prison might just be a safe haven.

He had to shrink his body thin enough for it to break free. He wasn't paralyzed anymore, so that was a good thing, at least.

Reed willed himself to change the shape of his body and screamed when it burned. Everything. From his neck, where the collar was, down to every bone in his body. The shock was severe enough to send him down onto his back the very second he tried to get up. Each time he moved an inch resulted in the barbed wire cutting into his skin and drawing blood.

He couldn't use his power. Couldn't get out.

Panic blinding his vision, the cuts on his neck making the tiniest intake of air hurt, and the throbbing in his head from when it was slammed against the car made it all impossible for Reed not to heave his head to his side and throw up on the floor next to the air mattress. What a terrible idea it was to strain his throat, Reed knew it, yet he couldn't help but retch and gag and empty his stomach as the wire cut deeper and deeper into his flesh.

A set of footsteps approaching from behind, Reed could somewhat hear it. He simply was too busy making a mess to stop and turn to look. "I take it you've learned what happens when you try to use your power, Doctor Richards."

Reed turned to look at him when he wasn't throwing up anymore. It was the same man that had assaulted him earlier. He was wearing a suit with his hands behind his back and his hair slicked back neatly. The smile he gave Reed was nearly identical to the one Reed received while on the verge of passing out, something about it was sending shivers down Reed's spine, the eeriness behind his otherwise seemingly polite persona.

"That may seem like an ordinary collar with a simple barbed wire, Doctor Richards, but I guarantee you that it is not," he walked closer, and Reed couldn't stop himself from scrambling backward with his hands, trying to maintain as much spaces as he could between himself and his kidnapper — as much spaces as the chain would allow him. "Try using your ability again, and that will be another thousand volts causing through your veins. I take that it is not to your liking."

Reed opened his mouth to say something (probably something along the lines of let me go or my friends will find me), the second his throat muscle moved, the wire bit deeper into his already bleeding skin. Reed gasped and whimpered. Even swallowing was excruciating. No, swallowing, specifically, burnt like fire. He grabbed it, the collar, and started yanking even though he only ended up cutting his fingers, too

"It is not my intention to damage our pets, Doctor Richards. Believe me when I say our clients prefer maiming them by themselves, but it is important that you know your place here. Not as a mighty hero anymore, I'm afraid," he walked closer on slow footsteps. The chain prevented Reed from going any farther. Reed looked at him and felt his heart beat a little too fast, like it might give out at any second now. "But as a thing to be owned," his kidnapper said, crouching down in front of Reed and leaning in to whisper the words close to Reed's ear in a cold, gentle and sickening whisper. A thing to be owned.

Another wave of nausea rolled in, and Reed swallowed it down with yet another round of excruciating pain — once his throat moved — to stop himself from throwing up again.

He jerked and shuddered when his kidnapper nuzzled his nose against his face and breathed in the scent of sweat and fear and then licked his tear away with a hot and harsh tongue. "Your friends will never find you. Now..." he trailed off, "consider this a warm welcome to your new life, Doctor Richards."

Something in Reed's eyes twisted at that. He was hoping — praying — he read the situation wrong.

Firm hand on his chest violently pushing him down and Reed wasn't sitting on the air mattress anymore; hard and cold floor greeted his back, and he would have whimpered hadn't the collar around his bleeding neck kept his response and protest to the minimum.

His kidnapper straddled his waist, keeping him in place as he leaned down and loudly breathed more of Reed's scent. A hand groped his crotch, cupping and kneading and Reed's eyes widened in sheer panic as he tried desperately to escape. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Please," Reed said, despite the pain speaking caused him.

His kidnapper hushed him with a solid kiss on the lips, seemingly unbothered by the fact his mouth still tasted and smelt like bile. Somehow it was Reed who was fighting a strong urge to throw up. Again. When the hand on his crotch tugged and pulled and stroked and forced him into getting hard, he could just feel every muscle in his body tense and lock, like a kind of pleasurable cramp that left him craving more. Reed knew he shouldn't be craving more, shouldn't be finding the feelings pleasurable. The fact he was was the thing he found disgusting the most. Not the unwanted touch or his kidnapper's tongue in his mouth, but the way his body was responding to the assault.

Twisted and disgusting and dirty. Shameful.

Reed moaned into his rapist's mouth and arched his back when the hand around his cock quickened its pace. "Look at you," came the voice from above him as his rapist pulled away from the kiss and breathed the words onto Reed's open mouth, "yearning, begging for it like a whore. And you call yourself noble, huh? Pathetic."

He stroked faster, and Reed gritted his teeth with eyes shut tight. His tears were hot against his face as his hips tried seeking more of the sinful touch, betraying his own body in the most unforgivable way possible. He dug his nails into his palm and felt them bite into skin, too, the kind of distraction Reed needed; anything to keep his mind as far away from his kidnapper's hand as he could.

The hand previously on his chest slithered lower, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps as it touched the skin it could reach on its way down to join its companion at Reed's crotch. With one hand clenched into a fist around his dick, he cupped his balls with his free hand and that sent waves of shock throughout Reed's body; his own traitorous cock twitched and erected as pre-cum was being milked out of its slit there by two fingers squeezing and rubbing and toying with no mercy.

"Undress me," said the man on top of him.

Reed bit his lips and kept his hand still at his sides, clenching them into tight fists until his knuckles were white and, surely, his palms were also bleeding.

"I said undress me," he leaned his face down until his mouth brushed against Reed's as he spoke.

Reed lifted his head up and bit. Hard. Taking a piece of the man's lips between his teeth and tearing it off.

The man's ring cut his cheek open as he backhanded him harder, sending his face to the side and splitting open his lips and face. His rapist's lips were bleeding, too, Reed looked at him through teary eyes and thought to himself that the victory, no matter how small, was at least worth it.

He cried when his cock was crashed and squeezed inside a tight, tight grip. "I don't think you understand the reality of your role here, Doctor Richards. Out there, you may have been a God. But here, you're a slave. Nothing more. You do as I say, or you will be begging for me to kill you," he squeezed harder and Reed's pupils went dilated as he gasped with no sound leaving his throat, legs kicking to no avail and back arched as high off the floor as it could go.

His assaulter let go, and Reed's back dropped to the floor with a thud. Panting through his mouth as the man stood with his legs straddling Reed's waist still, Reed cried when his hair was grabbed and yanked. The rapist pulled and forced him up onto his knees in front of him next, with the hand still buried in his hair, grabbing him firmly by the back of his head and tugging painfully at his scalp in the process. "Let's try this again," he said in a voice that was too sweet, "undress me, pet."

Reed, despite the hurt, swallowed down what tasted like hate so strong it could burn. He kept his gaze anywhere but at his assaulter's crotch as he opened his zipper and pulled down his pants.

"Keep going," came the encouragement from above his head.

Reed bit his lips and lowered the boxers next. Even with his averted eyes, he could still see how hard the man was. His cock nearly touched his face as it sprung free and proud in front of him.

Reed's breath hitched when the hand in his hair tightened its grip, tugging his scalp until he bled. "Do you need me to teach you how to do it, hmm?" there it was again, the tenderness; like a father teaching his son how to ride his first bicycle — no, like an owner teaching a dog how to fetch. Bile raised up to his throat again and Reed swallowed it down, feeling yet again another wave of pain as his Adam's apple bobbed against the barbed wire (and in results, the wire buried itself into his flesh).

You've gone through worse. You can take this, said the voices in Reed's head, except that Reed didn't think he'd gone through anything worse than this. The voices in his head were just that, voices. No matter how he tried to comfort himself so that he wouldn't break down right in front of his rapist.

Even Victor would never hurt you like this. There. The thoughts of Victor. Reed didn't know why his mind even went to Victor at all; Victor, of all people. But he was hurt and scared, and right now he wanted someone — anyone — to come and rescue him. A part of him wished Victor would kick down the door and burn a hole through his rapist's chest with his electrical power, or blow the guy's head out with a blast of his power; Victor could surely do that by simply raising his hand. Reed had seen him do it before. The thoughts of Victor doing that for him, protecting him and saving him...

You're being raped and all you fantasize about is your archenemy rescuing you. How pathetic, whispered another set of voices in his head that wasn't as kind as the previous one. Reed's hands were shaking as he wrapped them around his rapist's cock and leaned his face closer.

The urge to throw up grew stronger. Reed closed his eyes and parted his bleeding lips, taking the tip in and feeling pre-cum on his tongue, thick and salty. He heard the man growl above him and, with no warning, the entirety of the cock was shoved into his mouth in one violent thrust.

Reed's eyes widened. The cock going down his throat was preventing him from getting air into his lungs and, at the same time, the bulge of his neck was pushing against the barbed wire; it couldn't cut through to the cock in his throat, but it could and it was cutting more of Reed's skin there, making the bleed worse. And Reed couldn't — he couldn't use his power to stretch himself to adjust to the... foreign chunk of meat that shouldn't be inside his throat. His power had been out of reach ever since the second he was kidnapped.

Utterly powerless and at your rapist's mercy.

He could... bite, Reed supposed. But he then figured the consequences were certainly going to be ten times worse, and he wasn't interested in ever finding out what they would be, no matter how appealing the thoughts of biting off his rapist's cock were.

The guy — the scum — started moving his hips then. Hand still a tight fist around Reed's hair, he moved Reed's head in rhythm with his thrusting too. He wasn't being gentle, disregard how gentle his voice may have been, fucking Reed's mouth like a fucking mindless machine.

Too much. Too hard. Tears soaked Reed's face and then he couldn't take it anymore. When he threw up again, the man still didn't let him go. Instead he kept Reed's face pressed tight against his pubic and his cock nested nicely inside Reed's throat, and Reed could actually feel himself choking on a cock and his own vomit as it spilled out over his mouth; with the cock still in there. His nose burnt. His throat burnt. Everything burnt.

He was, for a moment, genuinely convinced he was going to die by drowning on his own vomit and that his body was going to be left here to rot. No one would find him. No one would know what happened to him. The world would be left wondering why Mister Fantastic disappeared, and if his body was ever discovered, then perhaps it would already be rotten far beyond recognition. Naked and chained up with a collar around his throat, but still so hardly recognizable that they would need his DNA to confirm his identity, his death. He doubted he would want to ever be found like that. Maybe he would prefer it if no one ever found him at all. If no one knew for sure if Mister Fantastic was dead or if he was alive somewhere, what happened to him; the only thing they would know was that he was gone.

Reed wondered if Victor would miss him.

Just before he passed out, his rapist let go and Reed heaved to the side to get the rest of his vomit out of his mouth (which, granted, was the majority of it, considering it was kept inside his mouth when he had the man's cock inside it and his lips were sealed tightly by pubic hair) and breath again, having choked on nothing but bile and the other man's cum for long enough that he was seeing black spots behind his eyes.

"Know your place, Doctor Richards," the man said casually, politely. Reed heard him redress himself, but couldn't stop vomiting long enough to cast a glance his direction (not that Reed ever wanted to look at him again, anyway). "I trust a fast learner such as yourself will adapt to the new life just fine."

Then the sound of footsteps walking away.

Reed kept vomiting for a long while (for a moment, it seemed like he could not stop vomiting; he'd gotten most of bile and cum out of his body now, but he simply couldn't stop vomiting and trembling), before he crawled towards the corner of the basement he was kept in, where the chain allowed him to take his spot and curl in on himself on the floor.

His air mattress was in front of him, but for some reason, Reed had no desire to lie on it, anyway. The floor was hard and cold against his burning body, but everything was already hurting; a dirty air mattress strained in the blood of another victim before Reed wasn't going to help make anything better.

Reed hugged himself tightly and, despite the pain the collar inflicted with every movement of his neck, wept in silence.

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His 'clients' took their sweet, brutal time taking turns fucking him in the ass until he was bleeding and shaking and unable to stand.

By the time they were done, Reed was too wounded and exhausted to even curl his body in on himself to give himself a hug, instead lying on the ground in the exact same spot they left him in; legs spread and back against the floor.

He breathed through his mouth, considering his nostrils were blocked by his own blood when one of them stomped on his face with a heavy boot; Reed figured it was personal, he was certain that was one of the men whose downfalls were caused by the Fantastic Four, thus the guy had been so eager to take his revenge.

Bruised and bleeding from everywhere, he wondered briefly how long it'd been since the day his life turned upside down. Could be weeks. Or months. Time seemed to blur together and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

There was a time when his captors would remove the collar with the barbed wire from his neck whenever they forced food down his throat (and they always came up with alternative ways to keep his power out of reach at all time, even without the collar, whatever drug they injected into his veins always robbed him of all the little strength he had left), disregard the pain being forced to swallow inflicted (or the throwing up), they didn't do that anymore. Over time the wire embedded and buried itself too deep into the layers of skin there; removing it would have caused too much hemorrhage, and it was the risk Reed's captors refused to take. They needed him alive. Needed to keep him alive for as long as they could. Force-feeding him with the collar on always ended in Reed nearly choking on his own blood, but the risk was smaller than removing the collar and risking tearing apart his jugular vein in the process. No, they needed him alive.

For as long as his body could stay alive.

He had no doubt they would continue violating his corpse after he died, and he would eventually die from this, Reed only prayed it was sooner rather than later; he knew a quick death was too easy an escape. Until there was nothing his body could give, nothing it could take and nothing they could take from his flesh, they would never let him die. The promise of being alive was more cruel than the touch he didn't want, or the cocks he couldn't say no to. But it was his life now.

It's your life now. There's nothing you can do about that. Take it. Take it like a good little boy.

He wondered if his friends had given up trying to search for him. If the world had simply stopped trying to look for Mister Fantastic. If they had given up hope. Surely, they couldn't keep searching forever. Eventually, his team would move on.

Everybody would move on and he would rot in here. Funny enough, the thoughts of his body decomposing here without ever being found were more ideal than the thoughts of the world knowing what happened to him here.

Such a glorious way to go down.

Yes, Reed thought, maybe it was better this way. Even if he, by some miracle, didn't die, he couldn't imagine himself looking at any of his teammates in the eyes after this. Maybe it was a good thing, the hopes that his friends and the world would at least remember him as a noble hero he once was and not what he became.

And what is that? A whore. A sex slave. Used and worthless. Broken and disgusting. Pathetic.

The collar was on, as it always was lately. Reed, half lucid, absentmindedly traced his finger through it and barely wince — barely had enough strength to wince — when the light touch of a fingertip stirred another spark of pain through his skin that reeked of rotting mean and was filled with purulent discharge and abscess mingled together with blood; a good sign of infection, one of the many wounds Reed hoped would kill and release him. A childish thinking, ever so wishful and naive still. You think they'd be kind enough to let you die so easily?

One of the guards came in and cleaned the semen and the blood off his body with a bucket full of water. It was cold and brutal, the water that was splashed all across his wounded and bruised body in order to get him ready for the next clients. Next round. There always was the next.

Reed didn't remember when, exactly, he stopped protesting.

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His sleep — although most of the times 'unconsciousness' was a far more suitable word for it — faded into the mixture of delirium and semi-consciousness when the commotion, coming from outside of the basement he was kept in, eventually eased his eyelids into flickering open. (One of them, anyway, the other had long since swollen shut.)

Reed barely stirred. Distinguishing what was real from what was blurred hallucination inflicted by his wounds, fever and trauma was a challenging task as of late. Muffled gunshots and shouting were getting closer, Reed supposed. He would have lifted his head off the floor if he could — he could not, that, and the fact nothing seemed to... matter anymore.

A loud boom, then the door to the basement flew open. Reed barely stirred. Nothing matters anymore. Heavy set of footsteps, a heavy pair of boots, someone was walking towards him; Reed's vision had been nothing but a blur lately, with one of his eyes swollen shut entirely. Lying on the floor, he could still see a pair of legs stop right in front of him. The boots were nearly identical to the ones his captors wore, they all looked the same anyway, except none of his captors wore a green cloak. And none of his captors ever stopped; usually they approached Reed with a kick to the rib or the face. But none of them ever stopped.

"Reed," came a somewhat-familiar voice from above his head. He was too injured to lift his head up and look, but Reed thought... he thought he knew that voice. Or so he thought. He hadn't been lucid lately, and he doubted he could name all of his teammates' names right now; not that he forgot about them, but his head was hurting — everything in him was hurting — and sometimes he could not tell what his own name was.

He thought he knew that voice.

The pair of legs in front of him started resuming their motion, slowly walking towards him — his captors never walked on slow footsteps; it always was quick stomping and a boot to the ribs — until they stopped again. Someone knelt down in front of him.

"Reed," said the same voice again. Gentle, but with a clear hint of fear and worries (his captors may have shown him feigned gentleness in the way they spoke to him before, but there was never fear or worries in their voices. Never before). Reed moaned in response, and if he could utter more than two words without the pain from his wounded throat or the bruises on his abdomen making him pass out, he would have begged for whoever this man was to hurry up and get it over with. Death was too sweet an idea. Hurting him must be the only reason his company was here, and Reed wished he would just hurry up and get it over with.

His hand touched Reed's collar — the barbed wire — and Reed flinched. The touch was surprisingly gentle, yes, but Reed was no longer so naive as to believe cruelty wouldn't soon follow. He shut his remaining eye close, waiting, dreading the pain. He was always in pain, but for some reason his company hadn't hurt him yet. Why?

This must be another mind game. The longer the wait, the more the suffering.

"Reed," he called him again. His voice was barely above a whisper. "What have they done to you?" There. The anger in his voice and the hint of fear. Fear and worries.

Reed opened his eye to a slit. (One of his eyes, of course; the other was too swollen for that after his last beating.) He felt a tug at his feet, where the chain was, then the absence of the weight of the chain around his ankle. Wouldn't be the first time they removed the chain to take him somewhere; chained up or not, pain was always promised.

"I'm gonna get you out of here," his company said. It sounded far away. Like Reed was slipping away fast. Something soft on his body, Reed looked, and it was green. The blanket. No, not a blanket. The cloak his company previously wore was draped across his nude body, giving him some sorts of modesty.

Why bother?

Reed, ever since his time here, was no stranger to the act of false kindness. Gentleness followed by violence and cruelty. But there was something different about his company. He doubted he'd seen him here before, and yet the man looked a little too familiar. Almost like home, came the tiny, flickering voices in Reed's head. He didn't remember when the last time he found himself in someone else's presence without feeling terrified was. It'd been too long — so long that his life before all of this started to sound like a dream in his head, unclear and hazy, like walking through thick layers of mist. Reed didn't feel unsafe in his current company's presence. Terrified, yes, because he would always be terrified. But not exactly threatened...

"Reed," his company said again. It was strange, really. No one called him Reed anymore. It either was some dehumanizing words or Doctor Richards if they wanted to aim for mockery, the cruel reminder of who he used to be and who he'd never be again. But never Reed. Sometimes Reed thought he forgot about it entirely. His name.

He was shaking. Trembling. And he didn't quite know how to stop that.

Reed jolted and flinched, but otherwise didn't try to protest (not that he could, not that he would even if he could), when the arms lifted him off the floor, scooping him up (with the cloak still covering him) until his head was nestling against something solid and cold. Like metal. An armor. A breastplate, Reed realized. Soft, comforting voice above his head and Reed wanted to tilt his head up and look. He'd been avoiding eye contact for as long as he could remember, but this was different. He couldn't tell how it was different, but something was.

The arms around his body were solid and cold too. Reed didn't remember any of his captors wearing an armor. He didn't...

There were bodies. On the ground. His company began carrying him in his arms out the door, and there he saw bodies. Several of them. Severed corpses lying on the blood-covered floor and the walls, too, were red.

Reed murmured something and wasn't sure what he was trying to say. If this whole thing was merely a hallucination. He was hurt. He often could somewhat escape the pain through unconsciousness, not entirely but the pain wasn't normally so excruciating like this. This must be... real then.

The armored arms around his body — while hard and cold — were gentle. Careful. Like his company was too afraid of further maiming him. And Reed wanted to ask what was happening. He thought he recognized his captors dead on the floor, but the corpses were barely recognizable — severely mutilated — and Reed was fading away fast. Consciousness slipped away like water in poorly cupped hands.

"Stay with me, Reed," said the man carrying him.

Victor? Reed thought, already slipping in and out of consciousness. No, that's impossible. You're hallucinating.

You've always hallucinated Victor.

How many times, since you've been here, have you hallucinated about Victor rescuing you when you should have prayed for your friends to save your life instead?

There was always a part of Reed that never wanted Victor or any of his teammates to find him like this, a part of him that wished for death and decaying in solitude. Another part of him was a scared little boy in the sense that he'd always cry in silence for someone to find and rescue him. Pathetic, Reed knew that.

He clenched his hand as best as he could, with what little strength he had left, around the fabric of his company's emerald cloak and was half aware of himself doing it, although he didn't know why he was doing it at all. The fact his company hadn't hurt him yet didn't mean he wasn't planning to.

If there was one thing Reed learned; pain always followed. It always did.

He closed his eye — the one eye that was half open anyway — and nuzzled his face into the hardness of his company's armor.

Reed heard him call his name again, but didn't stir as darkness pulled him under.

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He woke up sometime later. Not necessarily lucid, but the pain was easing him out of the somewhat blissful unconsciousness.

Reed moaned and whimpered. There wasn't really a single part of his body that wasn't screaming in excruciating pain, but his throat was being ripped apart.

Opening his eyes and trying to scramble away, Reed was quickly held in place by a firm hand on his shoulder; passing down hard enough to keep him still but at the same time not hard enough to cause him harm. More harm, at least.

Reed looked. The man in front of him — his company — had a face now, and Reed could see that; his face.

"Victor," Reed said, or tried to say. His voice was a faint whisper and he wasn't sure if Victor heard him at all. If it was audible at all.

Victor looked at him. "Reed," he said, the same voice Reed heard earlier in the basement — where... Reed looked around, this wasn't the basement he'd been kept in. His basement didn't have a fireplace or a cozy atmosphere. And his basement lacked a nice, warm bed on which Reed lay. Apparently.

"I didn't want to sedate you," Victor added, grabbing Reed's attention and his gaze (one of his eyes was still swollen shut, but looking with one eye, there were worries in Victor's eyes; something Reed didn't understand). "Your body's still too weak for any strong drugs. I was hoping you'd stay asleep til I was done, but..." Victor paused, "I'll try to be gentle."

What's happening?

You're hallucinating.

Come on, Doctor Richards, you know better. You're delusional if you think this is real.

"Reed," Victor said, "I am removing the wire from your neck. It'll only cut deeper if you're not staying still. You need to stay still here. Hey — look at me, I need you to keep still for me here."

"Victor?" he said again, even if speaking hurt, like he needed himself to believe that. Victor's here.

"Keep still," Victor said after a brief pause. Victor was looking at Reed like he was both in pain and in rage, and that confused Reed. Because why? None of this made any sense, but maybe that explained it; this wasn't real. It wouldn't be the first time Reed fell victim to an episode of delirium, after all. High fever usually resulted in illusions, and Reed had experienced those first hand for more times than he could count.

A cry tore itself from Reed's mouth and Reed kept nothing but still when the wire — embedded deeply into his neck — pulled at his flesh as Victor separated it from his skin with a gloved hand, drawing more and more blood from the mess that had been his neck for God knew how long. Victor stilled him with one hand, still on Reed's chest, holding him down. "You'll hurt yourself if you keep squirming," he hissed. He was pissed. Victor's pissed now, Reed thought. He remembered what happened when his captors were angry, and the last thing Reed wanted... the last thing he wanted was to ask for another round of torture by making Victor angry.

Vic said to stay still.

Reed gulped and whined as the pain flared through his veins. Victor reached for a towel and wiped away as much of the blood as he could. Glancing down, he was making such a mess on the bed. He'd be paying for that too. Reed realized. With terror. His captors never liked it when he made a mess on their beds, and he always ended up making a mess on their beds with blood and semen and other bodily fluids. And he remembered how they made him pay.

Victor's bed was covered in red and thick, crimson globs. Like a crime scene. The thoughts of how he was going to pay for this helped freeze and stop him from disobeying Victor's order and thrashing around with what little strength he had left. So at least he wasn't actively disobeying Victor's order, whether or not Victor was real.

The pain certainly was. But Victor...

"I'm sorry," Reed said and hoped his voice was audible enough for Victor to understand.

Victor kept looking at him, and Reed wondered for a moment if he was going to hit him now (maybe it would confirm his being real then). Reed's captors certainly would, and while Reed still didn't quite understand why he wasn't as intimidated as he should be, it'd be naive of him to expect the pain to eventually stop. As long as he was alive and breathing, he feared it'd never go away. "I'm — sorry."

"Reed..." one of Victor's hands was still on his chest and Victor started rubbing soothing, small circles there. The touch itself wasn't painful, but pain was everywhere and the state of being touched alone, in any way, was enough to stir nausea.

"I'm sorry," Reed said again. He was too tired and hurt to keep that one less-injured eye open. The abyss was alluring, if he could close that one remaining eye and let himself go...

Victor's hand rejoined his other one at the barbed wire around Reed's neck. He wasn't exactly tugging or pulling at it, for some reason, but the pain intensified savagely nonetheless the second Victor resumed his gentle easing of Reed's personalized collar, and it kept Reed from reaching that bliss of oblivion unconsciousness would bring.

He kept still anyway. Because Victor told him to.

______________________________

Reed still wasn't a hundred percent certain Victor was real.

Everything indicated Victor was. But he'd hallucinated before, and waking up or coming to his senses and realizing he still was trapped in the basement with a collar and a chain hurt more than simply accepting the only way he could ever escape was through death.

He'd winced when the water hit his open wounds, but didn't try to fight when Victor put him in a bathtub. "We'll have to get you something to wear," Victor said. He sat next to the tub while holding a spongy loofah to the side of Reed's head, gently washing dried blood and dirt off Reed's hair. The water quickly turned a dark shade of brownish crimson; but as surprising as it was, it wasn't exactly painful.

His captors usually cleaned him by harshly pouring water onto his body from a bucket. That or the strong jet of water directly from a hose, if they thought he was too filthy. They never gave him a bath.

"I know we're not friends," Victor went on, "but you can wear my clothes, if you don't mind. They're probably twice your size now, but they're all I have with me right now. Until I get my men to get something your size."

Reed couldn't tell if Victor was talking to him or if he was talking to himself. It sounded like the latter, and that he didn't mind Reed hearing it. Reed looked at him, then at the water surrounding his wounded body. It was red, and there was blood on the floor, too (from when Victor carried him here). His captors never liked it when he made a mess. They'd always punished him for making a mess, and Reed hadn't stopped making that since Victor took him here — if Victor was real at all.

"I'm sorry," he said, without looking Victor in the eyes. Eye contact was too much. He'd learned to keep his head down.

Victor's hand came to a halt, and for a moment Reed thought he made a mistake. Maybe Victor expected him to stay quiet and keep his mouth shut when direct permission wasn't granted.

"You keep saying that," Victor said. But to Reed's surprise and confusion, Victor didn't sound angry. Reed could feel Victor's eyes on the bandage wrapped around his neck, where the collar used to be. "What are you sorry for?" Victor asked, after several seconds of silence went by.

Another several seconds of more silence from Reed's end. "This," he said then, like the explanation was ever so obvious, because it was, wasn't it? He failed to see what it was Victor found confusing about his apology; or maybe Victor just wanted him to say it. Yes, Reed supposed, this must be it; he wanted him to say his mistake. "I've made a mess. On your bed. And... here."

He wouldn't look at Victor. Couldn't. But he could feel Victor's gaze on him, and for a moment Reed pictured himself submerging under the water and staying there until it all came to an end; death had always seemed so out of reach, despite how far he stretched. Victor was still silent. He's angry. Maybe that wasn't what he wanted to hear. Messing up again, Doctor Richards? his captor's voices were clear. It was loud.

"Reed," Reed flinched. Victor wasn't yelling, but he didn't have to. His captors never exactly yelled when they hurt him.

"I'm sorry," Reed said again, blurting out and feeling himself unable to control the trembling.

"What? You think I'm —" silent, Reed could still feel Victor's gaze on him. "Reed, I'm not — I'm not angry. Is this — is this what you're afraid of? That I'm gonna hurt you because you've made a mess?"

Reed kept his gaze glued to the crimson water and hugged himself underneath the red.

"You were hurt," Victor continued, "you didn't make a mess; you were on the verge of death. Reed, you were dying. What? Did you expect me to just let you die?" There it was, a hint of anger in Victor's voice. Maybe he'd get it over with and hit you now.

"Reed," Victor said again. His voice softened a little, like he realized he'd raised his tone and was trying to control himself. "Look at me, Reed. Will you please look at me?"

Reed did. Like he was forced by a hand twisting his neck to the side. Because he was told. And you have to be very good, Doctor Richards, you have to be very good. Victor looked at him like he was in pain, and Reed was finding it difficult to understand what went on in Victor's head. With his... previous captors, Reed could at least expect pain. He didn't think Victor wasn't going to hurt him — only a matter of time — he didn't understand what game Victor was playing. The cluelessness and the way Victor was looking at him. If Reed was bold enough he would've asked why are you looking at me like that, but he knew better. He knew better now.

Victor sighed and continued cleaning dry blood off of Reed's face then. Reed wished he would've stopped the false kindness and get it over with.

______________________________

A deep shade of red spread across Reed's face when he looked down at himself wearing Victor's clothes.

The pajamas were twice Reed's size, especially when taking into account all the weight he'd lost during his time there, but what bothered him the most... Reed pulled his knees against his chest and hugged himself, hoping it'd make him look (even) smaller sitting on Victor's couch; the irony that he was beginning to feel insecure now that he was clothed; something wasn't right, he was never given the privilege of having clothes cover his skin when he was with his captors. They never needed him to...wear anything.

"You don't like it?"

Reed nearly flinched. No, he did flinch when Victor's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"I could get you something else to wear. Probably not gonna be your size, but it's all we have for now."

"It's perfect, thank you," his voice was small, but it seemed to be the only way Reed knew how to speak now. Small and timid. Like what you've been reduced to. A part of Reed still expected Victor to hit him. Any second. That he couldn't understand how some other parts of him felt safe in Victor's presence did not mean he would allow himself to be so naive as to believe Victor didn't plan on hurting him. He was an enemy, after all. The only thing that had changed was that Reed wasn't his equal anymore. What Reed had become...

A filth. Dirty and disgusting.

"Are you real?" Reed thought he'd asked the question in his head. He still wasn't looking at Victor.

"What?" Victor asked, like he thought he misheard that. And that was when Reed turned to look at him. Because — he so believed he hadn't asked that out loud.

"Reed," Victor huffed out a breath of air. He took a spot on the couch next to Reed and Reed instinctively moved away an inch, he couldn't stop how his body responded to being physically close to someone — anyone; Victor seemed to notice that, but if Reed expected anger from him, Victor only gave him a sad look. "Of course, I'm real," he said. "I'm here."

Reed hugged himself a little tighter, precisely because he didn't know what he was supposed to say; he felt like he'd forgotten how to have a... normal conversation — a conversation that wasn't outright pleading or utter silence in which he simply took and took. Just take it. Take it like a good little boy. It's the only thing you're good for.

"Do you... know how long you were gone?" Victor asked. Reed wasn't looking at him anymore, but he could tell from the corner of his eye that Victor's gaze wasn't on him either.

"I... no," he said, truthfully. Time didn't seem to exist back there. The only thing that did was pain. That and fear.

"The whole world searched for Mister Fantastic," Victor said, "your friends..."

"Oh," there was dread beginning to tie itself into a knot in Reed's stomach, churning uneasily and twisting his insides; for a moment Reed thought he was going to be sick. His friends. His team. The thoughts of them learning what'd happened — what Reed had become — he might really be sick now.

"Reed," Victor's voice was soothing. Gentle. Reed took a quick glance at him before looking down again. Like a good little boy. "What is it?"

"My friends, do they..."

"They don't know I've found you," Victor said, "to them and the world, you're still gone."

"But they..."

"I don't know what your teammates think, Reed, but eventually they had to declare you dead and your case a cold one. You were gone for..." Victor trailed off, "you were gone for a very long time. Something told me you were still alive, that's why I... never stopped searching. But I worked alone."

The thoughts of Ben, Sue and Johnny believing he was dead should have troubled him. Maybe it did. But the thoughts of them knowing he was alive and the thoughts of them knowing what he went through troubled him more. Maybe he really was dead to them and the world. And maybe it was better this way; for everybody to remember him as a hero who had died. He could live with that, Reed thought. He couldn't see himself living with the knowing that everyone looked at him and knew. How dirty. How disgusting...

"Are you going to tell them about me?"

"You don't want me to tell your friends I found you," Victor said, not exactly a question, but Victor sounded taken aback. "You know it's unlike you to want Doom to keep your whereabouts a secret from the world. From the Fantastic Four."

Not Fantastic Four anymore. Reed didn't say anything aloud.

"They mourned you, Reed," Victor went on, "Susan, Ben, Johnny. The whole world."

"That's good," Reed pulled at his hangnail, still making sure he avoided any eye contact, "it means they're moving on."

"Reed..."

"They can't know," a hint of raw panic was torn from Reed's mouth; the wounds around his neck from the collar sent white, hot pain down his spine whenever his voice was a notch louder than a whisper. "Please."

He could feel Victor's eyes on him now, and Reed hated that; being looked at. It wasn't Victor. He remembered it a little too well, what happened whenever he was looked at. It served to reason why he'd rather be as small as he could. Reed wished he could do what Sue could right now, turning invisible. He hadn't tried using his own power since Victor brought him home; the collar suppressing his ability was gone, but there was no point. Reed knew that. It wasn't like he was still worthy of being Mister Fantastic; the title alone was enough to leave a stain in his mind. Let them mourn and let them move on. Mister Fantastic's dead.

Best to let them remember him as a hero.

"I assume this means you're not going to the Baxter Building anytime soon."

"I can leave, if you don't want me here."

"It's not that. That's not what I'm saying. I'm not kicking you out, Reed."

Reed nodded slowly, like he'd come to accept that. "You're keeping me. Is that why you took me?"

"What?" Victor's voice had a clear edge to it. His gaze on Reed was burning and Reed could feel as it engulfed him alive. "You think I'm — You think that's why I got you out of that godforsaken hell. You think I'm a rapist?"

Reed grimaced at that. He hugged himself a little tighter and wished he could crawl under the couch and hide there.

"I'm not gonna kick you out. But not because I'm keeping you for — that. I'm keeping you here because you want the world to keep thinking that you're dead, and that means you have nowhere to go. And you're wounded. I'm not letting you go because you need me, Reed."

Reed cast another quick glance at Victor. "You knew," he said, "why aren't you... disgusted?"

Victor was silent. "I am disgusted, Reed," he said, after several seconds of quietness, and Reed grimaced again. "Reed," Victor said again, "look at me." And Reed did, because he'd learned what happened when he disobeyed a direct order. "I'm disgusted, but not by you, alright? I'm disgusted by them. By what they did. And I killed them all, although I'm beginning to regret giving them such quick deaths now. And you —" Victor paused again, "you need to stop thinking you're no longer who you used to be."

"But I'm not," Reed said, before he pressed his lips into a thin line. They never liked it when he talked back. And from the look on Victor's face, he knew what was in Reed's head.

"You were hurt," Victor said, "but you're still you. What happened to you doesn't change that."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you... kind to me?"

"I'm not kind, Reed," Victor said, "I'm only saving you."

"Why?"

"There," Victor turned to get a better look at him, but he still kept his distance; Reed doubted it was for Victor's own sake (he'd thought Victor was simply disgusted by him, but Victor's action was saying otherwise; something Reed still had a hard time wrapping his head around), a hint of smile on his face, and Reed wished he knew what was on Victor's mind. "That's you, Reed," he said, "you always ask questions. Too many questions, maybe. But it's you. An old you, in there."

"I don't," Reed gulped, "I don't have anything to give you, Vic."

Victor chuckled, like he was offended, only that Reed couldn't see a sign of any real anger there. He saw a glimpse of sadness in Victor's eyes, something he didn't understand. "First you indirectly accused me of being a rapist, now you say I only save you because I want something in return."

Reed looked down at himself, like a dog scolded for doing something wrong.

"I'm not mad at you, Reed. There are a lot of things you did that made me mad at you. This just isn't one of them."

Reed nodded again, precisely because he didn't know what to do or say. He'd forgotten when the last time he had an actual conversation with someone was; it was... challenging, trying to find words, like he was learning how to speak all over again.

"Are you tired?" Victor asked.

Reed nodded, although he figured Victor could already tell that; it was obvious enough. He still couldn't get one of his eyes to open.

______________________________

Victor carried him to his bed, a new one, the one that wasn't covered in his blood from earlier; Reed doubted he could stand on his own legs without falling to the ground, and he didn't have to ask to be carried — he figured it was obvious enough, and Victor had been carrying him since he found him. Like it came so naturally, the act of protectiveness of sorts. Reed still couldn't wrap his head around it, but he was so tired. Everything was still hurt (although it was slowly getting better, Reed supposed, Victor had been taking a great care of him, another thing Reed couldn't understand.)

"Listen," Victor trailed off, he was gentle when he placed Reed down and tucked him in. And the bed was soft, like it was trying to be kind to the wound that was his body. "I know you and I aren't... exactly friends anymore, and I know we've hurt each other," he paused, and Reed looked up at him from the pillow with his one less-injured eye (he could somewhat look at Victor a little longer at a time without fearing he'd get hit; Reed didn't know how Victor did it, but if this sense of safety was false, then Victor was too dangerously good at feigning it), funny, Victor's silence, it was almost like he was trying to search for the right words. "I'm a monster, Reed," he continued then, "but I'm not that kind of monster."

"Vic..."

"You can sleep," Victor's voice was soft. Comforting.

Reed gulped. Despite how exhausted he was... sleeping was hard, closing his one good-eye was hard. He'd been slipping in and out of unconsciousness, yes, even before Victor found him. Things were simply different now. A part of Reed still refused to believe he really was rescued, if he was rescued at all (if he wasn't already too broken, too ruined). But he was here, at least. There was a part of him that whispered he'd wake up and find himself back in that basement again, chained up with a barbed wire biting into his throat, and the pain. There always was pain. What if this, too, is a dream? Victor. Everything.

Victor says he's real. But what if that's only in your head? Your wanting so bad to be saved that you hallucinate the whole thing.

"Reed," Victor touched his shoulders, before retracting the hand when Reed flinched (Reed didn't mean to; somehow it was hard to distinguish a touch that was harmless from... something terrible — and a part of him still felt their touch on his skin, even now, he feared he might never stop feeling it).

"They're not gonna hurt you again," Victor said, "I need you to know that. I —" he paused and licked his lips, looking away for a few seconds before his eyes met Reed's again, "I know it's not gonna be easy for you to really believe that, and I understand. But they're not gonna hurt you again. No one's gonna hurt you again."

Reed averted his gaze then. Believing Victor was a dangerous game, but he didn't have a choice. Not when the alternative was letting go and letting himself fall into the abyss. Forever lost.

"I can stay," Victor said, then quickly added, "you can have the bed. I'll take that couch. That way I can keep an eye out if anything tries to get in here."

Reed took another quick glance at Victor. Like he was waiting for a punchline.

"Unless you don't want me to, that's fine too. You can tell me what you want," Victor added. And Reed glanced at him again. What he wanted, those words sounded almost too foreign to him now. How long had it been since he last got what he wanted, how long had it been since things were about what he wanted and not about trying to... get through it.

Maybe Victor was testing him, maybe Victor was trying to see how he would respond, what he would say. His captors were no strangers to mind games. But there was a right answer, and if Reed chose wrong. If he —

"Nothing you say will make me hurt you," Victor said, almost like he was reading Reed's mind, and there was pain in Victor's voice. "If you said you'd rather be alone for the night, I'd leave and I'd see you in the morning. If you said you wanted me to stay, then I would. I'm not... I'm not tricking you, Reed. I want to," he paused, "I want to give you what you want. Like when you asked if I could keep you my little secret here. I want you to tell me what you want, alright?"

The silence on Reed's end lasted for a while, but Victor was patient, surprisingly so.

"Stay," Reed said, barely a whisper, then added, "please."

He could feel Victor's gaze on him. Victor was silent for a breath or two. "Okay," he said then, "I'm not going anywhere."

Reed looked up at him again. He thought about what Victor said earlier and let those words sink deep within. I'm a monster, Victor had said.

You called yourself a monster, Reed thought, and this time he didn't flinch when Victor placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. You called yourself a monster.

But maybe you're not one at all.