Chapter Text
Arkin had been staring wide-eyed down at the red trunk before him.
The Collector's mask is inside, empty.
He could only stare in horror at the black, leather mask.
That monster's still alive; he survived the fire.
There's an officer approaching him from the back, but he can't hear their footsteps closing in. His mind is blanking out and he can't even hear his own erratic breathing.
Arms close in from behind and latch tightly around his chest. There's an odd weight on his shoulders and hot breaths panting across his neck: something akin to an embrace.
Arkin bites his lip and gulps down some air. "Uh, y-yes?" He stands flabbergasted, turning his face down to a head of hair. It's faintly familiar, but he can't place from where.
Those hands grab a hold of his sides and squeeze. The thief grunts, prying at the crushing arms. He doesn't know who this guy is and he really doesn't want anyone touching him right now. "Stop, hey-!"
One leather-gloved hand moves up to the middle of his chest, loosening up on pressure, while the other is retracted. The man behind him shifts around in his pocket for something.
Those gloves. Shit. Fuck.
Arkin falls limp in the hold, nearly stumbling forward. His breath hitches and he falters in his struggling. He just manages to let out the start of a scream when the other glove returns and a sharp needle bites into his neck.
Subconsciously he starts gasping for breath, vision blurring, feeling himself becoming heavy with an imaginary weight.
"Fu-ck!" Arkin manages out, stumbling forward as the hold on him is released. He whips around and has to catch himself lurching forward. If he passes out now, he's done for. He blinks, trying and failing to steady himself.
"Fuck you, you b-!" It feels like something hard just smashed into his skull and cracked his head open.
Everything turns black and he goes unconscious.
~~
He wakes with his wrists tied behind his back and duct tape over his mouth. His legs are extended before him, bound by the ankles.
The duct tape is new because the Collector wasn't previously opposed to him screaming.
Arkin's shoulder slams into a wall and he looks around, still unsteady; the drug hasn't yet completely worn off. There are walls on both his sides and one behind him. What looks like a door is just beyond his feet.
The thief bangs against the wall on his side again, just to see if he'll get the Collector's attention. The man must know by now how impatient Arkin can get.
There's no response. He does it multiple times over what he assumes is three to four hours, but still nothing. Maybe the Collector's finally ditched him somewhere to die. He really hopes the bastard didn't do such an undignified thing.
He leans his head against the right wall, instinctually curling in on himself when he hears thudding underneath him. Sounds like a door being slammed shut. His shoulder meets the wall again a little louder, and he winces when he realizes he's bruising his upper arm.
Everything goes eerily silent. All he can hear is himself breathing through his nose and can feel cold sweat breaking out. Fear washes over him and he tries to breathe and assure himself he can escape.
Softer thuds and noises echo through the cracks and seams, footsteps getting closer then farther, then closer. Listening intently is a distraction, but he knows that once the footsteps arrive here, it'll all be over.
They're drawing very close now. On the same floor and, judging by a nearby door opening, the same room now.
The door in front of him is slammed open and blinding light pervades his vision. He clenches his eyes closed, hissing past the duct tape. Fuck, that hurt!
Arkin blinks down at the shoes before him, his eyes slowly wandering up. Before him stands the Collector, staring down through his mask.
It's the first time Arkin screams with the duct tape applied because common sense told him that the sound would be muted if he did with it on. But common sense was just thrown out the window and he's screaming and kicking, flailing about with no avail.
A foot steps down on his ankle's bonds, stopping his incessant squirming. Arkin takes the moment to control his breathing and train his eyes cautiously on the Collector.
The man holds up a finger to his lips, then steps off Arkin's ankles. Arkin pulls his knees up slightly, shifting them away from the other man. He watches as the Collector sits down on the ground across from him with his legs crossed.
For a moment they only stare at each other. Then the Collector turns to his side and grabs something. He brings it into Arkin's limited line of vision, revealing a plastic mug filled with water.
Arkin can't help but look at the water, but then his eyes shoot back up and he's back to staring down the man seated before him. There's a price for that, he knows. There always was.
A finger moves back over those lips under the mask and imitates another silencing motion. Arkin slowly nods out impatiently since he can't say 'okay'. He needs that water. He needs to live if he's going to escape.
The Collector coaxes him to lean his head forward. Arkin's head cranes forward when a gloved palm meets his cheek. It's not a slap, but a slow, deliberate massaging. It's weird and very off-putting, but strangely soft. His cheeks still ache from the blade being sliced through them, but he's not entirely focused on the dull pain.
The duct tape is luckily not stapled into his cheeks, which had occurred to him as a possibility. The tape is slowly pulled off and folded up neatly before being tucked away in the man's pocket. Strange way of disposal, he can't help but think.
He was hoping his arms would be untied so he could drink by himself and then sock the Collector right in the jaw. The hope, however, is shot down as the glove caresses his cheek again and the mug is pressed onto his lips.
The Collector rushes him in drinking, spilling half of the cold water onto Arkin's lap and his tank top. He is sure that was deliberate.
He gulps down as much of the water as he could before the mug retracts as well as the glove on his cheek. He feels eyes boring into him and meets the Collector's gaze again. All this staring is becoming unsettling.
He watches the Collector stand, then sitting back down on his knees. The man begins motioning at his knees and his lap. Arkin, at a complete loss, looks down at his lap, then back at his captor. "Wha- what?"
The Collector then grabs at his ankles and Arkin in return yelped. Time pauses as eyes stare down at him again. The finger over the mouth gesture returns, hushing Arkin for the third time.
Hands grip the cloth holding his ankles together and pull, making the cloth fall away.
Without a second thought, Arkin scoots just an inch forward - all the room he needs - and slams the heel of his foot into the Collector's gut. This made the man stumble back, but stand before Arkin could even get to his feet.
"Let me go, you bastard!" He is grabbed by the collar of his shirt and hoisted up. That finger meets lips again and he growls out. "I'll kill you, dammit! Untie me and-!"
A fist slams into the side of his face, making his head whip to the side. He gasps out and grits his teeth.
Another punch, making him spit out blood from his punctured cheek and busted lip.
"Fuck! Come on-!" Another punch and a loud reverberating crack, making the side of his face and jaw explode with pain. He tastes the metallic tang of blood thickly coating his mouth and the back of his throat.
He is pushed back, but his legs didn't respond in time and he crashes back down against the small, dark space. He is lying on his side with his head leaning against the far wall. Blood is dripping down his chin and coating his tongue.
He groans out but has no further comments. Can't move his jaw in order to form any words. It feels like it has been shattered. His eyes slowly move to look at the Collector, who is staring down at him.
He resigns to just closing his eyes and settling his breathing. Focus on something else while he rides out the pain. Trying to refrain from swallowing the copious amounts of blood in his mouth.
His ears strain as footsteps pad away. Arkin opens his eyes and looks to the space where the Collector had stood, but is no longer occupying. He doesn't have the urge to crawl forward. He doesn't want to move at all, his body drained of all energy.
He can hear lots of thudding now, and what he imagines is things being tossed around.
After a while, the footsteps return and the Collector is standing over him again. Arkin looks up and notices the syringe in his hand. He tenses and tries to turn himself over onto his back so he could kick and lash out again. The Collector grabs him by the shoulder, however, holding him in place.
"Shh," is the last thing he hears before the syringe meets his neck and he hisses in disdain. The world fades to black again and he falls completely slack.
~~
He awakes the next time with the Collector seated on his lap and a glove caressing his jaw.
Arkin grimaces, head banging into the wall behind himself, startled. He lets out a muffled groan. More duct tape.
The Collector's glove is stroking his jaw, and he can't help but wince when leather meets tender flesh. He closes his eyes again, hoping this to end.
A thumb presses into his cheek, the sudden stab of pain too jarring and his body bucks, forcing the Collector to be uprooted from his seat. Arkin clenches his eyes tighter. The bastard keeps prodding, adding insult to injury. That particular press stung too much.
Arkin whines when fingers lightly graze over his jaw again. They are then retracted.
Arkin nearly sighs out his nose before a hand meets the top of his head. The contact startles him and his eyes shoot open. It happens again, but now he recognizes it as a pat from the towering man. He watches with some amusement as the Collector pats him again on the head, then softly on the opposing cheek of the broken jaw, before he steps out of the small room. The Collector closes the door on him, concealing him in darkness again.
The thief curses himself last night, or whenever it had been, when he wasn't able to muster enough strength to attempt escaping. And now it seems he is bound by the wrists and ankles again, with more duct tape and a broken jaw.
He falls in and out of sleep, his ear settled on the wall to listen for door's openings. It is presumably much longer than four hours before the Collector returns.
The moment the door downstairs opens, Arkin is awake and on high-alert. The door closes and there is some shuffling around, doors opening and closing.
Then thudding and footsteps so incredibly close, as if just beyond the door. He closes his eyes, preparing for the flooding light.
Except the footsteps begin retreating and fading, finally just disappearing completely.
Arkin doesn't know how long he keeps his ear on the wall, listening for more footsteps. The Collector doesn't just stop walking.
He can't tell where he is now. Maybe tending to another person in the collection. Not like he wanted to see him anyway.
His stomach growls, but he ignores it. It's churning and he can feel pain in his lower abdomen. It stings, with his jaw numb and nothing to focus on. He really wants some food right about now, but he knows the Collector wants him to do something demeaning and he doesn't know what. He'll just have to figure it out when it comes down to it.
Arkin disregards the thought as he slams his shoulder into the wall again. It got the Collector's attention last time.
There are no footsteps or the notorious 'shh'.
Arkin winces as he slams the same shoulder into the wall a second time, then a third, and - because he has his doubts - he does it a fourth time. His shoulder stings now, too. Just another item on the long list of injuries.
There's now a soft padding of footsteps coming towards him, and he's starting to regret this as it's all happening.
The door is opened again and he's met with the Collector, but his clothes are baggy and not black, which is new. He lifts his chin and starts to make motions of chewing, but the Collector just stares down at him confused. The man's got this glazed over look in his eyes. To be honest, he looks like he just woke up.
Arkin really wants his hands untied so he can gesture to eating, but that's not the only thing he would do if his hands were untied. Taking off the duct tape certainly isn't an option for communication anymore.
He looks down at the man's knees, trying to recall how he was motioning at them. Maybe the Collector was motioning to his lap, or just his legs. It's all so confusing.
The Collector is still giving him a perplexed look, but then he looks down to where Arkin's eyes are trained and he makes a face of resignation. Like a light bulb just went off over his head. The man holds up his palm, the universal 'stop' gesture, then closes the door on Arkin.
The brunette listens intently, in the dark, as footsteps head downstairs and then lots of shuffling and some clinking. It's incoherent, but whatever was happening ended soon and he hears the Collector coming back upstairs.
The door is opened again and the Collector's holding a small bowl as well as another mug of presumably water. The man sits across from him and sets both items down.
Inside the bowl, Arkin can see fluffy, lightly seasoned, mashed potatoes. He can smell it too. That looks delicious in comparison to the mush that looked and smelled like dog food he used to feed him. Hands meet his cheeks and he lets his head be pulled forward. The duct tape is peeled off.
The hands then pull away from his face and reach for the mug of water. Arkin is swallowing a gulp of saliva before the mug even touches his lips and he's rewarded with the coppery taste of blood he hasn't been able to wash down. He shudders, but then the mug touches his bottom lip and he's ready to drink it down, the metal scent just a haze.
The cup is emptied at a much slower rate, as the Collector takes more time with renewed patience. A palm grazes his cheek again, as if proud for him drinking it all.
The empty mug is set down and the bowl is picked up. God, he really wants that.
Gloves grab the bounds around his ankles again and hesitate. The Collector hums in contemplation, eyeing Arkin. It's a warning. Food is within his reach, but if Arkin kicks out again he'll be getting none of it. He begrudgingly nods as the cloth around his legs fall away again.
The Collector stands, then motions Arkin to stand as well. Arkin does so, but is incredibly unsteady on his feet and almost topples over. He's caught by a hand on his shoulder. He looks at the Collector, the man is staring back.
Finally, the man before him sits back down on his knees. He then gestures to his lap and points a digit at his knee.
Arkin blinks, then slowly lowers himself down onto his knees on the ground.
A hand meets his hair and tugs him forward, making Arkin yelp in surprise and flail around. He can hear the bowl being set down and feels the other hand pressing into the other side of his head. He grunts and shakes his body up and down to loosen the hold.
"Shh," is all the Collector inputs before his head is jerked forward abruptly. Arkin braces himself for the floor, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw even if it burns.
To his surprise, his head meets a soft cushioning. He lets out a grunt and attempts to sit back upright, but the two hands now on the back of his head won't let up. Unfortunately, he realizes his ass is raised and his knees are stuck under his body. This position leaves him feeling very exposed.
Arkin shifts his head, blinking to adjust to the lighting. He can't really see the room they're in, as it's mostly empty. A hand is resting on the back of his head and won't let him turn to see the other side of the room.
His eyes turn up, and go wide. His struggling picks up again. The bastard is holding his head down on his lap. He doesn't like the implications.
The bowl is moved into his view and he sighs out in relief. He remains tense, but still. He watches the spoon as it's picked out of the bowl and scoops up some mashed potatoes. The spoon is held out for Arkin, just a little from his mouth. He lowers his jaw, hissing at the slight pinch, but the spoon enters his mouth and he swallows the spoonful before he gives his jaw or the position another thought. The spoon is reloaded and pressing against his lips before he opens them again.
It tastes really good. There's a strange itch in him that wonders if the Collector made this himself. He gives off a satisfied groan as he's treated to another spoonful. Fuck, it's the best thing he's had in days - or weeks, or months, since he doesn't really know how long he's been in captivity.
No more gurgling, groaning stomach as he swallows another spoonful. They have to pause so the Collector can wipe away a slight drippage of potato on Arkin's cheek and the man's pants. It's quickly dealt with and he's given another scoop. There's a light petting of the scruffy hair on the back of his head, but he doesn't let the strange movement bother him.
The last spoonful is the worst since this will be all he has for a long while. Not a single scrap left. It goes down the slowest, as he wishes he could've savored it.
The Collector puts the bowl down, then rummages around in his pocket for a syringe, head kept down with the other hand. There's a cap over it, but it's quickly discarded. He hovers it over Arkin's exposed neck and is just about to insert it when Arkin whimpers out a weak 'no'. Arkin's breathing hitches in his throat and he whines when the needle draws closer anyway.
"No, please. I'll behave." Arkin pleads out softly and exchanges a look with the Collector. The man grunts and draws back. The cap slides back over the syringe.
He's lifted with some precariousness and set to lean against the back wall of the enclosed space.
The duct tape is reapplied as well as the leg binds. There's a gentle caress of his jaw again and another pat on his head before the Collector closes the door and leaves him alone. Footsteps draw far off, but no doors open or close. They're just gone.
Arkin sighs out and lays his head against the right wall, grateful he didn't have to do what he was imagining. He dozes off for an undeterminable amount of time.
He's woken by the door downstairs opening then closing. Arkin gauges where the door leads to and if the man can still hear him as he bangs up against the side of the wall with his feet. His shoulder's needed a break anyway.
There's no response, even as he repeats the action every few minutes. He tries counting the seconds, but eventually misses a number at the hundreds and loses track.
Arkin groans, squirming and kicking, screaming through his gag in frustration. No one can hear him thrashing about in the enclosed darkness.
He tires himself out quick, likely due to less water and food intake. He's leaning against the wall, gasping for air, shuddering out with every breath. Everything hurts from being so cramped in this tight space (a trunk or closet, whatever this is) and, God, his jaw fucking burns.
In an attempt to calm his breathing, he ends up lulling himself back to sleep.
He's not more than two hours into sleeping when he hears the downstairs door open again and he's back to alertness. The normal thudding and shuffling as the Collector moves around under him is still very much audible. He's curious to how many people he has in his collection right now. How many has he collected after it all burned?
He wants to say he's never heard any of the other's thudding around after the man leaves through the door downstairs. While he's here, he can't say whether it's just the Collector doing things or another human being's doing.
Maybe the others are tied up and gagged even more than he is. Or he's got another location to tend to, which explains the long intervals of him being away. He could also be going to work. The first time they had met was when the Collector was working as an exterminator; maybe he still works there?
There's not much to go off of, but he needs to ensure he's got something on this guy for when he gets out.
The door before him opens and he sees the Collector is back to his usual garb. Before he's able to writhe and struggle, an arm's wound around his waist and hoists him up onto his feet. He's pulled flush against his captor.
This makes Arkin grunt and whip his head to knock into the Collector's. A hand presses into the small of his back and he falters. He feels the Collector begin backing up, tugging him to follow along. He is being led out of the closet.
It's difficult to follow as the Collector begins moving forward in the room, turning the two of them toward something behind Arkin.
He's pushed until the back of his legs meet something soft and he begins to lose balance. The arms around him do not allow him to fall, which he's not entirely thankful for. He feels the arms loosen and hands guiding him to sit. The Collector pulls back a little so he can take in the room.
The walls are painted brown with a small, bare bed in the middle of the room. There's an open door leading to the closet he had been tucked in. There are two more doors on opposite walls. Best guess is the bathroom out one and the rest of the place out the other.
If he listens close enough, Arkin can swear he can hear car engines revving up, dogs barking and birds chirping outside. He turns around to see a window with veiled curtains that let sunlight pool in.
His head is abruptly turned back, glove fiercely gripping his jaw. There's a smirk on the Collector's face as if he can read his thoughts. There will be an escape attempt out that window and he knows it.
Hands gingerly meet his cheeks and they meet eyes. There's something being shared between this look, but nothing in full clarion. His head stays craned up at the Collector for a long time, trying to interpret the expression disguised by the grim mask.
It makes sense to him. The gag isn't there because the Collector didn't want to hear his curses and screams. It's because the man didn't want people outside to hear him.
"Fuck you," arises out of his throat before he can really help himself. It's muffled by the tape and the thief doesn't even understand what he just said.
The Collector moves his hands down to the man's shoulders and leans his ear towards Arkin: an invitation for him to clarify.
"Fuck you. Fuck you! Fu-ck you, you sick bastard!" He's screaming, but there's no point. It's all incoherent and too warped to be understood. He can see the Collector's mouth twitch into a smile as his face is turned back towards him.
Leather hands move up to grope Arkin's cheeks and he winces at the pain.
The ear is turned to him again, and Arkin let's out a low growl.
"Fuck you, fucking psycho! Untie me and I'll rip your fucking ear off! You-!" He involuntarily shudders as the gloves gauge the movement of his mouth, tracing every word of his sleight of tongue. "You- you fucking faggot! Faggot! Un-fucking-tie me!"
Both thumbs press into his cheeks and Arkin is quick to clench his jaw shut on instinct. He grunts out as the Collector continues to press against his cheeks, then runs his thumbs up and down his teeth through his skin.
The masked man then turns to face Arkin again. He runs his thumbs purposefully over the butterfly bandages on his cheeks. The thief grunts out, because the wounds are still healing and it's not pleasant as they feel like they're reopening.
A line of blood drips down the cut on his left cheek. He whines out, whipping his head to the left to force the man's hand off. There's no real adrenaline now from what a fight would bring and the pain comes in full.
The Collector grabs him by the chin and forces his head forward. Arkin jerks his head to the side again or tries to. The glove grasping his chin is keeping him still.
His chin is dropped as the two gloves are back to holding the sides of his head.
Slowly, on both sides, the steri-strips are peeled off his cheeks. They're discarded without regard onto the ground.
Another pat on his cheek.
He's left very perturbed. The Collector doesn't treat him well at all, if ever. He can't recall a single instance. Maybe he has to others, but not him. There's the thought of him being special because there's no one left from his original collection, but again, he can't confirm this. The psycho could have another hideaway just like the hotel where he keeps more people.
He's distracted from his thoughts when his head is grabbed by the sides and pulled forward. Arkin grunts and struggles in the grip, but blinks in confusion when his forehead is pressed to the other man's. For a moment, all he can do is to sit there with their foreheads touching and gloves groping his face.
There's something strangely mesmerizing about the position. He hates it. He wants to slam his temple into the Collectors. But he can't. His body won't allow him to move. Vague familiarity comes with the hold; a sense of deja vu sweeping over him. He used to hold Lisa's head close when he would comfort her and speak in hushed tones about how they'd be able to pay back her debts. He hates it.
"Shh," is whispered and there's gentle massaging on the back of his neck. The fucker's playing with his feelings and he knows it.
Arkin grunts, pushing forward with his head. Trying to push away the Collector; trying to break the spell. He fails so incredibly that the Collector pushes him back by the shoulders.
But now he's being pushed all the way down. Down onto his back, tied hands trapped underneath him. His palms push up again the mattress for some leverage, but the Collector's grip is too strong on his shoulders and he can't push himself back up.
Arkin grunts and rebuilds his struggles, folding up his knees in defense. He stares as the Collector shifts forward and proceeds to push him onto the bed more, gloves placed on his waist as handles. His thighs are just barely on the bed when the Collector is crawling over him.
Arkin screams through the tape and bucks himself up. He tosses and turns, but he's halted by a leather palm on his chest. Back to being flat on his back and a new, settled weight on top of him.
The bastard is seated on his hips, with a smug look on his face that is very much visible through the mask. He's grabbed around the neck, and a brief squeeze shows the power being exercised here. The glove then moves down to a shoulder, then slides across his chest. The sensation arises goosebumps along Arkin's arms and legs and he's frantic for a way out, grunting aloud and attempting to struggle under the other man.
The other hand is quick, invisible to him as he is preoccupied with the hand on his chest, and slides right under his white tank top.
Arkin can't suppress the cry the cool leather elicits upon touching his skin. "What the fuck are you doing?" He shudders as the hand under his shirt makes it's way to his chest. He stares into the Collector's face and still finds he can't read those freakish eyes. He can feel his body trembling and can't still himself.
"What the fuck!" He whips his head to the side and curls up his knees to slam into the Collector's back. The man is jostled by it and his hands on Arkin's person still.
The glove not directly on his skin is moved towards his utility belt. A knife is unsheathed and pressed to Arkin's neck. "Shh," is the only command ever given, and it's no different now.
Arkin slowly moves his head down so it's flat on its side. He can't do anything unless he wants his throat slit. He resigns to falling limp and letting the Collector have his way. If he has to deal with the injuries later, then later he can. Preferably in a hospital.
There's a very strange thudding and both of them whip their heads up in confusion. The reflex leads to Arkin digging his chin into the still-drawn blade. It slices into him and he yelps, head snapping back in pain.
His vision blurs quickly and his ears are ringing. Arkin tugs at his wrists to try and use his hands to pressurize the wound. The bonds hold fast.
He groans out, shaking his head in haste. It's pounding, running a million thoughts at once.
Then he feels a cloth being pressed into his chin and secured tightly in place. The cloth pushes harshly into the underside of his chin again. Such tight pressure, but he can still feel the blood gushing.
There's more thudding downstairs and Arkin swears he hears a doorbell chime.
He feels the pressure loosen, and can feel the blood begins to literally stream out of him. The Collector turns his head to the door, looking very apprehensive. He then turns back to Arkin, and holds his fingers to his lips. The cloth pressing the cut slowly peels away as the Collector gazes at the wound. The cloth is then rolled up and placed to lean against it.
His captor then climbs off him, hushing him again. The Collector walks up to the door and exits.
Arkin whimpers, struggling with his bounds, but being cautious with the wound under his chin. It's still bleeding out and he doesn't want to find out how long it'll continue running before he suffers repercussions from blood loss. His feet aren't touching the ground and moving his shoulders shoots up pain in his chin. And he's really bleeding a lot.
He hears the door downstairs open and can hear voices beneath him, but it's impossible to distinguish which belongs to the Collector and which belongs to the stranger. Although they both are strangers to him.
His vision of the ceiling begins to swim, and his head sags forward. He feels tired. Arkin shakes his head. No, no, he can't sleep. But he can't do much else in this helpless state either. Pain erupts when he breathes.
Arkin turns his head slowly, careful to not flex the slice too much. His eyes catch the glint of the knife that's been left on the bed.
The thief bites back the stabbing pains and pushes against the mattress with his palms. It stings, it really fucking stings, but he holds back a cry as he's pushed up onto his feet. This is his chance!
The door downstairs is shut, and he knows he has to hurry. He waddles to the side and bends backward, blindly grabbing for the knife. He's got to be quick.
He sighs as his palm grazes the hilt, and he's scooping it up a second later. He then holds it down and begins slicing into the cloth binding in a back and forth motion.
His wrists are just free of the cloth when the Collector strides back in.
Arkin holds the blade with both hands, pointing it toward his captor. He's slightly hunched with his knees bent in a defensive stance.
The Collector takes a step forward. Arkin holds his arms closer, ready to attack if the other charges. He can't risk looking down to cut the binding around his ankles or use a hand to rip off the tape. The Collector steps forward again.
Arkin shuffles backward slightly. He can't really do anything, except to make a stab if the Collector lunges. But that's only if.
Arkin feels his foot step into some blood and chances a glance down. There's a puddle forming by his feet.
His hands shake uncontrollably and his knees wobble. His vision briefly flashes to black. The air in his throat hitches and he gasps. He tries to steady himself, but the effort proves fruitless.
The knife slips from shaking, quivering hands.
Arkin sees the world tilt and feels himself crash into something - someone clad in black - but never feels himself falling.
He feels a hand meet his jaw, and it's soft and gentle. There are wisps of hushing before he falls limp and is swallowed in black.
~~
Blinking awake, Arkin groans. He tugs experimentally at his hands. They are bound above his head and lying limply on a mattress. His ankles are still bound and lying before him. The duct tape never left. A small pillow is tucked comfortably under his head and there's some dressing itching at his chin and neck. He recognizes the loss of his shirt by the chill in the room, and how he's now only in briefs.
He groans again. He'll take the new position over the closet, but still not happy about being pulled taut like a bowstring.
There's a shuffle beside him and he turns his head just an inch to gaze at somewhere besides the ceiling.
The Collector is seated by his side, holding a large tarantula in his palm. Arkin can't help but eye the spider with extreme wariness.
The Collector likes to let those little things loose on some of his victims. They'd cry and scream and twist limply in their binds until a spider is intimidated by their movement and bites them. All the while, Arkin would watch despairingly, confined in a wooden trunk.
He gulps, and for the first time realizes just how raw his throat feels. It doesn't help that he feels like he can't breathe.
The man beside him turns to pet the tarantula in his palm, looking at it with some form of admiration. Then he turns to Arkin. A glove caresses his jaw briefly, fingers skimming against the skin on the underside of his chin. Arkin grunts, turning his head away. He ends up only exposing his throat more.
The Collector lets out this weird purr that Arkin recognizes as mockery. The man then withdraws and leaves the room.
He listens intently to the sounds outside now that he's got no focal point.
There's at least two different dogs barking, one really high-pitched and the other whining just a pitch lower, communicating profusely with each other. Cars don't seem to drive by a lot, but they always sound so close when they pass. There are kids yelling and playing games outside. He's so close to it all, and yet so far.
Arkin cranes his head to get a view of the window. The curtains are very light and he revels at the sunlight that fills the room.
If he squints, he's sure he can see trees and the back - or side, or some other part - of a house.
It's somewhat a relief. That just means once he escapes this room, he'll be as good as free.
Footsteps draw closer and he turns away from the window. His eyes are trained on the Collector before he's back in the room.
He watches the man step back toward the bed and sit beside him. The tarantula is no longer in his palm.
A glove meets his cheek and a leather thumb swipes just under his eye. Arkin groans out, pulling at both of his arms. The binds hold his wrists taut.
The hand caressing his cheek moves down slightly, down to palming his jaw. Arkin winces, closing his eyes. He pays little attention to the leather against his face, only feeling the texture of the gloves rubbing against his skin.
Surprisingly, this lasts for what feels like hours but was only about half an hour. He's moved up his arms and toyed with his wrists, then down to his hip. Back and forth the whole time on a loop. The man will sometimes slow the massaging or just rest his hand idly on the body part he's currently on, then back to a pace of gliding up and down his skin.
Arkin's completely lax when he's done. The routine's been repeated so many times that he doesn't really expect to be attacked at this point. Risky for his guard to be lowered, but his body has complied and he can't really help it. Not to say he enjoyed being felt up and down like that.
There's a pat to his cheek before he feels the weight on the mattress shift and blinks his eyes open to see the Collector leaving.
He stares at the closed door for a few moments without actually realizing it.