A/N: Oh worm? me? writing? a miracle. It's been a while, but here I am with another fic because I'm self indulgent. sorry it's been a long while ever since i actually wrote so this is absolutely horrifyingly ugly.

TRIGGER WARNING: GORE, TORTURE, BLOOD, SUGGESTIVE ACTS(?)

"How long?" The questions slipped off his lips so easily despite the lump of air stuck in his throat as if choking him.

Phinks made sure to keep his gaze far away—away from those prying eyes that dared to spoon the throat off his throat. The muscles in his forehead tensed; had he had eyebrows it would have furrowed already, nevertheless the skin creases in evident discomfort. A question with that gaze meant that it was no casual inquiry between friends—it was now between an interrogator and victim; one where mercy will not be shown, one where compromising will only bring a fruitless effort. The taller of the two had his hands clasped together, fingers pressing and pushing each other until much force was applied that knuckles pop and echo within the blood stained four-walled room.

"Look at me." A command said by the other, and Phinks has no choice but to oblige; he looks up though with evident hesitation. Sweat dripping and glistening from the sides of his head, neatly combed blond tresses now a mess—some strands straying away from initial style. Phinks realizes the predicament he's placed himself in, the blood lust the oozed from the other cannot go unnoticed as it was heavy and suffocating.

Feitan's gaze was empty, almost as if he were another person—his voice, eerily quiet and soft; hushed akin to a ghost's. Every word he utters echoes and seems to stick into the other's ear like glue. The thought of his words passing through one ear and escaping through the other was abhorrent—Feitan ought to make sure his words would be drilled into this man's brain forever, even if it means he use force to accomplish his task without any mishaps.

"Don't make me repeat myself," a pause as hands trail along his the set of unclean tools that lay on the tray—it was just around three hours ago when the previous victim sat on the chair and now lay broken two feet away from Phinks. The intestines and other innards were still on the ground and it reeked of decay and blood in this filthy mess. Feitan rises from his seat, a scalpel in hand as he walks towards the taller man.

Phinks fought his racing heart; the anxiety grows evident not because of the way his gaze wavered or the way his sweat fell from his skin—but because the way he bit his lip so deeply it began to bleed. "Sorry, but this time I can't tell you, Fei." His voice—rough and raspy, it was almost enticing—Feitan yearned to rip his vocal chords out, find what made it so alluring and perhaps have Kortopi make a duplicate of it. "And aren't you breaking the rules?" Phinks says through gritted teeth

"And I'm sorry too, because this time I don't consider you to be a part of this group to have the rules restrict me so," Feitan's eyes was without a doubt cold; lithe digits cupping the other's face tightly, nails digging onto the calloused flesh of Phinks's face. "Tell me, how long have you been hiding the truth?" Feitan asks once more but as he does so, the scalpel digs deeper into the other's stomach, slicing it downwards as to prepare for dissection. Phinks was a dear friend, a partner and perhaps even more than that—but now—he was no more than a stranger in Feitan's eyes. Those who dared to hide the truth were no more that pests; after all, as someone who dealt with jobs with forcing to get the truth from another, honesty deemed to be a powerful factor on how these sessions would go.

"I won't tell." Phinks grew breathless; even though the other was gently slicing abdomen—he could still feel the cold blade on his skin and it sent shivers down his spine. His legs feeling the sensation of pins and needles as the smaller sat on his thighs. It didn't help that that torturer was creating friction between their bodies. Feitan had pulled his skirt up, placing his soft thighs over Phinks's pants; his crotch rubbing against his own. It was sickening, to feel how his victims felt on this dreadful position. Phinks could only sympathize to those that had tried to fight their lives concealing the truth only to have it spill unconsciously when half their organs and other limbs were gone. "Whatever you do to me, I won't." Because I care.

A click of Feitan's tongue as he removes his hand from the other male's face then holds the zipper of his pants, zipping it down and seeing the huge bulge that twitched to free from the restraints of the tight briefs Phinks chose to wear today. "Why?" a simple question as he begins to ghost his fingers along Phinks's manhood; his scalpel lay abandoned back on the tray as his needle is now in his hand. Feitan placed it close to Phinks's lips starting to stitch it from the bottom, "Darling, would you want it to be in cross-stitch style?" A smirk of amusement as his tone sung in a coy manner. "It may not be as beautiful as Machi's but I do quite well; making sure it keeps your lips shut until you tear your lips apart when you scream." He whispers into the other's ear as the needle creates the first cross.

"I care, Fei." It wasn't too difficult yet, but the corner of his left lip did hurt every time his mouth tried to open to speak; "I care." This was only the beginning, Phinks hasn't succumbed to defeat entirely yet and Feitan was not pleased.

"I don't need your care, I need the truth." Feitan says, somehow a part of his kinder self seeping and fighting the urge to completely kill this one man he held so dear to his heart. He was not an uncaring monster, true enough he did the dirty work—seeing death so closely, commit murder so gingerly; but he was not entirely apathetic to his victims. Some had enough dignity that they earned his sympathies before they completely died. He too returns whatever care that Phinks had for him, but this was not the time for saving each other. "I can handle myself, Phinks. You know that better than anyone, why are you hiding it from me?" the second cross was stitched as he places his other hand on Phinks's chest, sinking his nails deeper into his flesh; the blood from the other's abdomen continuously dripping from the previous act of slicing a good portion of his torso. Feitan's head rests between the other's shoulder and nape, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin on his neck as his tongue licks off the sweat that began to accumulate.

Phinks wondered if Feitan had always been suggestive to his victims or was it just himself? It was no secret among themselves that the members of the troupe would have hook ups with each other every now and then—commonly Feitan and Phinks shared each other on lonely or bored nights; they held no deeper meaning to it nor did that ever change the way they treated each other. But the thought of Feitan have been this close to others as he delivers their torture sent a pang of undeniable jealousy in his heart—a person dying with Feitan as their last memory in mind: his tongue on their skin, his hands on their crotch, the friction—the sensation? Phinks thought perhaps it was just his own possessiveness taking over, but he couldn't help but even feel seething hatred for the dead man that lay abandoned a few feet away from him.

"You're oozing blood lust; do you hate me now, Phinks?" Feitan muses with his lips upturned. But he was not fool, he knew that hatred was not directed towards himself but to someone else. Just tell me why, why is it that you refuse to let me know of your true intentions?

Phinks falls silent as his averted gaze looks directly back at Feitan's deathly empty ones; he doesn't miss the chance and his wrists break through the restraints Feitan had placed around them, they both knew it was possible anyways. Muscular arms wrapped around the other tightly, his hand holding Feitan's head, thick, calloused fingers tangling through onyx tresses as he pulls him closer, slamming his lips on the other's. Four crosses had already been stitched but Phinks manages to break the threads apart as he forcibly opens his mouth; this doesn't ignore the fact that his lips were a bleeding mess already; his teeth dyed in red as he continued to plant deep kisses into the other, even slipping his tongue in.

The torturer had known that one way or another Phinks would force himself out of those restraints; it just took a little bit more provocation for him to misbehave under his watch. The needle falls on the floor, not that it would have any use anyways; Feitan melts into the kiss, the taste of blood—Phinks's blood—only turning him on more. He makes sure that the tracksuit Phinks had been wearing was completely discarded as his hand roamed around the other's wounded body. His hands work on his pants, tearing it off—giving an almost apologetic look towards Phinks as he tore his favourite sweatpants.

Phinks then had one hand finding its way under that baggy clothing, groping the interrogator's ass, as his finger presses through the boxers he wore, probing the hole that throbbed under his touch. He pulls away from the kiss, giving more sloppy hickies on Feitan's pale canvas; with the hand that held the other's hair he removes the scarf and lets it lay on the ground. He sees the drool and blood that mixed together, dripping from the corners of Feitan's lips, Phinks dives in once more, another heavy kiss as the thumb of the hand attending Feitan's ass toys with his testicles.

Feitan indulges in this; his fingers finding its way to the open wound he had created on the other's stomach, probing his fingers in and out—hearing muffled winces and sobs from the taller spider with each dab of his sharp nails into his organs.

Phinks thoughts wander with each sloppy kiss he delivers—at this moment he's probably only begun to hallucinate due to the gradual blood loss. "Could we ever be normal?" He imagines Uvogin and Shalnark—they had always been gentle, almost as if soul mates that had been lost for a millennia and found each other on a fateful night under a shooting star. Phinks only then realizes how it was only Uvogin and Shalnark who refused to have sexual intercourse with other's not because of disinterest in such activities but because they had reserved themselves for each other. Phinks also thinks back on the day that Uvogin had died; Shalnark was at his worst—it was as if seeing a lifeless doll painted in the ugliest cheerful mask.

The loss of his focus catches Feitan's attention and this only makes the smaller one furious; he pulls back from the kiss, another twist of his fingers inside the other's flesh, "Either you devote yourself to me or none." Feitan hated when his victims would spend their dying breaths uttering another's name, their last memories thinking of another person—no, those he caught and had tied down were only his to own. "Who?" Feitan asks as his other hand trailed on the remnants of threads that hung loosely on Phinks's lips

"No one in particular." Phinks lies through his bleeding lips as he reaches for another kiss only to be stopped by a scalped that was millimetres away from slicing his head, separating the upper lip and whatever above is left, and his jaw. His gaze begins to blur, his breathes growing heavy as his chest was visibly rising at the adamant effort to catch any amount of oxygen to fill his needy lungs.

The torturer's head inclines, dissatisfied with the utter lie; it was obvious how the other would make up something and not even make an effort to make it believable. "I don't understand what merit you will get from further lying and hiding the truth,"

"…,"

"Not answering this one too?" Feitan could think of other gruesome ways to toy with Phinks but to both of them; they knew it was futile. But there was one method that he was sure that Phinks would give into. And so he leaves the other's lap, pushing his skirt down and patting the dust off. He walks back to his original seat which leaves Phinks in wonder.

"I'll just kill myself then." His eyes were wide—almost in a twisted manner, a chuckle escaping his lips as he removes his clothing and leaves on his boxers on him—showing his almost bloodless figure to Phinks; his muscles were well defined and though his build was fairly small it didn't mean his structure was not defined as well but the complexion looked almost ghost he looked either dead or ethereal. He reaches for the numerous sharp objects and picks up a spoon as he trails it on his abdomen.

"No—Fei, please—"

Phinks soft plea went unheard as the spoon digs through his flesh, scooping out the first few layers or nerves and blood vessels along with the thick skin that protected his muscles and organs. "For every time that you had refused to answer my question I'll scoop my flesh out." Feitan says nonchalantly as crimson liquid began to spill off his mouth. "It was exactly seven questions you didn't answer; the one answer you had is invalid as you were invading the truth." Another pause as he places the flesh on a bowl that was set on his lap. "I shall begin again," and the spoon aims to dive in.

"Feitan—!"

Send me you thoughts through reviews ! :) will post a second chapter whenever I don't feel like death askjfhjd