𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 // 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧

𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐦𝐞 // 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭?

angsty? kinda?
TW:
gore, blood, torture, pain, etc.
enjoy <3

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People could be assholes.

This was a reality that all spies knew all too well.

So when Owen found himself tied to a chair, he wasn't very surprised.

Another punch was thrown at him, and he could've sworn he had heard his jaw crack. More blood poured from his mouth as the torturer roughly grabbed his face and forced him to look up.

"Who are you working for? Why do you want the blueprints?" He asked, yet again, in the thick accent Owen couldn't quite recognize.

"I'm not talking, how long will it take you to realize this?" He yelled back frustratedly, wincing as a hammer was brought down on one of his hands. A felt a bone in his finger snap.

Surely Curt would be worried by now, right? He would've alerted Cynthia by now, for sure.

All he could do was wait.

"When will you be ready to talk then, Carvour? After I pull every tooth out of your bastard mouth?" The torturer grinned and held up a pair of pliers. He put them back down and awaited Owen's response.

"Fuck. You."

The torturer lit a cigarette, barely even looking at his whumpee. He grabbed a crowbar next and, his cigarette in his mouth, slammed it against Owen's shin. He almost cried out, but luckily the tears that fell were silent.

He didn't dare give the satisfaction.

The man didn't notice the change and groaned in frustration, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and putting it out on Owen's shoulder. The hot paper was sure to leave a mark. Curt was going to lose his shit when he saw it.

If he saw it. Fuck, he didn't know if he could make it out of this one.

Owen was exhausted. And fuck, would you look at that, he had just been stabbed with a piece of glass. His right side was bleeding out now. He didn't dare let himself fall out of consciousnesses, though, in fear he may never wake up.

"Don't you get it? No one is coming to help you."

Another slap on his face, another knife dug into his shoulder. He felt numb. He just wanted to cry. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself when the knife was dragged across his cheek to form a large cut. This was the first time he had ever yelled so loudly.

~

Curt was worried sick. Owen wouldn't return his calls, answer his walkee talkee (Cynthia loved those little things), nothing. Cynthia hadn't heard from him either, and it had been three hours since he was supposed to be back.

"We're working on tracking him now, Agent, just give me a second..." Barb had a computer set to his tracker, watching it closely as the screen loaded. Curt paced back and forth as he waited, because for all he knew? Owen could've been dead hours ago.

-

No, Owen wasn't dead, but he sure as hell wished he was. The blueprints were still in a different room, and here he was, bleeding out and crying. The torturer still hadn't let up. He had put a lighter to Owen's skin on his arm and held it there for thirty seconds, he had ripped a fingernail off of him, anything to get him to talk. But Owen refused.

He felt himself slipping out of consciousness. He tried so hard to fight it, but he was so exhausted. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a moment. Maybe he'd open them back up and it all would've been a dream, a nightmare, and he would've been lying in bed holding Curt, and the blueprints would be safe, and- and-