BloodLust. Ticci Toby x Fem Reader.

The Game.

TRIGGER WARNING AHEAD!
[Y/N] -> Your Name.
Word count : 5983.
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There was a soft hum. It sounded like a car engine, a soft mumble that could be heard from underneath you. Your arm throbbed in pain and so did your head as you let out a soft groan. The seat underneath you felt soft, yet there was an occasional itch on your face which you could only assume came from an article of clothing beneath you? A cloth maybe?
That was beside the point, you were not in your motel room anymore and that was more than apparent. You felt sick, you smelt and could taste the remains of vomit in your mouth. Your eyes finally fluttered open, it was dark in the car, so dark even that a part of you almost thought that you were blindfolded. You moved your arm, letting out a hiss. Your wrists were tied, your ankles too? Before you could glance up at the driver, a glint just below you caught your eye. It was a blade, that same axe that had hatched your arm away. You blinked desperately, trying to get your eyes to adjust to the darkness that swallowed you up whole.

You hadn't realised but your body was trembling. Was it fear? The lack of sleep that was beginning to catch up to you? Maybe you had finally lost it, a nightmare perhaps? You'd passed out on the couch and when you awoke from this fucking nightmare, the first thing you'll do is speed dial your therapist and mom. God, Mom. You wanted her so badly right now. Your gaze slowly flickered to the person in the front seat, he was focused on the road, his index finger tapping against the wheel. You say he. You had no fucking idea. Was it the same guy from the motel room who hacked at your arm? Fuck, you hoped you weren't going to lose your arm. You didn't want to die. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, you were not going to die and you were adamant on that. You had to at least give some kind of justice to Anne right? Like, maybe, if you miraculously survived, this would be a big, 'hey, Anne! We did it!' Did Anne experience this too? Your heart ached.
With a soft struggle, you clenched your teeth together to hold back each whimper and groan of pain as you let your ass brush up against the back seat. Your pockets were empty. No phone or wallet on you. Well, the other plan caused you to gaze up at the handle of the door to your nearest left. Almost thankfully enough, your hands were tied up close to your chest. With some wiggling here and there, you could reach for the handle of the door and just try to slip out at that next traffic light. Then again, that was the next worry that plagued you. There hadn't been any traffic lights for awhile, where the fuck were you? You could feel the familiar pit of anxiety brewing in your stomach, you wanted to heave again but pushed the saliva to the back of your throat and pursed your lips.

Let's be real, if you survived this shit and wrote a novel, it'd be the next best seller and you'd never have to worry about paying your bills on time again. Right now though, your main priority was just surviving this fucking mess. Sucking in a calm and steady breath, you began to wiggle up the seats. You used your legs and hips to help thrust you up inch by inch. It would've been quicker if you had used your chest but causing more pain onto that huge fucking wound would make you yell out bloody murder. You were almost certain that your bone was showing, peaking out amongst the blood and muscle of your arm. Your mind went hazy as the urge to heave again swelled up in your throat. With determination to survive coursing through your bloodstream, you continued to shuffle up further the seat until you deemed yourself close enough to the handle.
This was the part that would fucking hurt, outstretching your arm to reach for the handle. It would be worth it, a small surge of pain in exchange to live the rest of your life. Fuck, grow old, do dumb shit like getting nailed between aisles of a library for the thrill of it. Fuck the best seller book, imagine being that kick-ass mom that survived this bullshit. You could feel the smugness stretching across your face. With a steady breath, you sent a cautious gaze over to the driver. He was focused on the road, he looked as if he was lost in his thoughts. There was a hood draped over his head, so you could barely make out any facial features or what colour his hair was. This would be crucial when you finally called this bastard in to the cops.