Baughtio

Caretaker knew. They'd seen the videos. Videos of Whumper cutting off parts of Whumpee's body, permanently disabling them. Videos of Whumpee trying to run from them, limping, screaming for help. Videos of Whumper beating them until Whumpee was nothing but a bloody heap on the ground, unable to even groan in pain. They'd seen it all. They'd seen it a thousand times, trying to look for clues in them, anything that would've brought them closer to finding them. There was nothing.

Until yesterday.

"I didn't call the police on you," Caretaker said. "They would be too understanding."

"No, of course not. You're your own little vigilante, saving Whumpee from the big bad wolf yourself."

They raised the baseball bat. They didn't know why Whumper was so calm and confident when they seemed to be the only one with a weapon, and they didn't want to find out. The sooner they took Whumper down, the better.

"No!" they heard a scream.

Caretaker whipped around to find there was a small glass window looking into this room, and Whumpee was on the other side of it. Their hand with which they were banging on the glass was leaving bloody handprints.

"Would you look at that?" Whumper said. "We have company."

"Caretaker, please, don't do it! They'll put you in jail! Please! I can't do it without you, I can't!"

Caretaker's fingers tightened around the baseball bat, their teeth grinding on each other as they thought back to the weeks of torment both they and Whumpee had had to endure. They were so angry, they almost yelled at Whumpee to come to their senses, to be glad they were going to beat their assailant to death. But then, as they thought further, they realised Whumpee was right. They lowered the bat. They had been so selfish. They'd… put their revenge above Whumpee's well-being.

They turned back around to face Whumper, their righteous fury slowly evaporating. They still loathed Whumper, but their logical thinking skills were slowly coming back to them. Whumper was still smiling, like they were invincible.

"So?" Whumper asked. "What will it be?"

"I'm calling the cops."

***All he knew was that his world had shrunk to the vibrator humming its relentless song inside of him. Its shrill frequency burrowing so deep into his fried nervous system that it felt like it was everywhere. He could feel the vibration in his bones. In his teeth. In the hollow space behind his eyes where thoughts used to live.

And his disgusting body betrayed him so many times that he lost count.

Each forced orgasm felt like being electrocuted from the inside out; a white-hot detonation that left him trembling with exertion and yet somehow still climbing toward the next peak. There wasn't a second for reprieve. Just the constant and inescapable pressure against tissue so raw and oversensitised.

The sheets beneath his jittering body were soaked through with sweat. In the stale air, his own release had long since dried sticky and cold on his stomach and along his twitching thighs. He was filthy. Repulsive.

Tears had left salty tracks under the edges of the blindfold. The silicone plug of the gag rammed down his throat and every few minutes his stomach would give a weak, pathetic lurch. It forced a muffled retch that sent bile and spit bubbling around the length, leaking from the corner of his mouth.

After the first few hours - or what felt like hours - he'd stopped gagging. His throat had simply... given up. Accepted the intrusion and learned to work around it. That terrified him more than anything. His body was learning. Adapting. Surrendering in ways his mind hadn't agreed to.

Another orgasm was fast building. He could feel the heat swelling low in his belly, that terrible and inevitable pressure that his body had no choice but to chase. He gave a weak jerk, tugging against the chains - an impulse he couldn't suppress no matter how hard he fought against it - and the movement only served to press the vibrator deeper into the sweet spot.

Something caught between a whimper and a scream tried to escape him. The gag swallowed it whole, reducing it to only a muffled keen.

Beep.

Yet another shock shot into his throat, and his entire body snapped stiff. His spine bowed off the mattress in a full-body spasm that made the chains rattle. Pain-pleasure-terror all melted into a single but overwhelming sensation that made stars burst in his vision behind the blindfold.

When the shock ended, he collapsed back down onto the bed, gasping through his nose in short huffs. His lungs burned. His throat burned. Everything burned.

His thoughts were fragmenting. Sentences became phrases became single words that repeated until they lost meaning. Stop. No more. Felix. Stop. Please. Desperate mantras that his mind clung to because it was the only thing left that felt like him.

But even that was slipping through the cracks.

The parts of him that used to fight tooth and nail, that used to rage against this, had been worn down to nubs. All that was left of him was a body that hurt, and wanted the hurting to stop and would do anything, anything, to make it fucking stop.

His body eventually crested again.

This time, there was almost nothing left to give. The orgasm was a pale shadow of the first ones - a weak tremble that felt more like a malfunction than a release. His cock twitched against his stomach, barely managing to produce anything, but his internal muscles still clenched around the vibrator in spasms that sent fresh waves of overstimulation ripping through him.

He didn't scream this time. Didn't make a sound. Couldn't if he wanted to. He had nothing left to give.

Good boy, a voice whispered in his head. He didn't know who the voice belonged to - if it was Elijah's or Felix's… or even his own.

So good. So broken-

No! Not broken. Not yet. He was still Josh. He was still-

I'm breaking.

The realisation settled over him with cold clarity. He was breaking, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was fighting a losing battle, he knew that.

His body was eating itself, burning through whatever reserves were left in the tank just to keep his heart beating and his lungs filling. He was so tired; tired in a way that no amount of sleep could fix.

The vibrator buzzed on. It would keep going until the battery died or Elijah came back, whichever happened first. The sensation had become a kind of white noise that his brain had learned to exist inside of, like the way you stop hearing the hum of a refrigerator after a while.

Suddenly, a sound pricked Josh's ears. Something other than that ruthless vibration inside of him.

The deadbolt. The turning locks. The door groaning open. The sounds felt distant and muffled, like they were coming through water.

Footsteps. Getting closer. His body seizing up. Then - hands.

Josh short-circuited. He flinched violently. He was unable to differentiate between threat and safety, between pain and anything else. All he knew was contact meant danger, meant more, meant-

His thoughts scattered like startled birds.

Why was he still flinching? That was bad. That was what - why would he do that? His mind couldn't hold onto the reason, but his body knew. His body had learned. Flinching meant punishment. Flinching meant this.

“Still with us, princess?” Elijah cooed, voice cutting through the fog, and Josh almost welcomed it because it meant maybe this torture might finally come to an end. His hand settled on Josh's heaving chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-kick of his heart. “Seems to me like you're enjoying yourself a bit too much.”

The vibrator's hum changed pitch, then suddenly stopped. The removal of the toy was blunt and unceremonious. Josh’s breath hitched in a series of broken, dry sobs. He felt hollowed out. He lay there, trembling, waiting for the next wave that would never crash over him. His body didn’t know how to exist without it anymore.***

“Look at the mess you've made,” Elijah tutted, reaching down. “Mucky pup. What are we going to do with you?”

Josh allowed his exerted body to sink deeper into the mattress, wispy eyelashes fluttering shut. Finally. It was over. For now, at least, but he would take any little win he could get when he's already lost so much.

This is the part where Felix would usually coddle him and praise him for being so beautiful and so brave. He might let him sleep away the haze of pain and humiliation, wrapped in his warm embrace. Josh doubted he would receive the same mercy here. He almost craved it, reminiscent of it.

Elijah chuckled. “Don't get too comfortable. We’re moving.”

He walked around the bed and unclipped the heavy chains from the iron frame, but leaving the cuffs still locked tight around Josh’s wrists and ankles.

Elijah's fingers tangled in Josh's sweat-matted hair without warning, wrenching his head back. The blindfold was ripped away, and the sudden assault of light - even the room's dim glow - felt like needles driving into his skull. Josh's eyes rolled, pupils blown wide and glassy. He couldn't make sense of the shapes and colours.

Couldn't make sense of anything.

"Up." Elijah commanded, yanking him off the bed.

Josh's body didn't respond the way it should. His muscles had turned to jelly, shaking and useless after hours of forced contractions. He buckled to the floor immediately, collapsing forward, only held semi-upright by the brutal grip on his scalp.

Elijah didn't give him time to recover.

The grip in his hair tightened, and then Josh was being dragged. Not helped or guided, but dragged. There was no waiting for Josh to comply, or giving him a chance to find his footing. Josh thrashed wildly, his shackled hands clawing at Elijah's fist, his legs kicking out in a blind panic.

Where now? Where the hell is he taking me? Stop! How can this get worse? Worse than this? What's next? God, answer me, what's next?!

He let out a bloodcurdling scream - a guttural sound of pure terror.

The collar’s warning was a split-second mercy before the shock hit. He slumped like dead weight, convulsing, but Elijah didn't stop. He dragged him through the hallway he was too disorientated to take any note of, and over the threshold of the bathroom, the tile floor cold against Josh’s bare skin.

He was hauled up and over the lip of the bathtub, his ribs slamming against the porcelain edge hard enough to punch the air from his lungs. Then his body tumbled into the tub in a graceless heap of limbs.

Everything hurt. Everything was too much. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could only lie there and wait for whatever came next.

"God, you’re absolutely filthy," Elijah muttered, and there was genuine disgust in his voice. "Look at the state of you.”

The shower head was yanked from its cradle and turned on full blast. Josh didn't have time to brace before the water hit him.

Ice cold.

The spray hit Josh’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. As the freezing water blasted across his overheated, oversensitised skin - it felt like being flayed alive. Every nerve ending that had been buzzing with forced stimulation suddenly screamed in a different register - cold instead of heat, sharp instead of dull, but unbearable all the same.

He tried to shield himself, but Elijah's hand clamped down on the back of his neck and shoved his face toward the stream. With the gag sealing his mouth into a dead end, every panicked gasp through his nostrils pulled in nothing but water - he choked and sputtered as he felt like he was drowning.

“Hold still,” Elijah snapped, dropping to his knees beside the tub.

He reached for a stiff-bristled scrub brush. He didn't use soap. He just doused the bristles in the freezing water and slammed them against Josh's ribs.

The scrubbing was brutal. Elijah worked with an aggressive speed, scouring the sticky evidence of the night from Josh’s skin. The bristles were meant for floors, not flesh, and they tore into Josh’s skin. Every stroke felt like a hundred needles. Josh squirmed, his wet back sliding against the porcelain as he tried to pull away, his muffled whines echoing in the cramped bathroom.

Elijah moved the brush down to Josh’s thighs and in between, them scrubbing until the skin flushed a vivid, angry red. He scrubbed fiercely, stripping away the sweat and his mess, but taking the top layer of skin with it.

Josh’s resistance was weakening. His movements sluggish, too cold and too exhausted to keep up the fight. He just lay there in the shallow pool of freezing water, limp. He had nothing left to fight with. No reason left to fight.

"There we go," Elijah murmured, almost gentle. "See? You can be good when you try."

His muscles were locked in a permanent, agonising shiver. Skin turning a mottled, sickly purple-white. He curled into the smallest ball he could manage until he was just a heap of wet hair and shivering limbs. He stared at the drain and watched as the last of the murky water swirled away.

He felt like he was watching the last of his spirit slip down the drain with it.

“You should be thanking me,” Elijah’s voice drifted through the roar of the water. “I did this out of the kindness of my heart. I didn't have to spritz you up. I could have left you in your fun little predicament, ramped up the vibration ten times higher until it melted your mind to mush. Left you to rot in your own filth, like a pig in a sty. But I didn't.”

Josh closed his eyes, the water drenching his hair to curled ringlets and running in rivulets down his spine. The spray cut off with a shudder of the pipes, leaving only the drip... drip... drip of the showerhead and the sound of Josh’s own rattling breaths.

Elijah reached out, his fingers ghosting lightly over Josh’s hunched shoulder. The heat of Elijah’s skin was like a burn against Josh’s hypothermic flesh. Josh let out a petrified whine, flinching so hard his shackled feet skidded against the porcelain.

“And there's that fucking flinching again,” Elijah growled, and hooked two fingers under the heavy leather of the shock collar, tugging it up until their faces were inches away, “What is it, huh? you're having the time of your life with me and you don't wanna go back to lover boy? You wanna stay with me, here, forever? Is that what you want?”

No. No, God, no. Anything but that. Josh's mouth opened behind the gag, trying to form words, trying to convey the absolute horror of the suggestion. His head thrashed side to side in violent denial.

The idea of being doomed to an eternity in hell, suffering Elijah's endless cruelty, was a fate worse than death. He'd take Felix kisses, his touches, all that twisted love he forced upon him - he'd take it all if it meant the pain would stop.

“Open. Your. Eyes,” Elijah growled.

Josh's eyes blinked open but his vision was blurry, his lashes heavy with water. With his free hand, Elijah began to trace the dark, purpling bruises he’d left on Josh’s throat and chest earlier, his touch light, almost proud of his work.

"I will drill it into your thick skull one way or another. You were put on this Earth for Felix. You are nothing without him. So you don't get to flinch. You don't get to scream or beg or act like you have a choice in any of this. Because you don't. You're his. And the sooner you accept that - really accept it - the sooner this stops. This only goes on for as long as you let it.”

Elijah's fingers dug into the bruises, watching Josh's face contort with pain. "That's what we're teaching you. Surrender. The understanding that your only purpose is to be exactly what he wants, when he wants it, without hesitation. It's not rocket science, princess."

Why? What had he done in his life to deserve this? He tried to trace back through his memories, not for the first time, searching for the sin that warranted this punishment.

There was nothing.

He’d kept to himself, lived his mundane life, worked an honest job and worked it down to the bone. He'd never hurt a soul, never put a foot wrong or got into any trouble. He'd done nothing to deserve this, to have his entire existence reduced to a body for someone else to use and abuse.

So why him? Why did Felix have to choose him? What made him so special, so deserving of this suffering?

Elijah didn’t even bother with a towel., he just grabbed a fistful of Josh's sodden hair again, and hauled him back over the edge. Josh hit the bathroom floor with a painful thud, his limbs tangled in the restraints and his skin still stinging raw and scratched bloody from the bristle brush.

The dragging started again immediately - the wet friction of Josh’s back against the hallway floorboards making a sickening sliding sound as Elijah marched him back towards his new prison - that decrepit bedroom.

When they reached the bed, Elijah didn’t lift him back up onto it. He simply let go of his grip, letting Josh’s head smack back hard against the floor. Josh lay there, naked and dripping, his chest hitching in shallow jolts.

"Pathetic little boy." Elijah said, looking down at the shivering heap. Josh curled into himself, searching for warmth, his knees drawing up toward his chest, but the movement was clumsy and weak. "You’re not getting back on those sheets until you’re bone dry. You're not dirtying my nice clean towels and I'm not having you drench the bed."

Elijah leaned down, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "I'll tell you what, if you’re dry by the time I come back this evening, maybe I’ll be nice and tuck you into bed and kiss you goodnight like your boyfriend would. But for now, you stay right there, down on the floor where you belong.”

Josh shivered violently on the floor. He was frozen solid, his muscles jumping in tiny spasms as the water pooled around him.

"Felix is checking in later today," he announced, matter-of-fact. "That's why I wanted you all freshened up and looking semi-presentable. He's been blowing up my phone all fucking afternoon - like a lost little puppy without you. It's not even been two whole days and his incessant neediness is already interfering with my training…”

The words hit Josh like a lifeline thrown into dark water. Felix. This was his chance. His chance to prove he was learning, that he was changing, that he was finally becoming what Felix needed him to be.

If he could just show Felix that he understood now, how he'd accepted what needed to happen - maybe Felix would take him home. Maybe this would finally be over.

Josh's mind began to race, already strategising. He had to be perfect. Broken but obedient. Suffering but grateful. He had to tap into that love Felix had for him, nurture it, show Felix that this was paying off.

This was his chance to go back.

With a final, dismissive kick to Josh’s hip, Elijah turned and walked out. The click of the deadbolt echoed through the room, leaving Josh alone and shivering uncontrollably as cold air wrapped around his frail frame.

*!*!*!*

Josh's eyes snapped open hours later at the thud-thud of footsteps returning. Had he fallen asleep? Lost consciousness? His body was still trembling, his skin had dried tacky and uncomfortable against the floor, sticking to him in patches where the water had pooled.

Elijah appeared in the doorway and crossed straight to him. He crouched down and pinched a cold, damp ringlet of Josh's hair between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it slightly to examine it.

"Hmph. Still wet," Elijah observed, flicking the strand against Josh's forehead. “What a shame. No warm, snug bed tonight for you. You'll be sleeping on the floor.”

Josh pressed his forehead into the ground. He already knew that was coming. He let out a drawn out, exhausted sigh through his nose - the only acknowledgment he dared make.

Elijah's lips quirked in something that might have been satisfaction. He heaved Josh up into a sitting position, propping him up against the wall like a doll.

He reached for the buckle at the back of Josh's head, snagged in his knotted hair, and unstrapped the gag. The sudden vacuum and the scrape of the device out of his already raw throat forced a dry, painful retch from Josh - choking on the sudden rush of air - but Elijah ignored it, tossing the gag aside.

“Now, princess,” Elijah said, holding up a small black remote in front of Josh's face. Josh tensed, gulping against the collar. Elijah pressed a button. A green light on the collar flickered to a dull grey. “The collar is powered down. You have your voice back.”

The collar was…off? Powered down? He could still feel it, strapped around his throat, like a leash held slack. He didn't trust it. This felt like a trap - a test to see if he would dare still speak without permission, or maybe even speak out of turn.

He swallowed carefully. His voice felt foreign to him, like something had already atrophied. Did he even remember how to use it? Should he even try to use it?

Elijah pulled his phone from his pocket, holding it up so the front camera was aligned perfectly with Josh's miserable face.

A phone. Josh's eyes latched onto the device with a feral desperation. Holy shit, it was right there. Mocking him within arms reach. If he could just lunge, just knock it out of his grip, get his bound hands on it… call the police. Run like the wind.

But the fantasy crumbled as quick as it formed. He would be stupid to even try. He'd fail, and he'd only earn himself more pain. Escape would only ever be a dream. Home a distant, fuzzy memory.

The screen chimed - a cheerful ringtone that felt like a gunshot to the chest. Elijah tapped the ‘Accept’ icon. And there he was.

All his answered prayers and his worst nightmares.

“Josh? Baby?” Felix breathed a gasp of relief, visibly choking up. He looked dreadful - his hair unkempt and dishevelled and dark bags sitting beneath his red-rimmed eyes.

But the sound of Josh's own name, spoken so softly, with such warmth? With that sickly honey sweet voice? It was everything he needed right now. It completely unraveled him.

“...F-Felix?" The name came out shattered - his voice shredded from screams and the gag's cruelty. “Felix! Oh fuck! Felix, p-please!” he wailed like a newborn baby, his face crumpling.

Tears flooded his eyes instantly, blurring the image of the man he both feared and worshipped. “I’m sorry! I’m so fucking sorry! I’ll be good, I promise with my whole heart! I’ll never play up again! I’ll do anything! I'll be perfect! Please just come get me! I'm ready! I know I am! I've learnt my lesson!”

On the screen, Felix's expression shifted. His eyes softened, a look of profound and aching longing crossed his features. If Josh thought he was capable of human emotion, he might have thought he felt guilt or maybe a tinge of regret.

He leaned closer to his own camera, his thumb tracing the screen as if he could feel the curve of Josh's tear-stained cheek…

..and Josh instinctively leaned in, desperately trying to feel his gentle caress. Oh, how he'd kill for his tender touch to wash away all the pain.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Felix murmured, his voice thick with a twisted kind of grief. “My darling. Look at you. Poor baby. I hate seeing you like this. I haven’t slept since you've left, I can’t even stomach the thought of food. The house is so quiet…it's unbearable without you. I'm nothing without you. I miss you so much-”

“Then come get me!” Josh begged, his voice cracking into a screech. He didn't care about his pride, he didn't think about how Elijah might react. “You can't leave me here with him! Felix, please!”

Felix’s jaw tightened. For a second, a flash of something dark and protective crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by that terrifyingly calm resolve.

“I know it’s hard, Josh. Believe me, it’s killing me to have you away from my side after I waited so damn long to bring you home. But you weren't listening. You were fighting me. And I can’t have that. This… this is the only way we can be happy together. You have to put in the work. You have to want this too."

“I do! I told you! I see that now!” Josh gasped, his chest heaving. “I won’t fight! I’ll be whatever you want! Just… please, Felix. I want to come home. I-I miss you.”

Felix closed his eyes for a moment, a pained smile touching his lips. “Josh... you have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words. But Elijah tells me you’re still… struggling. You’re still resisting. He's not convinced….and neither am I.”

Josh’s blood turned to ice. He felt Elijah’s arm settle heavily around his shoulders. He had half a mind to bite a fucking chunk out of his arm.

“I’m trying,” Josh said through gritted teeth, his voice wobbling with terror and a tinge of rage. “I - I’m trying so fucking hard, Felix. I'm doing my best but… but you make it so hard. Please. Please just tell him to stop.”

“He’s doing exactly what I've asked him to do, Josh,” Felix said, his gaze hardening just a fraction. "Because I love you. We're fixing the broken parts so I can have you back whole. Just a little longer, baby blue. Be brave for me. Prove to me that you're willing to be mine. Trust me Joshy, this hurts me more than it hurts you."

Something snapped.

Josh's vision tunneled. His throat burned as words spewed out of him - words he didn't plan, didn't choose, couldn't stop.

"You're fucking lying!" The scream ripped through his chest, his whole body lurching forward as Elijah had to hold him firm. "Hurts you?! Like you're hard done by?! I've been - he's been-" His voice cracked into something animal, something beyond language. Tears streamed furiously down his face. "Do you have any idea what he's done to me? What you've let him do?! I've been put through fucking hell and back! And you have the balls to say you 'love' me?! How can you look me in the eyes and say that to me?!”

He'd given everything he had. Done everything they'd asked, endured everything they did to him. He played along with their sick games. And none of it mattered. It would never matter. They'd just move the goal post again and again, find another way to push him past the brink. The game was rigged from the start, so how could he play along?

On the screen, Felix went very still. His expression didn't harden, it became something worse than anger. Something like satisfaction.

"There he is," Felix said softly, almost fondly. He leaned closer to his camera, eyes bright and focused. "There's my Josh. The one who screams and fights back and thinks he knows better than me. " A pause. A small, devastating smile. "That's exactly the Josh I don't want back, baby. So I think... yeah. I think you need a little more time with Elijah after all. It'll do you some good, darling."

Josh's heart fell from his ribcage and into the pit of his stomach. No. He'd fucked it all up. Again. He'd let the pain overwhelm him and do the talking. Why couldn't he just keep his petty temper tantrums under control?

"No-” Josh choked, scrambling to fix something unfixable. “No, Felix, wait - I-I didn't mean-"

"You did mean it. And that's the problem," Felix's voice was gentle, patient, like he was explaining something to a child. "When you're ready to come home, you won't talk to me like that. You won't even think like that. So prove it to me, Josh. Prove you can be good. I love you, baby. I'll see you in my dreams tonight."

"Felix - please - don't hang up! DON'T-"

The screen went black.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Josh stared at his own reflection in the dark glass, his mouth still open around a plea that would never be heard. The phone screen had become a mirror, forcing him to look at what he'd done. What he'd thrown away.

Elijah's hand lifted from his shoulder. Then, the electronic beep of the remote. The green light on the collar flickered back to life, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Silenced again. Back to square one.

"Well," Elijah said, his voice bright and satsfied. He smoothed hair away from Josh's face. "Looks like you're not quite ready to go back to the big man afterall. Lucky for you, I've got plenty more lessons to teach. And now? Now you're going to be extra motivated to learn them."

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Reuben stood in the hallway with his hands at his sides and looked at Theo with an expression that Theo was beginning to associate specifically with Reuben, this flat sort of expression that somehow looked both like indifference and seething resentment.

"This way," Reuben said, and started walking before Theo responded. He followed him through the house. It was bigger inside than it looked, or maybe it just felt bigger because everything was so carefully arranged. The floors were wood, dark and polished with a long ornate rug trailing down the hallway. The ceilings were high. As they moved further from the entryway, the pieces got more personal, still skilled, but less like something you'd see in a museum, sketches with smudged pencil marks, face studies and practice pieces for bigger things, it seemed. But Theo couldn't get a good look at any of them. Reuben walked fast.

Reuben led him up a staircase and down a hall and stopped at a door.

"This is yours," he said. He opened it but didn't go in, standing to the side like a hotel employee. The room was small but not cramped. There was a bed with actual sheets, a desk, a window with curtains, a closet. The bed was made. The quilt on top looked well done and handmade.

Theo stepped inside and turned around slowly, looking at everything. The bed was made. There were curtains on the window. The desk had a drawer. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a room a person with a life might inhabit. Theo had not had such luxury in two years.

"Bathroom's across the hall," Reuben said. "Towels are in the cabinet. Dinner's usually at seven but it'll be late tonight."

"Because of me."

"Because Arthur went to the auction instead of letting me start cooking on time." He wasn't saying it to be kind. It wasn't even acknowledgment. It seemed like he was just correcting the record, as if it was important. "I'm going to start dinner. You have maybe twenty minutes before he comes for you."

Reuben said it in the same flat tone he said everything else, but the content of it, the before he comes for you, made Theo's skin crawl. Theo opened his mouth and Reuben was already turning away.

"Reuben."

He stopped. Didn't turn around.

"What's going to happen?"

Reuben was quiet for a moment. Then, to the hallway: "He just wants to get to know you, the first day. It's not..." He stopped, considered, then started again. "It's not the worst thing he does. It's just the first thing."

And then he was gone and Theo was still there in the room that was now his and he looked at the bed with its sheets and the desk with its drawer and the window with its curtains and counted his heartbeats and waited.

Arthur came for him in fourteen minutes. He appeared in the doorway with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and that warm, focused expression on his face, the one from the auction, the one that made Theo feel like he was being read.

"Theo. Come with me, please. I want to show you the studio." His voice was bright as ever.

The studio was on the east side of the house, through a set of double doors that Arthur opened with both hands, producing a kind of ceremony and flourish, the way you'd open a church. The room was large and full of light, tall windows, angled lamps, canvases stacked against every wall. It smelled strongly of oil paint and whatever else you'd use for like. Painting, Theo guessed, paint thinners and other chemical smells mixing with the more earthy scents of canvas and paper and other materials in the back, clay and ink and something sweeter underneath, something organic. There was an easel set up in the center with a blank canvas. There was a stool. There was a long padded bench. And on the table beside the easel, arranged with the same care as surgical instruments on a tray, there was a set of blades.

Theo saw the blades and his body went cold.

"Have a seat." Arthur gestured to the stool. "Wherever's comfortable."

Theo stood frozen until Arthur placed his hands on his shoulders, using the slightest pressure to push him forwards and downwards until he was sitting in the chair. His eyes kept going to the table and he kept pulling them away and they kept going back. The blades were clean and varied in size, an exacto, a scalpel, something thinner, and beside them were the things Theo had expected to see in the studio: jars and tubes of oil paint, a palette, a set of brushes, and several small squares of thick paper, the kind used for color swatches.

Arthur pulled a stool up across from Theo and sat on it, their knees almost touching. He was close enough that Theo could smell his soap.

"So," Arthur said. "There's something I do with everyone who comes into the household. It's part of my process, and also a sort of—well. Welcome, I suppose? I think of it as a, ah, a baseline. An initial study."

He reached over to the table and picked up the medium exacto and held it loosely, comfortably, the way you'd hold a pen.

"I need to match your colors," Arthur said. "Skin and blood. Everyone's different. Different undertones, different saturations. Reuben's blood is very dark, almost brown-red. Beautiful, actually. Max's is brighter. More arterial, even from a surface cut. I need to know yours before I can paint you properly."

Theo stared at him. The words were so strange, so far outside anything the facility had prepared him for, that for a moment his brain just refused to process them. He had spent the last year in the facility, but it mostly prepared him for, like, standardized labor, for taking orders and for facing punishment, if he was disobedient. The facility had not prepared him for a man explaining, in a warm and patient voice, that he needed to cut him open to see what color he bled. For his art.

"You're going to cut me," Theo said. "To match paint."

"I'm going to take a small color study. Yes." Arthur said it gently. The way you'd explain a procedure to a child. "Arm, please. Left, I think. Roll your sleeve up."

Theo did not roll up his sleeve. He sat on the stool with his hands in his lap and looked at the blade in Arthur's hand and did not move.

"No," Theo said. His voice cracked on the word. "I—what? No. I'm not going to let you—"

"Reuben," Arthur said, not raising his voice.

There was a sound from the doorway. Theo looked up to see Reuben already moving, already crossing the studio with the unhurried efficiency of a man performing a task he had performed before. Behind him, further back, half-hidden and watchful, was someone Theo hadn't met yet. Small, with a shock of white-blonde hair that fell, scraggly, past his ears and covered some of his sharp-features. That must have been the other one Arthur mentioned in the car, Max. He was standing very still and his eyes were moving between Arthur and Theo with a quick, desperate attention, like he was tracking a ball in play.

Reuben went behind him and grabbed Theo by the left arm.

Reuben's hand closed around his forearm just above the wrist, and his other hand began pressing down on Theo's shoulder, the grip firm and steady and completely impersonal, not dissimilar to the way Theo had been restrained before, by faceless orderlies or handcuffs. He knew how much force was required to keep a person still and was applying precisely that amount and not an ounce more. Theo tried to pull free and his arm moved about half an inch in Reuben's hand and then stopped. He was very strong.

"I always invite the whole household for this, don't be embarrassed," Arthur said, glancing at the doorway where Max still stood. "It's a household moment."

"Let go of me," Theo said, giving up on Arthur and beginning to speak to Reuben. Reuben did not acknowledge that he'd spoken, his hand did not move. His face, from what Theo could see of it, did not move. He was flat and enduring and mildly inconvenienced as Theo began to thrash uselessly against Reuben. His arm stayed so stubbornly still and available for Arthur to get at.

He reached over and rolled Theo's sleeve up himself, folding the fabric neatly above the elbow. His hands were gentle, much lighter than Reuben's iron grip. He turned Theo's arm so the inner forearm faced up, the softer skin of the underside where the veins showed faintly through, and he studied it for a moment with his head tilted, the same way he'd studied faces at the auction, like he was looking for a certain way to see the thing in front of him. His thumb pressed into the skin and he watched the color change under pressure, watched it return.

"Good," he murmured. "Warm undertone. Darker than Max and Reuben, more yellow. I thought so."

He picked up the exacto and Theo's body did what it was always going to do, the thing the facility had spent eighteen months failing to train out of him. He fought. Not strategically, not well, not how he had ever hoped he would in the thousand violent fantasies he had dreamed in the past eighteen months. He jerked hard against Reuben's grip and his shoulder wrenched and his legs kicked against the stool legs and the stool scraped across the floor with a sound that seemed very loud in the studio and Reuben still held him.

It reminded Theo, obscenely, of a time when he and his brother were younger and had been tasked with building a fence around the backyard of their home. Reuben held him the way he'd held a fence post while Will hammered it into the ground, absorbing the force without moving, his hands adjusting their grip slightly to account for the angle of Theo's struggle but otherwise unchanging. Theo heard himself making sounds, ragged, panicked sounds that he couldn't control and didn't try to, and somewhere in the middle of it Arthur's free hand came up and touched his face.

"Oh, now you're just making it worse for yourself." Arthur said softly. His eyes were bright. He looked the way he'd looked at the auction when Theo had flinched, that expression of wonder, of startled delight. "That's okay. What I wanted, actually."

He made the first cut.

It was not deep. Theo knew this because he had medical training and the part of his brain that still functioned that way catalogued the wound automatically: superficial, three centimeters, dermis only, would close on its own within the week. The rest of his brain, the much larger and louder part, was screaming, and the rest of his body was also screaming, or at least trying to, a sound coming out of his throat that was high and raw and ugly and nothing like the controlled silence that he was supposed to have mastered. He never really did.

Arthur didn't react to the sound, or the thrashing, or anything else. Arthur was staring and yet completely ignoring Theo, already reaching for the palette, already picking up a brush, already mixing. He dipped the brush near the cut, making Theo's entire body jerk again, and picked up a bead of blood and brought it to the palette and began working it into the pigment.

"Hold him still," he said to Reuben. "I need it fresh."

Reuben's grip tightened, not by much, but enough to prevent any further jerking. Reuben's hands were freezing. Theo could feel the cold of them through his own skin, through the heat of the cut, and he thought stupidly, distantly: his hands were cold in the car too.

Arthur continued mixing, holding the swatch next to the cut and frowning.

"Too cool," he muttered to himself. He set down the swatch and picked up a different pigment, a warmer red, and mixed again and held it up to Theo and then to the light. The frown deepened.

"The oxidation changes it," he said, sounding annoyed. "It's already shifting. I need another sample."

He cut Theo again, half an inch below the first one. It was exactly the same, a quick controlled slash, the same depth, same length, a parallel line right underneath the first. Theo jerked in Reuben's grip again but this time it has no effect on Arthur. Reuben held him and Arthur held his arm and neither of them looked at his face. Arthur's attention was on the blood, not on Theo. Reuben's attention seemed to be on holding Theo down, but only the mechanics of keeping a body still, the same way a nurse's attention during a blood draw was on the vein and not the person.

"Better," Arthur said. He mixed quickly this time, working the fresh blood into the pigment before it could oxidize, and then he held the swatch up again. "Reuben, look at this. Am I wrong, or is there more ochre in his blood than yours?"

Reuben looked at the swatch and at the cut and at Theo's face for approximately half a second before looking back at the swatch.

"Looks right," Reuben said. He sounded like he wanted to be in the kitchen.

"Always so helpful." Arthur set down that swatch and picked up a clean one. "Now I need the skin. Forearm skin is different from the face, different from the torso, and I will do those eventually, but for today this is the baseline."

He pressed the clean swatch directly against Theo's uncut skin, comparing it to the paint he was mixing on the palette, going through his adjusting and looking and adjusting and looking routine over and over again.

"You're shaking," Arthur noted. "It's making the color read differently. Try to relax, please."

The sound that came out of Theo's mouth might have been a laugh. He wasn't sure. It was very very funny. He was pinned to a stool by a man he'd met an three hours ago while another man he'd met also three hours ago cut his arm open to compare his blood to oil paint and he was being told to try to relax. It might have been the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.

The third cut happened because the blood from the first two had mixed on his skin and Arthur wanted a clean sample from undamaged tissue. Theo had stopped fighting by now because Reuben's hands were immovable and Theo's body had started doing the math on its own, the twisted calculation of how much energy it cost to struggle versus how much it changed the outcome, which was nothing, which was zero, and his body was tired and his arm hurt and the man was going to cut him regardless and the only variable was whether Theo spent the energy or saved it. His mind did not want to save it, wanted to continue screaming and fighting, but his body chose to save it. This felt like the worst thing that had happened today and probably seven worse things had happened today.

He made another pathetic sound that made him cringe more at himself than the the third cut Arthur put into his skin. It was closer to a word, something between stop and please, and Arthur paused, not because of the sound but because he was checking the blade angle.

"I'm almost done," Arthur said. "Your blood is being difficult. It's got this almost amber quality in the first few seconds. See this?" He held up a swatch to show Theo his own blood mixed into paint and Theo looked at it because the way Reuben was holding gave him nowhere else to look. The swatch was red and brown and warm and it meant nothing, it was not him, it was nothing, it was paint.

"I see it," Theo said. His voice was very quiet. He did not.

"Good. You do see it, don't you? Reuben never sees it. Max?"

Max stepped forward from the doorway. "I see it," he said. He had been paying close attention, it seemed. "It's warmer than mine."

"It is warmer than yours, significantly, actually. His whole palette is warm, his skin, his blood, even the undertone of these bruises." Arthur touched the edge of a bruise on Theo's wrist, a fading yellow-green mark from the restraints. "I'm going to want to paint that before it heals. Someone remind me later."

"I will," Max said.

The fourth cut was because the third had already started to clot and Arthur wanted to compare the fresh color against the first swatch, which had dried. The fifth was because he'd moved to a different part of the forearm, closer to the wrist, where the skin was thinner and the blood showed differently against it. By the fourth cut, Theo had stopped making sounds. He could still feel every cut. He could still feel Reuben's cold hands and the stool under him and the sting of each new line. He just couldn't do anything about any of it anymore, and his body, having accepted this, had stopped trying and gone quiet.

Arthur made two more cuts. Theo counted them because Arthur had stopped counting, if he'd ever started. Seven. The number was seven.

"I think that's good for today," Arthur said, finally, setting down the brush. He looked at his row of swatches. There were seven of them, lined up on the table, each one a slightly different shade of Theo. "I'll let these dry and compare them tomorrow in natural light. The tungsten light skews warm."

He stood up and stretched and looked at Theo's arm with that same pleasant and satisfied expression Theo was beginning to notice he held a lot. It was starting to become one of Theo's least favorite expressions.

"Reuben, can you clean him up? Nothing too heavy. I'm going to want to see how the cuts sit tomorrow."

Reuben let go of his arm. The absence of the grip was almost worse than the grip itself, the sudden return of his own body to his own control, freedom arriving now that it was fucking useless. Theo's arm stayed where it was, extended, like it was waiting for someone to take it again. He had to tell it to move. It took a moment for it to listen.

"Dinner in thirty minutes?" Arthur asked.

"If that," Reuben said.

Arthur left the studio. Max followed him, close on his heels, quick and quiet. Theo sat on the stool and counted the cuts on his forearm while Reuben cleaned them without speaking. His hands were efficient and practiced and he did not meet Theo's eyes. The gauze went on loosely, just like Arthur told him to, light enough to see through.

"Dinner," Reuben said when he'd finished. "Kitchen's downstairs, end of the hall."

"Not going to be able to eat. Obviously." Theo spat at him, his eyes trained on the stupid light bandages. The seven cuts already bleeding through, visible just like Arthur wanted. His voice sounded strange to him. Far away.

Reuben looked at him for a moment. Something moved behind his face, the same flash Theo had seen at the auction, fast and controlled and immediately gone.

"He doesn't care that much if you don't eat." Reuben said slowly. "You still have to show up. Everyone always comes to dinner. Thirty minutes."

Then he turned and left, and Theo was alone.

Tommy was vibrating with excitement to go, and only managed to choke down some breakfast when Fletcher threatened to leave him bound at the lodge instead of taking him to the store.

Barlowe had been preening in the bathroom long enough for Billy to pound on the door twice. They looked at themselves in the mirror and tucked their hair behind their ear on one side - their left side, so Fletcher could see their face if they looked over while they were driving. Barlowe plucked the longest hairs between their eyebrows and left the rest. 

There. I’m perfectly butch. Fletcher probably was into other butches, right? Though, Fletcher’s pet seemed fairly femme and swishy. How he could stay completely shaved all the time without razor burn was beyond Barlowe. Laser, maybe, but Fletcher seemed too cheap to shell out for it. Unless they liked the smooth thing. Barlowe had shaved their arms, neck, and face this morning, but they were itching already. The other one, the guy that the pet called Buck, he wasn’t clean shaven. He did have long hair though. So did the pet, but he didn’t seem to know how to take care of his hair, and his curls were a dry mess compared to Barlowe’s ringlets. 

They unlocked the bathroom door just as Billy was about ready to break it down. 

“What the fuck were you doing in there? Giving birth??” Billy snapped. Barlowe met his gaze with a bored, half-lidded look and adjusted their glasses.

“I’m out now.”

“This is a shared bathroom, I didn’t even hear a damn flush. I’ve had to piss for an hour.”

“And yet, you’re wasting time throwing a little bitch fit instead of going.” 

Billy sneered and shoved past them, slamming the door behind him. Fletcher walked in at the same moment.

“What’s all the commotion for? It’s too early for this shit.”

Barlowe felt a little flush looking at Fletcher, dressed in a well-fitting black henley and cargo pants tucked into their boots. They put the brim of a hat between their teeth while they shrugged on a denim coat, then pushed their hair back and settled the cap on. It was hunter camo with bright orange embroidery; the name of some metal band Barlowe couldn’t decipher.

“Oh, just Billy slacking off like usual,” Barlowe said with a casual dismissiveness. “Ready to go?”

“Just about,” Fletcher said, and began to walk toward the front of the house. “You can head out; I’ll be there in a sec.”

“Shotgun!” Barlowe called as they made their way to the truck. 

Tommy was a moment behind, stalled after discovering his boot laces had been mysteriously knotted together when he went to put them on. Fletcher stopped in the doorway by him, patting their various pockets absent-mindedly in a last check for their necessities: keys, phone, wallet, list, knife, other knife, other knife, other knife, mace, other knife, and gun.

“Hey. You,” They said to Tommy. “Grab the big bag of reusables. Top shelf of the broom cupboard. Oh, and the bottles under the sink.” They looked down at the tangle of string Tommy was hunched over, trying to tug it apart between his short, blunt fingernails.

“...And quit fuckin’ around.” They tousled his hair in that slightly-too-rough-but-not-displeased way. 

Tommy pulled his laces free finally, bending his nails back a little in the process. Thankfully, the nerves in his hands were so shot he could barely feel it. “Yes! Okay, I’ll be right there, can I ride up front with you?”

Fletcher gave him a shrewd look. 

“We take the rules of shotgun very seriously around here.” 

Tommy searched their face, and was completely helpless to tell if they were joking or not.

“Gun safety is no joke.” As if they had read his mind! Their face was deadly serious, but Tommy swore he caught the tiniest glint in their eye. 

He finished tying his boots and stood, looking very closely at Fletcher’s eyes to try to tell, before simply saying, “...Okay...”

Fletcher turned to walk to their truck and claim the driver’s seat. They had a wry smile on their face, both because they had done something funny, and because that was the longest time Tommy had managed to make eye contact with them. 

Tommy collected the bottle returns and grocery bags and loaded the trash bags of bottles in the truck bed. He hoped that if they needed to be further secured, Fletcher would say something. He had gained weight quickly since he’d come to the lodge, filling out with muscle and a healthy layer of fat, but he was still easily the scrawniest of the bunch and was thusly doomed to the middle seat in the back. Caldera was broad and strong and crowded his right side, while Billy sat to his left with his legs too wide open to give him any room. 

He thought about the times he’d been confined to the hidden space below the false bottom of Caius’s trunk, and decided this was still infinitely better. 

“What kind of music does everyone listen to?” Fletcher asked as they connected their mp3 player.

“I listen to everything,” Barlowe said easily.

Fletcher clicked their tongue. “Anyone else? Caldera?”

“Mostly country,” she said. “Or hip hop.”

“...Huh. Williams?”

“Drake.”

“Just Drake?”

“Or, you know, Eminem, uh, Hollywood Undead…”

“Okay,” Fletcher cut him off. “Thunder?”

“Oh, um, I - I like Eminem, too,” Tommy answered, shrinking down. “I’m from Detroit, so, uh, you’ve got to,” he said with a small chuckle.

“Okay, I don’t have any Eminem on here,” Fletcher said. 

All three of the trainees began to inform Fletcher on how this was a mistake that should be rectified.

“Okay!” Fletcher yelled. “I get it!”

“Do you seriously not listen to rap?” Billy asked. “That’s kinda racist.”

“I listen to rap! Sometimes!” Fletcher snapped. “And Eminem is fucking white! God - Thunder! Pick a genre!”

“Uh… punk rock?” Tommy offered with a nervous smile.

“Punk rock it is!” Fletcher announced, starting the playlist.

They rode in companionable silence for most of the way, with varying levels of comfort with Fletcher’s punk playlist. At some point, Billy’s hand wandered onto Tommy’s knee. Tommy pointedly tried to ignore it, but it wandered a little further up at every bump in the road. He also moved his foot over to trap Tommy’s boot and tow it towards his side, pinning his legs open wider. When it couldn’t get any more obvious, he switched to wrapping an arm around Tommy and pulling him a little too close to be casual. 

“You doing alright there, little buddy?” Tommy could smell the alcohol on his breath. It seemed awfully early in the day for all that. He mumbled back some confirmation that he was fine, but Billy kept a hand on him for the rest of the ride. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say so. Barlowe started picking Fletcher’s brain, and Tommy tried to tune in to their conversation.

At the store, Billy and Caldera scattered to attend to their personal groceries. Barlowe stayed with Fletcher, and Tommy was required to stay close at their hand. Occasionally they would let him stray, to collect something at the end of the aisle or a rack nearby at Fletcher’s request. It was a nice sense of freedom when he was allowed to wander a bit, but he suffered worse from his social anxiety when they were apart. He was better off behaving, anyway - he didn’t want to give Fletcher any reason to show him what would happen if he disobeyed in public. 

Tommy was sent a little ways down the aisle to pick up a bulk-sized tub of oats. He stared at the limited options and didn’t recognize any of the labels. Fletcher mostly bought store brand, so Tommy stooped to pull it from the bottom shelf. 

“Oh, you don’t want that,” a voice behind him said, and he startled so badly that he hit his head on the shelf when he tried to straighten. He rubbed at it self-consciously and turned to look for the source of the voice. 

Tommy wasn’t good with judging ages, but the guy had to be around his age, with a buzzcut dyed a deep, rich blue. One golden earring dangled from his ear, adorned with a tiny crescent moon at the end. 

“Whoa! Are you okay?” He looked concerned, and had hand half-reached out towards him, uncertain of how to help. 

“Ah, I-I’m fine, sorry,” Tommy stammered, dropping his hand and offering a crooked smile to lend credence towards his claim. 

“What are you sorry for? I scared the bejeesus out of you!” The stranger still had a pinch of concern around his eyes, but he couldn’t help but smile back. It revealed a gap between his front teeth, and Tommy was immediately charmed. 

“I just meant to say, the store brand is a rip off. The last two I got were like, half dust. And they’re actually charging more than JJ’s now  and hoping no one notices, but look at the price per ounce.” He pointed to the tag at the edge of the shelf, and Tommy suddenly found it fascinating. “It’s only like thirty cents, but still.”

Tommy glanced back at the friendly man and hesitantly stooped to collect the last tub of JJ’s Oats from the shelf. He wrapped his arms around it in a hug as he straightened, squeezing it for comfort as if it would make his heartbeat slow. 

“Well, um, good lookin’ out. Thank you.”

He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you think I’m good looking?” 

“No! I mean, well, not no, I just meant…” Tommy trailed off when he realized it had just been a tease. 

“Sorry, I’m just kidding around. I’m just passionate about a bargain.” He shrugged, offering an apologetic smile.

“No, it’s - it’s all good, um, I am too. It’s always a party at the thrift store.” Tommy’s eyes flickered past him where Fletcher was awaiting his return. He couldn’t quite place their expression, but they were ignoring Barlowe’s yapping to stare at him. 

“Oh, totally! That’s where I got this coat!” He pointed to his winter coat, a puffy mound of lime green faux fur open over a yellow cardigan. 

“I like it,” Tommy told him, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. This guy looked cool, and a couple lifetimes ago, he would’ve loved to talk longer and hang out. But Fletcher was waiting, and JJ’s Oats were getting uncomfortable to hold under his sweaty palms. 

“If you like that, you should come shopping with me sometime, I can show you all the good spots.” Mystery man smiled again, and Tommy’s heart gave a squeeze. 

“I…would love to, but um, I’m not from around here. And I also have to go. I’m, I’m really sorry.” 

“Totally! Totally, just one second, one tiny second.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and tugged out a receipt, producing a pen from coat pocket and scribbling frantically for a moment. 

“I’m Midnight, by the way. If you ever swing by this way again, or change your mind -” He handed the receipt to Tommy, who accepted it without thinking.

“-let me know if I can see those green eyes again.” Midnight smiled and turned, grabbing his cart to finish working down the aisle. 

Tommy stared at the crumpled receipt clutched in one sweaty hand, reading it over and over again without processing the message. 

MIDNIGHT  

CERTIFIED COOL(ISH) OKAY GUY

 458-2513 XOXO

His legs carried him back to Fletcher without much input from his brain, and he set the oats inside the cart. His eyes stayed on the paper in his hand until Fletcher’s swooped in and snatched it away, leaving a torn off corner in his grip.

They actually had the audacity to say, “Yoink,” as they took it.

Barlowe had noticed him by now and chuckled, arms folded across their chest.

“Wow, look who’s still got some game,” they said.

Tommy didn’t pay attention to them. He reached out his hand toward Fletcher, who had shoved the receipt in their pocket.

“Wait, no, why can’t I…”

“No,” Fletcher said bluntly. They began to push the cart toward the next aisle.

Tommy followed close behind.

“Can I please just keep it? I won’t call him, I just-”

“Exactly,” Fletcher cut him off. “You can’t call them. So you don’t need it.”

“If I can’t call then why can’t I keep it?” Tommy argued.

“What if you memorize it and try to get a hold of a phone?” Fletcher countered.

“Why would I not just call the police if I got a phone?”

“Because you don’t want to deal with the police,” Fletcher said confidently. “You’re more likely to focus your hopes on a single person you think you made a connection with.”

“I’m not - I’m not-” Tommy took a breath. “I know I’m not smart, Fletcher, but I’m not that stupid. Please.”

Tommy reached out and grabbed Fletcher’s arm. Not hard - he wasn’t ready to die in a Save-A-Lots aisle - but enough to make them stop and look at him.

“Please,” he urged, voice almost in a whisper.

Fletcher studied his face, looking into his yearning eyes for a long moment before saying a flat, “No,” and continuing to walk.

“Ouch,” Barlowe said, trailing along with the two of them.

“Don’t need the commentary,” Fletcher told them.

Tommy was trying hard to keep his frustration in check, but it was all so unfair. Someone finally noticed him, someone was finally kind to him, and Fletcher wouldn’t even let him entertain the idea of ever speaking to that person again.

“But - why not?!” Tommy demanded, hands balled into fists at his side.

“My gut says no,” Fletcher answered.

“Your gut?” Tommy repeated. “So this is you just saying because I said so?”

Fletcher stopped abruptly and rounded on Tommy. He skidded to a halt, color draining from his face under Fletcher’s glare.

“My gut is what keeps me alive,” Fletcher growled. “I’m not going to do something I feel is the wrong choice just because you don’t like it. I don’t need to give you a reason at all. Are we clear on that?”

Tommy stammered, hating how quickly his eyes welled. 

“I-I just want to look at it,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s all, I just want to have it to look at. Please, please don’t take it.”

“If you can’t actually call the number,” Fletcher began, voice closer to conversational again as they moved down the aisle. “Then you just want the reminder that someone thought you were cute. You don’t need the number. I’ll give you the receipt at the end of this trip and you can use that as your reminder.”

“Fletcher, you know I can’t do anything with it. You know I wouldn’t, even if I could. It’s not a reminder that - I-It’s just a piece of trash to you!” He tried to keep his voice down, but his throat was getting tight. 

“Yeah, I’m not keeping it,” Fletcher said, as if that were obvious.

That sent a jolt through Tommy.

“Don’t - don’t get rid of it, please, please, I just want to have it to… to…”

Fletcher put their arm around Tommy’s shoulders and pulled him in close. 

“You’re starting to make a scene,” they hissed quietly. “I made my decision. I’m not walking it back.”

They released Tommy, who fell silent beside them. He understood the threat of making a scene. His future if he acted out was easy to envision; beatings when they got back to the lodge, the return of his old shock collar, never getting to leave the house again. It wasn’t worth it for a scrap of paper, but…. that paper meant something. It meant someone had seen him. Someone had taken an interest, and gone out of their way to talk to him with kindness. That he wasn’t grotesque. He just wanted something to hold onto as proof of that, and Fletcher had snatched it out of his grasp.

Tommy dragged his feet as he followed Fletcher, quiet now. They looked back when they heard him sniffle, and rolled their eyes at the tears beginning to breach.

Fletcher unclipped their keys from their belt and held them out to Barlowe.

“Will you take him back to the truck and wait, please?” they asked, exasperated. 

Barlowe hesitated, like they wanted to argue, but decided against it. They took the keys and pulled Tommy along by the crook of his elbow.

“Casual,” Fletcher reminded them sharply, not raising their voice.

Barlowe dropped their hand, and Tommy followed willingly. 

When they got to the truck, Barlowe opened the back seat for Tommy, and took shotgun for themself again.

“Don’t know why I have to babysit,” they grumbled, pulling out their phone and slumping into the seat. “I didn’t do anything.”

After a few minutes of Tommy quietly sniffling to himself in the back, Barlowe turned around in a huff.

“Ugh, you get to fuck Fletcher,” they protested. “Why do you care about some rando in a grocery store? You got the better deal for sure.”

Tommy blinked up at them in surprise. “I’m not f…fucking Fletcher.”

“They fuck you, whatever.”

“No, I’m - we’re not - that doesn’t happen,” Tommy protested quietly. He stared at his hands in his lap.

Barlowe furrowed their brows. “You go into their room at night and come out in the morning.”

Tommy pulled up his shoulders. “I just… sleep in there, sometimes.”

Barlowe scoffed. “Where, curled up at the foot of their bed like a dog?”

“N-No…” Tommy looked down at his feet.

“Whatever.”

Barlowe turned back around and returned their attention to their phone.

When the others returned, Billy and Caldera had fewer bags to load into the back of the truck, and took their seats while Fletcher finished up and returned the cart.

“Hey, Tommy says he’s not having sex with Fletcher,” Barlowe immediately filled them in.

“What?” Caldera said skeptically.

“That’s what they told me!” Billy exclaimed.

They all quieted as Fletcher opened the driver’s door and climbed in. Fletcher twisted around and handed Tommy a drink. The receipt was stuck to the condensation on the side of it.

Tommy accepted the offering, looking over the label. It was a smoothie - chocolate, peanut butter, strawberry, and banana. The receipt didn’t have handwriting on the back - Fletcher really had handed him their receipt. 

“Thanks,” Tommy said in a small voice, throat still thick from crying. 

Billy elbowed Tommy in the ribs.

“What are you all mopey about?” he pried.

“He got a guy’s number and Fletcher wouldn’t let him keep it,” Barlowe reported dryly.

“Damn, Fletchie, that’s cold,” Billy said.

“Don’t call me that,” Fletcher said sternly.

“Then don’t call me Willy!” Billy snapped back. “What’s he gonna do with the number anyway?”

“Exactly,” Fletcher said, tapping on their ipod.

“No, I mean, why take-”

Billy was cut off as music blasted out of the speakers. Fletcher pulled out of the parking spot and started their long drive back home.

Billy put his arm over Tommy’s shoulders, giving him a reassuring squeeze, and keeping it there.

Everyone danced around each other in the kitchen putting their own food away, writing their name in marker on anything they didn’t want the others to touch. Tommy helped Fletcher put away the household groceries, and waited dutifully when the bags were empty to see if Fletcher had any other tasks for him. He kept his eyes on the floor, struggling to keep his feelings from overwhelming him.

Fletcher dusted off their palms and said, “Let’s go to your room.”

Tommy swallowed and nodded. He reluctantly led the way, with Fletcher on his heels. When they got inside, Fletcher closed the door behind them and folded their arms, not talking immediately.

Tommy knew he should take this time to apologize. Make it easier on himself when the punishment comes if he can show he already learned his lesson. But the thought of saying he was sorry for… what even? Trying to argue, sure. Fletcher shouldn’t be questioned. He was getting emotional in public, and that can draw attention. But the thought of saying those words turned his stomach. It all just felt so unfair. 

“You can’t be doing that,” Fletcher said finally.

Tommy did not respond, and Fletcher’s eye twitched as they stared him down. Tommy could feel their anger simmering under the surface, and how they were trying to keep a lid on it. He dug his fingernails into his palms.

He should say he’s sorry.

Just say it.

Just say it and make things easier.

You can’t get it back, don’t make this any harder than it has to be. 

“You cannot argue with me in public,” Fletcher continued, each word carved out with precise force. “You shouldn’t argue with me at all, but especially not in public. Especially about something so stupid.”

Tommy closed his eyes, and took a long breath, and opened them again, still silent. Fletcher’s nostrils flared.

“Look, I get it, a boy thinks you’re cute, it’s all very exciting,” Fletcher said dismissively. “But you have to be realistic. You can’t use the number, you shouldn’t use the number, and so you don’t get to have it.”

Tommy said nothing.

Fletcher crossed the room in two steps and grabbed the front of Tommy’s shirt, jerking him forward.

“I need to know you’re fucking listening,” they growled in Tommy’s face.

“Yes, Fletcher. Sorry, Fletcher,” Tommy blurted out, quickly breaking. “I’m… I’m sorry. For arguing with you. Especially in public. I didn’t intend to cause a scene. I promise to behave myself in the future; you don’t have to worry about me.”

The words were forced and robotic. 

Fletcher studied him for a moment.

“Look,” they began, releasing their grip and smoothing out Tommy’s shirt. “You’re generally well behaved. And you’re already too fuckin’ sad I don’t feel like I need to punish you on top of it. And I’m not pissed off enough to beat you. You dropped it eventually. And you didn’t say anything to the guy, that’s the most important. Just… don’t push it. Alright? I want to encourage good behavior.”

Tommy nodded. “Yes, Fletcher. Thank you.” His voice was still quiet; subdued. He kept his eyes down. In spite of his well-trained politeness, Fletcher’s sharp eyes caught the tension in his jaw. Tommy was trained for civilians, but Fletcher was an expert. They caught what slipped through the cracks, like the quiver in his shoulders as he struggled to hold himself together, and the unnatural stillness of his hands as he fought the urge to ball his fists. They didn’t entirely understand Tommy’s desperation to keep a scrap of paper, but he had given in to Fletcher’s will without too much of a fight. He could be angry about it if he wanted, but he had to remain respectful, and he was well aware his obedience was non-negotiable. 

Tommy sat on the edge of his bed when Fletcher left him, and dug out of his pocket the small, torn-off corner of the note that had remained between his fingers when Fletcher snatched it away. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, trying to remember what it had looked like intact. He searched his mind for the memory of what the handwriting had looked like, and he wished he could have memorized every little stroke of the pen. 

Of course he had known he could never call it, though he had already started dreaming of Fletcher allowing him a penpal, or maybe even a visit. He just wanted to touch it, and look at it, and know that someone out there knew that he was alive – and maybe even worth knowing. 

Tommy buried his face in his hands. His shoddy memory had failed him once again, and the brief vision he’d had of it was gone. He couldn’t even remember if the ink had been black or blue.

He held up the scrap, damp from the sweat of his hands. It wasn’t fair. Tommy was hit in the chest with a sudden swell of grief, and it felt endless and overwhelming. He had no one to comfort him, no one to even vent to - he wasn’t allowed any contact with Buck outside of his visits, and he certainly couldn’t confide in Fletcher. In a moment of impulsive desire, he stuffed the little paper in his mouth and swallowed it as fast as he could. 

Now no one can take it away. 

If he held it safe inside of himself, then– then it was safe. Right? He touched his mouth, fearing a trace of evidence on his face somehow, something Fletcher would notice. His gut churned as his imagination ran away, picturing Fletcher over his supine body with a knife. 

“You can’t hide it from me, boy. I’m going to cut it right out of you…” 

Watching that knife lower to his belly while he was helpless to stop it. Sam and Fletcher in one. Caius watching. Always watching. 

He started off the bed before he knew where he was headed, overcome by a sudden feeling that he couldn’t stand to be alone in his room for a single second longer.

He moved on autopilot to the hallway and into the living room, where Billy was watching TV.

“Hey pet-pet, where— whoa,” Williams interrupted himself as Tommy firmly took a seat beside him and snaked a hand onto his knee. He touched him for just a moment, lightly, before taking his hand away.

“What are we watching, Billy?” 

Williams stared at him for one long moment, a little taken aback. He cocked his head slightly, scanning his face, but Tommy kept a cool mask– the very picture of innocence. 

He put his hand on Tommy’s thigh.

“We…are watching a poker tournament.”

On the screen, a variety of very serious-looking people were sitting around a table. Several of them were wearing sunglasses, and shielding their hands of playing cards from one another with a ludicrous severity. He wondered if Uno tournaments existed that were just as serious. Then he tried to imagine a heated game of Candyland. Pushed his mind to keep going. 

Don’t think about the grocery store, don’t think about the grocery store, chase a different thought. Oh, I’m doing so well not thinking about the grocery st–AAahh, fuck. He stared at the TV unblinkingly for so long his eyes felt sticky when he closed them again. 

“I don't know how to play,” he admitted, feeling like a lizard.

“I can teach you. Though I’ll tell you now, strip poker’s the truest of the art form.” 

Billy wrapped his arm around him and offered him sips of beer. He took it every time he was offered, and he listened as Billy explained what was happening on screen as the game wore on.

The game ended, just as Tommy thought he was starting to understand. Billy scratched himself through his pocket. Picked up the beer and tilted it to Tommy’s lips. He didn’t ask. Tommy drank until it was empty, because Billy didn’t pull away, just watched him. He was relieved when the next game started and Billy went back to explaining, and he listened as hard as he could. 

At least I can have this, he thought to himself. At least he touches me. If I can be okay with this, I won’t be alone.

As long as I am usable, I can have this.

_

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr @technicallydeliciousdeer

Eye twitching slightly, but biting his tongue, Cassian followed Rahadin out of the bathroom and down the castle hallway. He vowed to give Strahd a piece of his mind as soon as he got the chance.

Down more dimly lit stone hallways, until Rahadin escorted Cassian to an ornate door. Cassian could hear a faint whimpering through the carved wood. Rahadin opened the door, bowed, then gestured to Cassian to go inside. 

"Here he is, my liege."

"Excellent, thank you, Rahadin," came Strahd's voice.

Rahadin stepped aside, revealing a large, ornate, four-poster bed with red sheets and black curtains. Strahd was laid across it, in a satin dressing gown. 

Cassian slowly stepped inside, then visibly recoiled. 

A human woman lay face-up on the bed beside him, paralyzed. There were two puncture marks in her neck, which were still dripping blood. Strahd licked a drop from his lip, then beckoned Cassian to approach with one curled finger.

“Wh-what are you doing to her—!?” Cassian exclaimed, even though it was pretty obvious. Strahd was going to feed from that woman right in front of him. Shit— what was Cassian supposed to do? 

Was not his whole entire job—his reason for existence—predicated on the premise of rescuing innocent human life from the jaws of greedy sadistic vampires? And here was the king bastard himself, feeding on an innocent human being right in front of him. He had to do something. 

Cassian’s wrist instinctively flew to his hip, where his silver dagger typically rested—where it always had, before it’d been knocked loose when he’d been dragged through brambles and boulders on the Old Svalich road. A jolt of panic hit him when his hand found nothing there but empty space and the textured embroidery of his too-fancy regalia.

Strahd let out a purring laugh. "Even if you had your knife, you'd still be just as helpless. I appreciate the effort, though. The fear in your eyes." 

Strahd sat upright, looming over the woman on the bed next to him. 

"Come here, Cassian. Come sit with me. Tonight, I am going to make you the thing you hate the most: A murderer of the innocent, to take their blood. And you will not even have the excuse of being a spawn under my control to shield yourself."

Cassian stepped back, recoiling in horror. “No—!” 

He didn’t even fully know what he was objecting to. But it sounded like Strahd was going to make him kill that woman. Or turn him into a vampire and make him drink her. With his shit luck, it’d be both. 

“No,” he said again, more resolutely this time, voice shaking a little less. 

“You’re going to let me fucking go. And her too. Im not here to be your fucking plaything,” Cassian spat.

"That is exactly what you are here for, foolish boy." 

Strahd's eyes flared with hypnotic power--not enough to completely overwhelm him, but just enough to make him squirm and struggle to keep his resolve. 

"I said, come here."

Cassian’s breath hitched as he felt Strahd’s will overtake him— not fully, but enough to muddle his senses, to compel him to move his feet without his fully sober consent. He didn’t feel sober anymore—Fuck— Was he actually intoxicated? Was that how Strahd did it? 

Strahd’s face shimmered in the light now, just a bit. The rest of the world seemed to warp around the vampire lord’s face. Cassian loathed the way it made him feel—like that time his friend had dared him to try those weird mushrooms they had found in the woods. It had made the colors all weird—made everything hum and buzz and glow— it had warped his senses in a way that went galaxies beyond his control. 

Strahd made him feel a little bit like that, every time he’d encountered him, but this time the feeling was radiating through him—penetrating through bone. Strahd seemed to zoom closer, getting larger and larger in Cassian’s narrowing vision, before Cassian realized with horror that it was himself that was moving, not Strahd. 

It was like being ridiculously high with moments of stark sparkling blinding clarity. Clarity that horrified.

He was within Strahd’s reach now, some awful invisible gravity pulling him closer to him against his will. 

Cassian found himself kneeling on the mattress in front of him, gazing up at Strahd with slightly glassy eyes that still shook with fear. 

Every rational inch of him wanted to scream. To run away. To stab and kill and— but with what? 

Cassian tried to move. To lunge at Strahd. 

But it just felt like so much effort. He couldn't bring himself to move from the kneeling position. Every fiber of his being felt woven of lead.

"There you are," Strahd said, his face twisting into a smile. 

One talon came up and ran through Cassian's hair. 

"You've cleaned up so nicely. To think a few hours ago you were being dragged through the mud behind me."

Cassian felt something metal pressing into his palm, then looked down to see Strahd handing him a knife. He leaned over and whispered into his ear, almost sensually. 

"The knife you wanted so badly. Slit her throat. Make a feast for me. Do it by your own hand, knowing that if you'd only been just a little stronger to resist, she would still be alive."

Cassian felt his fingers grip around the knife. Shaking, he looked down at his own hand, and knew that this arm was no longer his own. It belonged to Strahd now, his authority sealed the moment he’d uttered the words and given him the weapon. Strahd could order Cassian to slit his own throat right now, and Cassian’s arm would probably move to make it happen. 

Cassian could only hope he had control of his other arm at that point, but he had no idea how any of Strahd’s mind control abilities worked. He was worse off now especially, his mind still swimming in the swirling notes of the mushroom’s haze—of Strahd’s particular haze, he had to remind himself. 

It was like he'd been drugged. He hadn’t let himself be dr— or—or he had? Had he? Maybe?— fuck— it was getting so hard to think.

“Please don’t make me,” he managed to say, but it came out still weak and hoarse. A desperate whisper.

He wouldn’t do it. What Strahd wanted. He couldn’t. He willed his arm to raise and sink the knife into Strahd’s own chest instead, just to make a point. 

’You will never own me,’ the point said. ‘I will never be your puppet.’

Raise, his arm did. Sink into Strahd’s chest, it did not. 

Instead, it rose to meet the woman’s quivering form. 

“No—!” he cried out, not recognizing his own voice. 

Cassian felt the liquid in the corners of his eyes swell in anger—in frustration, terror— in anguish at his own sheer fucking helplessness. He had to fucking do something.

His hand quivered with the blade just above her throat. Why wouldn’t she resist? Why wouldn’t she stop him? Do something!  

‘Resist me, please,’ he thought desperately. His hand quivered, the blade just above her jugular.

The woman's cloudy eyes fixed on the knife. Strahd stretched out beside her, propped up on his elbow. He reached out and curled a lock of her hair around his finger. 

"What did I tell you, Gertruda? That your knight in shining armor was coming? You probably didn't expect which of us he'd be killing, though."

She strained against whatever force was holding her, raising one shaky hand to press against Cassian's wrist, as if to say, please don't.

"Go on, then," Strahd said.

Despite Cassian's desperate prayers, his hand moved and brought the dagger down on the woman's throat, slicing it open. She gurgled and thrashed weakly. 

Strahd leaned over and took her in his arms, like they were going to make out, except his mouth went to her neck, not to kiss, but to sip at the open wound. He swallowed over and over as though it were the sweetest nectar. The color gradually faded from her cheeks, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Cassian shuddered in horror at what his own hands had just done. The way it had felt. How soft her flesh had been beneath the sharpened blade of the knife. How easy it had opened before his eyes. Beneath his own fingers. 

He felt the tears falling before he realized he was crying. He was crying for this woman, shaking for her and for the anger he felt—at Strahd—at himself, for being too weak to resist it. 

The blade slipped from his fingers and he numbly sat back on his knees. Cassian watched helplessly as Strahd sucked at the fresh corpse. It was nauseating. It was revolting. Cassian felt his stomach churn and his fingers itch for the blade again just so he could sink it into Strahd’s throat. If even just in protest for this woman’s death. So it wouldn’t have been for nothing. 

The desire to stab Strahd was a funny thought, considering Cassian had done it before. Shoved his own silver dagger straight through Strahd’s neck only a few days prior. Not that it’d had much effect on the vampire—the wound had healed in seconds—but Cassian didn’t regret the choice, even though it had gotten him bitten nearly to death. It was worth it to save Veruska, the dusk elf paladin who was, when Cassian really thought about it, the only one in that ragtag group of travelers that he actually sort of liked. He had respected her. He wondered if he would ever see her again. 

Cassian found himself twitching to grab the knife again. The memory of Strahd choking Veruska out with his superhuman strength, the image of Strahd right in front of him, sipping from a fresh human corpse—Cassian couldn’t take it. He couldn’t just sit there and let it happen. He had to stop being so useless. 

But Cassian found he once again couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only sit there and watch and let the tears silently roll down. Strahd’s will held him completely still, and he knelt there, petrified. 

The world still shone and glimmered around Strahd, even as he fed from the corpse. Everything sparkled off of him as if light and shadow themselves were forged to accent the peaks and valleys of his face. The woman’s blood ran down his chin, a bright vivid crimson against his snow-like complexion.

Strahd picked up the knife, licking the excess blood off it like it was cake frosting. "Poor Cassian. All alone with me now." 

He tossed the knife away, then held Cassian's face in his hands, wiping Cassian's tears with his thumbs. He released his hold over Cassian—au natural—for whatever delicious struggle he was sure was about to ensue. 

As though plunged into an icy pool of water, sobriety hit Cassian and a freight train of horror came with it. Whatever part of him Strahd’s magic was keeping at bay broke loose like floodgates, and Cassian found himself shaking miserably with hatred and heartbreak in Strahd’s proximity.

Strahd tilted Cassian's head and leaned in, very delicately licking Cassian's cheeks, tasting the salty tears and the remnants of smeared blood from Strahd's own hands.

Cassian flinched hard, letting out a noise of panic when he felt Strahd’s tongue on his face. Instantly, his hands rose to push back against Strahd’s chest. It was more unconscious than anything. A normal, confident version of himself would’ve decked Strahd right in the face. But there was nothing normal about this. Nothing normal or sane about what had just happened, or about where he was, or about who was in front of him, pulling all his threads like he were a mere toy on a string. 

“Let me—fucking go—!” He shouted, trying to push Strahd away and scramble back on the bed. The other human was dead. He’d surely be next. He had to get out of here now. 

His eyes flicked to the door behind him. Could he make it? Maybe if he managed to injure Strahd somehow, he could make a break for it. His leg was still fucked, but what choice did he have?

Strahd noted the direction of Cassian's gaze and smiled, showing his teeth had shifted into something more wolfish. An animalistic growl rumbled in his throat. "Go ahead, hunter. The chase is fun. Seeing you be hunted is thrilling." He nibbled on Cassian's earlobe, breathing heavily. "Run, then, if you want to go so badly."

Cassian scrambled off the bed, losing his balance in his panic and crumpling to the floor in a heap. He groaned at the pain in his leg before staggering back to his feet. 

No, no— Cassian remembered the last time Strahd had ordered him to run. He’d ended up harpooned through the leg and dragged around through the mud for miles. 

Cassian knew this was just another game to him, Strahd was only playing around. But this was no game to Cassian. This was life or gruesome fucking death. 

He would just have to find somewhere to hide. Maybe something to cover his scent so the vampire couldn’t smell him? But fuck, what could he use? 

There was no time to think about it. He took the opportunity for what it was. A chance, however slim, to put some distance between himself and this monster. Strahd really did look monstrous once again, to Cassian now. The warm glow around his skin was gone, the light no longer shined to reflect in his eyes. He was a gruesome horrid sight, covered in that poor woman’s blood and bloody fanged smile splitting his face apart. Cassian wasn’t going to spend another second in here if he didn’t have to. 

Pain from the harpoon’s bloody performance radiated up his leg, but he found he hardly cared now. Finally free of Strahd’s persuasion, adrenaline once again flooding his system, Cassian bolted to the door and booked it. 

︶꒦꒷✧꒷꒦︶ 

More is written and lemme tell you— It only gets worse from here!! Worse for Cassian. Not worse for us. If anything, things will be even better for us. Hell yeah.