CW: Noncon touching, referenced noncon, noncon kiss trauma/panic response, pet whump, intimate whumper, creepy whumper, crass/derogatory language
Someone comes in, uses the bathroom, washes their hands, and leaves. Chris can see them over the handler's shoulder through the crack between the closed stall door and the side, flimsy metal that doesn't quite meet.
He breathes in shuddery, shaking gasps, but he doesn't - he can't - make a sound. The handler holds him tightly, the weight and heat of his body forcing Chris back against the wall. They're both still clothed, but the handler's breath is hot on his ear and Chris might throw up, or bite, or...
He'll be still and silent and good.
He always does this - he always freezes up. Somewhere inside himself, derailed, there is a train wreck screaming at him to fight or flee, but Chris can't do that, he's never done that, he's always done just what he is doing now.
Freeze, and be good, and hope that it won't be as bad as he knows it can be. As it has been. As it will probably be again.
His breath hitches, and the handler jams a shoulder into his collarbone to quiet him. The man who came in leaves, and it's only the two of them again.
"What do you do pet, with your barcode sawed off, huh? What makes money for your fancy lattes these days? You got a sugar daddy?"
The handler kisses him before he can answer. The press of lips on his is familiar, repulsive, inevitable. It would always be this, in the end, wouldn't it?
He has an acceptance letter to a real college pinned to the fridge, and it doesn't matter, because once a pet, always a pet, and never anything more.
Chris chokes on his disgust, shakes his head to the question, twists away from the handler's attempt to kiss him again. His clip is torn loose and his hair falls into his face, a blue curtain, not a wall he can hide behind.
The handler grips his chin and forces his head up, to meet his eyes. Chris whines, hates himself. He's supposed to be better now, stronger, and he's not. Still Baldur, still 223499, still nothing, still just a black hole with legs. No one at all.
"You know better," The handler chides, patronizing. Chris sees him through a blurry sheen of tears, fuzzy and unfocused. "You don't get to know that word anymore."
You have two options, trainee. You can choose to be good, or choose to get hurt. I always give you options, don't I?
"How do you answer a handler, pretty boy?"
Chris whispers, "N-no, sir, I d-d-don't have-... have, have... have a, a, a sug, a s-sugar daddy-"
"Then what? Whoring yourself like the other Romantics? That how you make a living?" Chris shudders, managing a breathy no, sir, and the handler chuckles, one hand still gripped tight over his throat, the other slipping up under Chris's shirt to find the layer of compression fabric beneath. "Oh, you're a double-wrapped fucking Christmas present, huh? Well, I know where we can go. I'll get a room at a motel. Show me you still know your tricks, pet, and I'll even let you go without turning you in."
"You-... You will?" Hope, dizzying as any vertigo, fights for space in his racing chaotic mind.
Chris's head starts to spin. His hands, pressed to the cool walls, tap desperately, but there's no soothing to be had here. Words are starting to fall apart, spark and dissipate, lose connection with his brain.
He manages, "Y-you... You, you, you... You p-promise? If I-I'm good?"
"Scout's Honor. Did you come here alone, pretty boy?" The handler's fingers twist some of Chris's hair, tuck it behind his ear, fiddle with the six piercings there, pressing rough thumb over them one by one. "Hm?"
Tears run warm down Chris's cheeks as he hiccups on a sob and whimpers, "Yes, s-sir, I'm al, al, alone."
He lets himself be pulled out of the bathroom and towards the door with his head down and his eyes on the floor.
He"s a terrible liar - but he's crying so hard that the handler can't tell.
Look up, he thinks, desperately. The handler's grip on his hand is bruising tight, an arm around his lower back, a whispered litany of the things he is going to do to Chris when they get to the motel.
Chris says yes to them all. He doesn't remember anymore how to say no.
He doesn't get to remember no.
They move across the cafe to the door, to all appearances a man concerned about his upset friend. Chris can't cry for help. Pets don't ask for help. They don't need it.
Everything else he's ever tried to be is a lie.
Look up, he pleads, inside his own mind. Look up, see me, help me, help.
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