#behavior modification au

First. First suggests the possibility of many. Joe lifts his glass, but the wine sours on his tongue. He doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t matter. Ivan doesn’t expect him to. Not anymore. Joe’s silence is acceptable. His mouth has other uses, after all. 

Jack never used him that way. Jack never used him. Jack loved him. Maybe Jack loves him still. Joe still loves Jack. That’s why he’s here. Why he stays. It’s better that it’s Joe here. Jack wouldn’t be wrapped in cashmere and given fine wine. Joe is fine. Everything is fine. 

Nothing is fine. It will never be fine again. 

“We’ll get to make so many new traditions,” Ivan goes on. “Like a romantic Christmas Eve meal, just the two of us.”

Joe nods, staring into the flickering light of the candles. It is always just the two of them. 

He hopes that Jack isn’t alone. That his mother is at the house, and that she and Jack are in front of the tree together. He hopes Carl is curled up by the back door, too furry to enjoy the blazing fire Jack will have made. He hopes they are happy, that they aren’t wasting too many thoughts on him. 

“When I was a child, we were allowed to unwrap one gift on Christmas Eve. That was usually my favorite gift too–because it was the first. It felt a little naughty, like we were peeking.” 

Joe can’t picture Ivan as a child. He assumes that Ivan emerged from the ground like some kind of beanstalk, fully-formed and already sporting a tailored suit. 

“I think we’ll do the same tonight. I know exactly what I want to unwrap.” 

Joe nearly chokes on his wine. A tempranillo, Ivan said. Whatever it is, it burns the back of Joe’s throat. 

Ivan sets his wine on the table and leans forward on his elbows. It’s an oddly casual pose. Ivan is normally very careful about his table manners. 

“I never liked Christmas much, Joey. I guess I was sort of a Scrooge, if you will. My parents weren’t warm people–” 

Go figure, Joe thinks.

“--and the holidays were always much more about their functions and charities than they were about family time. I want to make up for that with you, sweetheart.”

They are not a family. They will never be a family. It isn’t possible. Joe’s family is miles away. 

“They were never what I wanted them to be. But you–” Ivan rises and moves toward Joe. He slips his hand around Joe’s ribs from behind and drops a soft kiss at the nape of Joe’s neck. “--you are exactly what I want. You’re so beautiful, Joey. Brilliant, kind, warm. And you’re all mine.” 

Joe’s eyes sting, and the candles blur. 

“Have you had enough to eat?” Ivan’s voice is rough in Joe’s ear, and Joe shivers. Another kiss, this time at the hinge of Joe’s jaw. “What if we take our dessert by the tree?” 

Joe doesn’t want any dessert; he’s already nauseous. He could barely stomach the rich meal Ivan had prepared, but he still made himself eat every bite. He knows it’s better when he does what makes Ivan happy.

He nods again. 

Ivan’s lips curl into a smile against his cheek. “Wonderful. Let’s get you settled, huh?” 

Ivan’s touch leaves him for a moment, and Joe hears the clink of chain behind him. There’s a soft jerk against his ankle, and Joe gently pushes back from the table and stands. The length of chain that keeps Joe in his place is wrapped around Ivan’s hand. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Ivan urges. He winds his free arm around Joe’s waist, knocking the bottle of wine against Joe’s hip, and the two of them move to the living room. 

It’s like the set of some trendy holiday rom-com. Dim light, a roaring fire, twinkling white lights on a tall, robust fir. Nat King Cole’s voice floats from the record player in the corner. Ivan guides Joe to the carpet in front of the fire and gently eases him to his knees. 

“Give me just one second, baby,” Ivan says, pressing a featherlight kiss to the tip of Joe’s nose. 

He slips behind Joe and fiddles with the chain at his ankle. Joe waits for the tension that lets him know he’s been tethered, but instead, he’s aware of a sudden absence. 

The cuff is gone.

“We don’t need this tonight,” Ivan whispers in his ear. His hand slips over Joe’s stomach and down to palm the fly of Joe’s slacks.  

Joe closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against Ivan’s chest. The heat from the fire is suddenly too much. His skin tingles and itches, and he feels like he might burst into flames himself. 

He doesn’t want Ivan to touch him, but he knows better than to think not being chained means that he has any kind of chance of escape. If he left, if he even tried  to leave, it would be Jack here in his place. Jack, locked in a cage. Jack, brutally used and abused. Jack, helpless in a way Joe promised him he never would be again. 

Joe will never let that happen. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek as Ivan gently undoes the clasp at the waist of his slacks. 

“Tonight, I’m going to unwrap you, sweetheart.” 

Ivan shifts, slipping a gentle hand behind Joe’s neck and guiding him onto his back. The carpet is white fur, and Joe’s tears nearly break free at the soft feeling on his skin. 

“You just relax,” Ivan murmurs from above. 

Joe can’t relax, but he lets his body go limp. He is Ivan’s ragdoll. A toy. Something to be played with. He will not fight. 

Ivan isn’t in a fighting mood tonight either. His touch is so gentle that it makes Joe’s skin pebble with goosebumps. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine–but no, he won’t. He can’t. Jack isn’t here. He’ll never be. 

Ivan inches the soft cashmere up Joe’s torso, dropping his head to leave a trail of soft kisses on Joe’s skin. Joe lets Ivan slide the sweater over his head, doesn’t fight when Ivan straddles him and lets the point of his tongue slip from Joe’s lips to his neck to the divot between his collar bones. 

“Open your mouth, sweetheart,” Ivan whispers huskily. 

Joe complies without thinking. He always does. 

“Don’t you swallow a drop of this,” Ivan warns, but Joe hears the teasing in his voice. 

Ivan carefully tips the bottle of wine over Joe’s open mouth, and Joe tries not to panic. The wine burns the opening of his throat, but he does not swallow. He closes his throat and lets his tongue bob, and he waits. 

Ivan leans over him and dips his own tongue in Joe’s open mouth, lapping the wine from between Joe’s lips with all the grace and precision of a cat. Ivan moans, and this time, Joe can’t keep his tears at bay; one slices a hot trail from his temple into his hair.

Ivan doesn’t notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care. He tips Joe’s head slightly upright and covers Joe’s mouth with his own, sealing them together with his lips. Ivan’s tongue moves over Joe’s, and he sucks the wine from Joe’s mouth. But he can’t contain every last drop, and a dribble of wine slips between their chins, dripping down Joe’s throat and down onto his bare chest. Absurdly, Joe tries not to move–he doesn’t want to ruin the rug. 

It’s not a problem, of course. Even as Joe’s chest heaves in a desperate bid for air, Ivan licks up the mess, and then he keeps moving downward, swirling his tongue around Joe’s nipples until they harden. The feeling sends shockwaves through Joe’s core, and he feels pressure begin to build between his legs. 

It isn’t fair. His body shouldn’t be able to do this to him. 

But his body isn’t his anymore. It’s Ivan’s, and Ivan knows precisely how to command it. 

“You’re so beautiful, Joey,” Ivan murmurs, and the words are Jack’s, even if the voice is not. 

Ivan slips further down Joe’s body, hooking his thumbs in the open waistband of Joe’s slacks. He pulls, and Joe’s bare ass rests against the soft fur of the rug; Joe isn’t granted the dignity of underpants, of course. Ivan slips the slacks away and throws them aside, and then he strips Joe’s socks from his feet, gently massaging Joe’s arches with his big hands. It feels good, and Joe groans in relief. 

“There, sweetheart. There you are. I know what you need.” 

And for a moment, Joe can see their tableau through someone else’s eyes. Two men, bodies close in front of a fire on Christmas Eve, one tenderly attending to the other. A bottle of wine on the bricks. Lights in the tree. To anyone else, they would look like lovers. 

But they are not. Joe does not love Ivan. This is not real. 

Ivan slips back between Joe’s naked legs, covering Joe’s body with his own and pressing a tender kiss to Joe’s mouth. Joe can feel Ivan’s hardness pressing against his stomach, and he knows what’s coming next. 

But Ivan kisses a gentle line from Joe’s lips to his neck, from his chest to his stomach. And then, Ivan’s nose glides through the soft trail of hair beneath Joe’s navel. Joe’s breath quickens, and he feels Ivan’s laughter, hot against his belly. 

“Merry Christmas, Joey.” 

Ivan’s mouth is suddenly warm and wet around him, and Joe moans into the semi-darkness. Ivan moves, the rasp of his tongue pushing and pulling against Joe, and Joe can’t stop himself from responding now. His body jolts beneath Ivan’s as the tide of his pleasure starts to roll in; he hasn’t felt anything like this since he’s been here. Ivan hums around him, and Joe feels electricity crackle at the base of his spine. There’s the sparest hint of teeth along his shaft, and he cries out; maybe he isn’t speaking words, but it’s the freest he’s felt in months. 

Ivan pops off him for a second, and Joe almost whines. He needs the feeling back, needs to feel something so that he can feel nothing at all. He needs to be in his body and not in this room. 

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Ivan pants. “Just for you. I know how Jackie kept this from you. But you’re here with me now, and I’ll take good care of you, won’t I?” 

Joe sobs as Ivan goes down, and this time, he tries to fight. Jack didn’t keep anything from Joe. If Joe had asked, Jack would have given this to him. But Joe would never ask. Jack is more than this. Jack is warmth and goodness and love. 

And Joe is betraying him with every bolt of pleasure. 

No, Joe tries to say, but he can’t send the word to his mouth. He knuckles into the fur rug, trying to convince himself that it doesn’t feel good, that he doesn’t want this. But Ivan keeps going, easing down Joe’s length until Joe is deeper than he’s ever been with anyone. A guttural sound rips itself from Joe’s throat, and he can feel Ivan’s laughter around him as he draws back before pressing forward again, swallowing Joe down. 

Joe’s legs shake around Ivan’s torso, and he can’t keep still. Ivan’s grip presses into Joe’s hips, and he starts to move again, back and forth, until Joe is rutting into Ivan’s mouth like an animal. 

Joe has never wanted more to die than he does just now. He is disgusting. He is worthless. He is a turncoat piece of shit. He doesn’t even need to be chained, because this is what he wants. 

No, he tries to tell himself, it isn’t. Joe doesn’t want this. He will never want this. 

But it feels so good. Nothing feels good anymore. 

Ivan draws back suddenly, and Joe knows he’s close. He can feel himself dangling on the edge, like he’s clinging to a cliffside with weak fingers. 

“N–” he starts to say, but then, Ivan moves again, and Joe goes fucking blind. He cries out, the sound so loud and hard that it echoes in his chest, and Ivan doesn’t stop. His mouth is soft now, milking Joe of every last rancid drop of fucked-up pleasure. His tongue nudges at Joe’s balls and then slides against the underside of Joe’s softening cock. 

And then, there is nothing. Joe rolls onto his side and buries his face in the white fur. His tears will stain the carpet, but he can’t hold them in. Ivan reaches over him to retrieve the wine from the bricks, and he takes a lazy pull from the bottle’s neck. He bends down to kiss Joe’s shoulder and sighs happily. 

“I hope it was good for you, sweetheart. I certainly enjoyed watching you squirm like that.” 

Joe doesn’t answer. He can’t. He couldn’t even say “no.” He wonders if, deep down, he didn’t want to. He curls tight over his knees. 

Distantly, he’s aware of Ivan undressing beside him. He isn’t surprised when he feels Ivan’s bare skin against his back, but he flinches when Ivan sucks at the knot at the top of his spine. Ivan’s hand slips down Joe’s back and over his tailbone, and then his fingers start to tease Joe apart. 

“It’s my turn now,” Ivan whispers gruffly, sinking his teeth into Joe’s shoulder. 

Joe doesn’t scream. What would be the point? He’s complicit now. He can’t refuse. 

“That’s right. I know how you like it.” 

It’s alright, Joe tells himself. It’s easier this way, if he doesn’t fight. But the gaping hole in his chest opens up, the way it does every morning. This isn’t right. It isn’t fair. And it certainly isn’t real. Ivan doesn’t know what Joe likes, nor does he care. All of this is about what Ivan wants. It will never be about anything else. 

Ivan moves Joe onto his back, gently, like he thinks Joe will break. Joe does not break, but the cuff on his ankle shifts against weeping skin. He feels the pain, but he doesn’t mind it. Not really. He prefers the hurt to Ivan’s twisted version of pleasure. The pain, at least, is real. Their domestic bliss is not. Three months in, and Ivan still chains Joe to the bed at night. 

He isn’t locked in the bedroom during the day anymore, but he thinks he might have liked that better. He hates sitting naked at the breakfast table, hates his place beneath the desk while Ivan writes his case notes, hates the way Ivan holds him close while they watch TV. 

He hates himself, he guesses. But that’s neither here nor there. 

Ivan’s lips touch down just above Joe’s navel. “Now, my Joey, what should we do today?” 

Joe knows what they will do. The day will start just like every other day does, and it will end the same way. If he’s lucky, that will be all. But he doesn’t have any choice, and they both know it. He can’t even answer Ivan’s questions anymore. Not that Ivan wants him to–he just–he can’t. 

Joe stares at the ceiling and ignores the throb between his legs as Ivan nuzzles against his thigh. It isn’t real. It isn’t because he wants it. He just has to get through it. That’s all. 

“I love our mornings together,” Ivan coos, and he slinks upward to cover Joe’s body with his own. He drags Joe’s wrists above his head and pins them there with one hand, ducking his head to nibble at Joe’s pulsepoint. “And our nights. All of it, really. You made the right decision, sweetheart.” 

Joe’s eyes close again. It wouldn’t have been that long ago that he might have cried at a speech like this one, but he doesn’t have any tears left. What would be the fucking point? He wishes he didn’t have eyes at all, that he didn’t have to wake every morning and see the world as it is now. He wishes he didn’t have ears, a mouth, fucking skin. He wishes he didn’t exist at all. 

But he does. And for good reason. Joe exists this way so that Jack can live. And that’s enough. It has to be. 

He knows it’s still fresh, but Joe hopes, distantly, that Jack will find someone else. Ivan isn't wrong: Joe made the right decision. Joe isn't collared or shut up in a cage; what does he really have to complain about? He saved Jack. It’s noble bullshit, but Joe needs something to believe in. Jack deserves to be loved; that’s why Joe signed up for this. Jack can’t haunt their house like some sad ghost. He has to live, to find the life he’s always deserved, even if it isn’t with Joe. Jack must know that; he must want it. Joe hopes he does. 

“Joey-love, where’d you go?” 

Ivan doesn’t bother with any kind of preparation. He presses inside Joe without warning, but really, there’s no warning required. Joe knows what he’s there for. Even with his eyes closed, Joe can’t imagine being anywhere else. 

"In the bedroom," Jack says. "I'm sorry that--"

"Is he alright?"

Is he? Joe stretches his legs, kicking them back and forth between the soft cotton sheets. Flannel pants. No silk. No chain. He should be alright, shouldn't he?

"He--" Jack hesitates. "He isn't--he can't--I--"

"What? What is it?"

Joe's never heard his mother so worked up before. He upset her. This is his fault. He closes his eyes again.

"He isn't talking yet," Jack says, his voice low. But Joe still hears. His ears work just fine.

"About--"

"No, at all."

"What?"

"He can. They ran all the tests. He just--isn't."

Marilyn doesn't respond right away. Then, Joe hears her shaky breath. "What did that monster do to my Joey?"

"I don't know," Jack says.

But Jack knows some things. He experienced his own version of hell, after all. And there were some things the doctors didn't need Joe to tell them, and they told Jack. They had to. But Joe doesn't want Jack to know the rest. Joe doesn't want anyone to know. He won't tell. He can't.

"Can I see him?" Marilyn asks.

"You don't have to ask, Mama."

No one has to ask when it comes to Joe. Or maybe they do. But Ivan didn't have to ask, and for a while, it was only Ivan that mattered. Jack tells him that the only thing matters now is that he gets better, but Joe doesn't know what better looks like. Not from this side of things. He doesn't know how to fix himself.

Marilyn's soft powdery scent fills the room, but Joe doesn't turn to look at her. He isn't supposed to. He's supposed to wait. Ivan liked the anticipation.

"Joey-Bear?"

Tears well in Joe's eyes, and he lets them fall. That, he is allowed to do.

"Honey, are you asleep?" Marilyn asks.

She must know he can't answer. That Joe's words are for himself. They're all he has left.

But that isn't true, is it? He's home. He is. Ivan can't take anything else from him. Jack says so.

Joe just has a hard time believing it.

Marilyn sinks to her knees next to the bed, her face coming into a kind of focus on the other side of Joe's tears.

"Oh, Bear," Marilyn murmurs. She starts to reach for him, and then stops, letting her hand hover in midair.

Joe blinks at her. He nods.

Marilyn's thumb finds his cheek, and she wipes his tears away with the same tenderness she used to when he was little and woke from a nightmare. What happened with Ivan--it was its own nightmare, and Joe still isn't sure that he's awake.

"We missed you so much," Marilyn breathes.

Her hand slips over his temple and into his hair, brushing it away from his face. Joe lets his eyes close again.

"My brave boy. My Joey," she murmurs. "I'm so sorry, baby. And I'm so glad you're home."

Joe nods again, tears seeping out from under his eyelids. Marilyn's fingers card through his hair so gently that it almost makes him ache. No one has touched him this way in so long. Jack's been very careful so far, and Joe understands. He shouldn't want to be touched. It doesn't make any sense. He shouldn't. He should flinch and quiver, but he doesn't. Jack is not Ivan. Mama is not Ivan. They love him, really love him. Their touch is a balm, not a weapon.

I love you, Joe thinks. I love you, and I'm sorry. He sighs and leans into his mother's touch.

"I love you too, Bear," Marilyn whispers.

Of course she knows what his heart is saying. Mama always does.

“Fuck, Joe.” 

Ivan’s rhythm stutters, and Joe swallows bile. It’s almost over. This time is almost over. For some fucking reason, he thinks of the bumper sticker his mother slapped on the back of their car when he was a kid. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. 

He wonders if his mother made it to the house yet. If she’s with Jack. He hopes they’re together. That they’ll help each other. That they’ll forgive him. But this–this wasn’t a choice. He couldn’t let this happen to Jack. Not again. 

But already, Joe isn’t sure that he can handle this. His shame burns white hot in his throat. He should be braver. Stronger. 

He is neither brave nor strong. He is stupid. This was colossally stupid, and now, it can never be undone. Even if, somehow, he gets to go home again, he’ll never escape this. Not all the way. 

Ivan slams into him one more time, and if he hears Joe’s choked scream, it doesn’t seem to bother him. He collapses over Joe’s naked back, and Joe feels the press of lips against his spine. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Ivan murmurs, voice rough and husky like a lover’s. 

Like that wasn’t a brutal assault. Like Joe isn’t chained to his fucking bed. 

Ivan guides Joe’s knees out from underneath him until he is flat against the mattress. Joe can smell the iron tang of his own blood, feel Ivan seeping from inside of him. The tee-shirt is torn from his face, and he lays his cheek against the sheets and keeps his eyes squeezed shut. He won’t let Ivan have his tears. Not yet. 

Ivan rubs gentle circles across Joe’s back. “You look beautiful this way, you know?”

Joe doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to look beautiful. Not for Ivan. 

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Ivan’s hand slips lower, glancing over the curves of Joe’s ass and dipping between his soiled thighs. Joe whimpers and presses his forehead to the mattress. Ivan’s fingers knead down the back of his legs. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart. I just wanted to make sure you were ready. And, fuck–you were.” 

He wasn’t. How could anyone be ready for that? 

Ivan takes Joe’s foot in his hand and massages his arch. Joe doesn’t have the strength to pull away, but his muscles tense from ankle to knee. Ivan’s grip tightens. 

“Relax, baby,” he snaps. “If you didn’t have a good time, we can just–” 

“No,” Joe rasps. “Please. I can’t–” 

“You can. You just did.” 

I didn’t want to, Joe thinks. He rubs his face against the sheets, and he can’t keep the tears at bay anymore; the salt tracks burn his cheeks. 

“But don’t worry, Joe. Joey.” Teeth scrape against Joe’s Achilles tendon.  “I’ll give you some time. I just wanted to welcome you home.”

Home. The word wraps around Joe’s heart like one of Ivan’s leather cuffs. This isn’t–it can’t be home. Home is Sunday mornings in bed with the Times, and Carl’s fur on every conceivable surface, and Jack sniping at him for leaving his dishes in the sink. It’s the walk to the ocean, and how the lamplight in winter makes the living room feel like their own private burrow, and the way that Joe wraps his arms around Jack’s waist when he’s doing the fucking dishes that Joe left in the sink. It’s skin and warmth and gentle rhythm. 

Home is Jack. And Jack is not here. It’s a bitter victory. 

Joe’s arms twitch to wrap around himself, to feel anything other than Ivan, but they are still fastened to the headboard. 

“What’s wrong, huh?” Ivan asks, notching his naked body around Joe’s. His hand reaches to card through Joe’s hair, and Joe grinds his face harder into the sheets. “Sweetheart, don’t be afraid. Not of me.” 

“Why the fuck not?” 

The words are out before Joe realizes he’s said them. He didn’t mean to, but this–this is fucking insane. He’s not Ivan’s sweetheart. This isn’t home. This–this can’t be his life. 

But it is. It’s what he agreed to. He signed Ivan’s papers, and he read every one of them; he knows what he is now, what he signed up for. But the contract doesn’t demand Joe’s comfort or happiness. Only his compliance. 

Joe hopes that the sheets absorb the sound of his words, but Ivan’s fingers knuckle into Joe’s sweat-drenched hair. 

“What did you say, baby?” Ivan purrs, and Joe’s skin prickles. 

“Nothing. I–I didn’t say–I-I-I–” 

Ivan yanks Joe’s head backward. “Don’t think I don’t see those tears, Joe. I know what you’re thinking. And I’m telling you now, it’s pointless. Resistance, fear, any of it. You’re mine now.” 

“No,” Joe moans. “I–” 

Another sharp tug rips him back. “Yes.” Ivan bucks his hips against Joe’s side. “It could have been easier. I might not even have had to hurt your little Jackie the way that I did if you’d just realized what you could have had when I offered it to you.”

Joe’s chest feels like someone’s ripping it open, stitch by bloody stitch. That Jack suffered because of him–he can’t–he can’t–

“But you–you didn’t–”

“You just didn’t notice,” Ivan murmurs. He lets Joe’s head go and presses his mouth, hot and wet, to Joe’s shoulder. “You never noticed me.”

Of course Joe noticed him. Everyone noticed Ivan. Maybe not in the way that Ivan would have liked, but it wasn’t like he was a warm and fuzzy guy. His pediatrics rotation had been a nightmare, and there were plenty of whispered concerns about his focus on psychiatry. He was always so intense. No one was sure what to make of him. And so maybe he wasn’t invited to every party and maybe no one wanted to grab a beer with him. 

But Joe never would have thought that Ivan felt this way about him–or that Ivan would do something like this. He’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake. Do no harm, all that shit. And this–

“Ivan, I–” 

Teeth sink into his skin, and they are not playful or soft. “What did I tell you about that, baby?” 

“I don’t–”

“Sir,” Ivan says. Joe shakes his head against the sheets, and the teeth return, this time accompanied by the hot seal of Ivan’s lips around the bite. “Say it, Joe.” 

“Sir,” Joe whispers, fighting the revulsion that quails in his gut. His skin feels like it’s on fire. He needs Ivan to let go, to move away. But he won’t. Ivan doesn’t care what Joe needs. That much is crystal fucking clear. 

“Good. I’m sorry it has to be this way, but I think it’s better if you understand your place from the get-go.” 

As though Joe could possibly be confused. He feels himself start to tremble in his bonds. He tries to shift, to ease the tension, but it only slots Ivan closer against him. And then Ivan’s hand is in Joe’s hair again, gentle this time.

“This is only the beginning, Joe. You’ll get used to it, I promise.” 

Joe opens his mouth to argue, but all that comes out is a ragged sob. 

“It’s okay, baby. I know.” A soft kiss finds its way to Joe’s cheek. “I know.” 

Ivan reaches up, and Joe’s wrists are released from the headboard. His shoulders ache, and he can’t feel his hands, but it’s some kind of relief; he’ll take it. He’ll take anything he can get. He draws his hands underneath his chest, rocking himself from side to side. He doesn’t mean to, but all the same, he can’t stop it. 

He wants Jack. He wants to go home. But what he wants doesn’t matter anymore. Because he wanted this. 

“You’ll have everything you need,” Ivan is saying. Joe’s breath rushes out when Ivan’s body slides away from his. Ivan’s fingers pluck at the ankle restraints. “I’ll take good care of you. You’ll see.” 

Joe curls himself into a ball, ignoring the way his muscles scream in protest. There is not a part of him that feels the way it did when he left the house this morning. There is not a part of him that will feel normal ever again. 

He should know how to stop this. Not Ivan; he knows he can’t stop that. But as he wraps his shaking arms around himself, he can feel the knot of pain and panic gnarl in the rungs of his ribs. These feelings–they’ll replace everything he used to feel. They’ll tangle inside of him until they can’t be undone. 

Joe knows that. He’s spent years helping his clients dig into their own wounds, helping them ease the slivers of their memories to the surface. It’s painful. It can’t be anything but. When they finally talk about the things they’ve never admitted to anyone else, when Joe can get through to them, there’s relief–but it isn’t complete. It can’t be. It gets better, he tells them. But what no one says is that it does not go away. Not entirely. He knows that well after living with Jack. 

Jack is beautiful and brilliant and kind–and damaged. It’s Joe’s job–no, not his job, his privilege– to remind Jack of his value, that the things that happened to him are not his fault, that he is loved. 

There are nights when Jack talks in his sleep, pleading with someone who isn’t there to stop. Please. Don’t. It guts Joe every time. If he can get Jack to wake, he’ll hold him and work to ground him. Open your eyes. Tell me what you see, Jackie. Five things. Good. Good. 

Joe can’t ground himself. He can’t open his eyes. He doesn’t want to hear, smell, taste, feel. He doesn’t want any of this. He was stupid to think he was strong enough to make this work. 

Jack is strong; Joe is not. 

Ivan’s hands pry Joe’s body away from itself, and Joe doesn’t recognize the strangled sounds coming from his own mouth. Ivan shifts him onto his back, and when his ass hits the sheets, he whimpers. 

“Why?” Joe manages. 

“Why?” Ivan’s blonde eyebrows inch up to his hairline. “Because I can. Because I want to. I want you.” 

“But WRU–” 

“--doesn’t matter,” Ivan says without hesitation. “You’ve signed yourself over, haven’t you? Whether you’re a successful trainee doesn’t ultimately matter. I’ll purchase your contract. Save you from the Drip.” 

Honestly, Joe would rather have the fucking Drip. He shakes his head. 

“They’ll want–” 

“Oh, I’m sure I can find another sap to fill the position if they get testy. Jackie wasn’t the only one who applied to be my assistant, you know. He was just the only one I wanted.” He drops his head and licks at Joe’s lips. “Because of you.” 

Joe squeezes his eyes shut again. It doesn’t take a lot of guesswork to figure out what happened to Jack while he was here. Joe had promised him he was safe. That it would never happen to him again. And it happened anyway, because of Joe. And if Ivan takes someone else–

Jesus, maybe Joe deserves this. 

“I’ll get you cleaned up, Joey,” Ivan shifts Joe into his arms, cradling him like a child. Joe squirms, and Ivan holds him tighter. Too close. He brushes Joe’s hair away from his forehead. “And then I’ll let you rest. How does that sound?”

Joe doesn’t answer. He can’t. He doesn’t suppose it matters. 

“We’ll start slow, baby,” Ivan murmurs, like they haven’t already started. Like Joe’s world isn’t spinning out of orbit. “Eventually, you’ll have full run of the place, but I don’t think you’re ready for that yet. It’s too soon. So, you’ll stay here in the bedroom for now. What is it they say? Snug as a bug in a rug?” 

He cinches his arms too tightly around Joe’s waist and then releases him; Ivan’s skin still clings to Joe’s, both of them sticky with sweat. Ivan rolls him back onto the bed, and Joe groans when his body drops. Everything hurts. He tries not to think about the fact that it will always hurt. 

Ivan leaves him and disappears into the en suite. Joe doesn’t move. Distantly, he knows he should try to run, but he knows better than to think his body could get him very much farther than the foyer before it collapses. And he can’t risk Ivan changing his mind. He has to keep Jack safe. 

So, he lies there, and he doesn’t run. He doesn’t move when Ivan returns with rubbing alcohol and a warm white cloth. He doesn’t cry, not really, when Ivan cleans him up, digging around inside of him with little regard for the way that Joe has come apart. 

Joe cannot fight or flee, so he freezes. 

He’s barely conscious when Ivan tethers something to the cuff on his right ankle. 

“I cut this chain just for you, sweetheart. While Jackie and I were waiting,” Ivan murmurs. “Well, in between other things.” 

Joe should feel something–rage, maybe–but he doesn’t; or if he does, it’s buried deep inside, with the rest of him. There’s a gentle tug, and his foot slides off the bed with a metallic clank. 

“It’s anchored in the en suite, so it’s long enough that you can use the facilities if you need to, but not so long that you can entertain any silly ideas.” 

Ivan leans down and presses his lips to Joe’s. Joe stays still as a corpse. Ivan slaps his cheek, light and playful. 

“Look alive, Joe,” Ivan drawls. “This will all be easier if you just give it a little effort. It’s not like you have a choice.” He smiles, and Joe’s skin crawls. “Once more now, with feeling.” 

Ivan kisses Joe again, harder this time. Joe should fight or try to turn his head; he does neither. He closes his eyes. Ivan’s breath is warm on his face. 

“I see,” Ivan says. Joe feels him draw away. “It’s still fresh, isn’t it? You’re still thinking of our Jackie.” 

Don’t, Joe should say. He isn’t ours. He isn’t mine. He belongs to himself. 

But Joe doesn’t say anything. He lies there, and he tries to draw breath through a throat that is closing in, and he realizes that he doesn’t know who he belongs to. 

“I’ll give you some time,” Ivan says, a softness in his voice that coaxes fresh tears to Joe’s eyes. He drops an easy kiss to Joe’s forehead. “You rest, Joey. We’ll pick this up later.” 

He leaves Joe then, gentle steps padding to the bedroom door. He snaps out the overhead light and leans for a moment on the whitewashed door frame, smiling at Joe. 

“It will get better, Joe. You’ll see.” 

The door closes, and Joe barely hears the click of the key in the lock. 

It’s more than Joe’s little whore deserves, quite frankly. But Ivan Peters is a man of his word. 

Seligman’s car rumbles to life in the driveway, and Joe crumples forward, pressing his forehead against Ivan’s hardwood floor. The sudden movement shifts the plug in his bottom, and he lets go a rough sob. 

“Stop that, Joe,” Ivan snaps. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.” 

Joe doesn’t raise his head. His fingers scrabble desperately against the woodwork, like he’s searching for something to keep him from falling further than he already has. 

“You didn’t even let me say goodbye.” 

Ivan sighs. “Let me ask you, Joe: what is it that makes Jack so special? Because I’ve sampled what he has to offer, and I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

It isn’t strictly true. There were benefits to using a toy that had already been trained. It wasn’t that hard to help him remember his place. Jack understood what he was there for. 

Joe does not. But he’ll learn. Ivan will make sure of it. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Joe spits, begrudgingly raising his head. He winces at the adjustment. 

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that.” Ivan catches Joe’s chin in a vice-tight grip. “He was alright, I suppose. But nothing like you. You’re special. You’ve always been, haven’t you?” He leans down and covers Joe’s lips with his own, sliding his tongue over Joe’s tight pout. He leans close to Joe’s ear. “I gave him up so I could have you. You’re the real prize.” 

He keeps a hold of Joe’s chin and dips his tongue into the pink shell of Joe’s ear. He feels Joe’s head try to shake in his grip, but Joe can’t break away.

“Please, don’t.” Joe’s eyes squeeze shut.  

Ivan pulls Joe to his feet, and the other man groans as the plug burrows deeper, fighting against his body’s natural inclination. 

“Oh, Joe. Joey.” Ivan kisses him again and brushes his dark curls away from his forehead. “You’ll have to get used to this, won’t you? We’ve got all the time in the world, and I intend to use it.” 

Joe’s eyes pop open. Ivan’s never seen them this close before. They are gorgeous. A soft green with flecks of brown. And those eyes are his now. Only his. 

“But I–I thought–” 

Joe can’t finish his sentence. Ivan tucks a gentle hand around the back of his neck; he feels Joe’s skin pimple with gooseflesh beneath his palm. 

“What did you think, sweetheart?” Ivan asks.

“I thought you were going to-to-to sell me.” 

“My agreement stipulates that I have first rights to my acquisition. I might have sold darling Jack–but I would never sell you, baby. I’ve waited too long for you to even think of getting rid of you.” He tucks Joe’s earlobe between his lips, tugging with his teeth, and whispers through them, “You’re mine.”

Ivan feels it the moment Joe’s knees go weak, and he braces Joe before he can fall.  

Joe’s eyes are blown wide, more pupil than iris. “I don’t–” 

“You’re it, Joe,” Ivan murmurs, almost shy now. “I’ve wanted you since med school. But you wouldn’t even look at me.” 

Or when Joe did look at him, it was with some mix of pity and contempt. There’s neither in those beautiful green eyes now. Joe’s face twists for a moment. Confusion. And fear. 

Fear is an excellent place to start. 

“Ivan–”

Joe tries to pull back, but Ivan shoves him up against the foyer wall, tucking his hand tight around Joe’s throat. Joe sputters and chokes, and his head knocks hard on the wall behind him. 

“Sir!” Ivan hisses. Then, he relaxes his grip just a little and drags his tongue across the underside of Joe’s jaw. “I want you to call me ‘Sir.’” Joe is shaking now, but Ivan doesn’t care. He tightens his hold again. “Say it, baby.” 

Joe’s cheeks are flushed, his voice choked. “Sir. Sir!” 

Ivan releases him, and Joe slides again to the floor, whimpering when his ass makes contact. He presses his arms back against the wall, like a cornered animal. Ivan only smiles and leans down to smooth Joe’s hair. 

“See, I knew you’d be good at this. That you’d be good for me.” 

Joe looks like he might be sick. He shakes his head, and his eyes fill with fresh tears. “I won’t–”

“You will. For Jackie, huh?” Ivan toes between Joe’s legs, nudging at his ass.

Joe’s throat cords in pain. “Don’t–don’t talk about him.” 

Ivan digs the toe of his shoe in deeper, and Joe actually screams, the sound ripping the house’s quiet in two. 

“Oh, baby,” Ivan coos. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You’ve already shown me that you don’t know how to take care of yourself. I’ll take care of everything.” 

“Please,” Joe rasps. He can’t shift away from Ivan’s foot; there’s nowhere he can go. Every twitch and wriggle must hurt him tremendously. He deserves that. It will help him learn. He’s crying in earnest now, and it’s beautiful. “I don’t want this. I–” 

“You don’t know what you want,” Ivan says gently. He slips his foot backward and squats down in front of Joe. “You’ve never known, have you?” 

“I–” 

Joe winces as Ivan runs gentle fingertips across his cheek. 

“I’m going to show you, Joey. All the things you’ve been missing. How good it can be.” Ivan kisses Joe then, slipping his tongue between Joe’s lips and pressing into him. Joe groans beneath him, and Ivan smiles against his lips. He sets a whisper soft kiss at the corner of Joe’s mouth and pulls back. “Let me help you up, Joey. We’ll take this to the bedroom.” 

Joe freezes. “What?” 

Ivan tucks his hands beneath Joe’s elbows and hauls him to his feet. He hears the panicked shift of Joe’s breath, can see his sinew tighten and tense beneath the fabric of his tee-shirt. 

He won’t be wearing it much longer. 

“I’m not going to treat you like I did your sweet Jackie,” Ivan purrs. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to do that.” 

He presses flush against Joe so that he can feel his erection. Joe hisses like he’s been burned. He shakes his head, eyes on the basement stairs. 

“I don’t–” 

“I kept your little whore in the basement. Locked him in a crate like a dog. Because that’s what he is. Even with all that you’ve done to keep him safe, that’s all he’ll ever be.” Joe practically growls, but Ivan shoves him back against the wall, jarring the plug and eliciting a broken whimper. He slides his hand to the small of Joe’s back, pressing him forward again. “But you? You’re too good for that. I want you to be mine.” 

He nuzzles against Joe’s throat and then takes the thin skin between his front teeth, sucking down on his pulse point. Joe’s head tips back, and Ivan tastes salt. 

“It’s okay, baby. Just come on now,” Ivan murmurs. He threads his fingers through Joe’s and leads him out of the foyer and up the stairs. Joe doesn’t fight him. How can he? 

When they reach the bedroom, Ivan doesn’t waste any time. He closes the door behind him and shoves Joe onto the bed. He cries out, but it doesn’t matter. It won’t be the last time Joe screams. Not today. Not for a very long time. 

Joe rolls onto his stomach, trying to relieve the pressure inside. He tents his knees against the comforter, and Ivan takes the opportunity to reach beneath him and open his fly. He starts to slide Joe’s pants away from his hips, taking his boxer-briefs with them. He lets them tangle around Joe’s ankles, effectively hobbling him. 

“No, no, please–” Joe begs. His body twists against the bed, and there is a twitch low in Ivan’s belly. 

This is what he wants. What he’s always wanted. 

Ivan digs his nails into Joe’s bare ass, watching as the white flesh stripes red beneath his touch. Streaks of red–some bright and still damp to the touch, and others, cracked and rusting–litter the skin of Joe’s thighs. The silver tip of the plug swells from between his cheeks. Ivan crooks his finger in its loop and tugs; Joe wails. 

“Oh, Joey. You poor thing. I’ll have to remove our insurance policy, won’t I?” 

He reaches into his pocket for the key, and Joe’s hands scrabble uselessly at the sheets. 

“Please don’t do this.” 

“Oh, baby.” Ivan leans down to press a firm kiss to Joe’s tailbone. He runs the key over Joe’s skin and down toward his crack. “Don’t be scared. I’m sure you don’t want me to leave that in there.”

“No, but I–please. Please.”

Joe grinds his forehead against the bed, and Ivan unlocks the plug. He turns the crank, and he can feel the petals begin to retract. Joe’s muscles relax the slightest bit. 

“See, isn’t that better?” Ivan purrs. He works the plug out, slowly, and Joe whimpers. “It was just there to get you ready, Joey.” He teases a fingertip into Joe’s abused passage, and Joe lets out a gulping sob. 

“Please! I can’t–I–” 

Ivan turns Joe roughly onto his back; Joe’s face is a mess, his eyes wide with fear. Ivan smiles down at him, relishing the way Joe squirms when he realizes he’s on display. 

“Oh, I see. But isn’t this what you agreed to? To keep little Jackie safe?” 

Joe swallows, hard. “Yes.” He closes his eyes, and tears press out from beneath his long lashes. 

“And you understand that if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll have to have someone retrieve him, don’t you?” 

Ivan pulls at Joe’s tee-shirt, sliding the fabric up and over his head until Joe’s wrists are caught above his head, tangled in the soft cotton. He runs a casual finger between Joe’s pectorals, letting it trail downward until it snags in the dark hair beneath Joe’s navel. Joe flinches. 

“Perhaps that’s what you want,” Ivan suggests. “For me to bring Jackie back, and he’ll be our little pet. You’d get to use him that way–I know he didn’t let you do that before.” 

Joe’s eyes are wide as saucers. “We had a deal.” 

“One that you don’t seem intent on upholding,” Ivan sneers. 

“I–I would never do that to him.” 

Ivan laughs. He settles himself on the bed, bracketing his knees along Joe’s hips. He leans himself over until he can pin Joe’s cotton-wrapped wrists in one hand. He feels the shift of the leather cuffs just beneath. 

“That’s the difference between you and me, Joe. I know how to hold on to what I love.”

“You don’t–you don’t love me,” Joe protests weakly. He turns his head away from Ivan’s gaze. 

“I do.” Ivan grinds his hips down against Joe’s exposed body. “I always have.” 

“If–” Joe begins, but he’s cut off by his own breath, gulping like he’s desperate for air. “If-if-if you loved me, you wouldn’t want to hurt me.”  

“The way that you didn’t want little Jackie to hurt?” Ivan taunts him. Joe’s eyes squeeze shut again. “You babied him. And look where it got him.” 

Look where it got you, Ivan thinks. But he doesn’t say it. He wants Joe to accept his place here, to understand that he’s fortunate to have made such a deal. 

“I protected him,” Joe says softly.

“Did you?”

“I–I tried.” 

“And you failed, didn’t you? Until I gave you an out.” 

Joe’s face looks just the way it did after their little rendezvous in the basement–ashamed, broken. “No! No–I–” 

“I know you’re not used to failing, Joe.” Ivan tilts Joe’s chin back to look at him. “But it’s alright now. It’s better this way, isn’t it? Jack is free, and you’re where you belong.” 

“He is,” Joe murmurs, and Ivan knows he’s talking to himself. “He is. He’s free.” 

“And you’re mine,” Ivan says huskily. “Now, just relax, Joey. It will make what comes next a bit easier.” 

Joe tries to wriggle free, but Ivan only presses harder on his pinned wrists. “Please–” 

“You’ve already tasted me, Joey. I want a taste of you. Of what little Jackie had. Of what’s mine from now on.” 

He dismounts, rolling Joe onto his stomach again. This time, he slides Joe’s trembling body so that it fits lengthwise on the bed, yanking his wrists toward the headboard. 

“Please!” Joe cries again. “Not yet. I can’t–I can’t–” 

“Oh, baby. Remember. It doesn’t matter what you want. I know what’s best for you now.”

Joe thrashes against him, and Ivan straddles his back, settling himself right over Joe’s ribs; Joe’s legs flail uselessly beneath him. He tugs Joe’s tee-shirt free and then wraps the fabric tight around Joe’s head, shoving a wad of the fabric into his mouth. Joe shrieks, but the sound is strangled, blessedly muffled. Ivan forces Joe’s face down to the comforter, a strong hand on the back of his head. 

“I want you to focus on what you can feel, baby. I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’m doing this for you. To welcome you home.”  

Joe moans beneath the cotton as Ivan forces his arms up above his head. He secures each wrist to the headboard, spread wide so that the naked muscles in Joe’s back are pulled gorgeously taut. Ivan lets his hands slide down Joe’s body. It’s all his now. 

“These will hold you right where I want you,” Ivan explains. He turns to fix Joe’s ankles to the footboard, leaving a little bit more slack. He gently manipulates Joe’s legs, bending them at the knees and guiding them forward until Joe’s ass is in the air. The restraints pull tight behind him. “Where I can make you feel good.”

Joe is shaking, prostrate on the mattress. He tugs at his wrists, still shrieking out garbled protests. It doesn’t matter. Ivan has him right where he wants him. He rolls away, discarding his own clothes. 

Joe stills when he feels Ivan’s naked body against his own. Ivan’s chest covers his back. Ivan’s hands bite into his hips. Ivan’s cock presses at his entrance. He’s already been prepared, after all. 

“There, sweetheart. God, don’t you look beautiful this way? Just how I thought you would.” 

When Ivan lets himself move, Joe’s anguished scream fills the bedroom. Ivan doesn’t mind. He ruts hard into Joe’s injured body, enjoying every cry. Joe will learn his place. They have all the time in the world.