#collared and chained

Emory shuffled backward on the cold stone floors, his eyes at once locked on Zane’s but skirting around the periphery to catch sight of the room he was now trapped in. Like he wanted to know where he’d been taken but he didn’t want to stop watching Zane as if he were a predator ready to strike.

Perhaps that was true.

“Where am I?” Emory asked.

He patted down his chest and then hips, searching for a weapon. They’d all been removed from him before entering, as well as the outermost of his clothes, leaving him with just his shirt and slacks. If Zane was feeling merciful, he might give the poor thing some slippers.

But he was rarely in that kind of mood.

“The dungeon,” Zane replied casually. “Where else?”

Emory swallowed nervously and settled his hands on his knees. Zane saw them starting to shake even as Emory was clearly willing them not to. His smile grew wider.

“You should be thanking me, really. I let you sleep after that whole…” he waved a hand in the air in a noncommittal gesture. “…ordeal. You seemed tired.”

While Zane spoke, Emory had discovered the chain around his ankle and began tugging on it to no avail. He looked idiotic, sitting there and weakly pulling on a thick metal chain as if that was going to do anything at all, but then again, they always tried something at the start. Zane was used to it by now. He was, admittedly, rather bored with the usual methods as of late and wanted to try some new concepts on this newest acquisition.

Emory’s head snapped up the moment he realized he wasn’t going to escape merely by brute strength of destroying a chain with bare hands.

“Let me go!” he shouted, fire in his eyes.

Zane scoffed. “Not on your life.”

Emory growled and lunged, causing Zane to stand up from where he knelt and jump back toward the door. Emory’s chain pulled taut and rattled, catching him from going any further. He fell forward onto the stone floor with a loud slap, his jaw taking a good bit of the impact. He was still after that, shutting his eyes tight and not making a sound.

Zane laughed, low and breathy. The thing could hurt himself just fine without Zane’s involvement, so this was going to be very fun indeed.

He leaned back against the door, waiting for Emory to collect himself. When he did, he sat up and rubbed his chin.

“What do you want from me? Money? Power?” he asked.

Zane peeled away from the wall and took a step forward. “Information.”

Emory’s eyes flicked up to Zane’s own, seen through mussed bangs. “On what?”

Zane rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly. “I’m sure you know.”

There’s no way he wouldn’t. Zane had been ordered to get information from Emory, and until that knowledge came to light, there was no way the captive was getting out of here. Well, not that he was, but he’d have a much easier time here if he did.

But where was the fun in that?

Zane dug into his satchel and removed a metal collar and leash. He held it up while giving Emory the most shit-eating grin, just to admire the shocked reaction to the thing. That expression quickly morphed into anger and reticence, but it wasn’t like Emory had any choice in the matter.

“Look what I got,” Zane said.

Emory’s hands clenched into fists. “You are not putting that on me,” he grumbled.

“Oh, but I am.”

Emory backed away while still glaring fiercely at Zane from his position down on the floor. He could have stood if he liked, given the chain allowed him the freedom of movement, but Zane supposed he was too terrified to think of that as an option. Hm.

“Is this because you want me to betray my family’s secrets?” Emory asked, an edge to his voice. “Because I won’t.”

Zane shook his head slowly, taking methodical steps forward in time with the movement. “No, no, it isn’t that. This,” he wiggled the leash in the air. “Is because His Majesty wants to make a show out of you.”

That put a bit of anxiety into the boy, who now looked downright queasy at the mention of the enemy king. He gulped, drawing back, but hit the wall. His breath hitched, a quick rise and fall of his chest. His motions were so jerky and tense, while Zane was unbothered. Cool. Calculated. As to be expected of the king’s personal dungeon torturer.

He stood with his toes just before Emory’s knees. Looking down on him from above, he could see the expressions warring on his face between wanting to look tough and hide his fear but being unable to stomach the possibilities of what was to come. And Zane hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet.

“Now, come with me. Let’s go for a walk, shall we? I’m sure you’re just dying to get out of here.”

—

The groan comes again, longer and with more of a growl underneath. “Fuck.”

Iruka smiles, and steps confidently into the dark of the cell. “Kakashi—!”

“You shouldn’t be here, Iruka.”

“Neither should you. Are you sealed, too? Come closer, so I can check in on it. I’ll see what I can do.”

“No, Iruka, please,” and finally Iruka recognizes the timbre of Kakashi’s voice and stops. His eyes have adjusted enough to the lack of light that he’s able to see the faint outline of the other man, knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. There’s a thick steel collar on his neck, and a short chain that leads from it to a loop on the wall. Both have seal scripts around them, tiny characters which Iruka can barely make out. The collar is fraught with more and more seals, like their captors kept adding to it as Kakashi found new ways to break through.

Kakashi trembles. Iruka falls to his knees and crawls closer. “Kakashi—”

“Don’t come any closer.”

Oh, Iruka knows that voice. That wrecked voice, the one that’s promised him such wonderful times in the past, as long as he wanted to play along. Iruka stops and sits back on his heels.

“They drugged me before they brought you in here,” Kakashi says. “I can’t be the one to hurt you, Iruka. You understand that, right?”

Iruka shakes his head. “You could never hurt me, love,” he whispers.

Kakashi groans again. “Why did you come?”

“To bring you home. There are others, I have a team waiting—a medic, a tracker, Gai. Please, I—”

“Gai let you get yourself captured?” Kakashi snarled, “If I make it out of here I’m gonna—”

“I had to convince him,” Iruka cuts him off, as he had just been cut off. “Please, love, just come closer and let me look at the seal on your collar. If I can get you out, then—”

“The chains and seals on this collar are the only things keeping me from attacking you right now. Don’t you dare get rid of them.”

Iruka is interrupted from responding by a viewing window to his left opening. There are still bars across it, and seals to keep the bars sturdy and intact. Three sets of eyes peer in through the window; one of their captors seems to grin.

“One more minute, I believe. Then, turn him loose.”

Another says, “Yes, let us all see what’s become of Konohagakure’s great Copy Nin.”

The last, the third, just giggles.

Iruka can do nothing but look on in horror as Kakashi continues to groan, begins to writhe and heave deep breaths. He finally looks up at Iruka; his mask is down, his face flushed and his eye is blown wide and black.

“I’m not—I can’t—Iruka, you smell divine.”

It’s Iruka’s turn to tremble.

He closes his eyes and takes deep, calming breaths. “I love you, Kakashi,” he murmurs.

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re not yourself. Please, please, fight this,” he sniffs, trying not to cry. Gods, he can’t cry right now; Kakashi is in just as much, if not worse pain than he will be.

“I can’t. I’ve tried. It’s. It’s. Ah, Fuck, Iruka you have to fight back—”

“It’ll only hurt more,” Iruka admits. “Been there, done that. Just… um.”

“Ask. Quickly. Before I lose myself.”

“Let me blow you first,” Iruka’s eyes are traitors, letting tears slip. “I won’t take it dry.”

The chain is loosened; both he and Kakashi can hear the slack as it’s given. Kakashi nods, once, and then Iruka untucks his legs, opens his hips, and smiles sadly at Kakashi. He tips his head to one side and closes his eyes.

Kakashi is suddenly there, hands everywhere and hips between his legs and mouthing at his neck. Iruka can picture the two of them at home, Kakashi laving attention on his body with kisses and touch, a soft mattress at his back instead of a stone floor. In his mind, they could just be making love in this cell instead of at home.

If only Kakashi would stop talking.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, gods you smell perfect, fuck this drug, I just. I want. I want you so much and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Iruka murmurs. And it’s not, it’s nowhere near okay, but Kakashi’s been drugged and he needs this. And this? This is something Iruka can provide; just as proficiently as he provides his fūinjutsu.

Through the haze of the drug, Kakashi does remember to let Iruka get his dick wet before he tries fucking him. It’s hard on Iruka, to lay on his back and let Kakashi fuck his throat because Kakashi never does this. He always lets Iruka set the pace when he’s sucking Kakashi’s cock. Iruka holds the back of Kakashi’s thighs and focuses on staying present. They can’t both be fucked up during this.

And when Kakashi pulls back and kisses down his body, Iruka hides his tears behind his arms because it feels good but it shouldn’t because Kakashi doesn’t want this and if Kakashi doesn’t want it then Iruka shouldn’t want it but the drug is making Kakashi so… so…

“Oh, fuck.”

Kakashi’s never done this to him before, and it’s wet and dirty and feels amazing and he wants to enjoy it but not while they’re being watched. He wants this without drugs to spur these kinds of feelings, and so he throws a hand down to Kakashi’s hair and pulls his mouth away from his ass and says, “Fuck me, Kakashi.”

He’s still careful. The drug can’t take that away and it’s terrible and wonderful—Kakashi pushes in with tiny, aborted thrusts like he’s fighting against himself and it’s not enough, Iruka’s not wet enough for this, but he kicks out and wraps his leg around Kakashi’s ass and pulls him in anyway.

Stay present, stay present, stay present

It hurts, gods it hurts, Kakashi’s cock splitting him open. But he’s slow, he’s gentle, and he keeps fucking him through the pain. Kakashi doesn’t sob, but Iruka’s neck is wet enough that he knows he’s crying at least a little. He tries to find this even the slightest bit arousing, to maybe pass the time, to try and forget about their captors, but he can’t forget that they’re both being forced here.

Kakashi comes, and it’s a relief; he stills and empties into Iruka, and then collapses onto his chest and hides his face in his neck. He can hear the three voices on the other side of the window discussing the results of their “experiment” and adjustments needed to the drug. Iruka takes the chance to check out the seal on Kakashi’s collar while making it look like he’s just soothing Kakashi by petting his hair.

The most terrifying experience was having to watch these other people be sold ahead of me. But not only that, the many different reactions to such a situation were enough to fill me with dread when coupled with the fact that everyone faced the same fate, no matter what they did to show that last little spark of rebellion continued to burn, only to be snuffed out as carelessly as the people who ran this whole thing.

Lot number 1 had been so stoic. They kept their head and eyes down, they weren’t even muzzled. They didn’t resist when the guard dragged them forwards, just followed them with a sickeningly calm acceptance. It was like they had done this before. There was no fight. They were covered in scars - burns and gashes and slits decorated their bare arms, back and chest like they had been a woodcutter’s new project, detailed with an almost artistic intricacy with tools that were just not meant to be used on skin.

Lot number 2 was dazed. They kept lolling from one side to the other, like they were somewhere else entirely. I remember what Lot 2 was like in that prep room. We were all restrained in some way, but Lot 2 did not stop kicking and shouting. A false bravado, threatening to kill everyone there when he gets loose, and he will not let them anywhere near him. Eventually the beauticians and guards got sick of all of the attitude, and drugged them with something that made them just so placid - so docile. They weren’t fighting anymore, but when the guards suggested that they relax, suggested that they go with them quietly, they didn’t talk back with a snarky remark, they just did it, swaying as they did, barely staying on their feet.

Lot number 3 trembled with fear the whole time. They were so small, so young, they audibly cried out when the guard came for them, the sounds muffled by the red silk wrapped around their face. They tried to squirm out of the guard’s grip, refusing to move, the cries tugging at me to run over and try to help them. I knew that would do no good, none at all. I was just as trapped as the others here.

Lot number 4 seemed to be somewhere else entirely. They weren’t drugged, I think at least, but they seemed so dead. They weren’t like Lot 1, they didn’t have dirty, tattered clothes and battered skin. They were dressed up, like me, and they were muzzled too - I think they have been recently taken too, that’s the only explaination I can think of for why they are dressed like me. They just let themselves go, let themselves be taken. They were silent, in their footsteps and their will, they just went.

Lot number 5 was trying to be strong. They stood tall, they kept their feet firmly in place, they stayed silent. The only sign I got that they were still here with me was the protest they uttered beneath their muzzle as they were dragged away. It left me next in line, and the anicipation was brewing hotter and hotter.

I hated the feel of the garish sequins on the shirt I was wearing. They rubbed against my bound wrists every time I fidgeted, and I could barely do anything to prevent that. The heavy metal cuffs had this awful feeling, like it was sucking the life out of me. It made me feel weak. It made me feel helpless.

The moment that Lot 5 was hauled past me, away from me, was the moment that the other guard pulled me forward my the arm. I didn’t want to go with them. I tried to keep my feet still, but they were so much stronger than me that I lost my footing as I tried to ground my heels to the polished wooden floor. I slipped, landing on my back, crushing my cuffed hands beneath my own weight. My head thumped loudly against the floor, and I closed my eyes as I groaned out the pain. The colours bouncing in my vision behind my closed eyelids was disorienting, and I wasn’t even snapped out of it when I was grabbed by my hair.

“Get the fuck up!” the guard hissed, hoisting me to my feet. I stumbled as they hauled me beyond that curtain. I screwed my eyes shut as the lights shone directly into my eyes, blinding me. I barely had a moment to think before the guard let me go, leaving me blinded and vulnerable.

I couldn’t see. I daren’t open my eyes, the light was still piercing through my eyelids no matter how hard I scrunched them, all I could do was stand blindly, listening to the voices around me and in front of me murmer. Talking about me. What did they see in me? What are they looking for? A cold ball formed in the pit of my stomach as I imagined the things that people who bought other people would do to me.

All I could think of in that moment was Lot 1.

The one who was so blindly obedient, so fiercely stoic to their treatment, that they were trusted not to wear a muzzle. That one who seemed so far gone within themselves that they remained a simple shell - a vessel for these people to mutilate and abuse. They didn’t make a sound as they did what was instructed of them, they just kept their head down and obeyed without another thought.

The gavel banging hard behind me sent a shock coursing through me, right to the core. The room silenced, and the auctioneer behind me spoke through me, straight to the audience, “Lot 6, ladies and gentlemen,” I could hear them direct their voice towards me as I tried to control the rate my breaths were passing through the muzzle, “spin around, slowly. Now,” the muzzle contricted the air, made it difficult to breathe through, forcing me to breath through my nose.

I did as I was instructed, one hesitant step at a time. The voices returned as I did. As I spun around on the spot, I felt the gazes of the audience radiate me. They were judging me, watching me, assessing me. Or was it just the heat of the lights? I could feel them move with around me, moving from the front of me around to the back. I dared to open my eyes as I returned to my forward facing position, and my eyes adjusted to the blinding light. I could barely make out the people there, the lights were there. The only thing separating me from them was the wooden barrier that trapped me here.

The auction hall was much smaller than I had imagined it would be, yet it somehow seemed not big enough to keep the anxiety at bay, everyone seemed too close for comfort despite the space between me and everyone else. Me, and the people who had put me here against my will.

The room was dark with mahogany barriers, with the floor at my feet a sandy colour. The auctioneer behind me, high on his pedestal, was watching me just as much as the others were.

“Kneel.”

The words were so stern that I daren’t do anything but whatever he says. I slowly, carefully, dropped to my knees, keeping my gaze down on the ground, out of sight.

I closed my eyes again as he called for bidders. The numbers kept coming and coming, and the longer it went on, the more the burning dread simmered within me. I did my best to keep my face down, to keep still, to try and block out the sounds as the numbers got bigger and bigger.

I did my best to not let them see that lone tear stream down my cheek.

The sharp call of “sold!” jolted me back to reality with a sickening bump, like I had just fallen from a high platform to the concrete floor and landed on my back. I felt like the wind had been knocked clean out of my lungs. My eyes snapped open, and then I was yanked up to my feet. I felt my knees tremble beneath me, and I fought to stay standing as I was dragged back the way I came, passing the three others behind me, those who are next.

—

The next room was simply a holding room. It didn’t make it any easier to come to terms with what had happened to me. All I could do was stand here in this spot until the person who bought me came to collect their new property. The seconds ticked into minutes, and the minutes ticked into what felt like hours. The dread, the hopelessness, the despair that racked my mind was weighing me down far more than these cuffs ever could.

The voices that appeared outside the door summoned me back, and I stilled my breath as I waited. The person who strolled in with a sickeningly vile smirk plastered over their face was quite pleased with themselves, clearly. They loomed over me, and I have never felt so small in my life, burning my face with their gaze and I could do nothing but look them in the eye as I did so.

“Yes, you’ll be perfect,” they reached out to touch me, to touch my hair, but I leaned backwards, as far away from them as I could get. I felt the hand grab the hair they planned to touch with such force that I shut my eyes and bit through the pain, “a bit of training is required, I see, but no matter. You’ll make a fine gift.”

They snapped their fingers and I watched over their shoulder as someone approached them from behind, clutching what looked like red tape, handing it to the person who released their grip from my hair long enough to unravel some from the loop, brandishing it in front of my eyes.

“Now then, let’s get you wrapped up nicely, shall we?”

—

I was encased in darkness, literally.

I was blind in this box. My new owner had ordered me to get inside the box once they had wrapped me in red ribbon, a continuous stream. I looked like some deformed christmas tree, with a pitiful attempt at decorating the sadness of a dead thing, with a ribbon tied tightly around my face over the top of my muzzle. If I could barely move before, now it was worse, because they had tied my ankles together so tightly that I was barely able to follow the order to get into the box.

I saw the box before I got in. It was barely tall enough for me to kneel in, my head and neck would be forced to stay down when I get in. It wasn’t wide either, it was a small white thing, with a lid that opened like a trinket box, wrapped in more ribbon.

He was not joking, I really was a present for someone.

I gasped as I felt the box be hauled away somewhere, on wheels. I felt that much, I wasn’t being carried, I was on a trolley or something. I could hear distant, echoey voices as I was pushed through… wherever this was. A huge mansion, would be my guess. There was music and what sounded like one hell of a party going on somewhere. The clicky footsteps of my owner was just ahead of me, and I knew we were following them. I shifted beneath my sickening bonds, but somehow it felt worse after shaking a little bit, they dug into my skin and were more merciless than the cuffs binding my hands behind my back.

I heard a door click open somewhere, and we jolted to a stop, before turning around and entering backwards. I heard the sounds of someone straining to lift the box from the trolley or whatever, before dropping me down to the floor with very little care. The strain on my body with how I was knelt down in such a constricting environment was taking its toll, and I wished I could just sit up properly, I had never wished for anything more in my life, because the throbbing in my neck and shoulders was becoming almost unbarable.

Someone hit the box, shuddering the cardboard case that was my temporary prison, and hissed at me to be quiet, or there will be trouble.

I daren’t do more than breathe anymore.

The sound of the door opening and lots of voices was overwhelming, and I clenched my fists as I tried to work out just what was going on. Why are there so many people in here now? I couldn’t risk making another sound and incurring the wrath of my owner, so I tried to stay quiet.

“Happy birthday, old friend,” that jovial laugh came from the one I recognised, the one who bought me. I tried to work out what they were doing, it sounded like they had reached in for a hug with someone, “consider this a token of my esteemed respect for you. I am sure you will make good use of it, old friend.”

There was a small set of enthusiastic applause here, and a response of “thank you! Thank you! You really shouldn’t have!” permeated my ears as I shuddered, thinking of what this person is expecting.

Under normal circumstances, if I were to open a large box and find a person tied up inside, my first instinct would be to free them and then call the police, to try and find out who they are and how they ended up tied up in a box and given as a gift.

But these were no normal circumstances, and the sheer fact that this entire situation existed on such a scale? It made me sick to my stomach, and I had to swallow beneath my gag.

Light flooded the box as the lid was yanked off. I heard a hearty laugh, and yet I did not look up.

“Oh, you know me so well! Did you know I was going to buy another one soon?”

“Well, you always did have a knack for dog training. I just thought you could do with some fresh blood, something else to work on.”

I felt some big, strong arms lift me up out of the box, and I tried to muffle out a surprised noise at this. I tried to stay still, but even this was rewarded by getting dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

“Oh, it’s so adorable!”

“Look at its gorgeous hair, you’ve outdone yourself Hemlock!”

“I love all the ribbon, I admire that touch.”

The cooing voices that echoed from those in the room with me were more frightening than anything else so far.

It. Look at it.

That’s all I was to them. An “it”, not a human person.

Not anymore, anyway.

The people in here were dressed for an event. Fancy, tailor made suits and dinner jackets and a few ladies in evening dresses, they were watching me - they all had champagne flutes filled with fizz, and were laughing at me, at my misfortune.

The one who had picked me up was now crouched in front of me, and I watched as they pulled a small knife from their jacket pocket and unleashed the blade in front of my eyes. I was breathless as I watched it gleam in the light, and I whined as they flashed it under my nose.

“So I guess I should start opening my present…” they ran the blade down the side of my face, gentle but the threat was still more present than ever, “… by cutting it open, right?”

The guests laughed, they agreed, they raised their glasses and cheered.

The knife nicked at my skin as they tore away at the ribbon binding me. I hissed in pain as they made each incision, acting like it was a simple error, and not an intentional act. I knew better, I could tell they were revelling in this. I had to force myself not to make more sounds of pain than I already was, biting down on my own teeth to try and do so.

They nicked away at every piece of ribbon on my body, the red strings that littered the floor around me were mocking me. I was free, and released, but I wasn’t at the same time. I was momentarily grateful to them for that little, tiny, miniscule amount of movement allowed because they had released me from the painfully tight ribbons, allowing me to relax slightly out of my position.

Momentarily grateful to them.

The knife was set aside, the tip painted with my blood, and the hand reached out to touch my hair. I tried to turn away from them, but this was a decision I instantly regretted. That hand, that had been previously gentle and tender, yanked at my roots so hard that I could not help but cry out in pain. They leaned in closer and I could just stare into their eyes. They had suddenly gone so cold, so unfeeling.

“How dare you pull away from me?” they spat, and the sheer malice that dripped from their voice as they spoke sent shivers right through me to the core, “I am your master, and you will show me the respect I deserve!”

I trembled beneath their firey glare, casting my eyes downwards again, hoping they would let go and stop being so rough!

I didn’t stop them as they released my hair and started stroking it, running through my locks. I couldn’t help but quiver at their touch, because it felt so, so wrong, but I had to fight to keep still lest I have to suffer more brutal consequence to such a minor reaction.

Someone else stepped closer, and I didn’t dare look to see who it was, but they handed something to the one knelt in front of me. I knew that, because they stopped stroking me.

“I thought I’d leave the honours to you,” the voice said. The one from the auction, “it is yours now, after all.”

A small, deep chuckle sounded in response to those words, and I dread to imagine what they were talking about. I didn’t have to wonder for long, though. The hand returned, but it didn’t reach for my hair or face this time, it traced its touch along my neck. I felt my breathing shudder as I imagined that hand closing around my throat, forcing my breathing to cease, and I couldn’t help but feel my heart begin to race at the possibility -!

The hand let go for a split second, but before I could properly register what was going on, they had wrapped something around my throat. Panic set in as hands fumbled at the back of my neck, and I realised that they had fitted a collar on me. They also attatched a length of a thin chain to me too. A dog lead, no less.

If I had my hands free, I would have reached up to touch it. The collar was tight, probably more than was necessary, but I knew that was the point. That wasn’t what concerned me, though. There was something in it that was sharply digging into my skin, and I couldn’t quite work out what it was. Was it the buckle keeping it tightly shut at the back of my neck? I couldn’t tell, but it was really, really heavy too.

“There now. Look up, show everyone how gorgeous you look with this on.”

That voice was so falsely calming that it was making me nauseous. I looked up at the people watching this with fascination etched all over their faces. They had little smiles, and I heard them saying things like “aw, look at the little puppy,” which made my cheeks burn red, but I couldn’t look away or anything.

“Shall we play a little game, pet?” the voice to my left asked. I hated how they asked a question, and yet kept the ability to speak from me. I didn’t make a sound, because somewhere in me knew that even if I could answer their question, saying yes would just have them do what they want to do, but saying no would probably result in them still doing whatever they wanted to do to me, but much worse.

I was watching them as they pulled a long, black length of fabric from their pocket. They held it up in front of me for a few seconds, watching me eye it nervously. I knew what it was, and I was proven correct when they covered my eyes with it, trapping me in darkness. They wrapped it around my entire head once, twice, thrice before tying it at the back.

I could see nothing. I could only hear the voices of the guests in the room, that and my own tremulous breaths that were edged with panic.

“Oh, look, it’s trembling,” one of the women pointed out.

“I know, I’m trying to get it used to hearing my voice,” my owner said, I heard them stand up and take a few steps back. I fidgited on the spot, wondering where they had gone now, “come here, pet. Come over here.”

I tried to find where that voice was, and I hesitated before forcing my legs to obey the command issued to me. I heard the small clunk of the chain dragging along the smooth wooden floor. My hands were still tied behind my back, so I was struggling to stay balanced as I crept forwards on my knees. The voices in the room were quiet, and I hoped I was going in the right direction. I was trying to filter through the voices, hoping to hear the one who commanded me, but I didn’t hear them.

A small beep rang in my ear and I felt my body convulse in pain. I was so taken by surprise that I hit the floor and screamed into the muzzle. I jerked and thrashed as the shock coursed through me in a single continuous wave. It kept going, and going, and all I could do was scream because I couldn’t stop it -!

It stopped, after what felt like an eternity. I remained where I lay face down on the floor, breathing deeply into the muzzle, feeling the tears I fought to hold back flood my eyes and soak the silk blindfold. I heard laughter from those watching me, and I twitched when someone touched my back. I audibly reacted to this, my weak attempt at “don’t” forming on my lips but unable to break through the muzzle.

“You were too slow, pet,” they cooed. They soothing voice was contrasted sharply by them roughly grabbing the chain attached to the collar and yanking me back up to my knees. I couldn’t breathe as they pulled and pulled on the chain, yet the firm hand on my shoulder kept me down, “when I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it quicker than that.”

They still had yet to release me, and I tried speaking again, but my cries were weakened by the pressure of the collar being pulled backwards, choking me.

“Do you understand, pet?” they asked, tugging harder still.

I nodded frantically, as much as I could against the trap around my neck. I was shaking, hoping that they would just let go of the chain and let me breathe again, because I couldn’t do it anymore -!

“Good. Let’s try that again, shall we?” they asked, stepping backwards, away from me. I turned my head around, tuning my hearing to find out where they were, “come here, come over here.”

I scrambled around, not caring about taking it slowly and carefully this time, I just didn’t want to get shocked this time, because that was painful, and I don’t want to do that again, not in front of everyone!

I arrived at someone’s feet, collapsing before them, and felt their hand ruffle my hair, making a mess of how well those people had styled it, to make me look my best for my new owner. I didn’t flinch away this time, not when it stopped them shocking me.

“See? There’s a good pet. You’ve learned your lesson quickly, haven’t you?”

I nodded vigorously in response to their praise, and tried to control my short breaths again. They were happy now. I don’t need to be stupid, I can’t be, I don’t want to be shocked again. Once was enough, I just have to keep them happy so that they don’t have to do that again, right?

The demon’s mouth snapped shut, and his screaming stopped like his vocal cords had been severed. But his body continued to convulse like he was lying on a live wire. Azazel could hear themself think. But they couldn’t tear their gaze away from the demon’s body, and how they had hurt it.

“I’m… s-sorry, Ezekiel,” Azazel managed. The tears in their eyes escaped and ran down their cheeks.

Ezekiel tilted his head. “I should have known that this would be… a challenge for you, dear one,” he said gently.

Azazel nodded, grasping at his wrists. “Yes. A challenge. Maybe if we could just… stop, maybe if we could stop—”

“With your past, it is understandable.” He nodded sagely and released them, casting a glance over his shoulder at the demon. “But you must see. This is a demon. What happened to you was an abomination. You are angel, and your mistreatment was an affront against your nature. This creature deserves punishment and death. The two are not the same thing. Not the same thing at all.”

Azazel went motionless as Ezekiel stepped forward. Their back met the wall. They were pinned – not pinned, he wasn’t holding them there, but his gaze was cold and hard and he towered over them and they couldn’t breathe. “This is the war, Azazel,” he murmured. “This is all there has ever been, for as long as angels and demons have existed. There is us, and there is them, and there is what they deserve for their sin. This is what you must learn, love. The work is hard, but you must learn it.”

They looked up at him, frozen in place.

There is us, and there is them.

If I don’t do this, I’ll join the demon in his punishment.

“Do you understand, dear one?” Ezekiel said, cool hands cradling their face once more.

They had never felt so trapped – not even in their mother’s basement, when they had been chained by their wrists and throat. The demon spasming on the floor was oblivious to them as they trembled in Ezekiel’s hands. More tears formed and rolled down their cheeks.

“I understand,” they rasped.

“Good,” Ezekiel said, and stepped away. Azazel let out a breath.

Ezekiel returned to the demon’s side, nudged him with the toe of his perfectly shined shoe. The demon shuddered and rolled onto his back. His pupils were huge, black taking up most of the eye. Even silent, he was sobbing. Tears streamed from his face onto the floor.

“Azazel,” Ezekiel said. “I would like you to choose what we do next to it. You must learn this, and learn it well. What does your conscience call for us to do to it now?”

Azazel’s hands were shaking. They hid them behind their back, blinked tears out of their eyes. They took a deep, shuddering breath and swallowed hard, prayed that their voice would be steady when they spoke. “Um…” It was steady enough. “He’s… a demon. Perhaps we should, um… burn him?”

Ezekiel clapped his hands. “An excellent choice,” he said crossing to the table. “Usually we would just use our hands, but since it is not full-blooded…” He picked up a small branding iron in the shape of a cross. “I can heat this for us. Come, Azazel. Tell me where we should brand it first.”

Continued here

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