#exe12

It's in the quiet witching hour that Exe fetches him. He's tossed from his scratchy cot to the chair, barely avoiding having his fingers caught up in the metal bindings of the arm rests as he zooms with alarming speed to his destination. It dumps him, rather unceremoniously, at the foot of Exe's bed. One that he's become intimately familiar with in the past couple of weeks, but it still feels foreign nonetheless as Exe snaps at him to get in already.

He's not sure whether to feel relief or nervousness when he crawls under the covers. A fully clothed Exe wraps a fuzzy arm around him and draws him to his chest with a rough pull - but its forcefulness is softened by the silk sheets, by a high stack of fluffy pillows, by the warmth emanating from this terrifying touch.

12 suppresses a whimper as Exe presses his nose into his scalp, inhaling deeply. 12's face gets squished against his chest. His arm wraps around him, pads of fingers digging against the fabric of his thin cotton-T (his lab coat having been stripped away by the robots). He shivers. Then braces himself for punishment - shoulders tense, arms bound to his sides like a straitjacket.