#noncon bathing

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” they said matter of factly. A quick hand slid around his waist when he wobbled but his hands were already clawing at Hasan’s shoulders, pulling them chest-to-chest. Declan glanced up through long, dark lashes, fears of crashing to the ground belatedly comprehending the position he’d opted for instead. A harsh shove did nothing to remedy it and Hasan bared their teeth in a grin.

“Let go.”

“And let you crack your handsome head open? Cute, but no thanks.” Their free hand tousled his hair again. 

“Let go! I’ll shower, just stop that!”

Hasan rubbed tacky skin, sweat only half dried into it, and tilted their head. 

“What, by yourself?” 

Declan gaped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Look how weak you are.” They nodded toward his fingernails in their forearms, drawing pink scratches in streaks. “I want you clean, not just wet.”

“There’s a seat in there, I can handle myself Hasan. I don’t know why I’m even trying to justify this to you. I know I can shower, I’m a grown man for fuh-!” Hasan yanked his head back by the hair still left and he froze to their apparent delight. Light danced across their lenses as they drank in his expression. 

“Let’s be reasonable, dear. I haven’t even let you piss in private since Thursday. What in that sweet, dense little skull makes you think this will be any different?”

Declan’s furrowed eyebrows loosened just a tad. Just enough to betray his comprehension, however unwilling it was. Hasan let him go and his knees nearly buckled until he caught himself on the counter, coughing out ragged breaths and gasps. 

“Strip for me now.” Though they busied themself sitting atop the toilet lid and unzipping their boots, Hasan wasn’t missing the opportunity to stare even as Declan held carefully still. “Come on. You're already halfway there, after all, and you get to start at the fun part.” 

“Why aren’t you wearing your boots?” They hadn’t been barefoot around him even once since Wednesday. 

“Take your clothes off and I’ll tell you.” 

Fuck, he was going to cry again. Only minutes ago he was drained, emotionless, grieving, but the walls were crumbling down and crushing his heart in a fist. He watched Hasan pull off their turtleneck and tie up their hair through bleary eyes.

“You can… you can just watch. Just stand out here-” His voice broke. He gave up speaking. 

“Do I really need to tear the pants off you?” They rose to their full height and, despite the loss of a few inches, Declan felt smaller than ever. He let them stare at his hunched, shaking form as they loosened their belt and stepped out of their slacks. When Hasan stepped forward, he mirrored the motion until the door met his back. Even a hand on his chin couldn’t force his eyes up. “I’m about to take this into my own hands if you don’t cooperate. Is that really what you want, Dec? Because I can certainly give you that.”

They waited, probably expecting a vehement shake of the head, but Declan didn’t move. Shallow puffs of breath coasted over their thumb: the only sign of life apart from an ever-worsening tremor. His pupils were pinpricks.

“Declan, sweetheart.” A soft smack on the cheek elicited a gasp and nothing more. “Declan!” Breaths came quicker.

Hasan examined him now, watching the light glance off the hazy glaze of his eyes, running a finger over the slight purse of his lips.

“Poor thing,” they murmured, more to themself than him, and stepped back to the shower to squirt a bead of body wash onto their thumb. They sudsed it up under their forefinger before slipping it past Declan’s lips and prying open clenched teeth to smear it across his tongue.

“Ick-!” He gagged and shoved at them, retching. “What the fuck?!” 

“There he is. Now listen to me.” Another light slap brought his attention back, eyes still wild with offense. “To be honest, darling, I hate shower sex. I need you naked to get you clean. It’s all semantics, and I’m not past using force to get what I want. Clearly. So…” 

Hasan backed up, eyeing him. Waiting.

The aftershocks of the anxiety attack still rushed through him, cortisol searching for something to latch onto, heart fluttering and skipping, every sense still engaged. But his mind was freed. Forced to a halt and Declan didn’t know how long it would hold. 

A step closer and he flinched hard, hands flying to his waistband in a humiliating betrayal. Hasan stopped and grinned. They’d already won but the alternative was worse. He inched it over his hips and down his legs. Fabric bunched at his ankles until he slipped elastic over them and flinched at the brush against his bandaged heels. 

A glance up told him he wasn’t done: a fact that he’d already known from his imagination alone. A swallow of sour phlegm preceded the ceremonious removal of his boxers. 

It felt ridiculous, to be so scared of the person standing in their own underwear before him, but that sense was righted when the handcuffs dangled into his line of sight. Power. That was the difference.

“Turn around,” they suggested and, after a deep breath, Declan shook his head. 

His hands over his crotch were a pathetic defense, sure, but… who was he kidding. There was nothing left to say.

Hasan closed in and gently secured the cuff over his wrist, savoring each metallic click. They spun him by the chain, pushed him flush against the door, and pulled the other in. It was looser than before, but functional hands still wouldn’t be able to slip through. 

Declan shuddered at the sudden memory of a police procedural. How the cop had managed to escape certain death. What they’d done to their hand.

He stayed pressed up against the wood until Hasan pulled him away to the shower. In some twisted act of mercy, or perhaps for their own comfort, they cranked the heat up until it steamed before they guided him under the water. 

“Fuck…” A curtain of warmth enveloped him and he couldn’t think against the sudden attack of pleasure. It was just barely, perfectly too hot. Declan let his eyes fall shut and listened to the drum of the stream against his bare skin, drowning out anything else. 

It could have been a few minutes or a few hours before a firm hold on his shoulders turned him around and tugged his head back, letting the water wind through his hair. 

“Just tell me where to go, Hasan. Stop dragging me around.” His voice was missing its usual bite, but the message was clear.

“You haven’t been particularly obedient yet, have you? I don’t see why that would change so suddenly.” 

Declan flinched. Obedient. Yet. As if he was meant to be. Quickening breaths fought against debilitating exhaustion, and muscles tensed around bliss. He had no defense as Hasan opened the shampoo bottle. 

“Be gentle, please.” His words slurred into each other. “Just let this be a fucking shower…” He pulled against the handcuffs uselessly, letting the metal rub against welts. A reminder. This isn’t my choice. I’m not letting them do this.

Calloused hands lathered it up before massaging shampoo into his hair, scratching his scalp with long nails. Something like vanilla wafted through the air. They knew what they were doing and it infuriated him somewhere deep down that he couldn’t reach just then. Declan stepped back but their arm wrapped around his shoulders and forced his head into the crook of their neck. 

“I’ll be gentle if you stay pliant,” Hasan murmured against his ear, dragging a sudsy hand up the back of his head where he could feel the movement of every hair down to the follicle. 

“I don’t trust that.” His voice was locked up so high in his throat that it came out as a whine against their skin. It was wet and warm, a little slick with sweat, and every breath fed sweet cologne into his sinuses: a citrus burst on sandalwood. He was starting to wonder if any scents would be the same after this.

“Then by all means. Make this worse for yourself.” Hasan’s voice might as well have been echoing in his head for how close it was. Declan shuddered against the hold, which only grew tighter in response. “God knows I fucking love it.”

It was all he could do to pretend their hips didn’t press harder against his.

“No. I’d rather not.”

“Then be good, babe, and let me rinse your hair.” His neck was craned back into the stream and Hasan guided the soap to the drain. Their touch tugged and he pressed his lips shut, holding back any reaction. His head was so light.

They wiped his eyes when he came back up, gasping for air.

“Couldn’t you breathe under there?” Hasan chuckled. 

“If my hands were free I’d let you try,” Declan seethed, blinking out a stray drop as they opened the conditioner. 

“Good thing they’re not.” 

The metal jingled against his pull as if laughing at the audacity to even try again. He was back against Hasan’s chest as they worked the conditioner in, the lingering vanilla undercut by mint. 

“My feet are sore,” he sighed.

“I’m holding you up, aren’t I?” A cheeky smile.

“There’s a seat in the corner.” Declan hoped Hasan could feel his glare as it pressed up against them.

“It’s holding our supplies. Maybe your feet wouldn’t hurt if you hadn’t tried to run.” Fingers traced over the initials in the side of his head.

“You have to understand why I would do that.”

“Oh, I do. But you have to understand why I stopped you.”

A helpless sob ripped through him but Declan bit his lip, feeling the scab break where their knife had pierced. He allowed himself to be manhandled once again, out of the water, and Hasan pumped shower gel into their hands. 

“No way. Get a loofah.” He backed away despite the biting cold. 

“Unsanitary. There’s nothing wrong with my hands, Dec. What are you so afraid of?”

Eyes cast down to the floor, refusing to answer. They wouldn’t get the satisfaction of hearing him say it. His bottom lip trembled, now smeared with blood.

“Step closer and I won’t drag you.”

A deep, shaking sigh brought him shuffling forward until Hasan could guide his back to their chest. Then slowly, tenderly, reverently, they folded arms under his armpits and spread soap across his chest. Declan squeezed his eyes shut before realizing the loss of sight only sent him spiraling further so he watched, breath frozen in his throat, as they traced his body. 

The fine hairs on his chest tingled and his scars were more sensitive than ever as Hasan examined them, just the same as the day prior.

“Your surgeon did a nice job. Came out really well… Forgive my curiosity, but what did you start with?” Dysphoria and violation pushed at his gag reflex. “Fine, fine, calm down. But the scars are straight, not too thick, nice shape to the remaining tissue, not too much loose skin… Your nipples are even, too. Tell me: are they still as sensitive as before?”

Declan couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Until Hasan pinched his nipples between thumb and forefinger, tweaking them with a practiced finesse that made him scream.

“Stop! Stop, just fucking stop!” He thrashed and fought again, knowing from the start that the muscle holding him still would be the same that he collapsed against just moments later, panting and spent.

“I want an answer to my question. I’m curious, Dec. Satiate me.”

“That’s personal,” Declan huffed. But as their nails crept back up his chest, his resistance crumbled. “There’s less feeling there. Happy?”

“Quite. That’s a shame, though.” They needed another pump of shower gel and started on his shoulders. 

“Yeah, whatever. I’d rather they not stick through every shirt I wear in winter.”

“Now there’s a nice thought…” 

He desperately needed to stop talking.

Hasan intertwined both of their fingers when they finished scrubbing his arms then returned to his torso, trailing toward his hips despite restrained shoves. Words of protest bubbled up but Declan shoved them down. Tears, however, sprang forth when they found the curve of his pelvis. Strangled breaths shook him like a leaf.

Wordlessly, the touch swept down his thighs, dipped between, and continued to his knees, finding interest in the splotches of yellowed bruising. They didn’t bother going any lower, instead sliding up the back of his legs to his ass. A few circles around each cheek satisfied their curiosity and led back up to his shoulders, tense, entirely unwilling to show relief until it was all over. 

“Tip your head back for the conditioner, darling,” Hasan said, stepping out from behind. Declan did so with a shudder. His blood still ran cold even under the showerhead. “Close your eyes, I’ve got face wash.” 

The flinch at hands on his face was inevitable, but he held as still as he could manage as they wiped away the oil and tears of days past. 

“There you are, now deep breath and hold it…” They guided him fully underneath, released slowly, and ran fingers through his hair. Thumbs swept the water from his eyelashes before he opened them. 

Hasan reached to their waistband, soaked all the way through, and slipped a finger underneath only to produce a tiny silver key. Declan’s stuttering heart rate skipped a beat but they merely circled him and unlocked the handcuffs.

“Finish yourself off, Dec,” they winked before stepping out and sliding the door shut behind them.

He could’ve collapsed in relief with the way the tension left him, and he nearly did. Declan reached a hand out to the stone wall. Hasan’s shadow moved beyond the fogged glass, ever present, but they busied themself drying off and getting dressed. 

A frantic adrenaline overtook him as he finished washing between his legs and under his arms. Fear clenched down, milked his vulnerability with the knowledge that any second they could change their mind. Decide they wanted him now, however he was. Even as he settled under the high pressure spray and tried to drown in its warmth, panic buzzed under his skin. 

Creature comforts, he chanted in his head. I need this. I need creature comforts to stay sane. Even as his feet burned, the urge to knock Hasan upside the head pleaded for attention. I’m naked and sopping wet. They’re still alert. Now isn’t the time. 

His nervous system didn’t take the cue, but his mind relinquished its hold. He spent a long while under the water, then.

Next

~~~

Whumper moved in a slow circle around Whumpee, drinking in the bold colors contrasting with pale skin. The coarse brown rope bound Whumpee’s wrists behind his back, leaving them red and raw. The dirt from the concrete floor, smudged across Whumpee’s body, hiding bruises and highlighting a ruggedness to Whumpee that Whumper loved probably too much. Gorgeous.

Whumper really wanted to add to the canvas with a thick cane or perhaps their own fists, but alas, places to be and people to see.

They stopped in place behind Whumpee, watching them twitch in anticipation and very well hidden fear. That defiance was undoubtedly playing behind his eyes, smothered by resignation and a significnat amount of self preservation. Delicious.

With a gentle grip they carded their fingers through his greasy, unkept hair. Testing just how compliant their Darling was going to be today. He didn’t pull back this time, that was good, they would hate to have to drag this part out now. He kept still, resigned. Resignation from their Darling was always so perfect. They were just in that sweet spot before they break. They might even beg soon.

Perfect.

They could sit here for hours, just petting and watching their Darling grind his teeth together, trying to school his emotions. Because he knew this was far, far better than being beaten bloody. The war of revulsion playing across his face was almost as good as hearing him scream.

But they had places to be, and Darling here was going to be perfect for tonight.

They slowed the hand in his hair, grabbed a fistfull of the filthy strands, and pulled his head back slowly. He could fight, maybe get them to release his scalp. He might even get a lick or two of his own in before Whumper could subdue him.

Whumpee would have, early on. He would never let them touch him without three beatings and two days withought sleep.

Now though, now the threat of what could happen helps him make it through what is. Now he lets them stroke his hair, pull his head back and bare his throat. Now he closes his eyes, grits his teeth and undoubtedly plays: it could be worse, on repeat in his mind. Perfect.

They pull Whumpee’s head back until he was staring at the ceiling, eyes alight with fury and shaded by fear.

“Stay.”

Whumper released Whumpee’s skull and he kept it in the position Whumper left him in.

“Good boy,” crooned Whumper as they strode across the room and selected a length of rope attached to a carabiner clip. Whumpee had taken to staying as silent as possible during these sessions, not talking or engaging with Whumper. It was cute how he tried to shut them out while remaining compliant.

“You’ve been such a good boy lately,” they said as they turned around, “That I think you’ll be perfect for tonight.” They returned to Whumpee, and kelt behind them while they fastened the rope around Whumpee’s neck, looped around his bound wrists, and attached the clip to the D-ring set into the concrete nearly underneath him.

They stepped back and around Whumpee, admiring their bobbing adam’s apple and exposed throat. In this position, they would be completely unable to lean forward or straighten. He might be able to get their feet out from underneath himself and get into a more comfortable position. But doing so would only earn Whumpee one hell of a punishment.

XXX

Whumpee’s face and neck burned red with the humiliation of being so vulnerable and on display for Whumper. He shifted uncomfortably in his restraints, testing them as much as he was trying to shift half a milimeter into a position that wouldn’t hurt, one where his ribs weren’t broken and his shoulders didn’t throb and where that god damned rope wasn’t digging into his windpipe and forcing him to lean back.

He wouldn’t be able to hold this position for very long, but he doubted he was going to be left in a stress position overnight again, not with Whumper’s talk of tonight. Somehow, he thinks that he would prefer to be whipped bloody than go through what is planned for tonight.

He heard Whumper walk over to the side of the room and squeezed his eyes shut.

The sink was along that wall.

He found himself trembling and forced himself to still before Whumper started cooing and calling him adorable in a voice that would sound patronizing if Whumpee wasn’t completely convinced it was genuine.

He just had to breathe. Take a moment to appreciate the ability to take full breaths that didn’t burn his lungs. Just breathe In, 2, 3, 4.

Whumper pulled something out from the cabinet under the sink.

Out, 2, 3, 4.

There was a squeaking sound as the hose was screwed into place.

In, 2, 3, 4.

Just breathe, feel your lungs expand with air as you choose to breathe.

Out, 2, 3, 4.

The water turned on.

Whumpee let out a whimper and immediately cursed himself for it. This was no time to lose his nerve. He is gonna be tortured. It is gonna fucking suck. And then he’ll be left alone for a few hours to sleep before it starts all over again. This is just his fucking life now and whimpering isn’t gonna make it any fucking easier.

Unless it will. He stamped the thought out the second it popped into his head. He is not nearly broken enough to even consider that, and right now he has to be strong because Whumper is walking closer.

His breath picked up in his chest despite his efforts as he heard the water from the hose hitting the concrete floor. This was gonna fucking suck.

The gentle spray of freezing water hit his left knee first, soaking through the filthy sweatpants he has been wearing for weeks, and chilling him to the bone in seconds. Whumper shifted to spray to soak his other leg and meandered up his stomach and chest, teasing at his neck before going over his back with a lazy pace.

So they were freezing him out first, making him miserably cold before drowning him in the same fucking cold water. Delightful.

XXX

Whumper watched their darling whumpee in delight as he flinched every time they worked further up his neck, how he was racked with shivers from the icy water and the look on his face that let them know he knew it was only going to get worse from here.

Delicious.

They quickly put a kink in the hose to stop the water and cause whumpee to flinch at the change. They return to the sink and turned off the water fully before unkinking the hose and detaching it from the sink. They pulled out a bucket as they replaced the hose and let the water run hot for a moment before placing the bucket in the sink to fill up.

Whumpee was still facing the ceiling, as if they were trying very hard not to think about what was going to happen next. As the bucket filled Whumper pulled out several bottles from under the sink and walked over to Whumpee.

Whumpee was still trembling, but they suspected it was more due to cold than fear. Their whumpee was excellent at managing his fear and keeping still for them, a trait they often take advantage of.

They set the bottles down and comb their fingers through their darling’s greasy hair again. It was getting longer as the weeks went by, hanging in front of whumpee’s face and giving a wild dog look to him that only enhanced their artwork. He could do without the beard though, it gave an almost paternal look to his face. Aged him in a way that made you think he was a father of four instead of a recent collage graduate.

Yes the beard will have to go.

The sound of water running over the side of the bucket and into the sink pulls them out of their head. They give whumpee’s head a gentle pat that whumpee pointedly doesn’t flinch at and returned to his side a moment later with the bucket, a comb, and a set of clippers.

XXX

Whumper took several moments to arrange the things they brought over, meaning this probably wasn’t going to just be a simple drowning, meaning this is just gonna get a hell of alot worse.

Images flash unwittingly to mind, and he unsuccessfully tries to shove them away. Whatever is gonna happen, he will survive it. When this is over, he will take breaths with burning lungs, shiver with his hands tied behind his back, and laugh at himself for how he thought he wouldn’t survive.

Because he was going to survive. He is going to walk out that door one day and never have to resist flinches or hold his tongue to survive ever again.

The sound of water being scooped out of the bucket pulls him out. This is it.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

Those damned fingers return to his hair, warm and sickeningly pleasant. He wants to wrench his head out of their grasp and away from them but he doesn’t. He holds still. He endures the unwelcome touch while he has to, just like how he will endure the drowning. Just like how he has endured every other goddamned torture he has been put through while trapped in this goddamned basement.

A clear, plastic, cup-shaped tupperware container filled with water enters his vision as it’s brought above his head. He closes his eyes and his breathing speeds up.

Burning heat is poured across his face and he gasps in shock as another scoop is poured along his hairline and into his hair. Then another, and another.

Soon his hair is soaked in the hot water and whumper’s fingers return to his hair, combing tangles out and making it lay straight

The terrible, gentle hand in his hair mixed with the warm water feels far better than he would ever admit. He is unlikely to be hurt now, but there is always the chance that the next douse of water will be ice cold and that the hand in his hair will tighten into a fist and hold him in place while the other fist pummels his unprotected face.

He wouldn’t be able to force himself to relax if he tried, the threat of this humilation giving way to pain an all too real possibility. Torture was far far worse than this, this might be the best he’s felt in weeks, but this was still not good. He’d still rather be anywhere but here, under the hands of someone who has beaten the shit out of him for ‘artistic purposes’.

Both the hand and the warm water stop as something is popped open. Whumpee tenses, ready for this to go from not okay to god-awful at lightspeed.

Whumper let out a small chuckle and cooed at him, patting his shoulder in ‘mock comfort’, not unlike a person patting the flank of a horse to calm them down.

Is it mock if Whumper really sees it as comfort? Does it even matter if its mock if being touched where he can’t see only reminds him how fucking helpless he is?

“Shhh darling, you’re being so good for me.” Whumper cooed in a voice that made part of Whumpee want kick out and struggle just to be contrary, but fear is controlling most of his fucking brain. Kicking out will definately turn this creepy, uncomfortable experience into a fucking nightmare.

It might be worth it to avoid whatever was gonna happen tonight though.

He swallows his pride and stays fucking still when whumper’s hand returns to his hair and something cool is massaged into his scalp with Whumper’s blunt nails, irritating the small nicks and cuts along his scalp.

He can’t fucking believe it. They’re fucking washing his hair?

Whumper is cleaning out the blood and grit and sweat and torture from his hair? Not only that, but once his hair was deemed clean, the suds and later the conditioner rinsed out, Whumper took a cloth to wipe his face clean of dirt and blood and all that other good shit that gets on your face when you’re being tortured, and did a fucking skin-care routine on him. They did a whole ass routine with exfoliating and a fucking face mask. They even took an electric beard trimmer or clippers or something and shaved his beard down to stubble, humming something about how that was much better.

What. The. FUCK??

He half expected them to get a tweezers and start plucking his eyebrows or some shit like that.

But whumper just put the things they had brought back to the sink and did what sounded like them rinsing and drying their hands before they came back and stood behind Whumpee their head tilted forward to look Whumpee in the eye.

Whumpee shifted under their gaze, sore from staying in the same position for so long, his feet already numb underneath him and his neck ached fiercely from craning backwards.

“How’re you doing darling?” they asked with a grin.

Whumpee didn’t respond.

“Ready to move on then I see,” Whumper said more to themself than anyone else and straightened to pull two chains down from the mechanism in the ceiling. They attach each manacle to each wrist and cut the ropes that have been digging into his skin for weeks.

The basement air feels pleasantly cool on his torn wrists, until the manacles shift down his wrists and settle into place digging into his open wounds. Terrific.

Whumper cuts the rope holding his neck in place and he leans forward slowly with a groan, muscles burning from lack of movement now equally furious with being moved out of position.

Wary of Whumper, and not wanting to be viewed as trying to get a beating, Whumpee remained on his knees and only rolled his aching shoulders forward. Fuck they hurt, they had been bound with each wrist tied individually and a short length of rope connecting them to allow for some mobility but simply the act of shifting them from back to front hurt like hell.

“Awww, are you sore?” Whumper cooed at them.

Whumpee tensed.

“We just have a little bit left to do before tonight so up up, on your feet,” Whumper commanded with a grin.

Whumpee leaned forward with a groan and braced his hands on the floor to slowly stand. At his full height he was at least several inches taller than Whumper, who stood to the side of the room next to the mechanism that will raise the chains toward the ceiling.

The chains that right now have slack. The chains that might just let him reach Whumper and kill them with his bare hands.

Whumpee froze in place. His moment of opportunity slipping by without him doing more than freezing. They might kill him. If he tried that, they might kill him. Would that be better? No. No it fucking wouldn’t be. As long as he is alive theres a chance.

A chance he might’ve just fucking missed.

Whumper cranked the mechanism, unaware of Whumpee’s internal battle. His arms began to be pulled upward by his shackled wrists and he let them be tugged upward until they were hanging loosely from the ceiling at about eye level, spread in a vaugue ‘I come in peace’ way.

Whumpee flexed his hands anxously. Whumper began humming the tune to a pop song Whumpee was unfamiliar with as they began filling the bucket again with hot water. They pulled out a tall wooden stool that they once tied Whumpee to with his front exposed so Whumper could flog his chest, and set it up within kicking distance from Whumpee.

Whumpee doesn’t do more than contemplate knocking it down. If it comes to it, and Whumpee can’t take it anymore, he can knock it down to get a minute or two of respite. Not that there’s not gonna be hell to pay afterward, but having some semblance of a plan is comforting.

The water started overflowing on the bucket again, so Whumper shut off the water and tossed a sponge in it before hauling it out of the sink and setting it on the stool.

Whumpee watched with detacheted interest and was preparing to brace himself for unwanted contact instead of torture. His mental fortitude however, shattered at the sight of Whumper pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open with a practiced grace.

Whumpee’s breath stopped in his throat and he chastised himself for it. What, you think that the torture will stop for one fucking second as long as Whumper is in here with you? Are you really that nieve, thinking that this will ever not end in blood.

Whumpee took several deep breaths to calm himself as Whumper chuckled and moved toward him menacingly. He wrapped his right wrist around the chain suspending it from the ceiling and gripped it tightly, bracing himself for whatever Whumper is going to do to him.

Whumpee feels the cool blade against place where their stomache meets their hip and holds in a whimper. This is gonna suck this is gonna suck this is gonna suck plays over and over in his head, waiting for the slice.

Whumper chuckles as pats his hip in that same condescending, spooked horse, way and Whumpee wants to kick them. He could. They were well within kicking range, his legs are free and Whumper is about to hurt him. Why the fuck isn’t he kicking them? He should still be fighting. What a few weeks of consistant torture and beatings and he’s fucking conditioned like a dog. Great. Fucking fantastic to know that he’s so easy to break.

He looks down to see Whumper staring up at him with a look of glee on thier smug fucking face. Anger boils inside of him as they soak in all his expressions, fucker was probably gonna say ‘delicous’, he thinks in a mockingly highpitched voice.

“What are you waiting for!” he shouts at them. And he can’t bring himself to regret doing it, even when Whumper’s grin extends to a full out smile and they grab onto his hip to brace themself to cut him. He can’t regret shouting at them. He can’t.

He refuses to regret the only show of defiance he has given in days. So instead, he steels himself for the knife.

XXX

Their darling really was a masterpiece. How he blends defiance and obedience is fucking perfect.

Delicous.

Whumper chuckles and draws the knife down, cutting through the ratty sweatpants from hip to ankle in a single slice of the recently sharpened knife. Whumpee jerks forward and gasps, trying to curl in on himself but keeping his leg perfectly straight. His weight was already shifted to the other side in anticipation of not being able to stand.

They threw their head back and laughed as Whumpee opened their eyes and saw that his leg was in fact fine. If completely bare and leaving him, eh, exposed.

Whumpee flushed a beautiful shade of red - they should get a pair of heels that color, it would match so well with their blue suit - and spat out “fuckin bastard” under his breath.

In half a second Whumper was pulling Whumpee’s hair back and holding the blade to his throat.

“What was that?” They ask in a low and dangerous tone, right next to Whumpee’s jaw.

Whumpee remained silent, difiance overriding fear for a few extremely stupid seconds.

Whumper kicks his knee out from under him and he falls with a painful jolt, his knees inches from the ground with his shoulders and wrists holding all his weight. He sobs and tries to get his feet under him, but Whumper stops him by grinding thier booted foot down on Whumpee’s ankle from behind.

They lean down next to Whumpee’s face and say in an unsettlingly calm voice, “I don’t like repeating myself. What. Did. You. Say?”

Whumpee lets out a gloriously pathetic whimper, but remains silant.

Whumper sighs and mutters a ‘stay’, before walking over to a cabinet and pull out one of their favorite whips, designed to bruise and leave beautiful welts instead of lashes they would have to disinfect and clean and bandage and yadda yadda yadda. This was simpler, meant for quick but effective punishments or drawn out beatings.

And boy did their darling need a punishment.

“You already have four offenses Whumpee,” they punctuate it with a crack of the whip on the concrete floor while circling in front of Whumpee. “One for each swear word,” another crack, “and one for each time you refused to answer.”

They slipped the handle under Whumpee’s jaw and tilted his chin up to see tears dancing in his eyes.

“You don’t want a fifth, do you?” They ask in a low, gentle voice.

Whumpee shakes his head, careful to not accidentily dislodge the handle from underneath his jaw and further add to his punishment. He’s learning. Slowly, but he’ll get there.

Whumper cracks the handle of the whip across his face and grips his jaw with their hand. Squeezing their fingers painfully into his jaw. “Words Whumpee. Use, your, words.” They tighten their grip with every word. “Do you want a sixth?”

“No, no I don’t want a sixth, sir.”

Whumper released his jaw with a shove. “Then what did you say?”

Whumpee hesitates a second too long.

“Thats six, you must really be a glutton for punishment darling. Are you? Are you a glutton for punishment?”

Whumpee swallows, eyes downcast, “No sir, no I’m not a glutton for punishment sir.”

“You know I don’t like repeating myself darling, you have ten seconds to answer.”

Whumpee licks his lips and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Fucking bastard. I called you a fucking bastard sir.” Whumpee swallows and seems to brace himself for a slap.

Whumper grins to themself, this was going to be fucking fun.

“Thats four more, I think you’re finially getting the hang of this.”

Whumpee’s eyes open in confusion.

“Fucking. Bastard. Fucking. Bastard.” Whumper held up their hand, and lifted a finger for every word they said, “Four.” They shrug and let their hand drop, “You did this to yourself darling.”

They start circling around behind Whumpee again, soaking in the angry mess that was Whumpee. “What are we at then Whumpee?”

No answer. Thats eleven

“Whumpee, I asked you a question. How many offenses are you at?”

A soft “ten,” came from Whumpee. Twelve and Thirteen.

“What was that?”

“Ten.” Whumpee states, louder this time.

“Nope, now we’re at Fourteen. Keep up Whumpee. Jeez, I haven’t given you a concusion for a while, seriously.” They crack the whip again, barely an inch from Whumpee’s bare feet. “Now, what are we at?”

“Fourteen.”

“Good, thats good whumpee. You’re doing great, except now we’re at 15 because you forgot to say sir. Again.”

Whumpee shuddered and tilted his head forward between his outstretched arms. He was no doubt gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut to regain some kind of control of his envoirnment, even something as small as shutting his eyes to the world around him.

“Now Whumpee,” They tap the handle of the whip against their chin, “ Just to recap and make sure we’re both on the same page, how many offenses are you at?”

This time Whumpee’s voice came loud and clear, “Fifteen sir.”

Affection bloomed in their chest and they stepped forward to pet their darling’s hair, the movement causing them to sway in their chains. “Good boy Whumpee! I knew you had it in you.”

Whumpee stayed completely still as Whumper ran their fingers through his hair.

“Now Whumpee, I do have to punish you. But I need to know that you’re learning from this,” They walk their fingers along his scalp, “so I can either give you 30 lashes, or I’ll give you 15 lashes and all you have to do is say ‘Thank you for punishing me sir, I deserve it’ after each one. How does that sound eh?”

Whumpee tensed more under their hand, they knew which he would pick, but it was important for him to see that there was always an option, always a way out for him if he ever needed it.

He took longer to debate than Whumper thought he would, honestly they almost expected him to wrench his head away from their hands and spit insults at them. But he doesn’t.

“Come on buddy, we don’t got all day. Choose and say please and thank you, otherwise it’ll be 60 and I’ll leave you up all night.” They put their other hand - still holding the whip - on his shoulder and touching his neck so they could have better leverage to claw their fingers through his still damp hair.

They felt Whumpee swallow and the vibrations from him saying, “Please give me 30 lashes, thank you sir.”

Whumper chuckled and backed up a few feet, “As you wish,” and struck.

He turned around to lean on the counter and started rooting frantically through Hasan’s drawers. The chair was still where he’d left it and he kicked it away in disgust. It skidded against the floor.

“Everything alright in there? You don’t need any help, do you?” Hasan called in, and Declan froze. Fuck. Of course they would be listening.

“Just tripped. Nothing’s hurt, I’m fine,” he said.

“Aww, that’s a shame…” He ignored their pouty tone and turned back to the shower, turning it on so there wasn’t any more suspicion on him, and continued searching. 

Most of the drawers were empty or filled with a few useless home essentials: first aid kit, nail clippers, tweezers, toilet paper, towels and cloths, extra soap, a box of Cheez-its, and an abandoned pack of gum. Hasan must have taken the scissors and clippers out with them. He cut his losses and picked up the nail clippers. At least they were solid metal. Anything that could do him good was worth the effort.

Declan made his way back over to the shower, took his socks off, and clambered across to stand on the seat in the corner. He got sprayed with cold water but ignored it, now leaning against the ridge in the wall to get a better look at the window. 

It seemed like a basic push-out sort of frame, but a screen stood in the way, screwed on. Philips caps stared at him mockingly. He took a different approach, folding open the nail clippers and jabbing them at the mesh. It couldn’t be that hard to break through! He tried a few more times, and finally felt it give. Declan set the nail clippers down, instead tearing at the screen. He removed as much as he could, letting it fall to the floor below, and reached for the latch on the window.

His heart raced as he pushed it open. Yes. Yes! It didn’t go down completely, but he didn’t care. It was wide enough because it had to be wide enough! 

He faltered when he looked at the smooth wall. There were no footholds or ledges to use until the window itself which was at least three feet up. So he’d have to pull himself there.

Declan took a deep breath, leaning further over the ledge, and grabbed the handle on the window with his left hand. It closed when he pulled at it, but he’d just open it again when he got up. He braced himself before jumping, pulling up, and reaching out with his right foot. 

He caught himself. His foot stuck, toes curled over the edge of the ledge. His arm shook violently with the effort of holding him up, and his torso sank further as he did nothing about it. A desperate effort with his left foot against the wall kept him stable, but he didn’t trust his right shoulder to hold his weight without pulling back out again.

He’d have to jump. Jump up, slot his foot on the other edge, and balance his body up there before his lack of strength failed him. 

Okay. Okay, yeah. Sure. He pushed off with his left foot and grunted, trying his best to land it on the ledge, but- 

-his right foot slipped.

Declan plummeted down, left hand slipping, room spinning, and he screamed. His hands could hardly break his fall, his scream ringing out as he rolled, trying to absorb the ricochet of pain through his body.

“Declan!” Loud pounding. “Open the door!” 

He fucked it up. He fucked up his chance. 

The door slammed open.

“What happened?” Hasan asked expectantly, the taint of fury entering their voice.

He pushed himself up from the ground, trying not to let anything show in his expression. 

“I slipped,” he growled. It wasn’t a lie. 

“Fully clothed in the shower. Freezing cold water, judging by the way you’re trembling…” Their voice darkened. “Or perhaps you’ve got the good sense to fear my wrath.”

“I wasn’t gonna get naked with you on the other side of the door.”

“Oh, and look at that,” Hasan continued on, not even listening. “The screen’s broken and the window handle’s been turned. But that couldn’t possibly be related, could it?”

“No, I’m sure it’s not.” He didn’t know what to do. He was caught in his failure. But he wasn’t going to admit what he tried either.

Hasan stared at him for a moment. They reached to the sleeves of their overshirt, tugging it off, only wearing a tank top below.

“Alright. The first thing you will do to avoid a more severe punishment is stand up.” He didn’t. “I don’t have to be this nice. I don’t have to give you options.”

He stood up, leaning against the wall, making sure his legs would support him. 

“Step forward.” Stillness. Disobedience. “Step. Forward.”

Declan stood under the spray of freezing water, reaching immediately to the dial to turn it up, but Hasan caught his wrist in their hand and stood over him just outside of the water’s path.  

“You know, I really hoped you wouldn’t try anything. You’d be a fool to assume I don’t know precisely what’s in this room, as well as what you being here alone could mean,” they hissed.

They unlocked one cuff with the key in their other hand, released his wrist, then reached to the shower handle and turned the water off.

“Strip.”

“What?!” Declan froze. The air suddenly felt heavier.

“Oh, are you really so dense? Take off your clothes, idiot.”

“No- I knew what you meant! I just-nnh!” His head snapped to the side at a slap from Hasan.

“Clearly, an implied threat isn’t going to work on you anymore, so I’ll tell you again,” they said, slipping something out of their pants pocket. They briefly squeezed a lever, and electricity crackled between the two prongs on top. “Strip.”

“Oh god…” Declan whispered, clapping a hand over his mouth when he realized he’d actually spoken. His eyes travelled up to Hasan’s, but they held nothing more than expired patience.

They shot forward, jabbing the prongs into his side, and Declan cried out. His body spasmed against his will. Breath caught in his throat. Acute pain shot through every inch of him. Even when Hasan pulled back and he curled in on himself, it felt like a web over his body. The water conducted what electricity it was left with, crackling, jolting him violently.

Hasan reached out, but Declan stumbled back and held up shaking hands.

He eased them down to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. Aftershocks kept painfully cramping his muscles as he threw it to the ground at Hasan’s feet. Some act of defiance in the face of his submission, he decided it was as he held his arms against his chest for some semblance of warmth and security. 

“Keep going.” 

Declan wiped a tear slipping down his cheek, wishing the hot blush would stop displaying his humiliation so freely. His eyes made pleading contact with Hasan’s as he unbuttoned his pants, guiding them down his legs, stepping out of the holes. Let him stop there. Please, or he’d have no dignity left to lose.

“Briefs.”

A shuddering inhale formed the beginning of a word, but the stun gun flicked on, and Declan flinched back with a whimper. 

His thumbs hooked in the waistband of his underwear, and they stayed there for a very long silence before he gathered the composure to slip them off. 

They joined the pile at Hasan’s feet.

“Please…” Declan said in the smallest voice, “tell me what you’re going to do.”

A beat followed, containing his worst nightmares.

“Seeing as you’ve finally obeyed, I suppose I will,” Hasan divulged, a reluctant decision made. “I sent you in here to take a shower, and seeing as you didn’t, I’ll be taking matters into my own hands.”

They stripped off their own tank top, then their pants. Their underwear stayed on.

“You- you’re not-” He stumbled away as Hasan stepped into the shower.

“I’m washing you: no more, no less. Come here,” they pointed between themself and the opposite wall. Reluctantly, Declan did so, and he felt cold water hit him once again. They refastened the handcuffs in front of him. He curled into himself, shivering as Hasan tugged his head back by his hair to wet it, but it gradually shifted warmer until hot, soothing water ran down his back. 

A bottle opened and closed somewhere behind him, and then soapy hands worked into his hair. It could’ve been nice, especially with the smell of sweet amaretto wafting through the air now, but Hasan was too aggressive, digging nails into his scalp, shoving his head as he rubbed against the short sides. Their hands ran over the line of his jaw where short stubble lay, and then they were gone again. 

“Turn around. I’ll do your face,” they ordered, and he squeezed his eyes shut as sudsy hands rubbed over his eyes and mouth with no regard for his current or future comfort. 

A hand in Declan’s hair pulled his head over his knees and rinsed out the shampoo. They moved his head away, wicking out water and putting in conditioner instead: a pleasant coconut scent. Gentler movements worked it in and flattened it against the side of his head. 

Dread pooled in his stomach when Hasan guided him to stand straight again, knowing what would be next. He didn’t want to have his eyes closed hopelessly, so he quickly rubbed the soap off of them and looked around. 

Hasan approached with the small mercy of a washcloth, starting on his arm. It ran up and down both sides, did the same to the next, and then they were behind him, arm around his waist, keeping it pressed against them as they wiped down Declan’s back, then his front. The smell of rose was potent in the air.

Touches lingered on his chest, traveled down, stopped. Mercy. Sweet mercy. His pulse skittered over his skin, no doubt obvious to Hasan as they toyed with him. The hand around his waist released him, only for the cloth to run loosely over his ass and trail down each of his legs. 

It was over. Finally. His head was tipped back into the stream of water, his face rinsed, and his body rubbed over once to chase away suds. But once the water shut off, he could towel off and finally cover himself with something.

“Now, I believe it’s time for your punishment.”

~~~