Smile for the Camera
OC intro link
Content warnings: intimate/creepy whumper, telekinetic whumper, conditioned whumpee, filmed/recorded whump
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Marcus isn't going to kill him.
Zachariah hangs onto the thought. Marcus loves him, and he isn't going to kill him. Marcus isn't going to kill him, he loves him.
The box cutter trails lightly up his sternum, the very tip resting in the hollow of his throat.
Marcus isn't going to kill him. He isn't. He isn't.
Marcus's blue eyes keep running up and down over Zachariah's bloodied torso, tracing over the mess of cuts now trickling blood through the grate on the homemade rack and onto the floor. His gaze trails back up to where the box cutter is resting on Zachariah's throat. Zachariah tilts his head back, pliant, baring his throat to Marcus.
"You're so pretty like this," Marcus murmurs, digging the tip of the blade in just until a bead of blood begins to well up, "so well behaved for me."
He drags the blade down, watching little jewels of blood bead and drip as he cuts through the flesh. Down, down past Zachariah's collar, past his sternum...
Marcus relents just above Zachariah's naval, the long, thin line crossing over the others. Zachariah's chest is slick with blood, the sting of the fresh cut melding into the hot, sharp mass of pain. Its hard for him to tell how long he's been here. There aren't any clocks in this part of the basement. He knows they're only getting started, though-- Marcus hasn't touched his camera yet.
The cuts have all been shallow, just deep enough to bleed and sting terribly. Zachariah trusts Marcus. He has to.
Marcus lets go of the box cutter, allowing it to hang in the air nearby. If Zachariah focuses hard, he can see the soft distortions in light around it, the only visible part of Marcus's power. He walks around the rack, cups Zachariah's face with his clean hand.
"You really do take this so well," he says. Zachariah nuzzles his head into Marcus's hand, drinking in the compliment and the comfort. He knows they're aren't done.
"My good boy toy. So brave," Marcus coos, and Zachariah has no time to prepare when Marcus presses the taser against his side.
A scream tears out of his throat even as his body locks up from the shock. He sags against his restraints as the electric pain passes, the zipties securing him to the rack digging into his wrists. His chest and torso feel like they're on fire. Marcus grins down at him, still cradling his face.
"C'mon now babe. Your body looks so perfect right now, I just need your cute face to look as perfect for the camera."
Zachariah is trembling all over, his hands twisting uselessly against the zip ties, unable to catch his breath. He can't think of a response, can't tell if Marcus even wants him to say anything. Marcus answers the unasked question by pressing the taser against him again, and again every muscle in his body locks up, tensing painfully as the electricity courses through him. His eyes feel wet, but its hard for him to focus through the pain.
"There we go, there's those pretty tears. Do you need the taser again, or will you cry for me when I cut you?" Marcus asks gently, trailing his hand from Zachariah's face down to his collarbone.
Zachariah swallows thickly, his mouth sticky-dry.
"I'll try, 'm sorry, promise," he pleads, already knowing that the matter is out of his hands, "I'll try."
"Thank you, sweetheart!" Marcus chirps, letting the taser float off. He runs his nails down Zachariah's torso, smearing blood agross his chest and stomach, digging into the cuts to encourage them to well with blood once more. He takes hold of the box cutter.
"Just a few more. Just a few more, and your pretty tears, and then I'll take the pictures, ok?"
Even as he reassures Zachariah, he's pressing the blade against his ribs, another slow, long, shallow cut from just under Zachariah's pectoral to his hip bone. Then another, collar bone to sternum to the side of Zachariah's stomach. A third--
Zachariah blinks, focuses on the sharp, hot sting, willing tears to spill from his eyes. He doesn't want the taser again-- no, he wants to listen to Marcus, that's what he wants--
Marcus digs the tip of the blade into his thigh, twists it lightly. Zachariah's eyes are closed, but he can feel Marcus's gaze on his face. He just has to cry. That isn't so hard, is it? Come on, just cry. Just cry already.
His breaths are coming quick and short now, he can feel his face heating up. Why can't he just cry? It'll be over once he cries. No, don't think like that. It's all Marcus has asked him for.
"Do you need help?" Marcus asks, teasingly, and Zachariah whimpers.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm trying," he babbles, trying again to just focus on the pain.
"I know babe, I know you are. So good, trying so hard for me," Marcus reassures him, lazily dragging the blade over his skin once more, "its ok. I'll help you."
Zachariah nods wearily.
He releases the box cutter-- it stays right where it is, digging in just below Zachariah's collarbone. Marcus trots over the the cabinet in the corner, throwing the doors open and surveying the selection of implements.
"Wouldn't want to ruin the scene..." he wonders aloud, "what can we do from under the rack? The taser was helping..."
Marcus hums as he ponders the tools in front of him.
"Let's see if this shows up on camera. If it does, well... then I'll know for next time!" He says brightly.
Marcus recalls the box cutter to him, fiddles with something Zachariah can't quite see. He hears the sound of metal on cardboard?
His stomach drops when Marcus turns back to him, the freshly opened canister of salt floating next to him. He pours a generous pile of salt into his clean hand, takes a pinch in the other.
This is a new kind of pain, sharp and lingering. Marcus lightly rubs the salt in, gentle circular motions across his chest like he's just applying some cosmetic to Zachariah. Zachariah can't stop himself from crying out-- Marcus has only started, and everywhere he's rubbed the salt in is in agony. He takes another pinch of salt, sprinkles it over the middle of Zachariah's chest. Zachariah trembles and yelps, his body involuntarily jerking away from the unyielding pain as Marcus rubs the salt into each cut.
It takes all of his chest and part of his stomach before the slicing, overwhelming pain finally brings tears back to his eyes. Marcus smiles, licks the blood and salt from his fingers.
"Tough boy. It's so hard to make you cry from pain these days..." Marcus's voice is warm, pleased.
"I'm sorry," Zachariah half-chokes, half-sobs. He's not crying hard yet, just tears slipping down his cheeks as he finally allows himself to focus on anything except the pain.
Marcus giggles. "No apologies needed, sweetheart. I love you just the way you are." He picks up the camera, takes a couple steps back. "Now look at the camera. Just like that. You're so perfect."
