#restraints cw

“Sir, please,” ‘359 rasps. The only words he has left. “What did I do?” 

“Fuck.” Archer sighs and his stomach drops. 

“Please, sir. Please, no more,” he whimpers, forcing his eyes open and trying to peel himself off the floor. His hand slips in his blood and he falls back onto the tile. 

“Easy, easy.” Archer stills him with three fingers on the back of his neck. He couldn’t fight him off if he wanted to. A part of him even settles under the touch. The comfort of guidance right where he’s missing his collar. “Don’t try to move. You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Sir?” 

Archer sighs again, fingers stroking the nape of his neck. “I never should have run my mouth. I’m sorry, kiddo.”  

He sobs. 

~ ~ ~

He doesn’t speak.

The handlers who pull him out of bed in the middle of the night don’t ask him to. They barely look at him as they escort him through the halls, gripping his upper arms so tight he feels light on his feet. 

His heart sprints in his chest and he wonders if this will be some kind of final test. Archer said his listing was up. Any day now someone could choose him. Two weeks for permanent contracting before he’d join the countless thousands available on a temporary basis. He wouldn’t make it that long, Archer said, he was just right. Archer called him Ace all day because he was getting him the biggest bonus of all the incentives and in record time. He bragged about him to everyone, even the other trainees. Any day now. 

So, whatever this is, he’ll do it. Another opportunity to prove himself. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance. 

It’s an opportunity. Even when they turn down the hall toward the sound-proofed rooms. He’s never failed before. Even when they string him up, arms spread wide. 

But then they take off the collar.

Cold dread runs down his spine, freezing his diaphragm, restricting his breath. The tiles feel like ice under his bare feet. Goosebumps rise on his arms and legs. 

Not once in all his time here, has he lost his collar. 

This isn’t a test, it’s a punishment. 

His breath comes quick and shallow, pressure building in his chest. 

One of the handlers crosses in front of him. “Sir, please,” he tries, his voice shaking and betraying his fear. “What is my command?” 

The handler ignores him. Doesn’t even bother telling him to shut up. He must have done something terrible but nothing comes to mind. 

He’s shaking in the restraints by the time they cut away his shirt. 

The first lash tears through any hope he had of being wrong. 

No one tells him to count but he does in his head, just for something to hold onto. 

By the fifth, gasps and whimpers start slipping out. 

Blood creeps down his back. 

Archer always told him when he made a mistake. Corrected him immediately. 

A dozen. He can’t hold it back any longer.  “Please,” he cries. “Please, what did I do?” 

The number climbs higher and higher. 

He’s screaming. Choking. He begs.

“What did I do wrong?” 

He loses count well before he blacks out. 

“Please—” 

But he keeps pace begging. Pleading. 

“What did I do?” 

No one answers. 

He’s no one, he’s nothing.

He’s alone. 

Masterlist

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

Sometimes it was enough to just dull the feeling out. Focus on anything else. How light trailed through the bars in front of him, shadows shifting as people passed in front of the door. Going about their days with no regard for him.

At first, Cathal had been loud. Resisting the mentality of being a willing victim. It only made things worse, and self-preservation was worth more to him than an unbreakable façade. Death would merely mean the suffering was over, not that he had won. Shredding his own dignity and conceding was a comparatively small price to pay.

 It hardly made this existence easier. An existence comprising of only violence and mind-numbing boredom would drain anyone.

In the distance, he heard low cries, only getting further away from his own cell. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilt. It might not have even been his opponent. Uncertainty was a blessing in disguise.

“This one,” Cathal didn’t look up at the words uttered on the other side of the cell bars.

“Can I go in?” a more hesitant voice. An air of unfamiliarity about it.

Keys rattled against the door, followed by a creak as it opened. Cathal watched in silence as the shadows cast across the floor moved closer.

“His name?”

“Cathal, Your Highness.”

It was almost enough to prompt Cathal to look upwards, but he kept his gaze stubbornly on the floor. It wouldn’t be above the guards to be using this as some kind of mockery. Some kind of scheme to – Cathal had no inkling of what their endgame may be.

“Cathal?” The second voice again, still strung with an air of lacked confidence. Not a guard, he could tell that much. Yet, he continued to ignore him.

“I’ll leave you alone with him,” the first voice spoke again. “Let me know if you need anything.”

The closing of the cell door – not locked – and the retreating shadow told Cathal that they were now alone in the room.

“Look at me,” an instruction, one which Cathal ignored. After a few moments, the man spoke again. “I want to propose a deal. Are you listening?”

Cathal nodded sharply. Still not looking up. Only to indicate that he was, in fact, listening.

“Good. I want to offer you the chance to finish out the rest of your sentence working for me.”

Cathal’s eyes remained on the floor as the shadow approached him.

Rather than repeating the instruction to look up, he crouched on one knee in front of Cathal. Getting down on his level. Without moving his attention upwards, Cathal could see the other man’s white trousers pressed into the dust, and a light pink jacket just barely brushing against the floor as he crouched. Clearly a man who didn’t mind getting his clothes dirty. When it became evident that Cathal was unfaltering, the man spoke again.

“My name is Laurent. You are Cathal, is that correct?”

Cathal gave another sharp nod. Only briefly spotting the ornate golden decoration on Laurent’s jacket. Expensive.

“You’ll be paid fairly for your work. Room and board – clothes, food. Anything you need to work effectively will be provided.”

Laurent sighed and sat back on his heels. Nothing he said seemed to be getting through to the man in front of him. Then again, he wouldn’t mind admitting that a situation like this pushed him far beyond his comfort zone.

He stood and approached the door, picking up a set of keys from the hook on the wall. Laurent turned them over in his hands, finding the one which he thought might fit Cathal’s restraints. The unlocked cell door didn’t intimidate him. He could hardly see the man kneeling behind him posing a serious threat. Not now.

In the ring? It had been a far different story. Laurent had watched him beat a man half to death just an hour prior. But, now? He was hardly the same person.

Laurent turned back to Cathal, slowly breaking the distance between them. With Cathal’s gaze still firmly on the ground, Laurent knelt beside him and rested a gentle hand on his cuffs.

“May I?” Laurent waited for Cathal to nod, before he unlocked the chain and allowed it to clatter back against the wall.

He did his best to ignore Cathal’s pained expression as he slumped to the side. No longer kneeling. Instead, awkwardly sitting with his legs under him, only slightly bent. Arms to his sides – palms pressed into the dirt to prevent himself falling any further. The cuffs still tight around his wrists.

With a sinking realization, Laurent realised they were welded on. Permanent.

“You took quite a beating out there today. Do you need anything?”

Cathal tried to keep his gaze downwards, but the kindness – even if it wasn’t, even if it was just neutrality – was new. A phenomenon rarely encountered. He glanced up at Laurent, following the other man as he sat back down on the floor. Back on Cathal’s level. Another anomaly.

“I’m not going to force you to agree to anything. You can have as much time as you need to think about it,” he paused, “But I would like you to come back with me tonight. Get some real food into you, a good night’s sleep. I don’t want you deciding on anything less than a clear head.”

Cathal nodded. The offer sounded too good to be true, as if Laurent’s words veiled a far more sinister agenda. But he had been given an order, and he was hardly in a position to refute it. If anything, a decent meal sounded good. Like something he should take advantage of, given half a chance.

“Do you want to stand?”

Laurent almost didn’t have the time to finish the offer before the guard from before was at the door.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

A rhetorical question, laced with a malice sharp enough for Laurent to flinch. Yet, Cathal remained unbothered.

The guard was between Laurent and Cathal in moments. Twisting one of Cathal’s arms awkwardly behind him. A strained gasp from Cathal – a cry with all of the energy beaten out of it, before he was face down on the floor.

“Stand down,” Laurent was also on his feet. “Immediately.”

“With all due respect –” almost a snarl.

“No. Stand down.”

The guard huffed out a breath, shoving himself backwards and off of Cathal.

“As of now, Cathal is my charge. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you’re to be reassigned. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Get me a shirt and boots. I am more than capable of handling the rest.”

“Of course, Sir. Anything else?”

“No. Leave them by the door. You are not to re-enter without my explicit permission.”

Cathal hadn’t moved, forehead pressed into the dirt. He knew what would happen if he did. More force. A much harsher beating. Floggings were far from uncommon, shown by deep scars that Laurent could see – etched permanently into Cathal’s back.

Scars that trailed back to Laurent’s own family’s regime.

“You can sit back up, if you’d like, Cathal,” a redundant offer, really. “Or we can wait a little longer.”

Cathal shook his head, still on the floor, before he sat back up. And he almost spoke, but held his tongue. Until ordered otherwise, he had no intention of speaking. He had learnt the hard way that anything he said, no matter how well intentioned, would lead back to severe punishment. Safety dictated that he said no more than what was necessary.

“I’m having them get you some clothes, it’s not a long walk, but still,” Laurent shifted his weight between his feet, glancing back at the door. He was far from comfortable here, and he couldn’t imagine how Cathal felt about this arrangement.

“You can stand,” Laurent put forth another offer. “If it’s too painful –”

Cathal shook his head once more, suppressing a grimace and pushed himself to his feet, holding one hand firmly over his ribs. No gut-wrenching crunch. Not broken. Just a bruise – he could live with that. It would look worse than it felt.

The guard reappeared at the door, not crossing the threshold, when he dumped a set of clothes and a pair of ankle cuffs in the doorway.

“Have at him,” he muttered, thinly veiled contempt. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”

“I do. And I don’t recall asking you for any more cuffs,” Laurent matched the tone taken with him. “That will be all.”

Cathal watched as the guard muttered something and left them alone again. He made no movement towards the clothes, instead, waiting for Laurent to instruct him or hand them to him. To his surprise, it was the latter.

“We’ll get you something more comfortable later, but this will do for now,” he handed the shirt and boots to Cathal.

When Cathal put them on, they were ill-fitting at best. Something that Cathal could easily ignore. Compared to everything else, he could class them as a luxury.

“You don’t need permission to speak,” Laurent said suddenly, as though he had only just considered that permission might explain the other man’s silence. Yet, Cathal still didn’t utter a word.

Even on the walk back to Laurent’s home, Cathal didn’t break his silence. Whether it was that he didn’t dare speak, or had nothing to say, Laurent couldn’t know for sure. But forcing Cathal to speak would be counterproductive. He would simply wait for the man to open up, no matter how long it took.