What?

Seven’s whole body shook with explosive anger, and for once, he let it take over. The feeling felt foreign yet so so right. Seven had never truly snapped like this in front of Wes before. He’d had too many years of experience internalizing all his frustrations. When the two of them were face to face, Seven was often too overwhelmed with fear and anxiety to let himself explode like this, but the feeling had been building for fucking years—like magma bubbling beneath the mouth of a volcano—a pressure in his head he was never able to release. It was always easier to take it out on himself—blame himself, tell himself he could somehow control the outcome if he only tried harder to be perfect. But the instinct to shove it down had abandoned him now, and he screamed into the night, hurling everything he wanted to say to Wes, who had long since disappeared down the hallway of the upstairs level. Seven pictured himself throwing himself at Wes full-force and tackling him into the wet tile. He imagined slamming a fist into his cheekbone and beating him into the ground until his face was bruised and bloody.

Seven sobbed and screamed until his throat ached, then screamed some more until it was so raw it hurt to even cry—but he couldn’t stop fucking crying. He slumped down in his forced kneeling position, spent and exhausted from all his screaming. His whole body shook with broken sobs—the tears were washed away instantly with the onslaught of the storm. The rain beat down on him with a relentless force, thoroughly soaking his exposed skin and his thin boxer briefs until his whole body felt heavy and waterlogged. As he came down from his fury high, the chill began to fully set in, and it penetrated through to his bones within just a few minutes. Every muscle was growing heavy, spent and exhausted. Panting heaving, ragged breaths, soaking in the unsatisfying comedown, Seven was painfully reminded of his dislocated shoulder. Without the anger or adrenaline to dampen his nerves, every spike of pain hit his shoulder’s socket like the sudden twist of a knife. 

He sat there, bent forward in the kneel, until his legs began to go numb, and the pins and needles started to hurt. His head felt like it was full of lead, and as his time there in the darkness went on, the cold seemed to seep through him even further, until he found himself curled up on his right side, shaking pitifully on the tile ground. The rainwater puddled around him—maybe half an inch on all sides. It was so fucking cold, but there was no escaping it. Seven had no other option but to lie there and shiver and wait it out. 

His dislocated shoulder couldn’t be ignored—the socket pulsed over and over with a sharp, nauseating pain. Apart from the cold, it was all he could focus on. The spikes of agony seemed to worsen each time they hit, forcing him to cry out through hoarse vocal chords and writhe weakly, rattling the chain that kept his cuffed wrists bolted to the balcony’s edge. On any other day, at a time like this, Seven would’ve tugged and yanked at the chain relentlessly, but with the agonizing fire radiating through his shoulder, even the mere thought of pulling against it made him want to throw up. 

He lay there in agony, drenched in the darkness. The rain beat down on his body, on his face, soaking his hair until he felt as wet and limp as a drowned man. He couldn’t keep track of time at all. His only sense that time was even passing were the bright flashes of lightning that made him flinch sharply and the crashing thunder that shook his whole body. It was hell. Had he been in any sort of mental state to analyze patterns, Seven may have reflected on the fact that this very thought crossed his mind rather frequently. But like Dante descending to a lower realm, tonight’s hell felt entirely new in the most awful, twisted way. 

He was cold—he was shuddering in pain—he was fucking lonely. Even Wes’ company was better than none at all, when left in a state like this. With nothing else to do, he cried some more, until he couldn’t anymore. His uninjured arm twisted and tugged at the wrist cuff behind his back, but that effort only dug the metal into his skin. He kept doing it anyway, just to feel something other than the bone-shivering cold or the spikes of pain in his left shoulder. He did it again and again, just to have a new kind of pain he could actually control. Any distraction was welcome. He didn’t care if the motion drew blood. It wouldn’t matter anyway—it would only be mixed in with the rushing cold rain and swept away as quickly as it had seeped out. 

His left arm lay there uselessly, spasming with the pain in its socket. The attached hand remained as still as possible, limp in its cuff, petrified with fear that any motion could make the stabbing pain even worse. Seven briefly considered slamming the dislocated shoulder down into the wet tile to try and push it back into the socket, but the idea made his stomach lurch with dread and he decided that waiting it out would probably be less agonizing than trying and failing. Nothing horrified him more in that moment than the thought of slamming his shoulder into the tile ground, only to miss and knock it even further out of place. He might actually black out from the pain if he tried that. 

Though, on second thought, maybe blacking out would be a blessing at a time like this. Seven thought about it, but still didn’t move. He just lay there on his right side and curled his legs up into his bare torso as far as he could. He shivered against the barrage of the rain, against the cruel bite of the wind on his soaking wet skin. His teeth had started chattering a long time ago, but it was getting to a point where it had started to hurt. He tried biting the inside of his cheek in an attempt to quell the motion, and though that seemed to work for a little while, he had to stop biting when he tasted blood. Despair settled in, heavy as the battering rain—as the roaring thunder. A hopeless resignation twisted in his chest, pressing him down into the puddled tile. His eyes glazed over, and he let them slip shut. He didn’t sleep; he only wished for unconsciousness to take him.

༻✦༺

At some point, after what felt like a lifetime, a hazy gray light penetrated through Seven’s eyelids, and he flicked them open. Blinking through the water on his eyelashes, he saw that day was breaking. There was a sun peaking over a horizon somewhere, above all the heavy gray clouds. Its warmth wouldn’t reach him here. He was shaking so badly now that he couldn’t even force himself to sit up, but despite it all, a tiny flicker of hope sparked within him at the onset of a new day. Wes—please—please come back. As the gray light grew steadily brighter, Seven began to feel frantic, and he’d resorted to begging once more, pleading with the man who could not hear him. Please—come to the door— Wake up, please, Wes— Come to the door—

And then, like a desert traveler glimpsing an oasis, he saw him. Wes was coming down the stairs. Seven’s heart was beating out of his chest—he instinctively pulled against the chain and then screamed when it pulled on his dislocated shoulder. He tried sitting up, but got so dizzy he collapsed again and his head hit the ground and rattled his skull. He didn’t stop begging. Through strained, sore vocal chords and chattering teeth, Seven didn’t stop pleading the whole time as Wes walked outside and stalked towards him, this time, holding an umbrella overhead. 

“Wes—” Seven desperately choked out, then quickly remembered his manners. “Sir—Master, please—please let me go—please please please, Sir!” He pleaded like his life depended on it, like he would die if left out here a moment longer. His body realistically couldn’t take much more of this. Seven didn’t know much about hypothermia, but this seemed like a surefire way to contract it.

Wes said nothing, only bent down and unlocked the chain from the railing. “God—th-thank you, Sir, thank you, thankyou—” Seven was crying again, in relief this time. Wes tugged at Seven’s hair until he was once again in a kneeling position, but Seven was so unsteady he wavered on his knees and started to slump back down into the rainsoaked tile. Wes grunted impatiently, but reached a sturdy arm around Seven’s waist, easily hoisting his servant’s naked, dripping body up and over his shoulder. Seven yelped when his injured shoulder joint was jostled, but he bit his lip hard to avoid making any further noise. He’d do anything to keep Wes from getting annoyed with him so soon—he wanted to be taken inside right now more than anything in the world. 

Tears of relief streamed down his face when he was brought back in and deposited on the marble floor. It was so much warmer in here, but he was still soaked to the bone and shaking with the cold. His jaw ached with how hard his teeth were clanking together.

After shutting the door, Wes crossed his arms and stared down at Seven, who sat huddled in a wet heap on the floor. “Now, what did we learn last night, servant?”

Seven blinked up at him with wide, red eyes, trying to remember how this whole nightmare had begun. “D—don’t…” his teeth were chattering away viciously. “Don’t b-be a— a f-fucking h-whore, S-sir..” Wes cocked an eyebrow at him expectantly, and he hastily racked his memory and stammered out the rest. “F-for—for— a-anyone tha-that… that i-isn’t y-you, Sir.” Seven held his breath, desperately hoping that was the right answer. He exhaled deeply in relief when Wes smirked down at him. Approval.

“Yeah, alright, I’ll take it,” Wes said. “Congradulations, you survived.”

“Thank you, S-sir, thank you, thank you—” Seven was babbling but he could barely think, he was just so relieved to be out of the storm. One thing was pressing on his mind though: he wanted warmth more than anything right now. 

“M-may—may I— please sh-shower, Sir?” he put on his best pleading eyes. Please Wes— He just needed this one thing and then he would be good and perfect again.

“Fine, whatever,” Wes huffed. “Go take a fucking shower. You look fucking terrible.”

Seven’s torso slumped in relief, but the motion jolted pain through his shoulder joint, and he realized he still had a major problem. He paled, looking back up at Wes, dreading that he had to make a second request before he could fulfill the first. “Wait— Um… Um S-sir,” Seven struggled to speak around the shivering. “My—um… my… my sh-shoulder, Sir—”

His efforts were cut off when Wes let out a sharp laugh. “Oh yeah! I completely forgot about that!” He seemed delighted to be reminded. 

“Alright, c'mere," Wes said, bending down and unlocking the cuffs that still bound his servant’s wrists behind his back. Tossing the metal restraints aside, Wes firmly gripped Seven’s injured arm with one hand and placed another on his back. Seven shrieked in agony when Wes suddenly shoved his arm back in against his body. After a moment of excruciating pressure, there was another sickening pop in Seven’s shoulder and Wes’ hands retreated. Seven gasped and panted on the floor, his right hand clutching his left arm protectively. It still hurt—fuck did it hurt—but it felt so much better now compared to before. Seven lifted his left hand and stared down at his own quivering fingers as he moved them around. Electric heat still radiated through the joint, but he was in so much less pain now, and for that he was fucking relieved.

“Th-thank you, S-Sir..” Tears pooled in his eyes once again—summoned by pure gratitude this time–and Seven blinked up at Wes with reverence. His devil and his God. 

“Great,” Wes said dryly. “I’m not going to wait around all day for you to shower, so get fucking to it.” Wes snapped his fingers and Seven visibly flinched. 

Seven tried to scramble to his feet, but his shaking legs slipped on the now wet marble and Wes caught him with a single outstretched arm before he could hit the floor again. 

“Jesus, fucking useless...” Wes muttered to himself, though Seven swore there was a hint of amusement in his tone. Wes slung Seven’s small frame over his shoulder once more and carried him off to the downstairs bathroom. When he reached it, he deposited Seven into the empty tub, leaving him shivering in nothing but his boxers. 

“Now hurry the fuck up,” Wes ordered. “When you’re done, get your ass in the kitchen. I’m fucking starving.” 

“Y-yes, Sir,” came Seven’s weak but grateful acknowledgement. Without another word, Wes left Seven in the tub and slammed the bathroom door behind him. 

༻✦༺

Part 3 is in progress! 

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His dreams are haunted whenever he manages to sleep. He jerks awake each time something hurts too much not to demand his complete attention. His eyes are sticky with dehydrated tears. Sometimes, he thinks someone is in the room with him. He doesn’t know if these are dreams or hallucinations.

If the man is going to kill him this way…

He wouldn’t. He’s been clear Felix’s death belongs on camera. A quiet, boring, unwitnessed death would be a waste. It’s not what he wanted for Christine, and it’s not what he wants now. It can’t be, but he let it happen by accident at least once.

Felix bounces back and forth, both accepting and raging against the idea of dying strung up like this. Sometimes when the exhaustion starts to pull him under he hopes he doesn’t wake up. He always does.

He rolls his shoulders slowly and his bones creak. He chews some skin off of his bottom lip. He starts counting, loses track, and starts again. He wakes up screaming. He falls asleep shivering. How long will this take?

The next time he wakes up, it’s because he’s crumbled to the floor.

Felix jolts up, every muscle in total agony. The man is standing over him, still holding the cuffs in his hand. Felix catches his breath and clasps both his hands behind his neck. His arms feel locked up and stiff, he’ll have to lower them slowly. He doesn’t even look up.

“Are we feeling more level-headed?” The man asks.

“Yes,” Felix answers breathlessly without really considering the question. Tears of relief fall down his face, depleting him further. Everything still hurts, but at least he’s down. He whines through clenched teeth when he tries to lower his arms, and he can hear the man huff though his nose in apparent amusement.

Felix forces his head up.

“How long—?” his own voice sounds foreign to him.

“Total? Just about 48 hours. You could have gone another 24, if not a little longer. For future reference.” the man says, swinging the cuffs idly.

Felix understands this the way it was no doubt intended: as a threat.

“Can we—We need to talk,” Felix says and the man hums expectantly. There is silence while Felix holds his breath and forces his arms down to his sides. He breathes out with a hitching shudder. He looks up at the man in near panic.

“I want to make this easier,” he swallows.

“For me or you?” The man tilts his head. He looks like a living shadow with the stairway light behind him.

“For me. For both of us,” Felix says, “I don’t want it to be like-like-like this.” The permanent worry that settles between the boy’s brows seems to have deepened.

“So what are you getting at, darlin’?”

“I don’t know. I-I want to bargain. Not bargain—I want-fuck-I just can’t have it be like this all the time.” Felix curls over his own knees grasping at his hair and forces down a sob. Composed, or at least partly, he raises back up. The man is watching him thoughtfully.

“You’re not going to let me go,” Felix isn't asking.

“No,” the man confirms. There is no malice. Felix sighs.

“Then I don’t want to keep making this harder. This is already…I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I acted the other night. Nothing like that will ever happen again. Please. Please just give me a break. I get it now, I don’t think I did before. I know my life is over, but please let me be a human being while I’m-while I’m still here.”

“You know what I hate most about you?” The man asks.

Felix hangs his head and presses the heels of his hand into his eyes in exasperation. Something desperate and childish whines in his throat. He doesn’t answer. The man grabs his hair, and forces his neck back. The boy keeps his eyes shut and halfheartedly shields his face.

“It’s how much of a pussy you are. You know, you showed up here with your teeth already kicked in, I didn’t do that.”

“I fought like hell to get out of here,” Felix says brokenly as his throat aches and threatens even more tears. The man scoffs.

“I’ve had to chase people all the way out into the street. You couldn’t get halfway up the stairs,” he’s laughing again. Felix tries to turn his head, but the man doesn’t let him.

“What about your fucking star pupil? If that’s what marks everyone’s worth to you. She didn’t even try,” Felix yells through tears, and the man rolls his eyes.

“Sure, yeah. Christine was pathetic. She was also demented. What is your preoccupation with her?” The man asks, his tone edging on boredom.

“My preoccupation!? You’re obsessed with her. And she’s dead! Because of you!” Felix is desperate for a fault, a crack in the man’s facade he prays is covering something else, anything else. He doesn’t see one.

Two years ago

The man is crouched in front of Christine’s sleeping form. She‘s wrapped in her blankets on the basement floor, and curled into a little ball, shielded from the cold. Only her eyes, her shackled wrist, and a bit of her wild hair is exposed. The man slowly starts unwrapping her. She stretches, still asleep, writhing and moaning in unconscious protest. He palms her cheek, and pushes some hair out of her face.

“Come on, angel, let’s wake up, yeah?” He speaks lowly and she whines back. Her eyes flutter open before she squints up at him.

“Sleep okay?” he asks and she mutters something unintelligible.

“Do you know what today is?” the man urges her upright. She yawns loudly.

“Leap Day?”

“It’s your birthday,” the man says, twirling a dark tendril of her hair. Christine frowns.

“Am I old?” she asks.

“No, never. Listen, I want to take you out,” the man says.

“Outside?” she perks up at this.

“Yeah, out, out,” he confirms, “where do you want to go? I’ll take you just about anywhere.”

“The Shelburne Museum,” she answers quickly.

“Really?” the man asks, incredulous in a way that makes Christine narrow her eyes at him. He remembers field trips spent bored to tears at the Shelburne.

“I like it there,” she says, defensively.

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up, before reaching down and unlocking her.

“I’m gonna take you upstairs for a shower. You want to get lunch first?”

“Do you still have my purse?” Christine asks, rubbing her wrist.

The man cocks his head.

“I’m not sure, why?”

“I had some mascara in it I think. I wanna look pretty. For…,” her voice trails off.

“For our date?”

She nods feverishly. The man laughs at her and the sound tugs at the corner of her lips.

After she showers, Christine squirms on a wooden kitchen chair in one of the man’s t-shirts while he brushes through her wet, tangled curls.

“You’re pulling too hard,” she says, fiddling with one of the man’s sketchbooks, and flipping through harsh, charcoal illustrations.

“Shut up. You’re lucky I don’t cut it all off,” he steadies her head for what must be the dozenth time. She ignores the threat and continues turning pages.

“I want to do this one next,” she gently taps at the drawing with a gnawed down fingernail. The man glances down at the design. It’s a pinned moth with its intricate wings tattered and disintegrating down the page. The eyespots on the wings look like human eyes, rolled back and blood shot.

“You want the ink or you want me to pin and set you between some glass?” he asks.

Christine snickers and the man leans over and nips at her neck, making her squeal. He sees a tiny bruise forming as he gets back to work on her hair.

———————————————————

When they get in the car the man produces a small purple tube from his pocket and drops it in Christine’s lap. She gasps.

“You found it!” She pops the mascara open and flips the mirror down. She applies the product messily, and then uses her pinky finger to smudge the extra out around her eyes. As he drives, the man notices her fussing with a still healing split on her lower lip. She looks disappointed as her tongue dips out to lick at it.

He grips the wheel tighter recalling how she looked up at him with the blood running down her chin. His knuckles turn white as he imagines himself slamming the brakes, grabbing her, and reopening the wound with his teeth.

“So can I have it?” her voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Have what?”

“The tattoo. The moth. For my birthday?” she asks, fishing around his center console.

“Oh, sure. What-what are you doing? Can you sit still?” he says glancing only peripherally.

Christine settles, twisting open a peppermint she found and pops it into her mouth.

“Sorry.”

———————————————————

In the parking lot, the man loops the straps of a black N95 behind his ears before handing one to Christine. She watches him pull his hair back and don a black baseball cap.

“You look like a fed,” she says pointing at him. He smiles even though she can’t see it.

“Put your mask on,” he says. She listens and then zips up the hoodie he gave her to cover the bruises and scars littered across her arms.

“You’re going to stay next to me. And you’re not going to talk to anyone, you understand?” he asks.

“What if someone talks to me?”

“They won’t.”

“But what if they do?” she tilts her head and the man can see her nose crinkle just under the brim of her mask.

“Do you want to go back?”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom? Do I have to follow you into the men’s room?”

The man gives up and starts towards the admissions building. After a moment, he feels Christine’s hand gently intertwine with his. Her fingers feel like ice.

———————————————————

Christine huffs loudly when he pays for the tickets, prompting an odd look from the cashier. As they walk away the man squeezes her hand harshly.

“What is wrong with you?” He asks.

“I was going to look at the name on your credit card when you paid, but you used cash,” she admits, “why won’t you tell me?”

The man rolls his eyes while she bats her own.

“At this point it’s on principle,” the man says.

Christine’s focus on the topic wanes as they come up on the huge red barn on the museum grounds.

“I always wanted to get married there,” she says dreamily, and with no hint of sorrow that the man can detect. The building is closed up at the moment, and he can’t remember if he‘d ever seen the inside before. He listens and walks with her while she continues describing the lights and the flowers and centerpieces for the wedding she’d never have.

She seems solely interested in walking through the gardens. The man is relieved to learn he won’t have to stare at paintings all day. Christine gets winded shockingly fast and finds benches to rest at frequently. She laughs nervously, catching her breath and clinging to his hand. He makes a mental note to get her walking around more often at home. The grounds are virtually empty so he takes her mask from her.

“You‘ll put it back on if you want to go inside anywhere, alright?”

She nods and takes a sip from his water bottle before sliding closer to him. She tugs his mask down and presses a kiss to his lips. Her fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt like an anchor point. He kisses her back softly, letting her set the pace.

They both have the distinct sense that this is playacting. Neither are accustomed or even comfortable with this delicate sweetness. The man thumbs her cheek, smiling against her mouth until she giggles. At a birthday party you have to play the games the birthday girl wants to play, no matter how boring they are. He doesn’t know if he’s lying to himself and the thought fades away unexamined as she pulls back. She turns to face the flowering bushes across the path. He thinks she has tears in her eyes.

———————————————————

A little after noon, they make it to the cafe, and stop inside to cool off. The man gets her settled at a table in the corner before crossing the dining area to order at the counter. While he waits he glances back at her. Her head is tilted back as she drinks from his water bottle and after she‘s finished she remains preoccupied with the high, vaulted ceiling.

The cashier gets his attention and he turns around to order. French fries and a Caesar salad for her, she had been very specific. He gets himself a turkey sandwich and expects to finish some of what she can’t. She already isn’t stomaching much food at home, and especially nothing fried.

He pays the girl at the counter and takes the number from her. After a minute or so of standing he looks back the table. Christine is no longer at it.

Something unfamiliar grips deep in the man’s chest. He stays stock still, but his mind races as quickly as the perspiration fills his clenched fists. He’s going to kill her. He’s going to kill everyone in this building. Whoever that bitch ran to for help is seconds away from getting their head stomped in. He’ll drag her back to that barn and throttle her in it.

‘Til death do us part.

The plug is pulled on the red filling his vision as he scans the room and sees her crouched in front of a window. She’s hugging her knees and watching something he can’t see intently.

The fear and anger give way to something more baseline—a different, quieter anger, drowning quickly in relief. He breathes out through pursed lips. The girl at the counter calls out to him and he feels himself jump. She quirks her brow at him, smiling.

“Sorry,” he barks out a rehearsed laugh, “lost in thought,” he finishes, taking the tray of food from her.

The man sits at the table and the sound of his return breaks Christine out of her trance. He sees now the spider web outside the window that caught her attention. The big black and yellow spider scurries toward a fly as Christine stands up and comes back to the table. He catches her eyes and she beams at him.

She picks at her food, eating slowly over the next several, silent minutes. She reaches for the pickle spear on his tray and pauses to look up at him.

“Take it,” he says, shrugging.

“This has been the best birthday ever,” she says, resting her cheek on her fist. The man thinks that is objectively sad, but he believes her. She licks softly at the split in her lip, appearing deep in thought.

“What are the chances I get another one?” she asks without looking at him.

The man has no idea, and for the second time today: something unfamiliar grips deep in his chest.

Present day

“You need a fucking nap, Fee,” the man says as the cuff latch clicks shut around the boy’s wrist. Felix hates that he can’t get his lower lip to stop wobbling.

“Christine meant as little to me as you do,” the man speaks evenly, while he turns to leave, “as all of you do.”

Defeated, exhausted, Felix grabs the driest blanket from the pile that got doused when he did. It reeks of mildew and he decides he doesn’t need it. He’s inching back against the wall and curling up to find some relief for his aching body when he sees the man stop in the doorway. Felix watches him grip the doorframe with one hand and aggressively rub at his temple with the other. The man hisses out a curse. After a beat he slowly turns back around, something dangerous glinting in his eyes.

The look makes Felix shrink.

“What did you just say?” the man asks lowly. Felix stares back.

“Wha-what?” he squeaks back.

The man is taking heavy footsteps back towards him.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” He speaks slowly, like Felix is stupid. Felix huddles away as far as he can.

“No-no-no I-I don’t kn—I didn’t—” the man kicks him. Hard. Felix doubles over and scrambles back pulling his knees up. The blows keep landing. The man looks wild-eyed. He braces himself with his hands against the wall behind Felix’s back.

“You little fucking prick,” the man seethes.

Felix screams, shielding himself where he can and taking a boot wherever he can’t.

“I didn’t say anything! I didn’t say anything!” he sobs, but the man doesn’t stop. Not until he’s exhausted. Not until Felix is dry heaving and hoarse and curled up limply like a dying insect. The man finally steps back, breathing heavily, and smooths his hair back. Felix is crying into the crook of his elbow, repeating over and over that he never said anything like it’s a mantra keeping him alive. The man leaves.

When he hears the door shut, Felix sobs—really sobs. Nothing is held back. He cries so hard and so loud and so long that he’s sure the man will come back downstairs and finish what he started. He doesn’t.

Minutes or days later when he finally runs out of air and tears, Felix decides to disappear. As far as anyone, anywhere is concerned: he will stop existing. He will have no desires, no opinions, no thoughts to speak of. He decides the only death left is that of his body. He decides that everything else is already gone.

—————————————————————————

“HANDS UP! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” Caius shouted, and Tommy bleated out short, panicked whimpers. His cries drowned out the sound of the whip in the air, and he arched violently into the wall as a ribbon of agony split the skin over his shoulder blades. 

“Useless fucking – HANDS UP!! UP!!!” Caius rounded on him, folding the whip in his hand to jab him in the ribs with it. Tommy cowered against the wall, screaming sobs into his arms pressed to the cement. 

“ARE YOU ACTUALLY RETARDED??” 

“NO!” Tommy shouted back, and he bit down to hide the chattering of his teeth. Fuck, there they go. When he was scared enough, his teeth chattered together like he was freezing. He wasn’t helping his case by talking back.

“DO YOU THINK YOU CAN FUCKING WASTE MY TIME WITH THIS SHIT???”

“NO! NO CAIUS, PLEASE, PLEASE N– UNNGH!” Tommy gaped uselessly for air as his head was wrenched back, his scalp nearly pulled from his skull from the ferocity with which he yanked at him. He was dragged a few feet back away from the wall, and he wailed in fear as he lost the scant security of the cement shielding his front. 

“Back, step back, YOU USELESS FUCKING BITCH, SPREAD YOUR LEGS!!!”

Tommy wheezed in shallow, terrified gasps, paralyzed with fear. Caius kicked the inside of his ankle, and again higher, until Tommy spread his stance. A blow to the inside of his other leg nearly took him down, swaying on his feet for one stomach-churning moment before he caught himself and straightened. He barely found his footing, legs weak with pain as Caius dragged his head forwards. 

“Don’t you dare fucking move your feet, stay RIGHT there, put your fucking hands up. PUT THEM UP!!! CAN YOU GET THAT THROUGH YOUR THICK FUCKING SKULL?? CAN YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT???” 

Ears ringing with Caius’s words, Tommy put his hands out in front of him, leaning forwards to meet the cement with open palms. “L-le do thoil, an t-Uasal Caius, le do thoil!!”

“SUAS! Suas, SUAS–” 

He obliged, walking his hands clumsily up the wall until he couldn’t reach any higher. It forced his body into a straight line leaning over, bridging the gap between where his feet were placed to his hands a few steps forwards up on the wall. He struggled to keep himself up, with weak ankles wide apart and hands outstretched. His frail core spasmed as he struggled to stabilize himself, and he shook violently with the strain, his wounds burning fiercely.

“I’m sorry! I’m so-o-o-orry!!!” He cried, but Caius shoved his head down hard enough to jar his neck. 

“Don’t you dare move, you hear me? Not one fucking inch. Hold it.” 

“Ahhgh– UGHH! UHNN– PLEASE!!” No further time was wasted before he was taking licks again, agony on his battered body. His hands slid down the wall before he could stop them, his arms instinctively pulling back to shield his body.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY?!” Caius exploded in rage, and Tommy forced them back up. Tears dripped from his face, and he felt sick. 

“I’m– I’m sorry! I’m sorEAUGHH, NO!! LE DO THOIL, le do thoil, ta bron– ta bron AUGH!! TA BRON ORM, TA BRON ORM!!! LE– LE–” A dry heave shook him, and he was glad nothing came up. If he threw up, Caius would be irate – if it was possible for him to be more so than he was already. A wicked lash wrapped around his hip, rattling him, and his arms slid back down the wall. 

Something popped in his ankle when Caius kicked his legs out from under him, and he hit the ground hard. Curling onto his side pressed uncomfortably against his overworked lungs, but it was the best he could do to hold himself together when a hard kick made his back seize with pain. Another caught his shoulderblade, and then his ribs were bending under the pressure as Caius stomped his side. He was panting for breath now, too, and he circled him agitatedly. 

“Get up. Onto your back. Crab position. Portan. You hear me? I’m going to put some color in those thighs.” Two fists seized Tommy’s hair, forcing him onto his back. Grit from the cement floor grated like sandpaper on his wounds. Caius straightened back up and ran a hand through his hair to push the sweaty strands away from his forehead, pausing to fix his glasses. Tommy struggled to get his arms under him, gasping in pain when his ankles protested his weight. Wheezing, laboured breaths forced their way in and out of him in hyperventilation. Caius was utterly terrifying like this, eyes blazing, screaming at him like a banshee. He seemed impossibly tall and monstrous, easily dwarfing Tommy’s small frame and towering over him with the whip. 

It was with the grimmest of determinations that Tommy pulled himself up off the floor, wavering in his balance on his feet as his bent legs shook with effort. His arms under him felt like his bones were made of gummy, but locking his elbows helped him stabilize. 

Crab position, crab position…he remembered the steps from his training. He could still hear the echo of Caius’s voice from what felt like centuries ago. 

“Sit with your legs in front of you. Bend your knees and plant your feet on the floor. Here… like this… good boy. Open them wider… at least you’re good at that part, little whore. Now put your hands on the ground behind you.”

“Push yourself up on your hands and come up on your legs. Hips up. UP.”

A swift kick fixed his stance. 

“Good. Now hold it…no matter what I do to you. “

He huffed out a soft moan of pain as he struggled to obey Caius’s demands.

He knew it would happen a moment before it did, but he was too exhausted to react fast enough. Caius’s icy gaze fixed upon him, his mouth curling in disgust as he glared down at him. He drew a leg up in an arcing motion and stomped right down on Tommy’s diaphragm. 

It forced the wind out of him so hard he choked up bile, collapsing back onto the cement as his body failed. It felt like taking a bomb blast to the stomach, and he writhed uselessly beneath him as the pain sharpened unbearably. All the wind had been knocked from him, and drawing even a single breath in hurt too much to bear. 

“Get back into position. Now.” As much as Tommy hated being screamed at, he feared the danger in Caius’s low, deadly voice just as much. Acid filled his veins as his lungs burned for air, still spasming from the hit. His body moved robotically without conscious thought, forcing him back up onto his palms and feet. Caius swung the whip under the space beneath him, swatting his ass until he was arching up, shaking violently with the strain. Prodding at the inside of his thighs forced him to readjust, opening his legs wider. 

“Hold it.”

Tommy’s thighs were already burning, his body rigid and tense with overexertion as he struggled to keep the position. The whip came down across the tops of his thighs and he jerked violently, managing to retain his stance only by some sick miracle. Caius painted stinging lashes of punishment up and down his thighs, excited by the violent shivering that showed how hard Tommy was struggling to endure it. He watched with lidded eyes as Tommy’s chest rose and fell in racking sobs. The whip bit down into the soft crease of his thigh where it met his hip, and Tommy let out a sharp cry as he collapsed to the floor. In a quivering jumble of pale limbs and red eyes, he curled weakly away from Caius on the ground. 

“Look at me.”

Tommy cracked an eye open. Caius was a little calmer now, growing tired, but Tommy could feel his anger still boiling. He lifted his head and faced him, pleading eyes meeting his icy stare. 

The whip drew an S in the air with Caius’s practiced hand, and Tommy’s head was thrown to the side from the force of the blow as a crevice of fire erupted across his cheek. 

Tommy raised a grimy hand to his face, his eyes wide with horror. Just an inch or two off and… he would have lost an eye. He lowered his hand over his lips, trying to smother the terrified whimpers escaping him on every shallow exhale. 

Caius could see the hurt in his eyes. Tommy couldn’t look away from him now, just laid there and cried and waited for more. Irritated, Caius threw the whip down at him, and he flinched harshly away from it. Caius’s chest heaved as he caught his own breath, sweating from anger and excitement and exertion. He kneeled onto Tommy’s shoulder to keep his pants clean, and his ward’s face twisted with pain. Caius cupped his cheek, flicking the tip of his thumbnail over the line he’d left. 

Tommy was shivering, and he was in too much pain to speak. He did not just plead with his eyes - he groveled for mercy at his feet with the look he gave him. Weakly, he leaned into Caius’s touch, seeking comfort in spite of the pain. Caius felt him tugging at his heart strings– he loved it when he could get Tommy to this point. His feisty little angel, defeated. The pain in those eyes made him look so deliciously wanton. 

He wanted to rape him. 

He took off his belt, slowly. Let Tommy whimper, his eyes fluttering closed and squeezing tightly shut. 

“Get on your fucking knees.”

He almost had to admire Tommy’s will to please him when he dragged himself back up on his knees. He knew what was coming. His eyes shined with tears and with dread, but he put on the best brave face he could. He would endure it, and he knew it would not kill him. He’d gotten very brave about taking Caius’s cock, even if he was still scared. 

Caius rubbed himself through his pants, so close to Tommy’s face that his knuckles grazed his lips. He was hard already from hurting Tommy, making him beg for mercy that would not come. 

Tommy was more scared than usual - he was terrified of passing out and failing Caius’s demands. He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself, before leaning it to nuzzle against his length. Caius shoved him away and unzipped his pants, pushing them down to let himself pop free. It swayed heavily in front of Tommy’s face as he approached, more cautious this time, looking up at Caius to try to gauge his unspoken demands. When Caius didn’t push him away, he hesitantly licked at his head, starting to suckle on the tip.

Caius realized, in a split second, that he had no reason to let Tommy go this slow. He wanted him now. So he put one hand roughly in his hair, the other pinching his nose shut, and shoved his cock down Tommy’s throat to the base. 

Tommy gagged, his throat spasming around the intrusion. Caius gave him no time to adjust, quickly working up a pace to fuck his face. He wanted to punish him with his cock. 

Tommy’s mouth kept obediently open for Caius to ravage, struggling for a gasp of breath whenever he could. He quickly began to feel light headed, and nausea bubbled up in his stomach. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to blink them away, unable to stop the cascade. 

For as much as Tommy suffered, Caius was pleased. Tommy’s mouth was hot and wet, throat fluttering around his cock as his sheath struggled to breathe. Caius looked down at Tommy’s face, pink scleras and green irises, long black lashes sticking together in romantic little wisps.

Tears hung in his eyelashes like drops of dew in a spider’s web, glistening like diamonds against a look of fear. Caius was well aware he could suffocate him right here, just like this, a pathetic end to a pathetic life - but no. Tommy had caused his aching hard-on, so he was going to take care of it now, too. 

Caius let go of Tommy’s nose as he pulled out, wrapping a fist around himself and pumping cum onto Tommy’s face. Tommy mewled pitifully, the warm streaks marking him as an owned bitch while he struggled to regain his breath. 

“You have to learn.”

Tommy swallowed dryly and nodded.

Caius put a foot on his chest and kicked him back, throwing him to the floor.

“Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

His bruised ankles were swelling, all his raw skin throbbing where he’d been battered. Tommy only dared hiss softly in pain as he forced himself back up onto his knees, beginning the long crawl to his room. He could hear Caius following close behind, stalking him on his labored escape like a bird closing in on a worm.

The door slammed closed behind him as soon as he made it past the threshold, jamming into his foot and letting out a dull clunk with the sound of the lock. He collapsed onto the thin carpet and laid there, too exhausted and hurt to even think about picking himself up again until his tears had slowed to a trickle and he was able to breathe normally. Well, mostly normally; his ribs had taken a battering and it hurt to take a breath too deep. He stayed there curled up on the floor, miserable. 

~

~

Taglist:

@suspicious-whumping-egg  @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @whumpinggrounds @galactic-worm @hellodecisionparalysis

@blurryeyeswhump @sirfenris @absolutebeanloverr @girlsdogmotif @scoundrelwithboba

The shower room left much to be desired in terms of privacy. Daniel was stripped down in the dressing area outside the showers, it took two handlers to wrestle his arms in front of him and ziptie his wrists together after he was naked. His shock collar was removed and a simple, albeit scratchy and uncomfortable, dog collar was pulled around his neck. He was dragged into the shower room, passing by another shaking and shivering trainee as they were led out. He tried to keep his eyes down whenever he saw other trainees. He knew he certainly didn’t want anyone looking at him right now.

Inside the shower room were several stalls on either side of the room, though usually only two or three of them were in use at a time. One of the handlers, Handler Smith, kicked the back of his leg and sent him crashing to his knees, he winced as he landed hard on the tile floor. There was a chain on the floor, as well as a chain hanging from the ceiling. The chain on the floor clipped to his collar, the one from the ceiling clipped to the zipties, forcing his arms above his head, but keeping him from moving around too much. It was humiliating, he was completely exposed and at the mercy of these people who snickered and sneered at him.

“Damn, he must’ve been popular with the girls.” Handler Emerson whistled, looking pointedly between his legs. His face went red, his stomach dropped as he used his foot to force his thighs further apart. “Come on boy, don’t be so shy.”

“Would you leave me the fuck alone?!” He snarled, but the handlers just laughed at him. Smith grabbed the shower head and turned it on, he flinched away as soon as he was hit with the cold water. Maybe he would’ve willingly put up with this for a hot shower, but it was always lukewarm at best. Combined with the ever freezing temperature inside the building, it just made him miserable.

“He’s awfully demanding for a dog, ain’t he?” Smith said, Daniel’s body tense as he sprayed him down with the cold water.

“I’m not a damn dog!” He growled, which just made them laugh again. He must’ve said that phrase a hundred times a day since he’d been here. He was starting to wonder if he was still trying to convince them, or himself.

“He’s fucking mouthy is what he is.” Emerson said. “Always barking and barking, I like it better when he’s muzzled.” Daniel flinched when he touched him, using a soaped up washcloth to wash his body. It was humiliating to be bathed like this, to be bathed by another person at all, but at the end of the day, it was his only hope of getting a break from the blood and sweat that constantly covered him.

“I’d like it better if you were muzzled, fucking asshole.” He growled, only for Smith to raise the shower head, briefly spraying him directly in the face with water.

“Bad dog, watch your mouth.” He ordered him.

“Fuck you! I’m not a fucking dog, I’ll say whatever the hell I want!”

“Look mutt, that mouth of yours is going to get you in more trouble than you could ever imagine once you’re out of here. We’re doing you a favor by training it out of you now.” He said sternly.

“You aren’t doing me any favors!” He cried. “You’re all just sick fucking freaks who get off on torturing me!”

“That’s enough!” The man snapped, slapping him across the face.

“Hey, I got an idea.” Emerson said, he stepped away for a moment and came back with something in his hand. “Hold his mouth open for me, will ya?” He said, and the other handler obliged. He grabbed Daniel by the jaw but he instantly shut his mouth, trying to wrench his head away from him. The man pinched his nose shut, and Daniel tried his hardest to hold out, but he couldn’t, eventually his mouth fell open, he tried to take a quick breath but it was already too late. A hand was on his jaw, forcing him to keep his mouth open, and something was shoved between his teeth, awful and bitter and, he quickly realized, soapy.

He gagged, trying to spit it out, but the handler held a hand over his mouth, forcing him to endure it. He tried desperately to jerk away from him but it was useless, the chains and the men held him in place. He couldn’t handle it though, soap mixed with his saliva and ran down his throat, he thought he was going to be sick. He whimpered pathetically, much to the delight of the handlers.

“See, puppy. This is what happens when you’ve got a foul mouth.” Emerson sneered.

“Be lucky it’s this, your owner might just cut your tongue out.” Smith told him. After some more struggling, he finally managed to pull away from them and spit the bar of soap from his mouth, coughing and gagging, saliva running down his chin. He kept spitting on the floor, desperate to get the taste out of his mouth, but it was no use, he could still feel it stuck to his teeth, his eyes watered as he tried to cough up what was left. The handlers didn’t like that, Smith sprayed him in the face again, only making him cough more.

“Such a filthy fucking mutt.” Emerson muttered. “Can’t believe this thing is going to Whitaker.”

“He won’t last long if he keeps up this behavior.” Smith said. Daniel had found himself unwilling to speak up again. They’d wanted to shut him up, and they’d certainly got it, humiliating him into a bitter, resentful silence. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the floor for the rest of the shower, which didn’t last too long.

Once it was over, he was dried off with a rough towel and taken back to the dressing area. His collar was put back on him immediately, and he was given a clean set of clothes to wear, the same plain black shirt and pants all the other trainees wore. He was grateful just to have clothing at this point. Each handler kept a tight grip on his upper arm as he was led back to his cell, shivering the whole time, his hair still damp, drops of water running down his back. One of them opened the door while the other shoved him to the floor.

“I bet you’ll remember to watch your damn mouth next time.” Emerson snickered, before shutting the door. Daniel wouldn’t have said anything even if he’d had the chance.

Josh shook so hard his teeth chattered together. The chains at his ankles were pulled so tight that his legs were forced wide open, and the cuffs on his wrists held his arms pinned above his head until his shoulders throbbed. He was a feast laid out on a table.

Elijah reached down to rummage through the black kit he'd left just within reach beside the bed. Josh watched every move like a hawk, panicked breaths huffing through flared nostrils.

“I'm going to make this very simple for you. Almost as simple as you. You are going to lie there, like a corpse, and take what I give you. I don't want a muscle to twitch. I don’t want to see your hips buck. Not a sound leaves those pretty pink lips,” Elijah warned, rubbing the salty pad of his thumb over Josh’s quivering lip. “Not a single whimper, gasp or even a prayer. From now on, you just let it happen, princess.”

Why couldn't I have been enough? Josh thought, a sob catching. I could have tried harder. I could have given in and been what Felix wanted.

It was a lie, and some small, dying part of Josh knew it - he would have fought until his dying breath - but the lie was the only thing that kept his world from falling apart. If this was all Josh's fault, then maybe Josh could fix it…

…right?

“Put up and shut up. That's your new motto. Remember it. Live by it. Because that is the only way this ends. If you resist, if you pull away - any hint of protest - we start all over again. From the top. Every. Agonising. Second. Until you learn. I don’t stop until I am satisfied that there is nothing left of you to fight back.”

Josh’s throat felt like it was stuffed full of dry cotton. “Please-” he whispered.

The shock was short, but it was enough to make his whole body slam back against the mattress. It felt like a hot needle being driven into his throat.

"God! You’re absolutely fucking hilarious. You still think I’m like him, don't you?" Elijah scoffed, his fingers tracing the line of Josh’s ribs, marvelling at how the skin stretched taut over bone. "You really think if you cry hard enough, I’ll finally cave and pander to you. You think there’s a 'soft spot' somewhere in me that you can prod at if you just act whiny and pathetic enough."

He leaned in, and suddenly his body heat was there. Suffocating. Josh didn't even have the space to shiver. Elijah buried his face in the crook of Josh’s neck, nuzzling into the sensitive skin just above the collar. The air snagged in his throat as Elijah’s weight shifted, grinding him deeper into the mattress. A distraught whimper escaped him.

Beep.

The collar gave its high-pitched warning, light flashing red. Josh went deathly still, his jaw aching as he ground his teeth, trying to force a sob back down before it could trigger another shock.

"There’s no Mr Nice Guy here," Elijah whispered, lips grazing the shell of Josh’s ear. "Felix sent you to me because he loves the idea of you, but hates the reality of you. He hates that you dare talk back. He hates that you fight him at every turn. So, he gave you to me to fix."

Fix. The word made Josh want to hurl over and vomit. He wasn't a person to them. Just a tool that didn't work right. How could Felix claim to love him, when he’d sent him here to have “Josh” burned out of him and be left with a husk? What exactly was it that he was supposed to have fallen in love with?

Elijah was right; Felix only loved the idea of him - he could be anyone and no-one. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Shit out of luck.

Elijah’s hand maneuvered lower, his palm sliding over Josh’s hipbone, claiming every inch of him. "You’re my little passion project, princess. You’re just clay, and I get to mold you into any shape I want.”

Josh looked directly into Elijah’s eyes and saw... nothing. No anger, no lust, not even a drop of hatred. Just a job that needed to be done. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

He slammed his eyes shut again, the cold air wafting over his naked skin as Elijah moved, the sound of the metal shackles clinking against the bed frame as he shivered from head to toe.

He wasn't Josh anymore. And he knew, with a crushing certainty, that by the time they were done here, he was never going to be Josh again.

That's what Felix wanted.

Elijah rolled off Josh’s hips, but any relief was short-lived. Instead of pulling away, like Josh silently prayed he would, he nestled into the narrow space beside Josh, pushing his body flush against him in a mock-embrace. ​With a bruising grip on Josh’s jaw, Elijah forced his head sideways. He leaned in, breath mingling, nuzzling his nose against Josh’s - exactly like Felix used to.

His mouth crashed against Josh’s, forcing his lips apart with a brutal shove of his tongue that left no room for protest. Then he bit down - hard. His teeth sank into Josh's lower lip until the skin split, and a warm metallic rush of blood filled Josh's mouth and amalgamated with saliva..

His fingers curled into tight, white-knuckled fists in the cuffs. A muffled snarl rumbled into the kiss. But best believe he didn't pull back. He let it happen, like a good boy. Felix would be so proud. Maybe he could go back sooner than Elijah would like.

Elijah finally pulled back, leaving Josh gasping for stuffy air and his lip shredded and stinging. He didn't stop there, trailing wet kisses down Josh's gulping throat and heaving chest. Josh held his breath captive in a desperate attempt to endure the touch, even as silent tears kept spilling down his rosy cheeks.

“What are the tears for, princess? Feeling sorry for yourself? This is all your doing. If you’d just been a good little boy for Felix, you’d be tucked up in a warm bed with silk sheets right now. With him. Instead , you’re here with me? Is it worth it? Is your ‘pride’ worth this’?”

Josh shook his head until he saw stars. Fuck no. It wasn't worth it at all. They'd taken everything from him, was there any point in desperately clinging to pride? Look where it had gotten him - falling past the flames of hell to the void below.

“Stop crying. That's not submission, that's just endurance. He needs to believe you want this.”

Impossible. Josh could never bridge the gap between surviving this and wanting this. He understood what was demanded of him; he could mimic all the sounds and the movements if he really had to, but he could never force his heart to stop racing in terror or his skin to stop crawling at every despicable touch.

Suddenly, Elijah's hand shifted, gripping Josh's inner thigh and squeezing his sharp fingernails into the sensitive, pale skin. His warm palm curled around his unready length with a crushing pressure that forced a startled gasp from Josh.

Beep. The collar delivered another bolt of electricity that sent Josh's world reeling into a blur of static. When the tremors stopped trickling through Josh's muscles, Elijah loosened his grip on Josh and climbed back up his body. “Whoopsy daisy, Joshy. Again. From the top.”

Please just let me go numb. Why can’t I just go numb?

Elijah didn't give him a second to recover. He went right back in, his mouth crashing into Josh’s and grinding ravenously against him. He dropped down to Josh’s throat, sucking and biting at the skin until it was a mess of dark bruises, marking him over and over - scattered across old and fading lovebites. His hand slid lower, his palm closing around Josh and continuing to pump with a steady, punishing rhythm.

Determination coursed through Josh's veins. He would survive this. He would pass this sick bastard's training’. Prove his worth. Give nothing for Elijah to report back to Felix but his complete co-operation and perfection. He would swallow every pathetic noise down, blink the tears from his eyes and detach his mind from the barrage of assault.

​But Josh felt his body betray him, hardening under the overwhelming friction of skin on skin. Blood rushed downward, leaving him stiff and aching. He fought to disconnect, to sever himself entirely from the sensation. He stared at the ceiling until his vision swam, desperate to see a different sky - blue, with fluffy clouds, the sun beaming warm on his neck-

Elijah watched the light leaving Josh’s eyes and knew he was losing him to that mental fog. Josh was trying to retreat into that hollow place in his head where the pain couldn't follow. He wasn't going to let him escape that easily. He reached out and snagged the heavy leather strap of the collar, yanking Josh forward with a violent jerk that nearly snapped his neck. The sudden force dragged Josh’s consciousness back into the room.

Elijah held his gaze as he brought his hand to his own mouth, slowly sucking on two fingers and coating them in spit until they glistened.

​He didn't give Josh warning, or chance to brace. He leant down and shoved them deep and hard inside of him, tearing him open. A calculated violation meant to drag Josh right back into his body, forcing him to feel every inch of the friction. His other hand stayed locked on his throat, his thumb pressing hard into his windpipe.

Josh's body rebelled before his brain could stop it.

“STOP! Oh fuck! Please!” Josh wailed, his voice cracking into a blood-curdling screech as the collar lights up. Shocks slammed into Josh's neck in rapid fire, his head smacking back against the iron bars. “F-Felix!” he cried out, pleading for the man who had ruined him to come save him.

The collar hit him again, and again. His body convulsed in his restraints. He was a circuit board being fried. He screams because it hurts, and because he screams, the collar shocks him again. A vicious cycle, rinse and repeat.

“See? How could I think of sending you back to him like this? Nowhere near ready. You're still fighting this. You still think there's somehow a choice in this.”

I hope he chokes. I hope the house burns down with the both of us in it. I want to gouge his eyes out.

Josh's breaths came in frantic, whistling rasps through his nose. He was drowning on dry land. Tears blurred his vision as he blinked up at Elijah, silently begging for a mercy that man didn't possess.

Elijah patted Josh's flushed cheek. “You're going to be so good for him by the time I'm done with you.”

Turns out, the ‘lesson’ was only just beginning.

Elijah reached down into his bag of tricks again, and this time, what he pulled out made Josh's blood turn to ice.

It was a training gag - a matte-black silicone dildo fixed to a set of reinforced leather straps. The shaft was thick and textured, designed to be forced deep into the throat. A punishing length that looked impossible to take down. Horror washed across Josh's features, the colour draining entirely from his face.

“Now, open up, Joshy,” Elijah teased, forcing the plug to his lips.

“No!” Josh shrieked - despite the looming consequence, “I'll be quiet-AH! Please!” Josh whined. He thrashed his head side to side, his hair matting against the sweat-stained pillow.

Elijah crawled upon Josh’s hips again, his hand came up, thumb and forefinger hooking into the corners of Josh’s mouth. He forced Josh’s jaw down. Josh’s muscles spasmed in protest, his jaw joint popping with a sickening clack as Elijah bypassed the natural resistance of his body.

"I hear Felix has done a lot in the way of pleasing you," Elijah said, his voice dropping to a low predatory hum as he stared into Josh’s deer-in-headlight eyes. "Spoilt little boy. Where’s your gratitude? Return of the favour? This is going to get you nice and ready for him, teach you what’s expected of you, help you with your nasty little gag reflex."

He shoved the silicone plug home. Josh’s throat hit a wall of solid material. He gagged violently, his stomach lurching, but there was nowhere for the reflex to go. The plug sat deep, forcing his tongue back, filling every available millimeter of his oral cavity. Elijah pulled the straps too tight, buckling them at the back of Josh’s skull. The leather bit into the corners of his mouth, stretching them into a painful grimace.

Between frantic gasps for air, Josh retched and retched. His shoulders hunched toward his ears and his diaphragm spasming out of control as he fought to expel the intrusion lodged in his throat. Bile rose, coating his tongue, while thick drool slipped from the corners of the gag. His eyes stung and blurred as they watered uncontrollably.

Elijah’s fingers curled around Josh’s throat, massaging the erratic jump of his Adam’s apple before he suddenly pushed his palm against the gag, shoving the obstruction deeper until Josh’s retches collapsed into a wet, strangled choke.

​“Felix told me I’m not allowed to fuck you.” He let the words hang there for a second, savouring the way Josh’s heart hammered against his ribs. “But then again… what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?”

​The implication hit Josh like a physical blow. A guttural scream tore out of him, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror . He thrashed, his heels drumming against the mattress as he tried to put any miniscule distance between him and the man hovering over him.

​Elijah didn't recoil. He just guffawed, enjoying the show.

​“Easy, easy. God, you’re high-strung,” Elijah huffed, pulling out a thick vibrator and holding it inches from Josh’s wide eyes. He clicked the switch. The sudden, high-pitched whine of the motor filled the room.

​“Shhh. Calm down, princess,” Elijah cooed, the sound almost tender as he used his free hand to brush a stray, sweat-soaked hair from Josh’s forehead. He held the buzzing tip just close enough for the vibration to stir the air against Josh’s skin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m a man of my word. But someone needs to learn to control themself”.

No, no, please. Josh’s mind shrieked. I can’t. I can’t be still for that. It’ll split me in two. I’ll break, and I’ll lose and Felix will never come back for me.

"Stay still," Elijah ordered, no patience for bullshit, spreading Josh's legs wider than the chains held them.

Holy shit, he’s going to kill me.

No, he’s not. He’s going to do something worse. He’s going to make me wish he would.

Then, he pushed.

He forced the vibrator in with an agonising stretch. Josh’s entire body locked up as his muscles tried to reject the foreign object. It felt like being split apart from the inside out. He wanted to thrash, to kick his legs shut, to roll away - but the chains held him wide, exposing him completely.

Elijah’s hand pinned down Josh's hip, keeping him in place as he forced the toy deeper. Josh’s jaw ached from the force of his clench, making a small, pathetic whine as he fought the urge to scream. The sensation was overwhelming, a raw pain that seemed to fill his entire lower body until there was no room left for air.

"Almost there," Elijah said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

But Elijah didn’t rush. That was the real bitch of it. There was no holding your breath until it was over, because Elijah would make sure the ‘over’ never came. He would drag out every second, and let the dread sit heavy on Josh’s chest.

With one final shove, the toy seated itself. He felt full - distended and raw - his nervous system screaming at the sheer wrongness of it.

Elijah’s thumb found the switch.

The vibration didn't start slow. There was no easing him into it. It kicked in at a violent, high-frequency. Every nerve ending in his pelvis was suddenly firing at once, a chaotic, buzzing static that drowned out his. His hips gave a weak jerk, and a muffled sound escaped his throat.

Beep. Shock.

Josh slumped back, sobbing into the silence, his body humming with a forced, disgusting heat that he couldn't escape.

Elijah didn't say a word as he wrapped a silk blindfold around Josh’s eyes, tying it until the dim light of the room was replaced by a suffocating darkness.

Josh rubbed his head against the pillow, a blind instinct to slip the cloth, to see the hand before it struck. But suddenly, firm hands clamped onto his cheeks, holding his head perfectly still. Josh screeched behind the gag - shock.

"Give into it, princess," Elijah cooed, and Josh felt the heat of the man’s breath against his ear. Lips pressed against Josh's temple, pecking a kiss. The gesture was so dissonant and obscene in the middle of this nightmare, that it made Josh want to vomit. "Let go of your senses. Just feel. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything else. I’ll do the thinking for both of us from now on."

The sensation hit the sweet spot, but it hit it with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. A forced moan tore out of him, stretching into an animalistic howl that was swallowed by the gag. His spine arched off the bed as a wave of unwanted, excruciating pleasure crashed over him.

"Don’t you feel like a special boy? So pampered," Elijah teased. He leaned down, his finger tracing the line of Josh's jaw, just above the leather strap.

Josh’s eyes were squeezed shut behind the blindfold, tears leaking out to soak the silk. He was retching against the gag again, his throat convulsing. The vibration was a constant, buzzing static in his brain, drowning out every thought until there was nothing left.

He finally felt the first stirrings of a forced orgasm. He didn't want it. He hated it. He fought against it with the little energy he had left in the tank. But a dark, terrifying voice in him whispered:

Just let go. If you stop being Josh, it won't hurt as much.

But the orgasm wasn't a release; it felt more like a car crash.

It hit him with a violent intensity that felt like his nervous system was being obliterated. His body lurched so hard the iron bedframe shrieked, his spine arching into a curve. Behind the blindfold, his vision went a static-white, and a muffled, frantic scream was swallowed whole by the gag.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The fucking collar didn't stop. The shocks slammed into his neck in rapid succession, punishing him for the very thing the toy was forcing him to do.

When the peak finally passed, Josh didn't find peace. He found a new kind of hell. He was vibrating - literally, physically vibrating - from the crown of his head to his tied feet. His skin was slick with a cold sweat that made the silk of the blindfold cling to his face like a second skin. Every muscle was twitching but the toy didn't stop. It stayed at that same speed, drilling into tissue that was now so sensitive it felt like it was being rubbed with glass.

His mind was a frayed wire. Please, turn it off. I’m done. I broke. You won. Just turn it off.

The mattress shifted. He heard the heavy thud of Elijah’s footsteps approaching the head of the bed. A hand settled on Josh’s sweat-soaked chest, making him flinch into himself - despite it all - but every sense was too overwhelmed to think.

"Look at you," Elijah elated, though his voice sounded miles away through the fog of Josh's overstimulation. "Soaked through. Trembling. And you’re still so responsive. It’s almost a shame to stop."

Josh's head lolled weakly to the side. He was spent. Left hollow. No more. Please. No more.

"I have things to do," Elijah said, his voice receding as he stood up. "Felix is eagerly waiting for a progress report. I’ll tell him you’re... settling in. How you’re learning that silence is golden."

Josh felt him lean in close, face hovering inches above his own. He could hear the smirk. "I’m going to leave it on, Joshua. I want it to be the only thing you know."

No. No, no, no. I'll die. My heart will give out. I can't breathe-

"Don't fight it, princess." Elijah patted his cheek, a gesture so patronising it felt like a slap. "I’ll be back later. Try not to miss me too much"

Josh heard the rustle of the black bag being zipped up. He heard footsteps move toward the door. Every fibre of his being wanted to cry out, to beg Elijah not to leave him like this - chained, blind, gagged, and locked in a vicious cycle of forced stimulation. But what use would it be?

The door swung shut. The deadbolt on the other side slid home with a clack, followed by the turning click of the locks.

Josh was left alone. He lay helpless while the toy continued to drill into him. Every second felt like a year. The overstimulation of his brain felt like it was melting inside his skull.

Felix, please. Please come back. Please… I want to come home.

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Tommy hadn’t been in the home gym before. It was more of a weight room, the only thing other than the benches and racks of dumbbells being some mats on the floor and a pull up bar. He watched Fletcher slide weights onto the bar and lay back on the bench.

“C’mere,” they said, tapping the bar to gesture him over. 

Tommy came to stand dutifully behind them, eyeing the weights skeptically.

“I don’t know that I can, uh…”

“I won’t push myself too hard,” Fletcher reassured him. “So I won’t need you to pull it off me. More like, if something happens, go get someone who can, I guess. Just put your hands here.”

Tommy gripped the bar, and Fletcher lifted it off the rack. They lowered it down to their chest and raised it up again, breathing slow. Their arms didn’t shake. Tommy counted the weights, trying to add them up.

“Wow,” he said shyly. “This probably weighs more than I do.” He gave a nervous laugh.

“It does,” Fletcher confirmed on an exhale. “I assume.”

They racked the bar and rolled up from the bench, looking Tommy over with a mischievous grin.

“Let’s find out. Cross your ankles and fold your arms in.”

Tommy did as he was told with only some hesitation. Fletcher leaned in and swooped him up, hoisting him across their shoulders. Tommy squeaked in surprise as Fletcher lowered themself into a squat and stood again, holding Tommy in place.

“Easy peasy,” they said, barely winded. “What do you weigh?”

“I - I don’t know.”

“I never really thought of…” Fletcher grunted as they did another squat. “All the applications. You should sit on my back while I do pushups.”

“U-uh, don’t you - oh! - think the weights would be better?” Tommy protested weakly. It wasn’t like it was the first time Fletcher had manhandled him. Caius had carried him sometimes when he was too injured, or too drugged… but he felt ridiculously weak as he was easily lifted. 

“What, you’re not having fun?” Fletcher laughed. They rose up abruptly, the inertia jostling Tommy.

“Well - careful! - I don’t, I mean, h-how would you like to be lifted like this?”

“That’s not something I factor into my treatment of you,” Fletcher said bluntly. Still, they leaned over and set Tommy back on his feet. He stumbled a bit as they released him.

“Oh, errr… right,” Tommy conceded lamely. He was flushed from being so easily handled. “Well… guess I’m… happy to help.” He looked around Fletcher’s workout room, surveying the equipment. “This is cool, though. Do you think it would be okay if, maybe, I used the gym sometime?”

“Mm…” Fletcher hummed in thought a moment. They bent their head down and lifted the bottom of their shirt to wipe the sweat from their face, then straightened up again, shaking out their tee and looking Tommy up and down. 

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed, but he couldn’t resist eyeing Fletcher’s body. Anyone else who looked like that would be a lot more boastful about it than Fletcher was. They had a hard but streamlined physique, muscled without much obvious bulk under their baggy flannels and tees. They might not be the best candidate to ogle, but it wasn’t like Tommy had other options. Admittedly, he was feeling a little pent-up now that he didn’t even get Caius’s cruel touch. Stop. You’re so fucking embarrassing! Don’t– don’t even think about them like that. 

“I guess that’s alright,” Fletcher said. “I don’t think I have to worry about you overpowering me any time soon. And it’ll do you good when I have you working outside. You’ve put on a good amount of weight already.”

They said the last part in a positive tone, but it struck Tommy in the gut, fear tingling through him. How long until they decide he’s gained too much and start to take his food away? Were they being sarcastic? Throwing a jab at him to imply he was getting fat? Did Fletcher find him… less attractive now, even than before? Did they feel like he was eating too much, taking too much food? Did they want him to limit himself so they didn’t have to? Anxiety churned in his gut, and he wrapped his arms over his stomach self-consciously. 

“You wanna get on the bench?” Fletcher asked, gesturing to where they had just been.

“Uh…” No, not really. But he knew people did not ask him questions because they actually wanted to know what he thought. “Okay, sure.”

Tommy laid down on the bench, which was significantly more comfortable when he wasn’t being tied to it for a lesson. Sucking in his stomach a bit, self conscious now about any belly he might have. He wiggled to position himself under the bar, eyeing the weights already loaded on either side.  Back in his old life, he’d held a cheap gym membership when he was homeless so he had a safe place to shower. He didn’t work out much between his jobs, but he enjoyed it when he had the energy. He’d certainly never pressed nearly as much as Fletcher had been doing. “I’ll have to start slow… maybe just the bar at first?” 

“You got it!” Fletcher said with dismissive encouragement. They lifted the bar from its rests, all their weights still attached, and began to lower it toward Tommy’s chest.

“Wait - wait! Noooononono-” his voice wavered and rose into a squeak as the overloaded bar descended towards him. He tried to push it back up, but his arms couldn’t even begin to bear the strain. 

“Yeah, that’s it, weight,” Fletcher encouraged, struggling not to laugh. Tommy frantically tried to shove it off, but his arms easily folded against the pressure. 

“Okay, I’m gonna let go now,” Fletcher almost sang. They watched giddily as Tommy struggled and panicked for a few moments, keeping just enough weight off of him to keep it from crushing his chest, before lifting the bar back onto the rests.

Tommy sat up quickly, breathing hard.

“Well, sport, don’t let that discourage you,” Fletcher said. “I think the lowest weights here are 10 pound dumbbells. Maybe start with those, huh?”

“Uh… yeah,” Tommy said, rubbing his hand over his chest. “Can I, um, can I go grab something? I’ll be right back…?” 

Fletcher dismissed him, and Tommy scurried off to his room. He dug through his collection of loose papers, gathered the ones he needed, and hurried back. 

Standing outside the door, Tommy took a deep breath to steel himself. Fletcher had put on music in his absence and he could hear it through the door. 

“Now dance, fucker, dance,Man, he never had a chance…”

Tommy knew the song, but he couldn’t remember the words. Or the title. He knew it was The Offspring; that was something. It would come back to him as he listened to it. 

“Nice work you did,You’re gonna go far, kid…”

That was it!

Tommy opened the door and stepped into the room. Fletcher dropped down from the pull-up bar and paused the music.

“Hit ‘em right between the eyes,Hit ‘em right between-”

“What’s that?” Fletcher asked, nodding to the papers clutched in Tommy’s hands.

“Um, I was thinking, um, about - about diff- different ways to work out, and, um, I have some ideas, maybe, that I wanted to… tell you about?”

“Okay?”

Fletcher swung their towel over the back of their neck and came over to Tommy’s side to look. They were starting to sweat, and– No, NO, don’t be hot for teacher! Bad! Focus, freak!!

Tommy held out his sketch and started talking before Fletcher could immediately shut him down. 

“I was thinking that, you know, with the students here and all, maybe we could set up some kind of like, obstacle course in the backyard. I mean, the front yard. I mean– s-somewhere. But it could be like, a place for them to get um, you know like those ninja courses? Fitness– a fitness course, kinda.”

His drawing was simple, but laid out a few ideas for what was essentially an adult playground. There was a climbing net, a rock climbing wall, parallel bars, and even a balance beam. There were two rows of tires laid side-by-side at one part that Tommy was pretty sure he had seen used for football drills or something, but he wasn’t entirely sure what one was supposed to do with them. It was more about the concept.

“Mm, I don’t really want to have to clearcut any more of the woods,” Fletcher said. “And I need to keep the clearing open for the shooting range.”

“O-Oh,” Tommy said, trying to hide his disappointment as it weighed heavy in his stomach. How do you still get surprised by this? Why even try?

Fletcher took the paper with the climbing net and studied it closer.

“This would be a good idea if it were a chain link fence,” they allowed. “That’s something they’ll actually run into, and it would be helpful to get practice climbing one. If I just did a piece of fence, that wouldn’t take up too much room.”

They rifled through the rest of his papers as Tommy stood by, rubbing his arms and shifting from side to side. 

“Settle down,” Fletcher murmured, almost as if talking to themself. They didn’t raise their voice, nor their eyes from the sketches, but Tommy stilled immediately.

Fletcher pointed at one of the drawings.

“What is this?”

Tommy leaned in to see it and dropped his gaze to his hands, anxiously entangling. “A - A jungle gym,” he admitted quietly. 

Fletcher moved their finger. “And this is a swing set?”

“Yeah - yeah, I - this page is more of, um, like, playground stuff? I thought it might be fun to - be nice if… I… maybe we could get a - a tire swing, at least? And just tie it to a tree branch?” A tire swing seemed more Fletcher’s speed, if any kind of playground equipment could be. 

Fletcher stared at him for what felt like a long time before saying, “Maybe.”

Tommy let out the breath he was holding. 

“This’ll have to be a summer project,” Fletcher said. “We can start it in the spring, maybe. That’ll give us time to plot it out.”

We.

Tommy’s heart skipped a beat and fought to keep the smile growing on his face from getting too wide and dopey.

“I’d like that.” He managed to say it calmly.It was a beautiful thing, that one little word. It stuck him with Fletcher, sure, but it was different from the usual “I” and “you.” I give the orders and you follow them. Instead, this was we. We can work on it. Together. Something that was Tommy’s idea. Something that make his life - their life, together - a little bit happier.

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