shadows move in pairs

[empireofdogs]

threads masterpost

corruption

before Faulkner's death:

how to treat a skittish dog || part 1 || familiarisation

how to treat a skittish dog || part 2 || touch

how to treat a skittish dog || part 3 || no

how to treat a skittish dog || part 4 || refusal

how to treat a skittish dog || part 5 || drugged

how to treat a skittish dog || part 6 || torture

how to treat a skittish dog || part 7 || dreams

questions (Sebastian & Faulkner)

the kiss

bomb drop

after Faulkner's death:

how to treat a rabid dog

pills

pills 2

pills 3

heir

punishment

plans

dog's heaven

blurp

rivals

conditioning 101

a hot day's night

two hounds

x placeholder

x placeholder

lunch break AU

lunch break

D/s

heaven

the ring

shower

faulknerverse: robot dicks

breaking him in

training

Diamondverse

the beginning

The Faulkners

Jacob

the long way home

thunder & sunshine

thunder & sunshine

bacon & eggs

other

x placeholder

x placeholder

[empireofdogs]

Blurp || Jacob & Sebastian || heir verse

He watched closely as Jacob sighed, a slow, contented sound, his body loose and boneless against the couch. His head lolled to the side, eyes heavy-lidded but not quite shut. A faint, dreamy smile tugged at his lips.

Sebastian hated this.

The Senator sat beside Jacob on the couch, the needle safely capped and tucked away, watching every slow rise and fall of the man’s broad chest, every flicker of his dark lashes. He wanted to be relieved at the silence that seemed to ring around them now. He wanted to be relieved that Jacob wasn’t curled in on himself, wasn’t lashing out in explosive violence, wasn’t drowning in the same yawning black hole that had swallowed him earlier.

But this - this wasn’t better.

He swallowed hard, his jaw tense. He wanted to be angry. At Jacob, for wanting this. At Faulkner, for inducing the addiction. At himself, for giving in. But anger wouldn’t help. It never did. Anger was the *last* thing Jacob needed right now, and the last thing either of them could stand to face.

Instead, he reached for Jacob’s hand, thumb tracing absently over his knuckles. His voice was quiet when he spoke, already knowing the answer.

"Hey, big guy. How’re you feeling?"

**

“Hm?”

He’d stopped asking.

A long time ago.

He’d stopped asking about the contents of the syringes or the nature of the pills. He’d stopped asking what he’d done wrong or what he’d done right. He’d stopped talking much altogether.

Jacob had learnt to trust that Bastian knew what was right. That Bastian always knew what to do, what he needed, and *when*.

What Jacob knew, though, was that this was better.

Thoughts tended to be hard to catch here, but that usually was for the better. This was no treat, he faintly remembered. This was an intervention. And the aching muscles of his shoulders – from tension, from pain, from anxiety? – forced now into relaxation with only the dull echo of pain throbbing through them was proof enough.

His cheeks were wet, weren’t they?

Nothing worth thinking about. Nothing worth clinging to.

But even now, through the fog and through the lightness, through the forceful relaxation that took will and fear and tension and pain away within an instant, Bastian’s voice was easy to follow. And the only thing worth clinging to. Like an anchor, like a beacon, like a magnet.

Like a fucking life line, even when his life wasn’t worth saving anymore.

“’m *fine.*”

His head lolled back towards Bastian with a lopsided smile.

“*Big guy.* ’like it when you call me that. You haven’t ‘n a while…”

**

Sebastian’s chest ached.

He wished Jacob didn’t need this. He wished that all of this were different, that both of them could exist in a world they didn’t need to run from. He wished he could bring Jacob the relief he’d once been able to - not a temporary release, not this chemical escape.

But Jacob had looked at him with hollow eyes and tears on his cheeks, and Sebastian had caved, like he always did, because in spite of it all, he still couldn’t stand watching Jacob suffer with no fucking way out.

So here they were, relying on a few hours worth of the closest thing to freedom Jacob would ever know.

Sebastian sighed, adjusting his position so he could rest his other arm along the couch, close enough that Jacob could feel him there. He wouldn’t sleep tonight - not while Jacob was like this. Not when there was even the smallest chance something could go wrong.

He’d watch over him. He’d make sure he was safe.

And in the morning, when the high faded and the debilitating weight settled back onto Jacob’s shoulders, Sebastian would still be here. Even if he couldn’t fix this. Even if this could never last. Even if all he could do was hold onto him and believe, in another life, Jacob might have actually been happy with him.

The lopsided smile was hard to match, but he managed anyway, somehow, huffing a gentle laugh as if the first thought wasn’t that he *couldn’t* be caught calling him his favorite pet name.

“That’s obviously cause I’m catching up to you. Haven’t you noticed?”

**

Sometimes, it didn’t matter what Bastian said, for as long as he kept talking.

For a long time no, Jacob’s world had become… quiet.

Faulkner had been the first to steal his voice, his laugh, his will and his life and his name. It had been Bastian, who’d forcefully interrupted this slow descent into a hell of silence, who’d interrupted days on end without saying a word with insufferable insistence - *yes sir, no sir, thank you sir* hardly counted, didn’t they? – who’d lodged himself into this new kind of nightmare, like a splinter in the flesh, irritating and impossible to ignore.

And for a while, Jacob had almost made his peace with it. Had managed to thrive, even, when Bastian had taken his leash without his consent – because when did his consent matter? – and taken him in and for a moment, it seemed as if Jacob had found his place in the middle of misery and bliss.

But nothing had prepared him for the heartache that would follow.

When the world had become even quieter. When he’d lost the rest of his voice, a little every day. And he could tell Bastian didn’t like that. But what was there to say? What would be worth the effort, when speaking became harder and harder with every catastrophe and every second passing.

So he’d started to listen. Even if he didn’t understand the words. Sometimes because it was hard to follow them. Whether it was because he was high as a fucking kite or immobilised by pain didn’t matter. Sometimes because he didn’t seem to find *sense* in listening, at all, because a dog was just a dog.

But somewhere along the way, Bastian’s voice had become home, when Jacob had lost every other home in this godforsaken place.

It didn’t matter what it was saying, as long as he kept talking.

Preferably to Jacob.

“Mhm, you wish.”

**

He absolutely did not wish.

Mainly because he was getting old - something he very much felt when he found himself in the gym *with* Jacob - and couldn’t possibly actually catch up to the man at this point. Not in the bulk department, anyway.

“Mm. I bet that would give you even more motivation, wouldn’t it?”

It was a silly conversation, with no point to it in the end - no weight, no purpose - except for one: the distraction, the pure *idea* of conversation at all. Of a lightness and openness they never could achieve anymore when Jacob was sober. He could only imagine that this man - uncovered only by chemical interference - was what Jacob might have been, in another life.

Chatty. Charming. Carefree. Confident. And maybe just a little ridiculous.

Sebastian held back the urge to curl a lock of Jacob’s hair around his fingers, trying not to focus on the tears still drying on his lover’s cheeks.

“Bet you’d like the idea. Maybe we should make it a contest.”

**

Jacob didn’t like the idea.

Maybe he would have, in that different life he barely remembered, when he had forged his own fate, had made his own decisions, when competition had been married to playfulness and not despair.

Nowadays, competition always meant *fight*. For rewards. For attention. For praise and treats and smiles. For survival.

“Mm.”

Motivation was a tricky thing, especially when he’d long since lost the ability to tell what *his* and what was nothing but training. Someone else’s will, pressed into his form until it filled him out entirely. Ill-fitting and faded, like the dead man’s clothes he’d worn in his first weeks in Faulkner’s hell.

“My… my motivation… my motivation’s… good.”

A defence and a plea, ugly and urgent. And suddenly, the despair in Jacob’s voice was back.

“Gotta make sure you still need me, yeah?”

There was so little he was useful for. In fact, it had boiled down to two things, and two things only. Muscle was one of them.

And he’d seen men being killed for less.

As it was, Jacob couldn’t afford being useless. Not when Bastian seemed to drift a little further away every day. Not when there was a wife and a son and a career, and Jacob was sent to the kennel whenever he wasn’t *needed*.

Although - and even through the veil of bliss and oblivion, through the pleasant warm throb that melted his mind and soothed his fears and loosened his muscles - the idea of being put down had lost its horror a long time ago. Sometimes he found himself waiting for it.

“If you’re…”

His tongue felt heavy.

“If you’re catchin’ up, d’you still need me?”

**

There was always a part of him that wondered how on earth Jacob could even follow conversations in this state, with his mind so muddled and confused, swimming in slow motion through chemical sensation and a false, deceiving sense of warmth.

But follow, he did, and too often the most genuine of breakthroughs were made in this state of lowered inhibitions and vulnerability; but the desperation and despair still remained behind the slow smiles, enough to seep infectious panic into the deep, slow voice that struggled for words. The sound of Jacob’s fear, unspoken and so horrifyingly clear, gripping his heart with icy fingers and squeezing until it threatened to burst.

“I’ll always need you.”

His own voice held none of the panic, but it might have mirrored the despair, soft and immediate as his response had been, raw and brutally honest.

But this was supposed to be about getting Jacob to relax, wasn’t it? There was no sense in dwelling on the constant darkness over them both.

“Besides. I’m old. I won’t ever *actually* catch up, will I? I’ll be chasing you forever.”

**

“Hm. No.”

The couch felt as if it were swallowing him. Soft as a cloud, like his spine and his slowly dissolving mind. Soft as that one spot somewhere in his blackened heart, that could still feel and hope and love so hopelessly.

And for once, it was easy. To rest his head against the back of the couch, to give in to the constant exhaustion, looking at Bastian, his form, his physique, despair in his heavy-lidded eyes, as if this were a fucking test, and a cruel one. No, the senator hadn’t caught up. He was far from it, even if Jacob would never word those thoughts. Some relief, at least. And the ever-maddening eyes looking back at him, at the dog, unworthy and impure, as Jacob let his gaze wander over the silver-speckled hair he loved so much. The perfect picture of strength and authority, of omnipotence and confidence. Everything Jacob wasn’t. But everything he needed, if only he were allowed to have it.

“You’re not old. You’re…”

He swallowed dryly, his tongue too big and too dry to function properly, useless and heavy like the rest of his body, floating in a warmth he’d almost forgotten.

“You’re *hot.* Tha’s what you are.”

And he wanted to reach out, to let his fingertips run over the senator’s lips, every sensation heightened, his mind finally free and unbound, every muscle loose, his whole body warm, wanted to touch lips and nose and cheekbones and silver-speckled hair and drink it all in. Wanted to pretend that it was all his. That it was only the two of them. Not just in the moment. Not just in this godforsaken, cursed room. But in the entire world.

But even in this state of artificial bliss and almost-peace, even heavy-lidded and unfocused, drifting off into dreams and horrors, Jacob couldn’t escape his training. Couldn’t escape the restrictions and rules and the thorough programming Faulkner had started.

Touch was forbidden.

And not for the first time, the hand he’d raised on instinct, following innocent wish and irresistible impulse, fell again like a dead bird, dropped like a stone before it could do any harm. Before it could hurt. Before it could reach out to touch heaven and *stain* it.

Or maybe he’d just dreamt that. Maybe his hand hadn’t even made it that far up, that close to softness and closeness and heavenly perfection.

His index finger twitched, stubborn and rebellious, as if touching was existential need more than forbidden luxury. And maybe it was.

Endurance was a form of art. To be so close and yet so far away. To allow a proximity that was deceptive and painful, promising things that would never be.

Jacob had mastered it.

Another in-between. Another thing to be swallowed. Longing and loneliness, this time.

„When you put me down…“

Because it wasn‘t a question of *if*, was it? It was a question of *when*, and Jacob knew that. He had an expiration date. And the clock was ticking. He'd already found hairs of silver in his own mane. It was just a question of time.

„… can it be like this?“

Maybe he could reach up then, without fear of punishment and consequence. Because then, it would already be over.

Maybe then, he could reach up and *touch* without hesitation, of his own volition, and the last thing he’d see would be Bastian. A smile as warm and bright as the sun as Jacob would slip into oblivion, leaving this world, this hell, this *pain* behind.

He’d miss Bastian. But it wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

**

It wasn’t the first time Jacob had called him that, but there was always something deep down inside him that squirmed in sheepishness, as if there were any boyish innocence left in his heart to cause him to blush. It did make him smile, too, his eyes catching on the sudden shift of Jacob’s hand, the way his dark eyes roamed hungrily over the Senator like he was starving.

No, this, he was at least used to. But somehow, even with Jacob’s mind drifting helplessly out into space, it still felt *good* to be looked at like that. To be so wanted.

And yet.

It wasn’t enough, always cut off, cut *short*, and as Jacob’s hand fell again, the frustration coiled in a ball deep in his throat, heavy and powerful, as if no scream could ever shake it loose.

He could almost hear it outside his mind sometimes, an endless, wordless roar caged and helpless behind his deceptively calm mannerisms. He sure as hell heard it now, a beast of terror and fury trapped in his ribcage, howling for release, for *justice*, for the one bit of freedom that’s never been his.

Jacob’s question horrified him in a way that Faulkner’s suggestions would never come close to. And yet, he couldn’t afford to let the facade crack, to allow Jacob to see the very real, very flawed *human* trapped inside the statue, chipping away uselessly at the stone.

He couldn’t let it happen. Ever.

The Senator frowned, reaching for Jacob’s tentative hand and holding it warmly in his own as he shifted closer, sliding his other hand along Jacob’s hairline. Something like comfort, he hoped; something like understanding.

Because he did understand. He *could* see from his lover’s perspective, peering up from the dirt and blood and broken bones; and he, too, would want it like this. Some peace, finally, at the end of a life of hell.

There was no sense in arguing it. In trying to convince *either* of them of what was undoubtedly an inevitable step in Faulkner’s endless plan. In trying to make Jacob *believe* that it would destroy him, even if it were objectively an act of *mercy* to anyone else but his selfish heart.

“Yeah. Yeah, it can be like this, big guy.”

**

“Mhm. I mean it. You’re smokin’ hot.”

He liked the way Bastian looked at him. It was an expression he only saw in moments like this one, unfiltered and free of the burdens of fear and oppression and anger. The clouds finally giving way for Jacob to see the stars. Bright and beautiful and breathtaking.

*Yeah. Yeah, it can be like this, big guy.*

He smiled.

And for a moment, nothing in this gruesome world existed but this feeling. This smile. Heavy and light. Horrible and magnificent. Terrifying and fucking addictive. The way it made his face ache and his heart, too. Nothing but this sad little smile, the pet name that sounded like honey, sickeningly sweet and sticky. Nothing but the promise and the warmth of Bastian’s covering his own. And this, at the very least, was permission, wasn’t it? So his mangled, fried brain finally caved, and Jacob squeezed back.

“Mm. That’ll be… that’ll be nice.”

That wasn’t true. Not entirely. Because still, there was something inside Jacob that held onto life with desperate force and brutal determination. Something Faulkner hadn’t extinguished, because it had been the very thing that had impressed him. He’d even said so, hadn’t he? When the camera had chirped its goodbye like a fragile little bird and the red dot had disappeared. In a different life. One that seemed so out of reach right now it could as well have been a dream. They felt the same, memories and dreams.

But there was no denying that this desperate force had faded a little more every day. The determination growing weaker with every separation and every disappointment and every lonely hour spent in solitary confinement. His will to live had become a fragile little bird, too.

“Thanks.”

It took his floating mind too long to realise that something was wrong, that something was missing, even as he melted slowly into the couch. So soft. There were only few places of comfort left. Even fewer outside of his head. And even fewer than that when he was sober.

This was one of the last that was still left.

But only if Bastian *stayed*, only if he *smiled*, and *that* was what was missing here.

“Where’s it gone?”

**

There was a warmth in his smile that didn’t belong there, not like this, not for the *idea*, but it wavered after only a moment - fragile, as if it might slip away if Bastian didn’t *hold it there.*

Where had *what* gone, exactly?

Bastian let out a slow breath, adjusting his grip where Jacob leaned against him, making sure he stayed upright and anchored, safe and steady against the couch. His fingers brushed against Jacob’s, firm but careful, pressing into his palm in a way that meant *stay here.*

Never mind that his own insides had flipped just at the fact that Jacob had squeezed *back*.

It was only a half second before he realized what Jacob had meant, before he understood that *he would have asked the same,* that the only thing that would have mattered to him would have been extraordinarily simple.

*Ah.*

“It’s right here. Right where it should be,” Bastian murmured. And then, *because he knew Jacob would keep searching for it if he didn’t give him something else to latch onto,* he gave him what he needed - his expression softening, the smile returning with just enough warmth, just enough presence to keep him *here*, safe, in this fragile, floating moment. Just enough. Just for him.

“Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

Bastian squeezed back again.

He knew Jacob’s mind was still spinning, struggling to stay tethered to something *solid,* something *real.* He could see it in the tension that lingered in his shoulders, despite the way his body sought so desperately to sink into the comfort of the couch cushions.

So the Senator made another decision. A simple one. One that didn’t require asking, because Jacob wouldn’t know what to ask for anyway.

“You just relax, love,” he said, reaching for the deck of cards on the table beside them. He shuffled the deck with smooth, practiced ease, letting the familiar motion set the rhythm. Something soothing for Jacob to fix his attention to, before Bastian found himself taking advantage of his compliance and kissing the daylight out of him, pretending all of this was alright. “No need to think. Just play. Think you can do that for me?”

**

“Hm. Maybe.”

Everything was fleeting in these moments.

Fear and pain, memories and words, dreams and worries.

It was so easy to get distracted, to drown in Bastian’s new smile - *different, somehow, sadder, heavier, colder, but maybe he was imagining that, maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough, but he’d only ever tried hard, harder than he’d ever tried anything in his entire life, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t cut out his own blackened, shrivelled heart and sacrifice it on the altar of his all too flawed love.*

“I’ll try harder.”

This moment, too, fleeting. Like every emotion. Carried away by a squeeze and a smile and too many words that were heart to follow. But words had long lost their meaning, hadn’t they? In those blissful hours with his head in Bastian’s lap, when the senator’s voice lulled him into something like contentment, at least for as long as he could pretend that the outside world – and Thalia, and Faulkner, and the boys, and death – didn’t exist.

Fleeting, all of it, and with a lightheaded smile, he nodded, agreeing to whatever Bastian would suggest. It didn’t matter. Another crushed skull, another broken spine, another screaming boy or a game of cards. It was all the same, after a while, *especially* like this, when the fucking world around him was spinning and the only thing that didn’t, the only anchor in this universe, was Bastian. It didn’t matter what he was saying, what he made Jacob promise, for as long as the beast could make out a few words. *Love*. *Relax*.

And something else Jacob had already forgotten as soon as their lips touched, as soon as Bastian invaded what was rightfully his, pulling moan after moan and sigh after sigh and every last shred of sanity, memory and doubt from his pained, tortured mind, sucking every thought out like poison from a snake bite until he left yet another dopey smile in his wake.

Breathless and happy, Jacob watched his hands move. With a speed and confidence that made him feel dizzy, eyes glazed over as they followed the movement in a stare that was almost empty if not for the gratitude and bliss it carried.

“Yeah. For you.”

He didn’t even know which game they were playing. But when had that ever mattered?

Bastian always won.

“You wanna know a secret?”

**

The Senator *tsk*’ed softly, shaking his head with a gentler, warmer smile as he dealt out the cards for War, a game simple enough to require no thought or strategy. One that held no importance or relevance whatsoever.

“Don’t you worry about that. I’m right here. I’ll help you find it.”

For the moment, sure, he was here, but the thought stung, knowing that *eventually,* he’d leave again. That he still had a wife to return to, and a child of his own to raise, the child that bore the name of the man with the saddest eyes he’d ever known.

Could he ever escape the weight of Faulkner’s expectation, and *truly* keep Jacob at his side? The answer had always been obvious, undeniable, especially when it had been cemented by a marriage that he’d never wanted, the news nearly breaking both himself and Jacob alike beyond repair.

*But if there were no marriage…*

He inhaled as Jacob confirmed, *for you*, as if that was the only reason he ever needed to comply. He looked up to see something so rare, so precious it took his breath away again in an instant, and he bit his lip, soaking it in to preserve the memory.

Jacob almost looked *happy.*

“Yeah? What’s that?”

**

He remembered *this*.

This exact moment, like a dream. Like a never-ending déjà-vu. Something half-remembered, half-forgotten, but buried so deep that the feelings were more vivid than the images. A living corpse of emotion, doomed to wander around aimlessly in an empty mind, all too susceptible, all too easily distracted.

He remembered this.

The times he’d drooled onto a set of cards, caught in perfect bliss, with thoughts thick and sticky and sweet like honey, impenetrable and golden. The times he’d failed to follow whatever game they had been playing, putting down cards that all looked the same and made no sense. Winning was never important. Something to hold onto was. And more than the cards, more than the fragile tether of some paper in his hand that kept his mind from drifting into an endlessness so incomprehensible he’d never found words for it, was Bastian’s smile. Even more incomprehensible. Even more endless.

It was easy to drown in it.

He remembered this.

Like that first time, when the pain had dulled in his back and somewhere *deep* inside. Somewhere in his heart, too. When they had sat at a different table, in a different building, in a different life. After Bastian had been scary. After he’d burnt words into Jacob’s brain that had become gospel. After he’d said words he’d never taken back. Words that had meant his downfall and his ascension. The ultimate sacrifice in the name of love. And blood. Before the wife and the child and the responsibilities of a senator. When it had just the two of them, and they had spent a few days in a perfect bubble for Jacob to *heal*. He didn’t remember much of it. Just this. The smile. The happiness. The ache that had dulled to a warm buzz. And the cards. Meaningless. Pointless. Unimportant. And yet, they had meant the world. They still did. They meant that Bastian was *here*, and for a moment, he could pretend his was *his*. That they were back in their bubble, and despite the blood and the pain and the sacrifice, he knew they *belonged*.

*Don’t you worry about that.*

What a relief.

And Jacob smiled up at Bastian, torn open and exposed, not a single thought crossing his floating mind. Not a worry, too. Because he was a good boy. And he did as he was told. No thinking. No worrying. He could do that, and smile.

He leaned in with effort to whisper his secret, almost losing his balance in the process, but the weight of his body and the softness of the couch helped.

“I hate this.”

Strange, how his tone didn’t match the words, his voice still carrying a lightness and carelessness as if he were telling a joke.

“I hate *all* of this. I hate this room. ‘n I hate when you leave me here. When you come ‘n’ fuck me and leave me for her. ‘n worse when you *don’t* fuck me ‘n’ I’m here all alone. ‘s not home. *You* are.”

He leaned back again, the smile still light and bright and searching for its mirror.

“But… hm…”

A part of him knew that Bastian *tried*. That whatever he could wish for would be provided in an instant. If Faulkner had left him with the ability to still *wish*. But every comfort Bastian could think of was here. In a room that felt like a prison nevertheless.

Because it was one.

Worse, it was a kennel. To put unwanted pets when they were no longer neeed.

“I like *this*.”

No tasks. No purpose. No distraction.

And almost no recollection of what had brought them here.

Only smiles.

And Bastian was his.

**

There was such a brightness to Jacob’s smile - foreign and almost alien, so rare and unknown in this place - that it was almost enough to make his words fly under the radar.

Almost.

Instead they ripped him apart, all the more terrible for the beautiful, almost innocent smile that made it seem like such an admission wasn’t meant to be so emotionally devastating.

Sebastian’s heart caught in his throat as he listened, truly listened, his breaths shallow as his  mouth went dry, resting his fingertips on the cards but no longer turning them.

He had done all he could, to make this set of rooms feel like a home. To provide a space for comfort and something like *security,* where the illusion of a normal, safe life was as close to reality as it was within his power to make it. A useless attempt and he’d always known, but it was something else for it to be thrown up against his face so bluntly, brutal and painfully honest.

With a smile as bright as the sun.

A smile that he himself had to find, just to give Jacob the one comfort he needed, despite the fact that everything inside him felt *shattered* and razor sharp - and he had no outlet for the result of being so irreparably broken. Nowhere for the pain to *go*.

He hated it. Hated that Jacob had to be *so utterly compromised* for this kind of honesty and warmth to surface. Hated that this was what it took for him to let down his guard, to say the things that lived unspoken between them, buried under layers of fear and control and survival.

But tonight held no room for hating anything. Tonight was about *keeping* him here, safe and loved, rather than breaking down and losing control of his volatile emotions.

*’S not home. You are.*

The Senator somehow managed to smile as he reached out, his fingertips making contact with flushed skin, and he nodded that he felt it too, that he understood.

As much as he understood that there was no other way, now. The decision had been made for him, with those hushed and fatal words.

“I know, precious. You wanna know a secret, too?”

He leaned in, over the cards, not caring that they scattered.

“It’s the same for me. I’d rather stay here with you than ever be anywhere else.”

**

The smile didn’t falter.

Kindled by Bastian’s words and warmth, by the proximity of a body that was all too often out of reach, holy and untouchable, covered with bans and prohibitions, a whole fucking no-touch-zone, when all Jacob wanted was to touch and kiss and lick and finally get his fill, when his soul and heart and body had been starving for too long, kept alive by feeble promises and moments like this. When his voice was dying a little more every day, and with it his will to live, to move forward another step.

The smile didn’t falter, even if Sebastian’s echo felt *wrong*, but Jacob’s mind was as scattered as the cards, incoherent and frayed, so he couldn’t make out what it was.

“It is?”

The surprise was genuine, and so was the relief, and his fried, lazy brain processed the mess between them with delay. He reached out and missed, failed to stop the cards from sliding. Way too late.

Fleeting, all of it, except for the smile that split his face and soul wide open, revealing the remains and ruins of a heart beating only for Sebastian.

His smile widened, eyes still glazed over and unfocused, his fingertips still tingling with longing and the memory of Bastian’s skin.

“Then stay?”

This was fun. Secrets and whispers and cards that made no sense.

“This is nice. Isn’t it?”

** Jacob’s words were a request spoken like a prayer. Soft, desperate, devotional. His voice was hoarse, rough around the edges, *hopeful* as if he were afraid the words might be taken back, stolen from the air before they had a chance to land.

A request, of all things, from a man who was no longer a man, who had so long ago forgotten what it was to want anything at all, let alone *voice* it.

And that smile - gods, that smile - was an addiction even Sebastian couldn’t resist. Wide, unguarded, unburdened.

Rare.

Bastian loathed the thought of taking it away.

“This *is* nice,” he conceded, nodding, his voice smoother, steadier than he felt. The Senator watched him closely - studied the way he reached out again and faltered, the way his body softened, the way he seemed to glow in the low light, warm and utterly at peace now.

A beautiful thing.

A dangerous thing.

A deadly thing, for anyone to stand between.

Bastian reached forward, tracing a slow path over Jacob’s fingers, barely there, just enough to make him shiver. Just enough to*allow* him the touch he so clearly, desperately craved.

Oh, how badly he wanted to kiss him.

He let the silence stretch between them. Never mind that he had no intention of leaving Jacob’s side from the moment he’d picked up the needle. That wasn’t what Jacob was asking for, what he needed. But finally, mercifully, he answered, gentle and soft - how could he be anything else?

“Of course I’ll stay, Jacob. Now,” he murmured, reaching down to pluck a stray card from Jacob’s lap, flicking it between his fingers playfully. “You think you can sit still for a sec while I get us a drink?”

**

There was a whine, low and barely there. A whine where protest would have been, if that hadn’t been trained and fucked and beaten out of him a long time ago.

It didn’t matter whether it was a request or an order or a command. Disobedience was no option. It never had been from the moment Sebastian‘s hand had wrapped around the back of his neck, firm and electrifying and solid. Like a puzzle piece Jacob hadn’t known he needed, finally falling into place. As if it belonged there. As if fate had never had any other plans for Jacob than this, his future already written before he‘d met Sebastian. A destiny of violence and carnage.

So he didn’t protest, even though nothing seemed more terrifying, more threatening, more upsetting than the idea of Bastian leaving, no matter for how long or far. The world had become small, reduced to the space between them, reduced to Bastian’s presence filling Jacob’s empty head and the touches soft as a dream. He could still feel the echoes of the senator’s fingertips. Along his hairline, on his hands, along his jaw. Warmer than whatever drug flooded his body, dulling his thoughts and heightening his senses. Oblivion was easy, for as long as Bastian was there.

And it was good like this, without memory or worry, without the world crumbling and caving in around Jacob. The space between them, the echoes and Sebastian’s presence were enough. And all of that threatened by a drink. Not a lucrative trade. None of the deals Faulkner had made with him had been. At least for Jacob.

„Yessir.“

Letting go almost hurt, but even if he’d wanted to, his body was too heavy, too lazy, too useless to move. His gaze fell onto the cards again, strewn around in a mess, like his thoughts and feelings and memories. Like his life.

He frowned, trying to remember the soothing movements of Bastian’s hand as he turned card after card, an empty stare quietly following the game he couldn’t remember. What he *could* remember, though, was that it had felt like the most comforting thing in the world. What he could remember was that it had mattered, had tied a straying mind to reality, his hands to a purpose and Bastian to him.

“What’re we playing?“

**

He already knew that the idea of getting up - even if only to cross the room for a bottle of water - would be difficult to accept. Too much like *leaving*, like abandonment after too brief a moment of kindness. Sebastian knew more than enough by now about what Jacob would feel under the heady influence of this particular concoction, and even a few feet could be far enough to feel like eternity.

*The rest, though. The rest should make it worthwhile.*

Or so he hoped.

Some kind of peace, even if it was only artificial, chemically induced and - hell - practically fucking *forced* on him once he’d started lashing out. Bastian would spend entirely too long feeling *guilty* over that, of all things. But it was for Jacob’s own good, so he could argue it until he was blue in the face, that it was worthwhile.

Especially when Jacob looked at him like *that.*

He moved smoothly but *quickly*, grabbing a bottle and two glasses, pouring out just simple water for now to make sure Jacob was properly hydrated. After only a moment away, he set them both down on the table, bending to kiss Jacob’s forehead lightly.

“War, sweetheart. Just War.”

He straightened the cards out again before he took his place, re-dealing their hands and humming softly.

“You remember how to play, don’t you?”

**

“Ah.”

Minutes could stretch into eons here, in this room.

But time had become a curious thing, anyway. Right from the ten days in *that* room. To Faulkner’s office. To this cell. It bent and stretched and faltered, depending on the Faulkners’ wishes. Depending on what cocktail was coursing through Jacob’s veins. Depending on whether he’d been good or bad.

Minutes could stretch into eons, and he didn’t even need to be high for that. Being alone did that, too. And most nights here were empty and hollow, and Jacob didn’t have enough booze to make that bearable.

So, really, he should be used to it.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t sure he ever would be.

But what a surprise, what a relief, when Bastian sat down again as if he’d never left. As if this, too, was nothing but a game. One that the senator played with grace and ease. One Jacob would always hate.

Thankfully, everything was fleeting. Words and memories. And time.

And Jacob smiled up at Bastian and laughed.

*War.* As if it was ever *just war*. And as if he’d ever forget how to play it. It might be a different war he fought now. With different superiors and different objectives. Different battlefields, too. But Jacob’s life had become nothing but war. So how could he forget? Maybe he’d been born for it.

Looking down at the cards, though, that told him nothing.

And still, Jacob’s smile only widened. As if it could split him open. As if this would be his final offering, dying in the divine light like a sacrificial lamb. And he wondered, too, if Bastian called *her* sweetheart. Or if this, for once, was something that belonged to him.

“’f course, sir.”

It was a lie, a blatant one, but that didn’t matter.

Not when Bastian was so generous with words and touches. Not when the pet names he only used in private warmed Jacob from the inside still. And he wanted to keep them, to preserve them, to cage them like he’d been caged. For the nights that felt like eons.

When he was alone again.

**

Had a laugh ever been just a laugh, in this place?

He couldn’t recall, couldn’t remember a single moment in time when a laugh - *any* laugh - had ever been simple, anywhere within the reach of his father’s grasp.

Certainly not within these walls.

Never from those lips.

And still, Sebastian treasured and cherished the sound, as if it were a memory made of blown glass. Had Jacob sounded like this, before tainted hands had torn him from the world and destroyed his heart? Had he been different? Would he have loved Sebastian, then, if they had known each other in a different life?

Would Jacob have ever looked at him twice?

Despite the stinging doubts, the Senator once again found himself mirroring the smile that somehow seemed so damn innocent, so *pure* in its devotion and softness, even as the irony of the card game seemed to catch on, somewhere within the confines of Jacob’s skull.

As well as the lie did, harmless and blameless. There was no way in hell Jacob had any idea the pattern the cards took, the way his eyes glazed over as he watched Sebastian’s hands, but that didn’t matter. He seemed at peace, mesmerized as he watched.

And sometimes, that even felt like enough.

Softly, Bastian began to narrate his actions, gently guiding Jacob along with his voice, telling him he knew *without* telling him, without correction, without punishment, without fear.

“One, two, and three, and now flip. Jack beats four... And next. One, two, three, flip. There you go.”

**

It was easy, to get lost like this.

Easy, to sink into Bastian’s voice and smile, entirely incapable of following the words and sense and meaning. With glossy eyes and endless smiles - *bottomless, really, like Jacob’s yearning* - with no thought behind them and the treacherous feeling of safety, this illusion of security and closeness lulling him in. All laid out for Bastian to see, a banquet of longing, an ocean of devotion behind the empty stare and the blissful, captivated smile.

Jacob reached for the cards when he was told to flip, almost as in slow motion. Failing, most of the time. Missing, most of the time. His coordination too impaired. His motor functions fucked over and his brain fried thoroughly. He was always a little too late. Or a little off. As if he were grasping for happiness itself. Always failing. Always missing. Always a little late or a little off.

It was comforting, way too comforting, that Bastian was there to turn the cards over for him, whenever he missed. He’d been right. No thoughts required. No decision. No action. No participation. Bastian was there to *fix* things. To do the things Jacob couldn’t, when a lazy, uncoordinated hand reached out and missed once again.

And whenever he was lucky, whenever he wasn’t quite as slow, their hands touched, if only for a brief, precious moment. Accidents, because even now, Jacob wouldn’t dare to touch the sacred. But he couldn’t remember the last time an accident had been this comforting, this soft, this beautiful.

A part of him registered, faintly, that Bastian still hadn’t touched his fucking cock, still hadn’t fucked him, ever since he’d returned. He was still dressed, his dick still in his pants, but even this worry was dull and cloudy and insubstantial, washed away by the senator’s voice. Steady and soothing, filling the space between them with warmth and comfort, filling Jacob’s empty head with meaning and his empty heart with love.

He was drooling, just a bit, watching Bastian’s hands is if they could work magic. And sometimes they did, didn’t they? When they brought the shrivelled, rotten corpse of Jacob’s heart back to life. When they resurrected what little will to live was still there. And Jacob, completely enthralled by words and voice and movement, running the sleeve of his shirt over his lips, finally gave up the attempts to join and followed Bastian’s hand as if there were anything important to see. But maybe there was. If it could resurrect the dead.

“Who’s.. who’s Jack?”

**

God help him, but he actually *liked* this.

How could he not, with the way Jacob looked at him like that? The way he hung onto every word, every syllable, as if everything Bastian said held some sacred meaning. His glazed over eyes, unfocused as they were, still making every effort to track his hands, his *every* movement, as if it mattered, as if he were witnessing the work of a god.

Ridiculous. But… still, Sebastian couldn’t help it.

He liked the attention. He loved the softness in Jacob’s eyes and in his voice. And he wished that he could have it - that *they* could have this - without the chemical interference. Without *Faulkner* between them.

Still, he managed to laugh softly at Jacob’s question, holding up a card between two fingers.

“This is Jack, sweetheart. He’s a clever one. Quick. Always looking forward, looking for the right opportunity to play his hand.” He hummed, reaching out for Jacob’s hand and taking it in his own, drawing the edge of the card over the lines of his palm.

“He’s reckless, though. He takes risks sometimes, without thinking them through, and fuck the consequences.” The Senator smiled a moment, almost playfully looking into Jacob’s eyes.

“Kinda think you’d like him.”

Quietly, he’d withdraw the card, gesturing to the glass of water. “Drink, Jacob. I need you to stay hydrated, at the very least.”

**

“Huh.”

None of this made sense.

But it had been a long time since Jacob had last questioned his own confusion. When he had last questioned Bastian’s word.

He could run with it, forever, sober or not, and this giant, this god, could forever ramble on and Jacob would pick up every word, sweet or painful or cruel, with utmost care and swallow it. And he’d wash that down with some fucking razorblades, because sometimes words weren’t any less painful, any less sharp, and because he’d lost his sense of self-preservation a long time ago. He’d thank Bastian for the gift of blood instead. For the gift of pain and pleasure and confusion.

For as long as if there was a touch in it for him. For as long as there was a *sweetheart* in it, too. A word so soft it was laughably out of place here, amidst pain and blood and tears. And more addictive than Faulkner’s treats ever had been.

It didn’t matter whether he understood or not, not when his glazed over eyes could follow the card in Bastian’s hand with wonder and awe in them. As if, yes, Bastian’s hand could work magic. As if his words were hypnotic, bursting through each and every barrier in Jacob’s mind with ease. Like his touch had, all those years ago.

“I’d like him?”

It sounded like someone he knew, but enveloped and floating and war, Jacob’s mind couldn’t make the connection, too slow and hazy, and perfectly lulled into peace.

Jacob eyes followed the gesture.

An order was an order, but there was something else. Something better. Something warm. Something that would kill him, and soon enough, Jacob figured, as he surrendered all reason and resistance and sanity.

The strange wave of gratitude that washed over him whenever Bastian praised him. Whenever he touched him. Whenever Bastian took care of him. Wholly, and truly, without interruptions. Without Jacob having to *share*. Something that, miraculously, if only for a night, was *his*.

Water or words or fucking razorblades, if the senator told him to swallow, Jacob would swallow.

He nodded, slowly shifting the weight of his body, caught in a daze. But that shift made the world spin once again, his head too heavy, too fuzzy, too light. And as reached out, his arm too slow and too lazy, gravity pulling him down, it felt as if the couch was pulled away from under his ass, the table suddenly way too far away while the floor was tilted.

Like moving underwater. Like working against quicksand. Like swimming through honey, thick and sweet.

He reached out, almost as if in slow motion, and *missed* the glass by almost a hand’s width.

But Jacob couldn’t help but wonder. *At least.* What did that even mean?

**

The words had Jacob completely caught under a spell - that much was clear.

What could he possibly be thinking, in that head of his? What could be making him furrow his brow like that, so hypnotized and so damn confused?

Clear, too, that he didn’t understand the subtler meaning, but that was alright. A part of him considered repeating the lesson, to see if a somewhat-sober Jacob might catch on to the symbolism then, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t fall quite the way he wanted it to.

Once upon a time, Jacob had dared to laugh at him. Not exactly a feeling he missed, but he sometimes wondered now if Jacob would ever do it again.

He doubted it.

Sebastian followed the uncoordinated movement of Jacob’s hand, the grip going wide and completely missing the intended target, his body swaying as he clearly lost himself to vertigo for a moment.

He did not laugh.

Instead he hummed softly, reaching a hand out to press his fingertips to Jacob’s chest to steady him, murmuring just three words.

“Eyes on me.”

When Jacob obeyed, he moved again to reach for the untouched glass, bringing it gently to his lover’s lips himself.

**

*Eyes on me.*

Words that had always reached him. Through honey and molasses, through quicksand and bad trips. How often had they brought him back, the last frayed remnants of goddamn soul and self, from those nightmarish realms without form and substance, where Jacob could lose himself so easily if he wasn’t careful. The dark side of the smiles. The price to pay for a moment of peace and contentment, for the illusion of safety and bliss.

*Eyes on me.*

He remembered. When Faulkner had first introduced Bastian as Jacob’s new handler. When his eyes had strayed, terrified and insecure, to see if the mayor was still pleased, talking to him more than he had to Sebastian. Out of habit. Out of fear. And those words had pulled him back, without fail, and sometimes, whenever he was lucky, they had made the mayor feel a lot less intimidating. Not always, though.

*Eyes on me.*

Three words that had always caught his attention. Like the touch to the back of his neck. But they sounded warmer now, here, in the safety of Bastian’s light. The room was still a glorified cell, but with Sebastian here, he could almost pretend it was anything but.

*Eyes on me.*

A mesmerising spell, dragging him out of fury and anger, out of horror and fear. And sometimes he found it strange how *easy* it was to follow them, like a lifeline thrown into the deepest fucking circles of hell, when memories and pain mingled and his brain conjured up images of brimstone and fire, whenever what had been supposed to be reward turned into *something else*.

So he followed now, without hesitation, his breathing even, his body easily pushed back into the cushions as his eyes searched for Bastian’s, as he held onto the only tether that kept him tied to reality and this life. As he found back his smile and parted his lips to drink as he’d been told. Mesmerised. Obedient. Torn open.

**

Always so remarkable, how easily Jacob would bend with just a look, a touch, a simple command.

It was horrifying, too. Heartbreaking. And twisted, that despite the *guilt* that ate at him where it had always failed to in anything else, it could still feel so goddamn good, sometimes. Like now. When the command and the touch felt like a net to keep him afloat, a way to keep Jacob from slipping under, from ruin and devastation.

When it felt like protection and safety, rather than a tool for dominance.

He was careful with the water, making sure not to tip the glass too aggressively. Gentle, as he always was in this room, until he was satisfied that Jacob would be alright.

And when Sebastian pulled the glass away and set it aside, those warm, doped-up eyes still *hooked* into his fucking soul, he couldn’t help it. He leaned forward, swallowing Jacob’s breath as his own.

**

Even as he drank, Jacob’s eyes never left Bastian. Captivated and grateful and painfully open as he emptied the glass with massive gulps.

He *had* been thirsty, after all.

Which only proved what Jacob had learnt the hard way. Bastian knew what was best. And it was so easy to let himself fall into this. This total submission. This absolute, perfect trust, strong and powerful and maybe the only pure thing left in this world until the glass was empty.

Bastian’s care was gentle, and maybe that was still the greatest miracle of them all. A space without pain or worry, without destruction or blood. And it was all his. Theirs. A perfect bubble of make believe, for a few precious hours, until it all inevitably crumbled away. Until it went up in smoke and half-remembered images, as hard to grasp as his fucking sanity.

Sebastian didn’t make fun of him. He never had. He had tried to preserve some sense of dignity, before that had been taken from Jacob as well.

Not Faulkner’s men, though. They had laughed. And sometimes, the new ones still did. But each and every time, they had paid the price, and strangely enough, Jacob wasn’t punished for that as much as he should be.

When the glass was removed, he took a desperate breath, lightheaded, but weirdly refreshed, but it was stolen the second Bastian’s lips met his. And he’d give that too. His last breath, his last thought, the last shard of his self. With a smile and a final bow.

But for now, Jacob just got lost in this. In this perfect bliss, all senses heightened and raw, with a need so strong it went far beyond the physical, far beyond his usual cravings for sex and praise and violence.

And with a sigh, almost a whine, he finally closed his eyes and relaxed again.

**

For once, Jacob didn’t seem to race towards the usual cravings, the lust and hunger that had been - like most things - burnt into his soul. He sank into the kiss, of course, as he always did, submissive and needy, but he seemed, for once, content to just *be*.

Just like this. As if this were natural and normal. Something one might actually wish for, in a life without torment.

Something pure.

The Senator couldn’t tear himself away, ignoring the mess of cards between them as he pulled himself closer, drawn to Jacob’s warmth like a fire on a cold night. He shoved down the idea that this was *wrong*, that by any definition, in this state he was taking advantage of Jacob’s vulnerability. Using him.

Fuck everything else, but he *needed* this.

He needed *him.*

He could handle the guilt later.

**

Jacob wasn’t sure what he’d done, but he must have been very good, exceptionally good, to deserve a reward like this.

A kiss that lasted forever, without hurry or condition tied to it.

So different from the kiss in the senator’s office that Jacob had earned when he’d returned. A quick welcome, and he’d bent over for inspection. A kiss that had felt like an obligation, rushed and sad, before Bastian had dismissed him. A stale aftertaste, after days apart during which he’d tried to be so fucking good. But it all had fallen flat.

Hadn’t he been thrashing?

The memory faint and barely there. The memory of a hushed voice trying to calm him. Of hands trying to hold him. *Eyes on me,* but with more urgency, more steel. But it had been hard to find sense, to fight his way back to the surface until a needle had slipped under his skin, merciful and kind as the voice that had finally lulled him in.

He wasn’t sure what he’d done now, to earn something as beautiful and soft, so rare and pure and perfect.

But truth be told, he couldn’t remember what had been ten minutes ago. So who knew?

Everything was warm now, the world spinning more than ever since he’d closed his eyes. With no anchor to tie his eyes and focus, the feeling of a gentle float was perfect.

And for those precious moments, nothing existed but Bastian’s breath, the warmth of his body, his lips and kindness, his mercy and his touch.

**

Sebastian *had* to pull himself away, before he lost himself further than Jacob did.

It shouldn’t be so goddamn hard to break a kiss. To separate and *breathe* from his own lungs again, to taste the too-cool air between them.

It shouldn’t be *so fucking hard* to look into the abyss of those eyes, that clung to him with something a little too close to innocence.

It shouldn’t be that close to impossible not to climb right into Jacob’s lap, to straddle him and hold, and *be held,* even if he had to demand it.

*He shouldn’t have to demand it.*

And the thought hurt; it broke him even as he traced Jacob’s lips with trembling fingertips.

“Jacob.”

This time, it was his own voice that sounded desperate, like a prayer, like a plea.

How his father would hate to see him like this: aching, clinging, practically begging. Sebastian could hear him, as he always did, the thoughts in his head so often carrying Faulkner’s voice, and his judgement.

*So fucking pathetic. Begging the dog now? You’re no son of mine.*

“I love you.”

**

The world was spinning, faster and faster.

When the kiss ended and left him gasping for air, completely disoriented, completely *lost*, searching for his anchor with blown pupils and reddened, swollen lips. He felt so fucking thirsty again, but not for water.

The world was spinning.

When Bastian was so close, and his name sounded like a prayer, like absolution and forgiveness. So much like the longing he felt himself, for things that were forever out of reach. Things he didn’t dare dream.

When the three words hit him in all their cruel fucking beauty, tearing through him when his defences were entirely down, when he was naked and exposed and vulnerable in the senator’s hand. When his body was so warm it felt almost paralysed, and lies were so easy to believe.

When smiles could blossom so quickly, so eagerly, with renewed excitement and vigour, as if *this* was enough to live, enough to exist, enough to endure another day of misery and heartache and gore.

Maybe it was. And Sebastian knew.

“I love you.”

There was no other answer, even if his lips weren’t forever echoing Bastian’s words, his wisdoms and gospels. As if whatever Sebastian said didn’t automatically become *truth*, unshakable and solid.

This was his, too. His burden. His blessing. His refuge.

Because he’d started this, surrounded by pain and fear and goddamn sacrifice.

And still, something ate at his frayed, hungry, confused mind, where emotions were fleeting and it was hard to cling to a single thread of thought. But *this*, he remembered. The rejection. The disappointment.

“Why didn’t you fuck me? Weren’t you pleased?”

**

Sebastian pressed his forehead to Jacob’s, taking the moment to just breathe, just to *feel.*

He’d said it back.

It wasn’t the first time. He hoped to hell it wouldn’t be the last.

But drugged or not, he had *said it back*. Jacob had given him everything, in just those three words. Hope. Life. Power. Permission.

The Senator exhaled, relieved and relaxing, nuzzling his nose against Jacob’s as he teased another kiss, slowly pressing closer, sliding his fingers through Jacob’s hair and over his chest as if he were incapable of resisting the fucking *pull* of him any longer.

But the question made him smile, huffing out the softest of laughs as he shook his head, finally pressing another kiss to Jacob’s lips.

“No. I was pleased, love.”

Pleased might not have been quite the right word, but it would do, for the moment, for Jacob’s needs. The rest, though, was truth, simple and pure and *raw.*

“I didn’t want to just fuck you, Jacob. I wanted to *love* you first. Like this.”

**

The world was still spinning. His eyes were still searching.

And they would continue for hours, he supposed, even as his brain searched for meaning in the senator’s words.

He understood.

Because this was better. A closeness he rarely felt. This bubble and illusion, so real it was impossible to not get lost in. A gentleness that felt undeserved and alien in a place that only knew fucking violence and suffering.

An illusion so comforting, so soft, that it would tear his heart out once Jacob was sober again. The pet names - *love*, *sweetheart*, *treasure*, *big guy* - nothing but a faded memory, like a half-remembered dream so beautiful that reality cut like a knife.

He understood, and he *didn’t*, because what made today different from the countless times that Bastian had wrapped a tight hand around his heated cock, continuing what Faulkner had started, doling out rewards for a good boy with his tongue and cock and hand?

He understood, and he didn’t. And that just was how it always was in this perpetual state of confusion, only made bearable by moments like this one. A sense of fake peace and comfort, of care and love and belonging. A bliss like nothing else. A thoughtless, mindless, dependent state of a thousand fucking smiles. All lost. All true. All meaningless.

Tomorrow, the same routine would start. Without smiles. Without comfort. Without bliss. And yet, his motivation would be unbroken, and he’d be chasing breadcrumbs.

“Mhm.”

Jacob nodded anyway, with vacant, grateful eyes, pressing against Sebastian’s body with all of his unspoken desperation. With all of his goddamn need. So much he was surprised it didn’t eat him from the inside. Yet.

“This *is* nice,” he echoed, daring to nuzzle back, just slightly.

A card slid from the couch, disturbed by the movements, and Jacob’s eyes followed it with a frown.

Right. They had played a game.

„Who‘s winning?“

Not that it ever mattered. Jacob had already won for as long as Bastian was here. For as long as he smiled.

When Jacob had lost everything else, it was this prize that, yes, made existence bearable.

Tomorrow, he’d lose again.

[empireofdogs]

[empireofdogs]

[empireofdogs]

training || Emmett & Faulkner & Jacob || Faulknerverse: robot dicks

/ there have been days, here and there, nostalgic and heavy, where Faulkner has contemplated the past, has contemplated the present and the future; and it isn’t as much the grey hair and the wrinkles around his eyes that greet him in the mirror - it is seeing Jacob, in all his glory, in all his prime; making him think of the beginnings, rocky and difficult, and for both of them without a doubt

/ he’s almost forgotten the thrill of a challenge, the excitement that comes with the first steps of *training*, steps Jacob has taken a long time ago – and how far he’s come ever since – and while his training would never be quite finished, he’s walked this path for long enough for it to become… routine

/ nothing is routine with the newest addition to his stable of men, though, not yet, and it’s exhilarating in a strange way, it brings back those feeling of nostalgia as much as it forces Faulkner to sharpen his mind; this one *is* a challenge, not as much because he entirely refuses to obey, but because the mind beneath the shown submission is *strong*, hard to bend, hard to break

/ the knock on the door is unmistakably Jacob’s, and with a glance at his watch, he knows it’s time and clears his throat

“Come in.”

**

/ he's followed Lake all day, both his orders and his footsteps, and frankly it's been exhausting; a very deliberate form of exhaustion, Emmett knows, meant to wear him down, meant to tire him out, to *test* him; he'd seen Faulkner’s hand right from the start, gentle as those first nudges might have been

/ that was no deal breaker, however; certainly not when he'd been left half broken, abandoned and cast aside by a man he'd trusted and thought incapable of betrayal; no, to him,  this was a chance to show his resilience and strengths,  a challenge, and maybe,  just maybe,  enough of a purpose to allow him to move on rather than give in

/ so he's followed every menial command to the letter, delivered every message verbatim, knowing with every step he's working towards a potential future, with Lake’s watchful eyes undoubtedly preparing his progress reports and hoping for his failure

/ but there's a moment, just one moment of heavy apprehension and uncertainty as he twists the ring on his right hand, standing before that office door that screams of danger worse than smoke and gunfire;  he follows Lake inside without hesitation anyway, the quiet click of the latch behind him like the slamming of a cell door

**

/ he’s got Jacob’s report on his desk already, straight to the point and efficient, never wasting a single word, and Faulkner already *knows* that Emmett has fulfilled his tasks without hesitance, without as much as a single grunt or word of defiance; he knows all that and is still not fully satisfied, not when he can practically *feel* that all of this is still a means to an end to Reid, nothing but a calculation, a deal to be honoured; none of this is true loyalty, true submission, but it’s the very start of both

/ and there’s been hesitation on another front, and the Mayor hasn’t forgotten; miniscule and short as the moment has been, he’s *noticed*, yesterday during the daily debrief, when Emmett had first been given the order to remove his shirt, just a small step towards blind obedience, but an important one; he’s seen the hesitance and he intends to correct it

/ Jacob’s greeting is short and efficient as his report - *Good evening, sir.* - and Faulkner answers with a smile and a nod, his right hand’s own debrief will follow, later, after this, but for now, all three of them know where Faulkner’s focus will lie, and so Jacob resumes his place behind the Mayor’s chair, watchful, silent and ready; for now, Faulkner’s attention turns back to Emmett

“You’ve had a busy day, I’ve heard.”

**

/ he's quite sure that Faulkner will have some alternative end game for him, something further beyond their straightforward agreement; this is a deal with the devil and he damn well knows it, had known it when they brokered this arrangement, but what has he got left to lose anymore?

/ he's sure he's seen more than bits and pieces of it already, in the stoic figure of the tall man taking his place behind Faulkner’s chair,  whipped in more ways than one, obedient and deadly efficient, a beast of a man wrapped in fine fabrics, an image all too familiar to his own

/ he's seen it, too, on the floor in the quiet of this office, in oddly prolonged and visceral demonstrations of submission that Emmett was certain would continue to escalate into whatever it was that held Lake so tightly bound, the end of the leash wrapped around Faulkner’s fist

/ regardless, he's never been afraid to meet the mayor’s eyes, pushing up the rim of his glasses as he nods in response

“Yes sir. And I hope sufficiently productive.”

**

/ there’s no flaw in Reid’s answer, no flaw in his entire performance, really; no, what bothers Faulkner lies beneath, a spirit not unlike Jacob’s, a pride not unlike Jacob’s, but not yet tamed, not yet controlled, but he’s long since decided to enjoy this, this slow and beautiful process of subduing a machine like Emmett, and he knows it will be different, *must* be different this time, and that in itself presents a challenge he can’t quite resist

/ the true beauty of this is: there’s no hiding here; Emmett isn’t a kicking and screaming teenager with his heart stuck in his throat, throwing unimpressive curses and slurs the Mayor’s way; Reid is smart, and he knows this game, and every of Faulkner’s actions, every single of his measures is under as much scrutiny as Emmett’s own; there’s no hiding his intent, there’s no hiding his motives, and *that* makes it all the more interesting; to get inside the man’s head nevertheless, and for Emmett to *let* him, seeing and knowing what would undoubtedly happen to him

/ so he chuckles, picking up his pen absentmindedly and twirling it between his fingers

“More than sufficiently productive, and you damn well know it. False humility doesn’t suit you.”

**

/ his eyes on the twirling pen, Emmett does not smile; he never does, really, not since the collapse, but he does allow for the tiniest pull at the side of his lips, the barest twitch of a knowing, almost playful smirk

“Perhaps not. But it's generally most appropriate in polite company.”

/ no, he isn't afraid here; he's almost certain he's lost whatever fragile piece inside of him that could still *feel* fear, and he knows with that new freedom comes further recklessness, something beyond that lifelong disregard for his health and safety, something that sharpens his wit and his tongue alike

“If there's something you'd prefer, please do tell.”

**

/ he can practically sense Jacob’s smirk from behind, the subtle, barely-there shift as he straightens; no, the boy doesn’t like the intruder, and he doesn’t like the competition it brings; it’s been all too obvious; for the longest time, his bloodhound had been one of a kind, unique in more ways than one, but that’s not true anymore, and the Mayor can feel the tension in his demeanour; but with it comes a renewed spirit of resolution, and *that* is something to be nurtured, at least

/ he ignores the smirk behind him as much as he ignores the smirk in front of him, even more inappropriate and out of place, showing an almost suicidal defiance Faulkner is sure to whip out of him eventually; in time

/ for now, he meets the challenge with a face set in stone, his tone as icy as his gaze as he puts the pen down again

“Fearlessness is one thing. Impudence another. But you will learn that, in time. I have no use for false pleasantries and bootlickers. What I do prefer, as you will find out, is honesty. In word and action. Honest answers and honest obedience. Nothing more. Nothing less. There’s no point in pretending to be humble when we both know that’s not the case.”

**

/ the shift from behind the mayor is subtle, but not subtle enough; Emmett is observant, especially here, especially with that hulking mix of flesh and metal,  deceptive as appearances may be, that equates to almost nothing but *danger*,  even for a man like him -  *especially* for a man like him

/ but Faulkner's tone draws his eye again, yet not the fear; his own reaction is impersonal as everything else has been until now, and to him, the mayor’s redirect is exactly that - a correction, a set of guidelines to implement and follow, something solid to adhere to - and as with indisputable rules of numbers and mathematics and lines of code, Emmett finds serenity in the absolute

“Understood, sir.”

**

/ a deal is a deal, and it shows in Reid’s reaction; but that’s all there is to his answer, logic and strategy, and nothing else, and it’s as blunt and obvious and see-through as Faulkner’s own game; it’s lacking true conviction and true devotion, all of this just a means to an end; for now, at least, and if he’s managed a thirteen year old spitfire like Jacob, he can manage a presumptuous and arrogant half-human; maybe – if Emmett can still be that audacious – he will need a few more errands to run tomorrow, a few more tasks to juggle, because he *clearly* isn’t exhausted enough for the Mayor’s lessons to sink in

“Now. If you wish to talk about *sufficiency*, we can do that. Because I think your performance yesterday was anything but sufficient. Would you agree?”

**

/ the gesture is not remotely a surprise, and Faulkner would see that as his fingers move toward his tie in the same moment as the masked order is given; the motions are practiced and this time, not hesitant at all; his mind is far away from how he *feels* about the command, but focused on following through instead

/ he raises an eyebrow at the implication; no, Faulkner is no fool, but neither is he, and that will be the crux of this in the end, won't it? of the two, which one should come out on top in the midst of this careful struggle

“Hm.”

/ the question seems to come out of nowhere,  as his jacket comes off and is laid gently on the chair beside him; of course he knows, he'd known *that* little piece of information before Jacob had told him; not offering up the information freely, obviously, but he'd actually answered Emmett's curious questions when they'd come; but why should Faulkner's obvious abuse of a child make a difference in this office, today, here and now? did he think Emmett would be intimidated?

“I'm aware,  yes. It's been mentioned.”

**

/ no, there’s no hesitation this time, but it doesn’t feel like a victory, at all; but repetition forms habits, and habits shape every-day life; every-day life influences thoughts and thoughts fuel feelings; sometimes it’s as simple as that, and Faulkner has always appreciated simple solutions to all kinds of problems, but this will take time, and he’s aware, and he’ll have to approach this from different sides

/ the raised brow his answered with his own; the answer ambiguous and vague, and that can only mean *one* thing – and isn’t *that* interesting? Faulkner has gotten to know Reid as a man striving for perfection – that’s what has made the deal possible, in the first place, isn’t it? – he’s a man obsessed with detail and precision; a vague answer like his has a reason, and although he can’t quite understand the *why*, not yet, Faulkner is certain it’s tied to the man standing behind him, quiet and watchful and ever attentive; does Reid think he’s protecting Jacob by giving a cautious answer with no true weight?

“So he did?”

/ a glance over his shoulder, although he can’t see Jacob from here and he sure as hell won’t crane his neck to look at him, but it’s enough to acknowledge his bloodhound, silent and without a doubt holding back a frown

“Interesting.”

/ he clears his throat and lets go of this line of thought; it’s a thought for another day, but an interesting one nevertheless

“So, how old was he?”

**

/ whether Jacob himself had told him or not is irrelevant in the end, and Emmett knows it; he'd heard the whispers himself in the halls, but more than that,  he'd done his own research, and he'd seen firsthand the tension between the mayor and his hound, the invisible shackles that spoke of deeper ties and darker history - Emmett hasn't asked about *that*, but he hadn't needed to, anyway

/ the point was that he knew, and he was fairly certain Faulkner was just fishing in that moment, trying to see if the big man and their new asset were *bonding*; but while he actually found he liked the man, Emmett was pretty sure neither one of them would call it that

/ he runs his tongue over his teeth lightly as his fingers work over his shirt buttons, metal and flesh moving in tandem; he glances ever so briefly at Jacob as he answers,  still without hesitation in his response

“He was thirteen.”

**

/ this time, the movement behind his back is not just a shift in the air, it’s noticeable tension, a soft rustling of fabric – a suit Faulkner has chosen for him, like always – as Jacob straightens, as if waiting for a blow, alert and cautious; no, the boy doesn’t like to be reminded of this time in his life, and he doesn’t like it it when the Mayor talks about him like a piece of furniture he’s acquired a long time ago, a piece of furniture that, for one reason or another, has grown on him; but Jacob doesn’t protest, he never would; *good boy*

“He was.”

/ for a moment, Faulkner looks right through the figure in front of the desk, looks at years long gone – two decades now, and more – as he remembers the difficult beginnings; but the moment doesn’t last, and his eyes rest on Emmett instead; there’s no joy or excitement in seeing Reid undress, no lewd gaze, no leer; Faulkner doesn’t take pleasure in this, it’s merely a necessity, but he can’t help but admire the work this man has put in his own salvation, can’t help but admire the amalgam of metal and flesh as Emmett reveals his torso

“And I do trust him with my life.”

/ granted, the kill switch helps, Faulkner’s trust only goes so far, but he’s never made use of it in other ways than as a reminder or punishment

“Why is that?”

**

/ the way Faulkner watches him in the training sessions is always so curious; he'd thought at first it was about getting the old man's rocks off a bit - the kneeling,  the submission, the eventual buildup and removal of his shirt - it would undoubtedly progress further, much further,  and yet…

/ Emmett doesn't see lust in Faulkner's eyes, not at any point,  and somehow Emmett didn't think it had anything to do with being turned off by the ugly bruised and mottled flesh along the seam of metal; hell, he'd almost think it was admiration, if it were anything at all - but the Mayor had his own machine already, standing right behind him, already much more powerful than Emmett, even with all his training

“Loyalty.”

/ that much is obvious - and he knows it's Faulkner's end game with him,  too, and good fucking luck to him; it's the kind of submission the man really wants, a dedication that would make him lay down his life for the Mayor without a second thought, something deep and unthinking

“And you've had a long time to build it.”

**

“Exactly.”

/ if he knows Jacob at all, the boy is probably looking at his feet right now, trying to will himself out of existence without showing any change in his expression, without ever letting his guard down, and Faulkner will make sure to reward him later

/ he takes a long moment to let his gaze linger on Emmett’s torso, on the lines where machine meets human; so different from Jacob, and yet so eerily similar

“He’s loyal. He knows I *saved* him, and he’d rather kill himself than lay hand on me. Isn’t that right, Jacob?”

/ the confirmation comes from behind without a second of hesitation, and although Jacob’s low rumbling voice doesn’t sound *happy*, it sounds *determined*

“And he knows how to be grateful, and he’s proven that time and time again, he will make an excellent successor. When the time comes.”

/ for the fraction of a second, his tone changes, one word thrown in between his lecture, stern and commanding and yet strangely casual

“Kneel.”

/ he’s just as quick to resume his lesson, leaning back in his chair with a smile thin as a razorblade

“The point being… *this* is what true loyalty and submission looks like. I trust him because I raised him. Trained him. Took him under my wings. The advantage of training him early, really.”

/ the question sounds curious and almost absent-minded, but is heavy with intent

“How old are *you*, Emmett?”

/ he knows the answer already, but that’s not the point here; he’s laid this conversation out in his head already, and it will take a *long* time

**

/ it doesn't take a genius to see Faulkner’s point, just as it had been easy to see his intent from the start, but Emmett is patient, silent as he listens to the Mayor’s undoubtedly practiced monologue, spitting out the common story he's already heard a half dozen times; and he does listen, rather than give him out as the dress shirt comes off, finally followed by the undershirt pulled up over his head, leaving him bare,  exposed, vulnerable

/ he kneels the moment he's told to, flawlessly obedient by design; he doesn't voice the comeback that the difference is that he'd saved *himself*, though God only knows why he'd bothered

/ Faulkner knows this answer,  too, another performative question,  but Emmett plays along, his voice level as he responds

“Thirty three.”

*

“Hm. Thirty three.”

/ he pretends to mull over the number, lets it linger between them; it’s *just* a number, in the end, irrelevant to him in the long run, but it does showcase the problem here, and he’s certain a man of Emmett’s intelligence catches on quickly, even a mongrel would

“And you still don’t know the difference between loyalty and obedience. Then again - *stand*”

/ the word is thrown in without blinking an eye, sharp and casual at once again, another command, another test, another not quite subliminal message to wear Emmett’s defences down, followed by a gesture of his hand

“Then again it doesn’t surprise me, seeing how you were abandoned. And who took you in, Emmett? Who was willing to give you a second chance?”

**

/ he bites his tongue just before the order to stand, but his eyes sharpen on Faulkner as he obeys; no, loyalty and obedience are not at all the same, they both know it - just as they both know obedience in the end is *easy* - loyalty must be earned,  not demanded, and he'd just been given the harshest of lessons on *loyalty* - or what he had believed to be so, until he had been left to die, only to be pulled from the ashes again

/ *I didn't need a second chance*

/ he lets out a silent breath before answering, knowing that this time at least, the truth and what Faulkner wanted to hear were one and the same

“You did, sir.”

**

“I did.”

/ the confirmation is quiet and soft, and he lets the words settle again, before taking a deep breath himself

“I *want* to trust you, too, Emmett. I really do.”

/ maybe not with his life, and certainly not without precautious, and *plenty* of them, but enough to let Reid roam freely; enough to make use of this new machine, this new weapon, this new asset; his point stands and his voice turns almost soft, almost fatherly, almost amiable; it’s the politician’s voice, the voice reserved for interviews and speeches and for friendly handshakes with hand-picked citizens, but it holds a strange sincerity and honesty

“But if all you present is half-assed obedience, I will not be able to do that. I will not be able to trust you. And my trust, in the end, is something you will benefit from. So I’m not impressed with that answer of yours. I’m not satisfied with it. I’m *definitely*

 not pleased with hesitation. *Dress.*”

/ he’s found a rhythm to his orders, spaced out evenly, with enough time for Emmett to adjust to each state, but never long enough to find *security* in it

**

/ *I want to trust you too, Emmett.*

/ a nice hope,  if only he could believe it, but right now, trust seems so unattainable; trust in anyone had always been so hard to come by, when connection alone was so goddamn difficult for him; but now, after such a betrayal,  after such a *loss*, how could he trust again?

/ and if he himself couldn't trust, it only stood to reason that Faulkner was equally unlikely to put any true faith in *him*, obedience or not - and the man frankly did not seem the *trusting* type to begin with

/ but it remained true that Faulkner *was* right - he'd taken him in, in the midst of hell, and carved a new place for him when Emmett's world had crumbled from underneath him

/ he bites his tongue again,  frowning against the accusation of doing anything *half assed*; he stands and begins to dress again, half relieved to cover up his skin, still healing the remnants of the last of his burns

**

/ the silence stretches into something that could almost considered uncomfortable, but not to Faulkner; he’s patient, and he can wait, and he can the that Emmett’s mind is working and *that* can only be to his advantage, in the end; so he lets the man think and allows his own eyes to rest on Reid’s torso, if only to get the boy used to it, to slowly chip away any sense of *self*; it will be a long process, and without a doubt, but he’ll start with desensitising him to his presence and his gaze, starts with stripping away shame and privacy

/ Emmett’s movements are controlled and measured in a way he can appreciate and even admire; something he’s spent decades to perfect, both in himself and Jacob, and it just might be something like luck that he finds it in this new weapon, as well; he remains silent for as long as Reid needs to dress again, watches button after button being closed, watches layer after layer covering his most valuable asset – the very thing that has drawn Faulkner’s attention in the first place

/ once Emmett stands fully dressed, Faulkner snaps his fingers and is pleased to see that it draws the attention of both men *immediately*, one willing to please already, and the other… would get there, but Emmett’s eyes are on him the second he’s raised his hand, and that’s a good start and Faulkner doesn’t need to *see* Jacob to know he’s standing a little straighter, attentive, alert and ready for an order

/ and it’s Jacob the order is for; it shows in fingers pointing slightly backwards, and once that’s clear, he points his index forward again, towards Emmett in front of the desk, and silent and obedient as ever - *truly* obedient – Jacob moves to stand behind Emmett, his steps heavy but controlled, muffled by the carpet; the Mayor doesn’t need a verbal command for Jacob, not anymore, and as soon as he stands tall and proud behind Reid, Faulkner’s attention shifts towards him again

“Again. Take off your shirt.”

/ but that’s not all; he’s not done

“How long did you hesitate, Emmett? How long *exactly*?”

**

/ the Mayor doesn't break the silence and Emmett knows very well already that means something heavier is coming; but the knowledge doesn't outwardly change a thing - his expression remains blank, his fingers moving at the same careful speed they did before, smoothing down the clothing to ensure perfection

/ his eyes dart up in response to the snapping of the Mayor's fingers, locking on to the man, but it's Jacob that moves,  and *fuck* if that doesn't send the subtlest of shivers down Emmett's spine, something cold and heavy settling low in his gut

/ there's not even a minute of security this time; the moment the suit jacket is on, he's already moving to take it off again, but that's not really a surprise by this point - the question, on the other hand, is; but he doesn't really have to think about that, either

“Two and a half seconds, sir.”

**

“Two and a half seconds.”

/ he repeats the words with a low hum, approval and challenge at the same time, his eyes flickering towards Jacob; it’s no surprise that the answer is as accurate as it is, without hesitation this time, and with a confidence and precision that in itself is impressive; there *is* a reason he is sacrificing time, resources and energy for Emmett, in the end; and an answer like that is more than confirmation that it was the right call to make

/ a nod, nothing more; no smirk, no glimmer in his eyes, no change in his expression

“Show him what can be done in two and a half seconds, son.”

 / suddenly, within the blink of an eye, there’s a knife in Jacob’s hand, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and even Faulkner has to admit he’s impressed with the level of skill his bloodhound has built over the years; the other arm – the *strong* one – whips out to wrap around Emmett’s throat in a flash, and for a moment the Mayor wonders not for the first time if the boy hopes that Reid will fight back, or if hopes the opposite; it really is hard to tell with Jacob’s face set in stone and a gaze impenetrable and hard like granite

**

/ the repetition isn't a question, and it doesn't sound like doubt; it's Faulkner taking what he says at face value - it is the truth, naturally,  but who else would have timed such a thing? who else could have answered with that kind of precision? - and he wonders for a moment if this was, in fact,  faith in the truth of the answer - or if the Mayor had timed it himself

/ either way, Emmett knew a test; and it seemed he'd at least passed this one, a success, in spite of the continued reprimand for yesterday's failure –

/ only to be met instantly with another, one that was almost too quick to curb his instinctive reaction; shockingly efficient, enough to make him visibly draw in a breath - and *tense*, holding still rather than reaching for the knife at his throat, careful not to twist away from the unrelenting grip of inhuman strength holding him in place, holding his gaze on Faulkner’s sharp eyes

**

/ Jacob is all too often easy to read, and Faulkner knows too well it’s not for lack of skill; more often than not, the boy doesn’t bother, doesn’t care enough; it’s hubris rather than incompetence, but when it counts, when it *matters*, at least, he knows to behave; it’s still a flaw, and they’re working on it, but how interesting, that the bloodhound is so hard to read whenever Emmett is around

/ up and close with a knife, breathing against Reid’s skin, and once again not for the first time, Faulkner wonders if Jacob enjoys this, has enjoyed fucking him – not quite into submission, that would come later, but into… humility, even if that didn’t last for long; and since Emmett’s half-admission that Jacob has been *talking*, things have only gotten more fascinating

/ either way, it’s hard to tell how Jacob feels about the newcomer, and maybe not even he knows; or maybe the boy is *finally* learning

/ Emmett, however, is *not* hard to read, for once at least, and with a deep satisfaction Faulkner recognises the defiance lies in his eyes and not in his hand; there’s no struggle against the iron grip, there’s no fight, no refusal, although it’s clear he *wants* to bring on all that and *more*, instead there is… surrender, and maybe the first little seedling of trust, even with the steely gaze glaring back at the Mayor; but small victories are victories nevertheless, and a reward is due

“Good boy. I’m impressed.”

/ a chuckle follows, and with another wave of his hands, he gestures for Jacob to release Emmett again; this is not a punishment, after all, it’s a demonstration, and hurting Reid without warning or reason will destroy trust rather than build it, and Emmett needs to learn that surrender *is* safe, and he’s more than pleased with the outcome, so Faulkner doesn’t let the moment last, and Jacob removes knife and arm and hot breath from Emmett’s skin as quickly as he’d moved towards him

“So how long was that?”

**

/ with that flippant wave of the Mayor's hand,  the moment is over before Emmett has the chance to second guess or reevaluate his course of action; the pressure releases from his neck,  the warm breath against his skin vanishing, and he draws in a breath just as even and controlled as the last, as if Lake had never been a threat at all

/ he doesn't turn his head, despite something in him *wanting* to; he keeps his eyes on Faulkner, blinking at the question, and processing immediately that yes,  indeed, Faulkner is timing these moments just as naturally as he does himself; it hardly affects him to be called something as ridiculous as *good boy*, but it clearly does mean, at least,  that the man is pleased, not just impressed

/ *Interesting.*

“Three seconds.”

**

“Exactly. Continue to undress.”

/ with a smirk, he answers Emmett’s gaze, and maybe he can even see the faintest glimmer of emotion in his eyes, but he won’t try to interpret that; it’s interesting, and indeed impressive, to see Reid so fully in control even though his instincts seem to scream at him so loud the Mayor can almost hear them

“So you see why I value *loyalty* so much, Emmett. Why simple obedience won’t do and will never be enough.”

/ a nod towards Jacob, and his heir returns to his rightful place

“You say it won’t happen again, Emmett. But you said that before, didn’t you? When I told you to kneel. It was already the second time you hesitated, and how can I be certain you won’t hesitate again? That you won’t hesitate two and a half seconds – or three- when it *counts*, when it’s life or death?”

**

/ his hands move to his buttons yet again,  repetitive,  monotonous,  *annoying*, but his face shows none of this as he obeys the command

/ of course,  Faulkner has a point behind all this repetition,  behind the monologue, and Emmett isn't blind to any of it; it makes just as much sense as drills, just a different format - a little odd, a little weirdly sexual and yet *not*, at the same time - but yes, he understands it,  even identifies with it,  and it's almost ridiculous that Faulkner doesn't seem to know that - or that he's already been here before

/ Lake's wordless obedience, the understanding of an order before it's given, the flawless control he exhibits - it’s all a mirror of what Emmett himself had been,  so recently and yet so fucking far away already,  so painfully *gone*

/ he hums softly as he slides the undershirt over his head - once again exposing the ever-present bruising and ugly scarring, dark metal against skin, a screaming reminder and an endless point to be made

“Because after years of *when it counts*, I am still alive.”

**

“Mhm.”

/ he nods, straightening a little as Jacob resumes his place behind him, silently, controlled and intimidating; yes, a reward is due, because as silent, controlled and intimidating as he is, Faulkner knows him too well to mistake the calm for… calm; all of this is deeply annoying to his bloodhound, and appears to him to be a waste of time – and Jacob isn’t even entirely wrong about that; he’s been reduced to a babysitter lately, and the Mayor can understand the level of frustration, at the very least

“And that’s *exactly* what I mean, boy. I have no doubt you have the skill and determination to survive. I have no doubt that you do what needs to be done…”

/ he raises a brow and his voice frosts over, the accusation and reminder blaring and unveiled as he watched the slow movements of Emmett’s fingers over buttons and hems

“… what you did to the administration building a few weeks ago is proof of that. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

/ he pauses here, just to let it settle, waiting for Emmett to strip out of yet another layer of his armour; his taste is impeccable, Faulkner will give him that, but it’s a sign of pride, too – and deep insecurity

“Because you’re loyal towards yourself. I have no doubt you will protect your life without hesitation when the time comes. I’m worried you won’t protect mine. Or Jacob’s. Or do what’s best for the City.”

**

/ no, Faulkner’s got it all wrong; terribly wrong,  *laughably* wrong, really,  and it's almost surprising - certainly, Emmett didn't know him inside and out by now, it had been too short a time for that, but he knew him well *enough* to know that he was smarter than *that*

/ for the first time, his control over his emotions cracks entirely on front of them both - enough that he lets out a huff, breaking the eye contact to look away, half tempted to walk out of the room - but he doesn't

“No. I protect the things I value - my life doesn't qualify. I was loyal to *him.* Give me reason to value you and you might earn the same.”

**

/ finally, *finally* a sign of spirit, of life, of *human emotions*, and Faulkner can sense a shift in the *air* once again, coming from behind, a tension that’s hard to pin down, but it tells him Jacob sees what he sees, and it’s a success, progress, *victory*

/ he chuckles to himself, almost warm, and definitely condescending, before he drops yet another order once he sees the seams of metal meeting flesh again on Emmett’s body

“Kneel.”

/ it’s the first time Emmett has really dropped the façade, the first time he’s shown what lies behind that mask of inhuman indifference, and it shows Faulkner is on the right path, it shows this *works*, and even more so, it provides a first true insight into the working of Reid’s mind, and surprisingly, what the mayor sees… is *contempt*, not entirely unlike what he sees in Jacob at times, but multiplied and blown out of proportion

“And I haven’t given you reason to value me, yet? I picked you up where *he* dropped you.”

/ leaning forward, Faulkner’s voice drops again, but this time, it’s almost fatherly, almost gentle

“I *am* giving you a chance here, Emmett. Haven’t you realised that yet? But hesitation will not get you anywhere. Questioning my orders will not get you anywhere.”

**

/ Faulkner can have his petty victory; it doesn't matter one bit to Emmett, sliding down to his knees with a soft thud this time as he glares right back up at the Mayor again, obedient to a goddamn fault, but there's anger burning hot behind his cold blue eyes

/ it hurts to think about, *hurts* even though he's tried to convince himself not to allow it, tried to shut it away forever -  the betrayal, the abandonment,  the utter disillusionment, the *ache* - but just because he's been tossed aside doesn't mean he'll give himself right over to the first asshole who decides he's worth a second look

/ never mind the other one in the room, the one who's already done so much in his attempts to damage him, *destroy* him, inside and out,  the one who's still managed to weasel himself into Emmett's thoughts and couldn't seem to keep his fucking eyes off him now

“I know exactly what you're doing,  and I'm choosing to let you. You'll have obedience and I've not questioned you. But loyalty isn't demanded,  it's *earned.*”

**

“Of course you do. *Stand.*”

/ another chuckle, and the answer comes as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world; but there’s one thing Emmett is utterly wrong about: there’s no choice here, but let the boy have his little delusion if it means he can hold onto the faintest little sliver of pride behind that insecurity and self-loathing he’s demonstrated only minutes ago for just a bit longer; he’s already breaking down, bit by bid, and agonisingly slowly, but the signs are there, and if this training session has proven anything, it’s *that*

“You’re smart. *Dress*.”

/ that’s one reason Emmett is still alive; Faulkner has no use for idiots around him; and no, he’s neither particularly creative nor innovative here; these techniques are old and *proven*; and even a blunt knife will still stab if inserted with enough pressure; there’s no point in hiding what he does, so he doesn’t bother

“Loyalty is earned and can’t be demanded, no. But so is trust, and two and a half seconds are two and a half seconds too many. ”

**

/ he stands, biting his tongue and breathing the fire from his lungs, bringing himself back under control as best he can - which is pretty fucking flawless,  still, considering,  *considering* -

/ it would be more than statistically possible, he's certain; highly probable, even, that he could hit this presumptuous son of a bitch fast enough and *hard* enough to kill him before the Mayor's bigger, stronger machine moved to permanently shut Emmett down; and honestly,  being decommissioned sounds just fine to him right now, but what would be the *point* without some sense of satisfaction first?

/ he hadn't even had the chance to find Santiago again,  hadn't been able to ask *why* - or put a bullet into his fucking head and end them both

/ he dresses just as efficiently as he cleans his guns, the constant repetition having no effect on his precision or presentation; he'll prove that he can be trusted, not to disobey, not to skimp, not to hesitate, no matter how many endless rounds of mindless orders he carries out

**

/ there’s silence, and it’s not that Faulkner isn’t used to that, can’t stand it; Jacob is silent most of the time, unless he’s bent over this very desk or high, but Emmett’s silence is almost amusing, stubborn and angry like a child, and possibly entirely oblivious of just *how much* he reveals of himself, of just how much he’s handing himself over, bit by bit, layer by layer, and even as he dresses he’s revealing parts of himself that will be all too useful

/ when Reid stands fully closed once again, the rhythm almost hypnotic even to Faulkner, he speaks again

“I take absolutely no pleasure in letting you run errands all day or in locking you up. *Undress.*”

/ this, at the very least, is true; it’s a waste of resources, and Faulkner hates any sort of waste and always has; as much as he enjoys the challenge, this strange déjà-vu of times long past, and the excitement that comes with progress, the excitement for the things to come, the new opportunities opening up with someone extraordinary like Reid here; as much as he cherishes the anticipation, Emmett could be *useful*, and every passing day of him delivering *messages* means lost potential; but it’s part of his training, like this very moment, and it was clear from the beginning that wearing down this proud, stubborn, angry one would take time, so every useless task, every tiring repetition, every mindless obedience practice is calculated and a step into the right direction

**

/ he manages to hold back the contemptuous huff, bringing the fire of his emotions back under control once again, his eyes glancing over at Lake - silent and watchful and nearly expressionless, remarkably like him, really, and that thought *really should* fucking scare him, probably, but nothing does anymore, not now - before letting his gaze fall on the Mayor again, hooking his finger through his tie to pull it loose for the millionth time, but not once will he cut corners - he *will* do this the right way, the *correct* way, each and every time

**

“So you understand why I can’t fully trust you yet? Why, until I *can*, Jacob is watching you for the time being?”

/ that’s the tragedy in this, and that’s why he understands Jacob’s frustration, because out of necessity, he needs to tie one useless task to another, needs to waste not just one young man full of potential, but *two*, because certainly, Emmett could do useful things instead of following Jacob around, but Jacob could even more useful things instead of watching Emmett like an overqualified watch dog

/ and he sees the anger burning hot in Emmett’s eyes, sees the control he’s exerting over himself, his muscles, his expression, his movements, and it’s all he’s taught Jacob, and maybe more, and he finds it so flawlessly presented in Reid, as if he were born for it; it’s only proof that this will be worth it, as tiresome and exhausting it is for *everyone* involved; it’s not useless, it’s an investment into the future, and a glorious future, at that

**

/ if there’s one positive coming out of this annoyingly repetitive, useless *bullshit* of a task, it’s that Emmett hardly even feels it anymore when his skin is exposed, piece by piece, bit by bit; it no longer feels like vulnerability, when there’s no room for the self; it can hardly be vanity when he no longer exists, and it sure as hell can’t be *weakness*

/ but he knows that doesn’t matter here; he won’t be opening himself up to anyone again anyway, not how he used to, and maybe it’s best that this no longer means a damn thing - but that’s not what Faulkner is getting at, anyway, and it’s a wonder the man thinks he’ll be here next week, let alone long enough to earn his *trust*

/ but he scrubs the anger from his voice, keeping it smooth this time, the almost delicate murmur he’s known for as he sets the undershirt down, his chest once again bare and exposed

“Yes sir. I do understand.”

**

“You see why this kind of training is necessary. Simple obedience won’t be enough, *especially* when it comes with doubt and unpredictable moments of hesitation. So you know what needs to be done to gain more independence, Emmett. You know what needs to be done to get what you *want*.”

/ he’s under no delusion here, and neither is Reid; he’s only agreed to this deal because Emmett wants what Jacob has, and make it *better*, and wouldn’t that be a win for both sides, in the end?

/ he waits until Emmett is done, until he stands bare and half naked and visibly unfazed, and he wonders if Jacob is watching him, too, wonders for a moment what’s going on in the bloodhound’s head to see someone so very much alike, but this time he doesn’t give the order to kneel; this time, he takes it a step further

“Now the rest.”

**

/ *Presumptuous of you. But I’ll concede your point.*

/ he sighs and licks his lip, holding back that thought, too; he’s agreed to this, after all, even if Faulkner’s approach was misguided bullshit

“You’ll have your loyalty. *Sir.*”

/ *Now the rest.*

/ thank fuck for a brain that moves too goddamn fast to follow; he doesn’t need to think, doesn’t need to process or question before his hands move to just *obey*, unbuckling his belt before he’s even fully aware of *what exactly* Faulkner is demanding of him

/ he glances back at Lake again, that strange coil of expectation at the base of his spine dark and familiar; was that the next step here? would he be expected to bend willingly this time, to present, to ask for it, rather than just take it?

/ regardless, it doesn’t matter; he’s been through worse, much worse, and he’ll suffer through more, undoubtedly, if he makes it past whatever tonight brings; he’ll prove himself, if only out of spite, if only out of contempt for those who still know what trust even *is*

**

/ again, Jacob behind him tenses as Reid stand fully naked before the desk, and it’s just a shift in the atmosphere, not a shift of posture; maybe the boy is reliving memories, seeing himself in the other, maybe he’s looking away, maybe he’s watching; there’s no way to tell, and Faulkner sure as hell won’t turn, but he’ll make sure to *ask*; but Jacob isn’t his focus here, it’s Emmett; there’s no hesitation this time, just stubbornness, just obedience, and Faulkner lets out a hum of approval, soft and sonorous and pleased

/ there’s a tension here, a tension that’s not aimed at him, he’s certain; the tension belongs to *Jacob*, and he understands, understands this special kind of anxious anticipation, but Faulkner keeps it chaste, keeps it harmless, this is an exercise in obedience, and an exercise in trust, and it’s one step after another until they’ll get *there*

“Good boy.”

/ so anger does it, and that’s interesting, that’s another valuable insight; this session has brought true progress, and true knowledge, and it brings a feeling of satisfaction and content that’s unrivalled; so different from Jacob, who is only ever stubborn when angry, only ever seeking trouble and destruction when that old, impressive fury comes out; and that’s useful, too, and has been for over two decades now; but Emmett needs a different approach, and that’s clearer than ever; the anger makes him stubborn, too, but instead of refusal it seems to evoke a stubborn determination to prove himself, and Faulkner can certainly work with that

“Emmett, I know we were off to a rough start, but you understand why I had to do that, don’t you? Why Jacob had? But ever since, have I given you reason to distrust my word? Even today… Instead of a lesson, there could have been punishment. But there wasn’t. I could have ordered him to hurt you, but I didn’t. All pain you received… was deserved. No more, no less. *Kneel.*“

**

/ it’s odd, that he doesn’t feel the nakedness this time; despite the fact that he’s almost *never* so exposed, and certainly not in front of others, never so distanced from his own body; it’s not like comfort, not like when he could feel *safe*, not like when he was with –

/ *Good boy.*

/ there it is again, the two words that are so *fucking weird* here, so strangely charged, just as the rest of this whole absurd situation is - sexual but not, chaste but not, raw and exposed and still somehow so absolutely impersonal, as if he were nothing more unique or conscious than another piece of elaborate furniture, even as he falls to his knees again, every inch of him on display for these two beasts pretending to be men

“I understand you. Yes.”

**

“*Stand.*”

/ there’s a numbness to the movements now, something almost robotic, even in the human parts of this machine, and with a satisfied smile, Faulkner leans back again; it’s working, as it always does, as it always has, from the stubborn teenager that Jacob had been to this new man machine; no, *choice* has nothing to do with it

“You need to understand that we are willing and ready to welcome you, too, Emmett. Isn’t that right, Jacob?”

/ the answer comes without hesitation, as it always does, the affirmation solid and clear and unwavering, convincing to anyone but Faulkner; it’s both a promise and a threat, but everything Jacob says these days sounds like both

“Yes, sir.”

/ and that’s the real question here, isn’t it? the interesting question, the question that likely not even Jacob himself is able to answer honestly, if his unreadable face is any indication; the fact that he’s *talking* to Emmett is as unusual as it is interesting; it speaks of something like interest, something like curiosity, at the very least, but the open hostility in Jacob’s eyes speaks a different language; it’s as if the boy hasn’t made up his mind yet, and won’t that be interesting? Faulkner can see advantages of both – rivalry and camaraderie – and if he does play his cards right, if he can guide this at all, if he can lodge Jacob and Emmett in a place between, then he just might be able to take advantage of both

“I’m curious. He told you, then? About himself?”

*

/ as he stands, Emmett decides Faulkner’s got a smile that he doesn’t like, something a little too knowing, a little too self serving - condescending and false and *disarming*, even; he’s heard plenty about this man, in years past, and he understands now how the Mayor got so goddamn far

/ shockingly, there’s no gesture, no movement, no subtle order meant for Lake; and that is indeed a surprise; but Emmett’s sure it’s still coming, that there’s deeper levels to this, down the line, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week or next month - there will be further humiliation and desensitization - and the *when* doesn’t really matter, in the long run, but he’ll try to predict it anyway, calculate the probabilities so he’s never caught off guard, so he can properly compartmentalize when the inevitable comes into play

/ the question feels like a trick, and the answer is simple, but the full truth of it is less so; Emmett *listens*, he watches, and yes, he’s done his goddamn research; and yes, Lake himself had told him plenty, not through interrogation, but through simple, genuine *questions*; and as far as Emmett could tell - which was a lot, thank you very much - he had told the *truth*

/ yet saying any of that felt almost like a betrayal - another unexplainably ridiculous notion, considering what Lake has *done* to him - and Emmett decides suddenly that no, he will keep this answer true and clear - but *simple*

“Yes sir. He has.”

*

“I see. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

/ sometimes it only takes little hints, little nudges, little acts of guidance, to plant the seedlings of love and hate; and maybe this will be both; there’s no fear radiating from Reid, not at all, but he’s almost certain to sense something like *surprise* - *and not* - as if Emmett is waiting, as if he’s planning Faulkner’s steps alongside with him; and of course he *is*, he’s clever, and he’ll be hard to crack, but in the end, even he will bow and bend, like Jacob has

/ but the talking, in the end, is counterproductive, at least if it goes on for two long; it’s a meditative state Faulkner seeks, a state to wear down Emmett’s defences, let him settle into this, into submission and maybe even something like trust, as his self dissolves in repetition and order

“Continue until I say otherwise.”

/ two hours this time should suffice; two hours in which he can work or simply read the newspaper, before he’ll inevitably tend to Jacob and his needs, never quite satisfied, always hungry – for approval, for affection, for attention and sensation and so much more – but it’s two hours in which Emmett will learn his place, and perhaps that there’s safety in surrender, even; the first signs have been there already, tentative and stubborn as they have been

**

“Yes, sir.”

/ yes, it sure as hell was interesting, and Emmett spent the next one hundred and twenty seven minutes thinking about it - all of it, in silent obedience as he stripped down to bare skin and metal, then covered up again,  over and over again

/ that final fight, the explosion and the dust,  the days spent in that tiny room and what happened when Lake would walk through that door; the pain he still felt in his godforsaken arm, let alone his heart; and yes, his conversations with Lake and the answers the man surprisingly gave so willingly, quiet and clipped as they were, telling the horrific story of his life and existence and role under Faulkner’s thumb

**

/ it’s strange how silence accentuated the most banal things; there’s the rustle of fabric in a mind-numbing rhythm in front of him as Emmett steps in and out of his suit, restoring his impeccable, perfect image over and over and over again; and without a flaw, without as much as a single deviation, he ends up looking the same each and every time he puts on the suit, ends up the same every time he gets on his knees, naked and obedient, but not yet devout; there’s no rustling coming from behind him, Jacob still and watchful and ever protective – and more than likely bored to death – his breathing even and controlled, but Faulkner doesn’t mistake it for *relaxed*

/ he watches for a while, indulging in that silence, and in the peculiar, impressive young men he’s gathered around him; Reid still doesn’t seem to understand how rare it is that Jacob *talks*, and talks about *himself*, for that matter, and yet there has been so much anger in Emmett’s eyes, barely hidden, barely concealed, as he’s glimpsed back and forth between the Mayor and his bloodhound

/ it hasn’t escaped Faulkner, the tension in Emmett the second Jacob has stepped *behind* him, the tension the second he’d had to strip naked - and it’s understandable, really, and if he knows anything at all, their relationship is bound to be complicated, but there’s advantages to that, too

/ ten minutes, he does allow himself to watch, to let his eyes rest silently on the repetitive performance in front of him, to let his thoughts drift, before he does return to his work, silent and focused, as ever

/ naturally, he does have his eyes on the clock, and he does know when 120 comes around, but he gives it a few more minutes, because this is as much a practice in patience as it is in obedience and submission, and frankly, Emmett does not look as tired as he should, and Faulkner is certain to change his schedule tomorrow; more errands, more drills, more sparring, less sleep; it won’t be subtle, but trying to be would only be an insult to Reid’s intellect and skills - *and* to his own

/ once Emmett stands again, presentable and fully dressed, the Mayor finally looks up, serious and neutral, neither displeased nor particularly excited, a thin, professional smile on his lips – the smile for frontpages and news feeds

“Very well. We’re done here, Emmett. Think about everything I said. That will be all. Jacob will walk you back to your rooms. I expect to see you again tomorrow for your debrief.”

/ a wave of his hand, and he dismisses the boy, watching Jacob move from behind his chair to escort Reid out of his office, maybe, if he’s lucky, entirely unaware of what he has revealed, and the progress he’s made

**

/ it would almost be meditative,  he supposes,  if he found this at all calming, and if he could afford to let himself drift,  but he can't - he remains present, thoughtful and watchful and *precise*; it won't do to allow for a single slip,  for a single button to be missed,  for a single sloppy knot of the tie

/ he shows no emotion when Faulkner finally acknowledges him again,  *releases* him as if this were an absolutely normal occurrence; and so he answers it exactly as he would if it *were*

“Understood,  sir. Thank you.”

/ but he's quiet again as he walks with Lake through the hall, the silent machine looming just behind him; as much as he enjoys their apparently shockingly unique conversations,  Emmett isn't entirely sure he has any interest in bringing up this latest development - or what would undoubtedly follow soon - with the man who already knew the taste of his sweat without it being *offered*

**

/ he watches Reid’s back for a while, eyes wandering to the nape of his neck and the back of his skull; there’s a silence settling that’s heavy, heavier even than in Faulkner’s office

“He likes you.”

/ truth is, Jacob doesn’t even know if Faulkner likes *him*, or if it’s just because the Mayor has gotten used to him like he’s a stray dog that one day has followed him home, if it’s just because he’s survived the process others haven’t, because something in him was too stubborn to die

“Do you know how rare that is?”

/ and he doesn’t even know why he’s saying this, but maybe a part of him feels for Reid, after this, after the torment he knows so *intimately*, the repetition he’s felt in his very bones – the ones that are left, at least – a part of him feels for himself, for Reid, *for them both*, knowing what things will undoubtedly come - for him, for Reid, and for them both – but he bites his tongue nevertheless as soon as the words are out

**

/ he's used to being watched, used to being tracked, so he’s pretty damn sure it's *not* his imagination that he can feel Lake's eyes boring into the back of his neck, and yet again it sends a tingling shiver down his spine that still doesn't feel like the fear it should be

/ this time it's *Lake* that breaks the silence,  and that alone would almost be enough to make him turn and look, but instead Emmett only furrows his brow a bit; the fuck did *that* mean?

“Most people do. Is that supposed to make me feel anything in particular?”

**

/ he shrugs, and he *understands* - that’s the *worst* part – and for a moment he’s silent as he escorts Reid to familiar hallways, to the familiar elevator, to take him to rooms that were once *his*

/ that’s what he gets for trying to be *nice*, that’s why he doesn’t *do* nice; and there’s envy stirring, envy and jealousy, because it’s so obvious what Faulkner is doing, the question is just who will come out the *spare*; he feels envy and jealousy because no, he does not know how it is when most people like you – he only knows fear and hatred and a patronising smile

“Do with it what you will.”

/ he needs to clear his head, and knowing he will be back in this very office in only half an hour does *not* help; the focus will be on him, then, and ever since Reid has arrived, that has only ever gotten more confusing, more complicated; he’s only yet another machine standing on the carpet, as remarkable as he is replaceable, uttering the same responses - *yessir, nosir, thankyousir* like a prayer, like a mantra, until he’s forgotten who he is

**

/ he presses his lips together,  breathing in a deep uncertainty; it’s shocking that Lake had spoken up at all,  and it's obvious there’s intent behind it - intent that might have even been positive,  but it's hard to tell these days, when everything feels like a test,  another excuse to wear him down

“I'm more curious what *you'll* do with it.”

**

/ again, he shrugs, a fucking pointless gesture seeing that he’s *behind* that spazzwanker, but just like his words, it won’t make a difference, in the end; maybe he’s helping to train his own replacement, maybe it’s just another goddamn fucking mindfuck

/ when they reach the elevator, he pushes the button, like he’s done a million times, the echoes of decades overlapping in a simple gesture, but all of that, Reid won’t even begin to understand

“What? You think I’ll eliminate the competition?”

/ he huffs

“You’re *not* competition.”

/ it’s a goddamn fucking lie, and an obvious one

“He might not like me like he likes you, but he *trusts* me.”

/ with a remote control in his pocket, who is he kidding, but Reid doesn’t know that – yet

**

/ alright, that *does* get a response - it's not a laugh, but a huff to match Lake's - because no, he isn't stupid, and he knows what a man like Faulkner wants; he sure as fuck *is* competition, whether either of them wants it or not, whether either of them *tries* or not; but he doesn't let the idea of Faulkner’s man eliminating him affect him at all

“No, nothing to do with that. You're just more interesting than he is.”

/ and oh but that's just ridiculous,  isn't it? that Lake seems almost *jealous* of this idea that Faulkner approves of him after all?

“That's alright though. *I* like you. We balance out.”

**

“Is that how it works?”

/ another huff, almost a grunt, and the elevator doors open and he waits for Reid to step inside; the space is almost claustrophobic, the polished steel like mirrors, throwing his own flawed image back at him in the most unwanted of moments

/ there’s no balance here, there never was, he’s stuck in in-betweens, and that’s his curse, but the idea of *balance* in a place like this is all but laughable

/ he gets caught on something else, though, something that causes a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, something he doesn’t know; he’s not used to compliments – apart from Faulkner’s poisoned gifts – and if the idea of balance is laughable, the idea of being *interesting* is all the more; especially compared to the man with the silver tongue, sharp like a knife and flexible like a snake, suave and gentlemanly and everything Jacob isn’t and could never be

“Who told you I’m interesting?”

**

“Obviously.”

/ he makes a point of not shying away, even in the enclosed space of this elevator that seems absolutely too small for the two of them; he catches the distorted glimpses of both of them, side by side, and he imagines it must be an impressive sight - the end result of Faulkner’s game, if he wins

“You really think I need anyone to tell me who to find interesting?”

/ no, he isn't afraid, he isn't at all thinking about the first forty-two times they'd been in an enclosed space together

“But if you must know, I already thought you were. Faulkner just verified it.”

**

“What? He got your brain that fried already?”

/ the comment is confusing, but he won’t let that show; not here, not with a… what exactly? prisoner? Faulkner’s apprentice? fellow killing machine?

/… brother?

/ he’s not sure there is a word, and he’s not sure even Faulkner has one, even though his ultimate goal is more than obvious, and a glance at their reflections, at Reid’s eyes meeting his own on cold, polished steel tells him Emmett thinks along the same lines… and doesn’t like it any more than he does

/ but the confusion remains, gnawing relentlessly at his nerves and patience that’s already wearing thin, *especially* after two hours of watching some asshole in a tiring routine; so he takes the bait, it’s not a sign of weakness; he takes the bait and *continues*

“The fuck he did. He didn’t verify shit.”

**

/ that almost makes him smile, honestly; he may be irreparably fucked - Lake himself here brought that *right* to the surface, vivid and clear - but no, Faulkner sure as hell hasn't gotten into his head just yet

“I'm sure he hopes so, but no.”

/ it’s obvious though, that's Emmett's gotten to Lake, and fuck if that just doesn't make him all the more interesting, all over again

“Oh, he absolutely did, though I doubt he meant to. Otherwise he wouldn't be so surprised you've spoken to me… told me about yourself.”

**

“So how’s that verifying I’m interesting? I didn’t tell you shit.”

/ he sighs, and doesn’t bother to swallow it down; it’s out there in the open, full of frustration and annoyance, but he’s not as stupid as Reid might think, not as stupid as *Faulkner* thinks – and Reid isn’t as smart as he thinks he is, either; Emmett says nothing at all, spilling bait after bait to just keep talking without coming to a point, and for a moment he wonders if there even was something behind those words, a core, a truth, an insight that was worth pursuing, or if this conversation is as empty as the Mayor’s lectures at times

“You’re a lot like him. You know that, right?”

/ maybe that’s why Faulkner likes him that much, he thinks, and that thought shouldn’t sting like it does

“Come to the point. Or leave it.”

**

“You've told me enough. And I didn't have to pull it out of you, either.”

/ he shrugs as if that's the most casual thing to say, as if that's not incredibly dangerous,  as if he weren't the fucking prisoner here; but it's interesting,  too, that Lake doesn't even bother to hide his annoyance - his frustration - his *personality* and *humanity* - when in front of literally any other human being he's seen,  the man is a goddamn statue

/ he huffs again,  shaking his head; on the surface, yes, of *course* he is, and he's crafted this image in the same way,  probably, but that means he already *knows* Faulkner, in a sense - and the Mayor is no more interesting to him than a mirror

“Mhm. And that makes him boring. Not like you. *You* are fascinating.”

/ he walks out of the elevator and towards his tiny room, that shiver still thrumming down his spine to the tune of Lake's heavy footsteps, counting down to the inevitable, when he'll be bleeding again, but maybe it won't all be terrible

“I think we have a lot in common that's a lot less… common. Your tech, for one. Your attitude and motives, another.”

/ he pauses, running his tongue over his teeth as he sets his hand on the door handle, wondering if this counts as being actively suicidal or just plain stupid

“You coming inside?”

**

/ one last glimpse at their reflections, and he straightens; they’ve reached the all too familiar floor where his quarters used to be; rooms now inhabited by another; he’s waiting for Emmett to step out of the elevator; no, Reid’s no competition, not yet, but he very much might become, and that tastes bitter, that tastes *foul*, and it makes Jacob push a little harder, bow a little deeper, kneel a little straighter; all the sacrifices Jacob has made, all of his devotion and dedication, his heart, his soul, his *life* - and Faulkner hadn’t even given his *name*

“What do *you* know about my motives?”

/ it’s a rhetorical question

“You’re ridiculous.”

/ he sounds like Faulkner here, and for once, he realises it; for once, he tastes the Mayor’s voice and training and influence on his tongue as soon as the words are spoken, but it’s too late; too late to take the words back, too late for him

/ the invitation is ridiculous, though, as are Reid’s words, and he’s not even sure what he’s referring to, here; it feels surreal that he’s been *invited* into the prison cell *he* has the keycard for

“You know who I am.”

/ this time, it’s not a question spoken into a lonely prison cell with obvious bewilderment; this isn’t like when Reid had greeted him with *relief* instead of fear, the most misplaced of emotions in the face of his captor, his torturer, his guard, a reaction fucked up as can be, and he’s not even certain that it’s *all* a result of Faulkner’s special treatment; it has taken him by surprise, then and now, that there is a soul on this planet who would consider him anything but terrifying; Faulkner and his cold, detached excitement clearly don’t count, because he, too, considers Jacob terrifying - if he weren’t, there’d be no kill switch, no remote, no necessity – and he’s made him this way

**

“Not enough. Hence the curiosity.”

/ there's a tension he's not sure he wants to poke at,  not alone just before entering another set of closed rooms,  not before he's got the proper use of this fucking arm back and some way to defend himself,  but then again,  who is he fooling - even with his arm,  Lake's got him beat ten to one

/ he breathes in another pause, glancing over at his - captor? guard? whatever he is - and raises an eyebrow,  and for once,  he offers the tiniest of smiles, not unlike the one that had broken through alongside desperate relief

“Yes. But I would like to know more.”

**

/ it’s not hesitation, he tells himself – it’s *consideration* - like Faulkner has taught him that, has taught him to plan and measure his steps, literally and metaphorically, and he wonders what Reid’s intentions here are; this is more than fucked up, this seems like a whole new level of *insane*, but Reid is no threat, not like this; Reid is no challenge, no worthy opponent

/ and for a moment, he thinks more about what *Faulkner* would want him to do than what *he* wants, wonders if there are rules in place against this kind of contact or if the Mayor would support this, for whatever reason, for whatever purpose – to bond, to spy, to collect intel, to control

/ the implication is still ridiculous – someone wanting to *know* him, when all Jacob brings is death and despair and Faulkner’s word and order – but he pushes the keycard against the screen, anyway, waiting for Emmett to open the door

“I have to be back in twenty minutes.”

/ back *with him*, on the same carpet, maybe repeating the same routine; but he gets it, *he does*; twenty years ago, it used to be him in those very rooms, and he knows the loneliness that spreads; he still knows it, he’s just learnt to distract himself, to fuck it out of his system, and count the bodies he leaves behind for Faulkner with pride

**

/ for a moment Lake looks at him like he's sprouted another head, and Emmett holds the tiny quirk of a smile as he waits in front of the door; *suicidal or stupid? you decide*

/ he hums as he follows the sudden motion of the keycard, dropping both the eye contact and the smile at once, so minutely subtle, as if it were never there at all

“Plenty of time.”

/ *for what?*

/ he has no plan here, no motive, no ten steps ahead; just winging it, and why not,  when there's nothing left to lose?

/ he opens the door and walks inside,  casually leaving the door open behind him as if there's no question in his mind that Lake will follow

**

„Plenty of time for what?“

/ that’s the question here, isn’t it? and once again he wonders, ponders, tries to imagine what Faulkner will say to this, if this is crossing a line Jacob shouldn’t cross, if the Mayor would *approve* of it, encourage it, even - and what Reid himself is trying to achieve with this, because it sure as fuck can’t be friendliness; he‘s *seen* the burning anger in Emmett’s gaze only moments before, the hatred he‘s built instead of fear, and in the long run, that will only make him more dangerous, more vicious, more deadly - and that will be *exactly* how Faulkner likes it

/ *hands off* is the order, and he‘s followed it, hasn’t laid hand on Reid ever since he‘s gotten out of the stuffy, windowless room unless Faulkner has given permission

„You wanna throw a tea party or what?“

/ not that there’s even a kitchen in there, and Jacob would know; he follows Reid into the rooms that were his, once upon a time, and not for the first time, Jacob wonders if Reid *knows*

**

/ *for what?*

/ that's a damn good question and he silently agrees with Jacob; this might actually be insane but he doesn't want to think about it, even if he’s really just grasping at dead air for the one person in this place who he might connect to - because Faulkner sure as hell doesn't count,  no matter how *similar* they might be

/ if that time of isolation has shown him anything,  it's that if he ends up alone here,  he'll succumb, drowning beneath the weight of abandonment

“Fuck that. You got anything stronger?”

**

“I do. Over there.”

/ he nods towards the window, towards another towering building across the City that can be seen from here – and that must have been on purpose, Jacob often thinks, because Faulkner won’t ever let him go entirely, won’t ever let him off the leash, won’t ever let him live anywhere else but in his shadow, and it’s a reminder just like the switch, just like the structures of metal under rotting flesh, just like letting Jacob return here, to Faulkner’s headquarters, his office, his building, each and every day anew

“Though…”

/ if he were Reid, he’d want to drink, too, and Faulkner’s gifts are rare and always come at a price, Jacob knows that all too well, but there’s *something* he could do, but hesitates for a moment, before reaching for the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve a small, thin flask; this, too, a poisoned gift from the Mayor, engraved with empty words that hold no affection; and it shouldn’t feel so *intimate* to share this, to hand it over to Reid without even taking a sip, the metal warmed by body heat, although not quite as warm as it *should* be

“Here.”

**

/ Emmett had been pretty sure Lake didn't live here - anymore,  anyway; it's clear that he used to, and probably in rooms just like these - but this little acknowledgement confirms it, a tiny little sign that maybe independence really could be in the cards someday, if he gave Faulkner what he really wanted; a tiny suggestion of something like hope when everything else looks so *bleak*

/ the gesture is sudden and unexpected,  a true moment of surprise catching him genuinely off guard as Emmett reaches out to take the flask, and his mask slips again for that fraction of a moment as he turns it in his hand

/ *Shit. You actually mean it.*

/ he doesn't want to hesitate, for fear this might be taken away the very next moment,  so he opens it and takes a sip, his eyes flickering closed at the first burn of the liquor on his tongue, deeply familiar and tormenting and welcome; it's a goddamn wonder he's able to keep himself from downing the whole fucking thing, but he hands it over again with a little smile

“... Thanks.”

**

/ it’s rare Reid shows *any* emotion, at all; and when he does, it’s confusing, strange and bordering on insanity; the anger and hatred rightfully aimed at his tormentor, at least, Jacob can understand that, but there’s also the barely there smiles of something like relief – when he sees Jacob, of all people – and moments like this one where something seems to shift, to change, to drift into unknown territory

/ and Jacob watches carefully, without a smile or smirk or raise of his brow; he just observes, and what he sees tells him plenty, a feeling like rocks piling up in the pit of his stomach weighing him down; *he’s fucked up*, and it’s clear as day; Faulkner hasn’t handed out this kind of reward yet, or the ones that will follow, the pills and powders and syringes that will follow to keep him on top of his game; and that’s probably a blessing more than a curse – Reid doesn’t know what’s coming for him, and maybe that’s some kind of mercy

/ the relief is a little too tangible, and so is the *tension*, the desperate grasp for control – he sees it because he recognises it, knows it a little too well; yes, he’s fucked up, this isn’t a reward *he* is allowed to grant, but he can’t take it back, can’t make it undone, so he hands the flask back with a sad smile, barely there, barely present, and nods, because what difference does it make if Reid empties it now?

“You don’t have to be polite. I have more. You don’t.”

/ not yet, but he doesn’t say that; but he’s seen the tremor in Reid’s hands that week, and the he’s felt and *tasted* the cold sweat that sure as fuck didn’t come from fear; he’s fucked up, and he’ll bear the consequences, if Faulkner ever finds out

**

/ no, he doesn't have more,  hasn't in what feels like fucking forever,  and truth be told if he could just get through this fucking withdrawal, he might even manage to get *sober* for the first time in years; most people would consider it a good thing, but to him it just sounds empty and terrifying, being forced to face the awful reality of *himself*

/ and so ridiculous, really, to be told that he doesn't have to be polite, here of all places where propriety and obedience seem to actually be necessary, in between the endless violence and humiliation

“And yet it's not here with you,  so.”

/ he takes another sip, a little deeper, savoring it a little more,  endlessly grateful for this little taste of heaven and hell entwined before he passes it back

“Seriously. Share a drink with me.”

**

/ there can’t be much more inside the flask, and it’s ridiculous to turn down an act of mercy in a world like this, and he swallows down the reflexive reply - *you don’t tell me what to do.*

/ instead, he takes the flask back, glancing down at the meaningless words -*happy 21st birthday, son* - so empty, so oddly impersonal, everything he *hadn’t* wanted to hear wrapped in a neat little package that was all about appearance, and not at all about *him*

“If you’re trying to get me drunk with this, good luck.”

/ the sip is small, and it’s not just because he’ll meet Faulkner in a few minutes – hell, if he’s lucky, Faulkner will have a drink for him; if he’s managed to impress, if he’s managed to present well and fulfil his tasks to the Mayor’s satisfaction; and once he’s done, he hands it back to Reid one last time

“Finish it.”

/ a sigh, and he straightens; the weight on his shoulders feels heavier in here, always

“So what’s all of this about?”

**

“Don't be ridiculous. You and I both know that wouldn't even be necessary.”

/ he eyes the flask as it tips up, the engraved words catching the light just enough to be noticed now and he pauses,  filing the information away though he's not even certain for *what* at this point

/ but it makes him thoughtful, just for a moment, wondering if this was something personal, something *meaningful* like it would have been for him, but he feels he already knows the answer when he catches Lake's dark gaze again

“If you say so.”

/ he does as he's told, not because it's an order, but because he *needs* it, the burn he'd become almost numb to creeping at the edge of his memory like a ghost; and no, the remnants of the flask wouldn't have been enough for him either,  not nearly enough - but he can't help but wonder if Lake might have thought he'd needed it

“All of what? Just thought I'd get to know you… unless you'd prefer tea parties, of course.”

**

“And here I had a feeling you already know me better than you wanted to.”

/ after all, he’s has had Jacob’s cock in every orifice and all over him; it doesn’t get more intimate that that, and yet, the idea of them both drinking from the same fucking tasteless flask, their lips pressing against the same piece of metal, felt terrifyingly *personal* all of a sudden

/ *no worries, there won’t be any more tea parties*, he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat, because he realises *he can’t promise that*, and Faulkner’s training always leads to the same exercises, the same lessons, and he’s got no doubt that Reid will end up with the Mayor’s dick up his ass sooner rather than later; just like Jacob, just like the scared little boy who's lived in these very rooms a lifetime ago

/ it’s not the first time he notices that these rooms feel smaller now, or maybe he’s just grown out of them, but there’s ghosts and shadows and memories in every corner, a space haunted by the past

/ here’s the spot where he punched the wall when he was just fifteen, breaking through the entire structure with ease and ripping off his flesh in the process; Faulkner wasn’t amused and while Jacob hadn’t felt the pain in his anger, he sure as fuck felt it *afterwards*, when Faulkner made him sit through a transplantation without *any* anaesthesia or drugs – here’s where he’s cried into his pillow those first few lonely nights, and all the nights that had followed, until something inside him had shut down - and there’s the spot he’s had a meltdown over fucking Hamlet, overwhelmed by all the letters and new words and a schedule that was too busy, too tight, too suffocating… and a strange, crawling feeling under his skin that something felt suspiciously *familiar*; the ghosts are all here, even if Reid can’t see them, can’t feel them, even if the neutral interior feels almost… sobering, disappointing and shockingly impersonal; the place is crowded nevertheless

/ and there’s an endgame to this, to giving Reid what used to be *his*; Jacob knows it, can feel it, and it sure as hell isn’t *convenience*; maybe it’s yet another mindfuck, maybe another lesson, and a part of him doesn’t want to know

/ no, he gets it; he gets why Reid has invited him in; he gets how lonely it can be here, in the middle of chaos, death and power, how desperate one can be for *interaction*, for contact and connection – and *he* only ever had Faulkner to fill that emptiness; and what a fool he is, to project all of that on fucking Reid, of all people, when his motives are likely something entirely different, something a lot more dangerous; he’s seen the anger, he’s seen the hatred, and he knows it’s still there, and Reid would be an idiot to *not* hate him, anyway

/ he chases the thoughts away with a huff

“Don’t tell me you like tea parties.”

**

/ he huffs softly, looking away as he sinks down into the closest chair, shaking his head subtly; yes, at first it had felt like that; but now…

/ the isolation would kill him if nothing else would; this utter disconnect from the outside world, from anyone who had ever known him, respected him, walked beside him - and yeah, maybe he'd found out a bit too late that he'd not been loved after all, but in the face of such yawning, gaping *emptiness* he found himself faltering, grasping desperately for some last semblance of hope to keep him from falling off the edge

“Not entirely.”

/ no, Lake was like him in a way; in a lot of ways, really, pulled into this same lavish farce of opportunity against his will, welded to a fate he didn't want or deserve, and while the experience had created monster, there was still a *person* somewhere behind all that metal; a man who had once been a child, who looked around these rooms the way Emmett himself already did, and once again, what had only been suspicion up until now clicked home

“I dunno. Tea parties are better than silence.”

/ he sighs, tries to keep the emotion out of his voice as he admits such absolute fucking lunacy, tries to keep the loneliness out of his eyes as he looks up again

“You lived here too, didn't you? Before.”

**

“You can’t be serious. You still don’t have enough?”

/ he’s not sure what surprises him more – the question he should’ve seen coming or what amounts to admission of insanity – and he shows it, although he probably shouldn’t; it’s a vulnerability, a weakness, but he can *afford* those, so most of the time, he doesn’t bother – so why would he now? Even if it gives Reid the slightest bit of advantage, Jacob can still pin him down without breaking a sweat, and the memory alone is dangerous, if only for the shiver it sends down his spine and the way his dick makes itself known whenever he thinks about it

“Well, if it’s any comfort…”

/ he wants to stop himself, wants to stop this loose tongue of his, because Faulkner sure as hell won’t approve of *that*, but it’s probably clear as day, anyway; Reid is not an idiot – insane? Definitely, but he’s not stupid, and he likely knows what’s coming

“… I doubt that was your last tea party. He’ll be fucking you soon.”

/ there’s jealousy stirring at that, more than he wants to admit, more than it should, and he clears his throat to look around the place, still standing in the middle of the room that once was his

“Yeah.”

**

/ he huffs out another soft laugh, shaking his head as his fingers run over the smooth metal of the flask, before finally holding it out again, regretting deeply that the damn thing was already so *empty*; handing it over feels somehow like a submission, somehow *worse* than admitting to even the hint of such a fucking horrifying idea

“I’ve always been accused of excess.”

/ somehow he doesn’t even blink when Lake drops a bomb on him, his gaze sliding up just to look him in the eye; no, that’s not a surprise, not really, but it’s good to have the confirmation, to be prepared for it, to be ready when the time comes to lock that away, too; not for the first time he finds himself wishing for a goddamn cigarette, but he’ll be damned if he asks for one after Jacob had just given him the last of his own drink

“Yeah. Figured that.”

/ there’s nothing in his voice to betray him when he acknowledges it, rubbing his thumb against the rest of his fingers of his left hand, wishing he could *feel* it

“Does it bother you that I’m here?”

**

“Yeah. Excess is one thing… Insanity another.”

/ he huffs and takes the empty flask, slipping it back into the pocket of his jacket; he’s not sentimental about it; for all he cares, Reid could have kept it; but Faulkner would have *noticed* and Jacob certainly doesn’t care about dealing with the fallout

/ and *there*; he’s said it, and it’s the truth anyway

“Good thing excesses are not exactly welcome here.”

/ they aren’t, and yet, somehow, Jacob has managed to break the rules over and over and over again, and he already knows that instead of going home after his debrief, he’ll end up out there, in some dark corner, drunk and restless, with his dick up some faceless twink’s ass

/ he drops his voice, anyway, and it almost sounds conspiratorial, as if he’s sharing forbidden wisdoms with someone entirely undeserving

“Yeah. He’s not exactly… subtle.”

/ it’s strange that Reid remains so… unfazed, so calm and entirely unaffected; and yet, his words sound heavy; heavier than they should, but maybe that’s just Jacob’s own memories weighing him down

“But be that as it may, if I were you, I’d keep it to myself. To prefer tea parties over silence. You might end up with more tea parties than you care for. Or with more silence. Cause he *will* use it.”

/ no, he doesn’t like the image of Faulker fucking Reid instead of him; he doesn’t like the image of Reid inhabiting *his* rooms, or the very skeleton of them; up until recently, even his *things* had been in there, and it’s like everything he’s had, everything he’s fought for, everything he’s sacrificed his soul for, was slowly drifting away, threatened to leave him stripped of everything he was, everything Faulkner had left of him

/ another huff, and he’s not even sure what Reid means with his question: his life, this building, Faulkner or the rooms that were once Jacob’s

“Take a guess.”

**

/ alright, so maybe Lake calls it like it is, maybe this *is* insanity, but he’s been driven towards it, hasn’t he? after years and years of endless dedication only to be left by the wayside, betrayed and left to die, rescued only to the hands of a monster who’s just as comfortable with torture and weeks of unbroken silence as he is with his so-called *rewards* and opportunity - and he knows damn well, deep down, that his mind was already so fragile - is it really any fucking surprise?

“I suppose so.”

/ the balance between excess and self control had always been a point of struggle in his own life, but he sure as hell isn’t about to tell Lake that; instead he shrugs, half wishing Lake would just sit down beside him, but he knows the clock is ticking - and why the fuck should he want that, anyway?

“No, he isn’t. Funny how he thinks he is, though.”

/ he glances up again, teasing another hint of a smile

“Shouldn’t you want that? Convenient way to eliminate your competition. Nice and neatly gift wrapped for you.”

**

/ at that, he does laugh; a boisterous, rumbling sound deep in his broad chest, velvety and rough, amused and *not*, a noise entirely out of place here, and one Jacob isn’t used to hear anymore

“If you think he thinks he’s subtle, you’re a fool. He’s not, and he doesn’t have to be. Don’t underestimate him.”

/ *don’t overestimate yourself*; but he doesn’t say that; no, Faulkner isn’t subtle here, and he’s not trying to be; Jacob has *seen* him subtle, but that’s reserved for negotiations and speeches – not for *them*

/ and isn’t it ridiculous he’s thinking of him and Reid as *them* already; no, Faulkner isn’t subtle, and he doesn’t *need* to be, when the old and proven techniques are *working*

“And if you think that more punishment for you is a way to eliminate competition, you’re underestimating him again.”

/ how his voice dropped to something so soft and sad, tinged with just a bit of fatalism, Jacob doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to think about it, either; the clock is ticking, anyway, and in more than one way

“More punishment just means more punishment. More inconvenience for me, cause guess who’ll do that. He’ll get what he wants, anyway. Better get used to it.”

/ he chuckles

“Besides. You’re *not* competition.”

**

/ the laugh catches him by surprise, and he quirks an eyebrow, looking up at Lake; it’s such an intimately personal sound, such a *human* sound in this place where nothing seems real

/ it’s welcome though, something he’ll remember, and maybe he should try to encourage Lake to laugh again - he’s got a feeling no one else has heard that sound here, or at least, not in a long time

“I’m not underestimating him. Or myself. Or you, for that matter.”

/ Emmett looks away, as if avoiding Lake’s eyes would give the man some semblance of privacy from the sudden fucking pain in his softened voice - soft and aching, as if what he’s saying hurts him more than it would Emmett, which is *preposterous* - and a part of him wants to remind Lake that it could be so easy to take his place back again

/ *surely Faulkner would forgive him in time, rather than lose both assets*

“Well. If I’m not competition, surely you’ll have no trouble telling me whether he prefers pure submission, or whether I should let him think I enjoy it, too.”

**

“Good.”

/ it’s not; none of this fucking farce is, and he doesn’t even know why he’s giving the asshole *advice* on how to handle Faulkner; he’s telling himself it’s to avoid inconvenience and *more fucking work* for himself, but a part of him almost feels for him, for that lonely ghost of a man… not unlike himself

“That’s the smart thing to do.”

/ he doesn’t need a watch to know it’s time; it’s as if his whole body can feel it, every cell alert, every fibre both drawn to that goddamn office and repulsed by it

“Guess there’s only way for you to find out, huh?”

/ the truth is, Jacob isn’t even sure about what Faulkner prefers – or if he prefers anything, at all; it’s always an experience so strangely impersonal and detached, all while coming apart under him, dissolving in the sound of praise of reprimand and his own moans

/ he sighs and shakes his head to himself; he’s got to hurry now, whether he likes it or not

“Truth is… who knows?”

/ sometimes he does wonder if all of this is a punishment for some transgression he hasn’t even noticed, but Jacob hasn’t even done anything wrong, although he’s beaten himself up over it, although it has kept him awake; he’s been devoted and obedient and very eager to please; not a flaw in his behaviour, not a flaw in his work, not a flaw in his obedience; Faulkner wants Reid because two machines are better than one, and that shows Jacob exactly how much he’s worth, in the end

/ it’s a constant reminder that everything Jacob has earned, everything he *is*, could be taken away in an instant

/ and there he has it, his answer, why Reid has been given his old quarters, why it couldn’t have been another space, another set of rooms in this humongous building –  above all, it’s a reminder, a warning, another lesson Jacob never asked for

“I gotta go. You’ll be okay?”

/ *the fuck* was that?

**

“Hm.”

/ he’s not really surprised that Lake doesn’t answer; what’s more surprising is that Emmett believes him - that he doesn’t actually seem to know the truth of it; but he knows already the crux of it all is the submission itself, submission without question, spirit without defiance

/ those, he can give - but only at the cost of every shred of his own dignity, whatever there was left of it, anyway

/ but the last question pulls him out of his thoughts so sharply it feels like it’s torn something else right out of his body, something he can’t identify as he stares at the other man in shock

/ *Careful, Lake, your human is showing.*

/ it’s only a moment, half a moment at that, before he’s found his own facade again, his own mask of an expression that so skilfully covers the emotions he tries not to drown in, but he manages a nod that is just a little too shaky to be the perfect illusion

“I’ll be good. You… just don’t be late.”

**

/ the crawling feeling under his skin is getting worse; yes, his body knows when 2100 rolls around, it always has, and he wonders how long he’ll be caught in Faulkner’s office this time; it’s been considerably less ever since Reid had entered the stage, and Jacob doesn’t like that

/ just a few minutes left, and he sure as fuck won’t be late for this asshole; maybe he needs that nonsense fucked out of him; Reid is getting to his head, and Jacob doesn’t even know *why* - and maybe he *does*, maybe all of this is like seeing himself, in these very rooms, on the carpet, in front of that desk, lonely, lost and not quite human, but *that* thought is even worse to bear than not pretending the doesn’t know

/ the worst part? he can *tell* Reid has noticed, seems *shaken* by it even, surprised for probably all the wrong reasons, but he shuts himself up with a grunt

“I’ll pick you up for breakfast at 0730.”

/ which means yet another short or sleepless night for him, but maybe that’s a blessing; better than the dreams, better than his empty place; no need to think about that, and he’s moving to leave

/ there’s something about Reid’s question that lingers, keeps his mind working - *whether I should let him think I enjoy it, too* - it’s like an echo, ghosting through his memories, and just before he closes the door behind him, he stops, looking over his shoulder one last time

“Did you think you had to let me think you enjoyed it?”

/ that’s not the question he wants to ask, though

“Did you enjoy it?”

**

/ he's found himself glancing at the clock over the past few long minutes, just briefly, just long enough to gauge how long he'll have left before he faces the silence again, the yawning, gaping loneliness; and of course, to remind Lake of the time - it's got nothing to do at all with lessening the thought of what Lake could *do* in the time he had left, not at all - but by now it's more than obvious that it would have absolutely *not* been necessary to remind the man who seems like his skin with crawling with anticipation already; and he knows this is what's in store for him,  too, if he survives long enough on spite and fumes

“Of course.”

/ he tries not to think about it, tries not to watch as Lake leaves but of course the son of a bitch has to stop and *turn*, has to bring up the one thing Emmett doesn't want to discuss, the one thing that's causing a pit in his stomach

“I'm not sure either of us wants to know the answer to that.”

/ he tries to sound unfazed, but this time he knows he falls spectacularly short, his voice sounding not at all as certain as it should, and he tries to hide the tremble in his voice by rolling his malfunctioning bitch of a shoulder, making it grind and whine

“Maybe you'll figure it out next time.”

[empireofdogs]

@onlyareflection

[empireofdogs]

a hot day's night || Sebastian & Jacob || rivals

/ every day feels endless since his return; a never-ending cycle of punishments and apologies, of making amends and asking permission for every goddamn banal thing; it’s not too bad when it’s Faulkner, but it’s fucking *infuriating* when he has to ask Bastian; and the asshole *enjoys* it, he can tell

/ it doesn’t help that he’s hard *again*, his cock swollen and eager between his body and the cold, hard floor of their room, all too greedy and not at all ready to go down; he’s constantly tired now, between punishments and their already packed schedule, between grovelling and kissing Faulkner’s shoes to beg for forgiveness - and thinking of the goddamn fucking bastard with his massive dick, sleeping like a goddamn fucking angel on the bed just a few steps away

/ it *also* doesn’t help that Sebastian has gotten the upper hand today, slipping in so easily, stretching him so wide, leaving Jacob breathless and slick and sticky - and fucking infuriated, because, really, *hasn’t he suffered enough already?*; he doesn’t need the additional insult, he doesn’t need the humiliation, and maybe he wants to prove something – to whom, he can’t even say – but he’s on his feet silently, quietly, just as they’ve bee taught, walking over to Sebastian’s bed without a noise; he’s still sleeping, or pretends to be, but then again, today *has* been exhausting, hot and exhausting, and if Jacob weren’t so goddamn hard he’d damn well be sleeping, too, and somehow he manages to fold back the sheet; somehow he manages to climb onto Sebastian’s bed without a noise and without waking him – which is a fucking miracle -  and *somehow* he manages to align himself, holding his breath, his cock already dripping wet, pushing halfway inside with a moan

**

/ he’s sleeping like a log, even in this heat, fresh out of the shower and curled up on his side with his arm bent beneath his pillow; he needs the rest after a day like today, both mentally and physically demanding on all fronts, between Faulkner and Jacob both testing him in their own dramatically different ways

/ he might even be dreaming already, his cock half hard as his brain rewrites the events of that afternoon when he’d managed to bend Jacob over the kitchen counter; revisiting and re-*imagining* what had actually happened; he sure as hell hadn’t been the one pinned down and moaning like a bitch in heat

/ but even in such a deep sleep, he’s jolted awake when he feels the *intrusion*, one hand flying back and finding Jacob’s hip, gripping on like a vice with his fingers digging *hard* into the skin; and his voice is still heavy with sleep when he speaks, half groaned, half hissed, but he doesn’t move otherwise

“The fuck’re you doin’?”

**

“What’s it look like?”

/ annoying as always, and stupid, too; and Sebastian obviously can’t take a fucking hint; but it doesn’t matter now, doesn’t matter as Jacob *finally* gets his revenge, the head of his cock already inside and the *rest* of it throbbing violently

“*You* told me to wake you to ask permission.”

/ what a stupid fucking thing in the first place, having to ask to *jerk* off, having to ask to take a shower, but this is what Sebastian had told him, so *technically*, he’s following all the rules, except he really doesn’t and knows it

“So I’m waking you. Cause I’m hard and need to do something about it.”

**

/ he could so easily move, so easily pull away and *throttle* this smartass bastard of a brother; could give him a repeat performance of that afternoon; *who the fuck does he think he is?* But somehow he manages to keep still, his fingers still gripping tight, and maybe Jacob will have bruises in the morning but that’s the least he deserves; he almost threatens to do exactly that, to pin him again, to fuck him til he can *sleep*, but maybe Bastian’s just too tired - or maybe he doesn’t really mind that fat cock in his ass after all, but he’s not about to say so

“That’s not how you wake me up. You know better.”

/ or at least he *should*, but who was he kidding; Jacob had been pushing practically every chance he got when it came to Sebastian himself, and they wouldn’t be in this position at all if he had *known better* in the first place

**

/ he groans; the fingers digging into his flesh almost comforting, almost grounding; they keep him from losing himself, from pinning Sebastian down without *asking fucking permission* and fucking him into his soft fucking mattress until he *breaks*, but Faulkner wouldn’t approve of that – hell, he wouldn’t approve of *any* of this, but he doesn’t know where to turn with this goddamn tension that just won’t subside; a mix of anger and frustration, humiliation and a desperate need to *prove* he’s stronger and better and won’t just bend over and *present* like a fucking bitch; it’s a mix of confusing feelings, of a fire in his veins that won’t just stop burning, like some long forgotten fire in a long forgotten coal mine, smouldering endlessly until he’s *consumed*; and worst of all is that his dick just won’t go down ever since the day of his return, since Faulkner’s sadistic order… and especially since he’d first laid hands on Sebastian himself, pulling him down and fucking him hard and giving him *exactly* what the golden son deserved

“Yeah? It’s not? Who says that?”

/ he huffs, still not moving, but his hands are *desperate* to touch, his cock *desperate* to move; but he knows, too, that he can’t piss off Sebastian, because that will piss off Faulkner, and the fucking collar around his neck is a constant reminder of what would happen if he *misbehaves*, so he groans again, his voice husky, his tone everything but submissive and he dares to push a little, just the fraction of an inch

“May I fuck you? Brother?”

**

“I say that, asshole.”

/ he half groans it into the pillow, trying to keep himself fucking *still*, when everything in him is screaming to push back onto Jacob’s cock and take him all the way in; but remarkably Jacob isn’t *taking*, either, just sitting there like he’s debating and weighing the risks - or maybe he really is learning after all

/ until he *does* move, just barely, just the tiniest bit and not *nearly* fucking enough, and it’s everything Sebastian can do not to squeeze around Jacob’s cock; and sure enough the son of a bitch asks, and no, there’s no deference in his tone at all, but there’s something *else* that makes his breath hitch, something that’s been so goddamn confusing for so many goddamn years now, the fact that Jacob is and *isn’t* his brother, and Jacob’s never called him that, not unless Faulkner’s told him to, and it hits something *deep* inside him, coiled up and dark and shameful; and he’s completely hard before he can think, before he can even try to curb his breathless whine of a response

“Please…”

**

“Mhm. You didn’t specify. You just told me to wake you.”

/ he pushes inside with a groan, throaty and hoarse and heated, not as slow as he wants to – just to make the fucktwat *whine*, just to torment him – but his own impatience gets in the way, like it so often does; and the push is swift and fluid, as if he *belongs* inside, as if that’s what he’s meant to do, what he’s meant to be, and Jacob shifts his weight to push Sebastian onto his stomach, pinning him down with his body

“Liked that, huh? *Brother*?”

/ this is *all* kinds of wrong, and he knows it; they aren’t brothers and he’d usually never say so, but if it’s a way to put Sebastian in his place, he’ll *gladly* do it; he’s not better, not stronger, not faster, and Jacob will gladly prove that, too

**

/ no, he didn’t specify, but for fuck’s sake he shouldn’t have to *specify* not sticking your dick in someone to wake them; but he’s out of time to think about that as Jacob takes his breath away, sliding in slick and easy as if he’d already been fucked open when he *hadn’t*; he groans into the pillow and tries not to shiver at that innocuous little word again

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that.”

/ he can’t help but squirm though, even as he’s pushed down, feeling Jacob’s weight on top of him as he arches his hips up, trying to take even more of him inside even though he already feels so full he could burst

**

/ the way Sebastian arches his hips feels like *heaven* but he won’t say so, would *never* admit it as he starts fucking him, just a few slow thrusts at first, to savour the *sensation*, still so new, still so exciting and so goddamn fucking addictive, before he starts fucking him in earnest, desperate and firm

“Yeah? Why not?”

/ his voice is breathless, nothing but hot steam against Sebastian’s neck; the fucking collar bothers him, the metal chiming away with every move, reminding him of his fate

“You seemed to like it.”

/ he chuckles, the tightness is maddening, clinging around his cock as if Sebastian wants to swallow him whole

“Told you. You’re not better than me. You’ll never be.” **

/ he’ll never understand how Jacob can be so goddamn *talkative* at the worst of times, and yet so quiet at others; and asking stupid fucking questions at that, when he’s balls deep inside his brother who is *not* his brother; every breath on his skin making him shiver just as much as the sound of that collar does, and he wonders what it would feel like to be fucked like this with it on, with Jacob’s big-ass hand wrapped around his neck

“You don’t get to call me that. You *left.*”

/ and yeah, that still stings, hell, it fucking *hurts*, much more than the stretch around that massive cock pounding inside him, much more than anything he’s known, really; and it darkens his voice, bringing back that bit of venom that’s been so unsteady as he can’t seem to fucking decide whether he’s *glad* to have his brother back or not

“Tell that to Father.”

**

/ for a second, he pauses, almost dumbfounded, almost confused; he’s still not used to this, not the fucking – he knows he’s a fucking natural at fucking – but the *guilt*; and it’s confusing that Sebastian still seems to be hurt; it’s been what? five fucking days, nothing more, and Jacob would have never believed it would *hurt* Sebastian; maybe he wouldn’t have left if he had, or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference, he wasn’t sure, and it was hard to think with his cock leaking happily into Sebastian’s guts

“Thought I’d do you a favour.”

/ for a second, his voice is low and raw, but his cock demands attention, so he’s propping himself up on his hands, picking up the pace again to fuck Sebastian *deep*, moaning with every thrust without restraints

“I’ll *prove* it to him.”

/ he huffs

“And he’s not our father.”

**

“You don’t know the first damn thing about what you did. Fucked *every*thing up.”

/ he hisses it back without thought, without any of his usual filter; but he’s sleepy and in the middle of being fucked and it’s both everything he wants and everything he shouldn’t, so he’ll give himself a pass for being so obvious with his emotions this time; and he forgives himself a second time when he fucking *whines* at the sudden change in angle, at how goddamn deep Jacob feels suddenly

/ it’s hard to piece his thoughts together with Jacob’s moans in his ear, arching his back again and reaching out to grip his brother’s hands; hard to feel anything except how *right* this is, how for once in his life he feels goddamn *good*, like he’s a complete person and not just a shell molded into whatever Faulkner wanted him to be

/ somehow he manages though, because Jacob apparently brings it out of him even when he’s rutting into him like he thinks his cock would fall off if he didn’t; he laughs, the sound muffled against the mattress

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Th’fuck you think you’re gonna prove?”

**

“I’ll prove to him you’re not better than me. Look at you. You’re moaning like a bitch in heat. You’re *just* as bad. Maybe worse.”

/ but the answer leaves him confused, but then again, it’s hard to think when his body is positively *on fire*, when he’s burning up from the inside, but finally, *finally* with a way to let that pent up frustration out; and yet, he pauses again, his dick throbbing with need, his breath ragged and laboured

“I didn’t fuck up anything. For you, anyway.”

/ he huffs again, all too aware of the heavy weight around his neck, and *that* really shouldn’t make his cock twitch

“You don’t have to ask permission to get fucking dressed. You can eat what you want. Nothing changed for you.”

 **

“Yeah? You think you’re gonna fuck me like this in front of him? If that’s all you’ve got to prove, you’re not proving *shit*.”

/ but the laughter dies when Jacob pauses, because it’s just not *true*; everything changed, both with Faulkner and within himself, but that’s hardly anything he could put into words; hell, half of it he was still trying to admit to *himself*; and he sure as fuck wasn’t about to be able to tell Jacob, certainly not with that monster cock twitching and pulsing inside him, or the hot tears threatening to slip from his eyes

“You don’t know that.”

**

“Who knows?”

/ he wants to huff, wants to groan, wants to growl, but somehow, it all comes out as a needy whine; the pause is both torture and necessity, and while he’s come already today, while he should feel *drained* from everything Faulkner has burdened on him, on *them*, he’s so close already – when he wants nothing more than keep going for the rest of the night; when this feels so *good*, so *right*, so *maddening*

“You’ll slip up. One day you’ll slip up.”

/ with a grunt, he thrusts once, hard and deep and *raw*, but stills again after

“’n I’m proving myself already. Just two more weeks. Just wait ‘n’ see. I’ll get the upper hand. Like now.”

/ but something about Sebastian’s voice is gnawing at him, and there’s this hard, cold feeling again in his stomach, entirely unwelcome and new; guilt

“Then what’s changed? Other than being his favourite now?”

/ not that Sebastian has been anything else, but Jacob can’t make himself say *that*

**

/ he tries not to shudder at the whine so close behind him, so incredibly arousing that it takes his breath away yet again, and he wants this to last, wants to feel this *all night*, right down to the clink of that collar every time his brother moves - but god, Jacob's got to be such an asshole about it,  doesn't he?

/ he chokes out a gasp at that sudden thrust, his thighs trembling as he finds himself shoving *back* once Jacob stills again,  but it's his body betraying him, because Jacob sure as hell didn't *take* the upper hand - Sebastian *gave* it to him,  but he keeps his mouth shut, his thoughts already elsewhere

/ his words catch in his throat; he's actively in the middle of learning his seventh language and he *still* can't find the right words in any of them to explain to Jacob what those five days were like; what dealing with their father had been like, the weight of expectation and loss, the betrayal and anger, the *fear*; what it had been like to be utterly alone on his birthday; to *lose* the only person who, while maybe didn't see eye to eye with him, could at least *understand* him

/ and maybe a part of it is fear that Jacob *wouldn't* understand it anyway,  even if Sebastian tried; he's so goddamn hell bent on proving himself to be better, to get the upper hand - as if Bastian gave a single shit about *competition* right now

/ there's still a lump in his throat as he speaks, twisting his voice into something that doesn't sound like him anymore

“Ask me again when you're not in the middle of fucking me and I might tell you.”

**

“When aren’t I in the middle of fucking you?”

/ his voice is hoarse from groans and growls and moans, straining from exhaustion, thick with lust; it’s hard to think like this, hard to let the words *sink in* when Sebastian *shudders* beneath him, when he pushes back to take more of Jacob in; as if this isn’t enough, as if there’s *never* enough, as if he were made to take Jacob’s cock, over and over again until he spilled over

/ it’s hard to think when Sebastian *gasps* like this, when that says more about him than the empty façade of his face ever could; finally, something *real* about this annoying shithead, something that’s *him* and not something Faulkner has created, a face like stone and a voice like a fucking siren song, just infinitely deeper; *finally* there’s something *authentic*, something Jacob can *read*, something he can *use*, he’s just not sure yet for what, so he pushes inside *again*, slowly and deliberately, if only to hear it once more

/ yes, Sebastian has been a nuisance ever since the day they’ve met at the orphanage, and wasn’t their quarrels what had made Faulkner notice them in the first place? So maybe this is all his fault, his punishment for not being able to let anything go, for tackling Sebastian that fateful day in front of *everyone*; yes, he’s always found his rival annoying, but ever since Faulkner had started to teach him - *them* - it has felt like Sebastian had lost more and more of his humanity, sacrificed on the altar of perfection; just a husk, just a shell, with no soul behind it; and maybe, just maybe, Jacob is *just* the same, only less obvious about it, only more impulsive and fiery, but he doesn’t want to think about that now; and maybe, *just maybe*, he’s missed the boy he’s met all those years ago, among dirt and dust and grit

“I’ll ask you again.”

/ and maybe that sounds a little too serious even in his own ears, a little too *true*, too *real*, and yes, maybe he wasn’t any better, maybe he’s sacrificed his self, too, on that same altar, twisted and remade, but into something *different*

**

/ he can't really answer, not with his voice caught like it is, not with Jacob’s cock filling him halfway up to his lungs, and he feels like he's dissolving the deeper Jacob goes; gasping again as if he can't catch his breath, his back arching so deep his face is buried in the pillow, but even that doesn't muffle the low whining moans that seem to slip so freely now

/ he squeezes his eyes shut; there's something in that voice that he can't identify and it sounds both sharp and comforting, and that alone is a little too much like Faulkner himself; he shoves the thought aside because it's *Jacob* inside him, Jacob that's got him so hard that he feels like he'll explode without even so much as a touch, Jacob that he can never get enough of now, though he'll be damned before he ever admits it

“Promise me.”

/ he's not even sure he believes it, but he wants to; wants to think that maybe Jacob cares at least a little, at least enough to know,  even though he knows it's more likely that he'll just use the information to pull himself further up into Faulkner’s good graces again **

/ the demand takes him by surprise, stilling again with his cock throbbing with need and urgency, but something in Sebastian’s voice makes him pause; a promise – when has Sebastian ever asked him to *promise* anything? it’s both ridiculous and tearing at something deep inside his chest, something he hasn’t even known *was* there; and he doesn’t know if it’s the collar or this whole fucked up situation or that he’s balls deep inside Sebastian’s hot, needy body, but he nods slowly, his voice low

“Yeah. Sure. Promise.”

/ it’s strange, *so* strange, but a part of him *doesn’t* want those hands to let go – or let go of those hands – it’s like they’re *one*, and that shouldn’t feel so disturbing and *right* at the same time, not when he *hates* this dickhead with every fibre of his being; when trying to fuck him into submission is the only reason he’s doing this – isn’t it? he lets go of those hands, anyway, yanking Sebastian’s hips up and pulling him onto his knees, finally picking up the pace again with a groan

**

/ he should protest, he knows that; but in these past weeks he's learned that Jacob's cock feels so goddamn *good* inside him, feels perfect in a way that Faulkner's *never* had,  so when Jacob lets go of his hands and yanks his hips up, the noise that comes out of his mouth is most certainly *not* a protest - no, instead it's a sharp and needy whine that sounds a little too much like relief and a bit like begging

/ but his body feels cold suddenly, even in this heat, without Jacob's weight pressed against his like a second fucking skin, so he reaches back, his fingers hooking into the ring of the collar and using it both to brace himself and keep Jacob close in this new position; he wants to feel him, wants to hear him *breathe*, wants every little pant and growl to shudder down his spine

/ he’s so goddamn *close* and Jacob hasn't even touched him, and he shouldn't even *want* that but he does - he wants Jacob everywhere, inside and out, wants to feel him in his bones; and it's the most singularly annoying constant in his life ever since his brother was dragged back to this golden hell; he doesn't understand it and he doesn't want to, not when *this* is somehow so much easier

**

/ he’s long since learnt this: *everything* about Sebastian drives him insane; the way he speaks, the way he moves, the way he fucking *looks*; the way he bends to Faulkner’s will and the way he seems to succeed in everything he fucking touches; how he combs his hair and how he *always* seems so fucking collected and calm; but he’s not calm and collected *now*, dissolving beneath Jacob into a moaning mess, so eager to take his dick

/ but that drives him mad, too: *the fucking moans*, so different from how Sebastian carries himself any other moment in their lives; raw and perfect and so fucking *honest* it sends another shiver down Jacob’s spine; he likes this better, *so* much better, the honesty and realness of this, not just in Sebastian, but in *himself*; because he knows he’s not any better, and he hates it, hates the way he *bends* too, even though it’s much harder to succeed, hates how he’s actively trying to extinguish his own spark, actively trying to be *something else* if only it earns him Faulkner’s approval; it’s been like this forever, and there’s no escape from it

/ there’s no escaping either when Sebastian drags him down by the fucking collar; an unnecessary reminder of his situation, of his *place*, and yet he can’t help but moan helplessly, the gesture alone *almost* sending him over; but it makes him angry; he’s not some submissive bitch, *can’t be*, at least not for *Sebastian*, and his cock really *shouldn’t* twitch and throb now at the tension in the collar and the way Sebastian holds him by it; this is about *dominance* after all, and he’s hellbent on proving that, so he picks up the pace again, thrusting hard into Sebastian’s heat, so tight and addictive, so maddening and perfect, as if the pull of the collar commands it

**

/ he can’t stifle the moans now, not with Jacob hitting *that spot* so deep inside him, not when everything about this feels both so fucked up and so goddamn right; not when he feels like he’s about to be split in fucking half from the force of those aggressive thrusts, and yeah, he might be just a little worried about *hiding* it tomorrow, but there’s no helping it now

/ he keeps two fingers hooked tight through that loop, though, knowing it must *get* to Jacob, the way he’s picked up the pace like that, and before he knows it he’s laughing, soft and breathless and *light*; fuck, but he might actually be *happy* like this

“Come on, come for me… wanna feel it in the morning.”

**

/ it’s hard to breathe with Sebastian pulling at the collar; because it *must* be the collar, right? it can’t be the way he’s taking his dick as if he were made for it; it can’t be the way his rival’s moans shoot straight to his dick; and it *definitely* can’t be the fire that pull ignites, the *thrill* that comes with it; being so in control and so *controlled*; and it’s confusing, it’s overwhelming, it’s hurting his thick, stubborn head more than trying to understand goddamn fucking Adorno and Faulkner trying to prove him wrong

/ he can’t believe it when he hears it; the laugh, unfamiliar and *strange* and out of place; and Jacob can’t remember when he’s last heard it, they must’ve been kids still, not yet smothered by the weight of expectation and duty, their spark not yet suffocated entirely; it’s maddening, too, and just as confusing; Sebastian *shouldn’t* laugh while being fucked into submission, this is wrong, isn’t it? he’d never laugh when Faulkner fucks him, he’d never *dare*, and that’s infuriating, that’s humiliating, that *hurts*; he shouldn’t laugh, and at the same time, it’s the most beautiful sound Jacob has ever heard, like an echo of times when they’d still been *themselves* and unbroken, something rare and impossible in this world of pretence and lies

“I’ll fuckin’ make you feel it in the morning.”

/ but the laugh does it, flips a switch somewhere inside that Jacob hasn’t even known about; the laugh makes him lose all leftover control, as brittle and volatile as it was; he’s in rut now, mindlessly fucking into Sebastian’s heat, chasing the sensation, chasing the friction, chasing the finish line of that maddening way to relief

/ he doesn’t think anymore, grabbing Sebastian’s cock with his hand and pumping it hard; he’s never thought this would feel so *good*, so addictive and dangerously perfect; flesh slapping against flesh the only sound he hears over the soft laughter, hard and wet and dirty, and he loves that, too, loves it all, and before he knows it his mind goes blank and his vision white as he tips over with a cry, all that tension leaving his body with his cock spilling over, twitching hard and violent deep inside Sebastian’s body

**

/ he’s pretty sure that’s supposed to be a threat; it comes out like one, anyway, but Bastian can’t help but react like it’s a goddamn promise, and he moans again, rough and guttural and low, and more than just a little needy, but he sure as fuck isn’t begging for exactly that, is he?

“S’that a promise, *brother*?”

/ no, he sure as fuck can’t help it, and he laughs again as he tries desperately to catch his breath, but there’s no chance to do even that, not at this pace, and not when he can feel Jacob’s hand snake around and take hold of him as if he’d read Bastian’s mind, as if he was *intentionally* giving him exactly what he wanted - and oh, if Faulkner could only see them now

/ it only takes a couple of strokes before he’s tipping over, spilling right into Jacob’s eager fingers, gasping hard and wordlessly, but before he can so much as cry out, clinging to that collar, he can feel Jacob coming too, filling him just as he promised, and for that long perfect moment there is not a single *thought* in his head - just emptiness and peace and *pleasure*; sure, there’s pain, too, but it feels so goddamn good that he’s not at all sure they aren’t one and the same

**

/ he’s made many promises today, it seems, but the thought floats away into the night air, as he keeps rutting desperately, harder and deeper while he just keeps squirting, keeps spilling over and into Sebastian’s ass, marking him for good, and the fucker deserves just that after claiming Jacob earlier today, and he can still feel himself slick around his hole, and that, too, makes his dick twitch even though it should be done by now, even though that should make him *furious*, and it does, but anger and lust and desire and jealousy have formed a knot in his stomach that he can’t undo, so he accepts them as one

/ Sebastian’s dick is twitching too, hot and hard and heavy in his hand, slick with come and the room is heavy with the smell, heavy with promises, heavy with confusion, heavy with his groans and growls and moans; but it feels good, all of this, good and right and perfect, *despite* the collar around his neck and Sebastian tugging at it; despite of or because of, he isn’t quite sure anymore; he isn’t sure of *anything* right now, other than that this is *right*

“You’ll tell me in the morning. *Brother*.”

/ he doesn’t stop, keeps riding it out for as long as he can, relentlessly fucking into the wet, sticky warmth, keeps stroking the fat, perfect dick in his hand, smearing the mess all over Sebastian’s velvet skin

**

/ in a slow haze, Sebastian realizes Jacob *isn’t stopping*, and he’s not sure if time has slowed or if it lasts quite as long as it feels - but either way he doesn’t care, doesn’t *want* him to stop; he’ll happily stay suspended in this limbo, simultaneously pinned and holding control; exhausted and relaxed, his brain damn near short-circuiting with endless, indescribable pleasure

/ he manages a sound in response, something caught between a laugh and another moan, rocking his hips into Jacob’s fingers, tugging that collar closer as he straightens and leans back into his brother’s body, feeling him so solid and warm - and yeah, he can’t shake that fucking feeling, that this is *right*, that Jacob’s that missing piece, the only goddamn thing that had ever made him feel like a whole person

**

/ another tug at the collar, infuriating and insulting, degrading and humiliating and so goddamn *thrilling*, so fucking perfect, and Sebastian moves up against him, skin damp from sweat, hot and cold at the same time, like a fucking crazy puzzle being pieced together, a puzzle with half the pieces missing, and somehow it still fits, somehow this bastard of a non-brother, this annoying asshole of a rival *fits*, and that’s just as confusing as the twitch of his cock deep inside

/ but he doesn’t want to focus on *confusing*, he wants to focus on *thrilling*, and Jacob *finally* stills, his dick still hard but the spilling long gone, and squeezes his fingers around Sebastian’s cock, gathering the mess in his hand and bringing it up to his lips, so close to Bastian’s ear, but that’s his own damn fault if he keeps holding onto the fucking collar that binds Jacob to shame and punishment, it’s his own damn fault if some of that mess will get caught up in his hair, and Jacob doesn’t care, anyway, and licks it off his skin, licks his hand clean with a pleased moan, still buried deep, still burning with pleasure

**

/ he shudders hard at that squeeze, his thoughts still nowhere near coherent as he somehow finds his way back inside his own body; he’s panting hard, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his cock is sticky and he’s feeling raw and full and *used*, and he’s never felt better

/ and maybe it feels good that Jacob doesn’t pull out, either, still buried deep inside him as he seems to gather his own thoughts again too; but when he licks his hand clean, Sebastian’s entire body shivers again, his cock twitching *hard* as his free hand reaches behind him for Jacob’s hip, letting out a hoarse and breathless whisper

“Jesus, that’s fuckin’ hot…”

**

/ he growls, deep in his throat, running his tongue over the palm of his hand to clean it; it’s a strange taste, not unfamiliar, not entirely pleasant, but it’s heavy and heady and intoxicating, and he takes his time until the hand on his hips pulls him out of it

“What is?”

/ he’s still hard, but for once, he feels sated, satisfied with his work of marking Sebastian; and it’s almost odd, almost remarkable, because something in him remembers… they’d never not fought for as long as this, and it feels good, this *not-fighting*, all pleasant side-effects aside; even if they hadn’t spent this time fucking, he’s almost inclined to think he might start to *like* Sebastian

/ there’s still a glob of come on his index finger, something he’s saved for last, but he’s got a better idea now, and he reaches forward with his hand, finding Sebastian’s lips to push his fingers inside

“You’re getting religious now?”

**

/ that growl is hot, too, probably the hottest thing he’s ever heard, but he’s tired and sated and his tongue is slow to catch up before those fingers are pressing against his lips, parting them, and Sebastian takes them in easily with a moan rather than protest

/ and if not for the fingers in his mouth, he’d laugh; Sebastian is the last person to be *religious*, but blasphemy’s never been all that far off the mark - if not for Faulkner’s lessons and the control he’s learned over the years; but his lips curl into a smile as he moans around Jacob’s fingers, curling his tongue around them as he laps up the last of his own release with not even a hint of hesitation

**

/ Sebastian’s mouth feels *almost* as good as his ass; warm and wet and willing, that tongue of his running over his fingers so eagerly, without hesitation, without protest, *even when his own fingers are still holding tight onto the collar*; all of this is confusing, *so* confusing, and so very different from what Faulkner has taught them, but that’s a good thing, this taste of *control*, because it’s the first time Jacob *can* control anything about his life; maybe running away has been foolish – he should’ve known he can’t even control *that* - and maybe he isn’t allowed to control his schedule or how he spends his time, which clothes to wear or what to eat, but he can control *this*, and Bastian laps it up so greedily as if he’s enjoying it

“Good boy.”

/ the words slip without thought, rolling naturally off his tongue, because it’s all he knows, all he’s known for many years, and good boys deserve rewards; another lesson of Faulkner’s, one he’s learnt early on, even though he’s really *understood* it recently, on that awful, exciting day when he’s been brought back to the golden cage, when Sebastian has fucked him for the first time

**

/ *Good boy*

/ those words are so ingrained in him that he reacts immediately; Jacob is rewarded with another soft whine and another twitch of Sebastian’s cock, and surprisingly even to himself, another slow thrust of his hips into nothing, feeling Jacob’s length dragging inside him

/ but those words are complicated, too, and they belong to Faulkner, not to Jacob, and that feels *weird* suddenly, out of place, and he’s not actually sure if he likes it this way - or if he actually likes it *more* - and fuck, when did this get so goddamn complicated?

/ finally his fingers slip out of the loop of the collar, his hand sliding along Jacob’s neck instead and up through his hair and over his scalp, as he murmurs around Jacob’s fingers

“You gonna go the fuck to sleep now?”

**

/ the obvious reaction is music to his ears – the twitch, the thrust, the moan – and he feels pleased with himself; he’s never said it, has never dared, has never even had an opportunity to exert this kind of control, to utter this special form of reward, this highest form of praise; he’s only chased it, craved it, and felt it under his skin, delivered in Faulkner’s deep, raspy voice; it’s all he’s ever wanted to hear and it feels almost *better* to say it, and Sebastian’s reaction is reward enough

“Dunno. Are you, brother?”

/ he lets his fingers slide out with a soft moan; his neck feels lighter now, and freer, but he’s not sure if it’s relief or regret he’s feeling; he can’t wait to get rid of the fucking collar in two weeks, anyway

/ the hand in his hair makes him shudder, but he does feel sated, he does feel tired, all of a sudden, as if the weight of the day crashes down on him, violent and merciless, the weight of exhaustion and degradation

/ so he slowly pushes Sebastian down into the sheets again, not bothering to pull out of the slick, perfect hole, not bothering if he’ll stain the sheets of Sebastian’s bed; maybe, tomorrow night, with Jacob on the floor again, he might even think of him

**

/ the obvious answer is a resounding *yes*; he’s so exhausted, so sated and so *comfortable* in this moment that he’s pretty sure he could just lean back with his head on Jacob’s shoulder and pass right the fuck out, just like this - but he’s certainly not gonna say that, let alone *do it*

/and it doesn’t escape him that Jacob has used that word again - *brother* - something that’s basically never happened in all these years, something that’s always been so conflicting even within his own mind, and he knows it’s fucked, especially in *context*, with Jacob’s cock still hard inside him and the taste of his own release on his tongue, but right now it feels like almost as much a reward as Faulkner’s words of approval - *good boy* - and yet, somehow it’s *better*, warmer, more solid and real

/ but he doesn’t acknowledge that either, just hums and allows Jacob to push him back down, moving more than willingly back down onto the plush bedding and sheets, even though something inside him is absolutely screaming at him to order Jacob off the bed again; he knows he risks everything by allowing Jacob to lie down behind him, *still inside him*, but maybe Jacob’s rubbing off on him in more ways than one, maybe he *wants* to be just a little rebellious, maybe he *wants* to push the envelope and invite that little taste of danger - or maybe he’s just happy for once and he doesn’t want to let it go, at least for tonight

/ he pulls both his hands away almost regretfully, but he covers the hesitation by shoving a pillow in Jacob’s general direction and closing his eyes

“Go to sleep, Jacob.”

**

/ he’s almost surprised that Sebastian doesn’t tell him to get the fuck off the bed; he could be petty, and he *has* been petty, more often than not – they both have been, over the years, so Jacob is almost inclined to give him some slack here; he’d understand, especially since Faulkner has been watching Jacob, has been watching them *both*, but the order doesn’t come, and he settles on his side; he’s still not bothering to pull out, too fucking comfortable like this and maybe it’s his own way of being *petty*, just a bit, just secretly, because this is *dominance*, isn’t it?

/ *Fuck you* is what he wants to say, what’s sitting on the tip of his tongue, just an expression of habit and familiarity at this point, but the pillow shoved in his direction surprises him even more; it’s a luxury he’s not had in almost four weeks, a luxury he doesn’t *need*, not really, *especially* if it means proving himself to Faulkner again, but it feels like fucking *heaven*, all the softer after weeks on the floor, and as his spine aligns again, he can’t help the sigh of relief, can’t help the sigh of contentment, and he pushes deeper into Sebastian one last time before he closes his eyes and swallows his pride

“Thanks.”

[empireofdogs]

the kiss || Jacob & Sebastian || corruption

Five small things, and Jacob had to be quick. Quick and efficient.

He was still being watched, although his supervision wasn’t as tight-knit as it used to be. Even if Faulkner wouldn’t have other things on his mind these days, Jacob had been around for almost a year now. Not long enough to gain enough trust to venture outside on his own or roam entirely freely. But he *was* left unsupervised for periods of time. His door wasn’t locked anymore, unless he was misbehaving. That, however, happened rarely. And he could make use of that, if he was fast enough. It would have to be quick.

Faulkner was all too often watching. More than when it had been *Jacob* tied up to a chair. It had spoken of the trust he’d put in Bastian. Trust that didn’t exist anymore. Trust that Bastian had thrown away, for fucked up reasons only he understood. One did not fuck with Faulkner. He’d fuck back. And hard. They both knew.

But Faulkner couldn’t be around *all* the time. He had an empire to run. And tonight, Jacob could make use of that. The mayor had left early, and it was still time before Jacob’s debrief would start, when he was supposed to return the *key*. When he’d get his reward for making Sebastian scream. But not even his favourite treat could make him sleep these days. No matter how generous Faulkner was, with double-edged smile and cold, inquiring eyes. No matter how much he kept praising Jacob for the atrocities he committed to the closest thing he had to a… what, exactly? A friend? A prison guard turned confidant? One did not make friends here. And yet, somehow, Sebastian had become important, somewhere along the way. And that visceral, bone-shattering scream would haunt Jacob forever. He already knew that.

Five small things.

A bottle of water. He could get away with that. No problem here. Bastian would need water. Faulkner kept him constantly dehydrated and desperate.

Three days weren’t long enough to make a man starve, but Jacob knew that Sebastian would be *hungry*, Jacob’s own stomach twisting at the thought; too many memories trying to push through the tiniest door in his mind, a mess of pictures and muscle memories and visceral, destructive emotions. He *knew* how it felt. And he’d *been* in that room. And sometimes Jacob wondered if Faulkner was trying to punish him, too, despite the rewards he handed out more generously now, whenever Jacob came back from Sebastian.

The fucking granola bar he’d snatched from the canteen was easy to hide. Someone must have left it there, forgotten before a job outside, or brought back from a shabby little corner store. It didn’t matter. It would help. It would hold Bastian up for another day or two. No matter how long this would take. The granola bar was easy to hide.

The same for the cigarette. Because Sebastian liked to smoke. Because they’d smoked together. Because of that one fucking cigarette he’d offered Jacob, months ago, in his office, instead of a punishment. Because smoking would help keep the anxiety at bay, if only for a second or two. *And* because he’d been allowed an own fucking lighter just recently, and it was pathetic how goddamn *grateful* he’d felt at such a banal, stupid permission. As if he were a five year old pyro. But he couldn’t find back the excitement. The gratitude. The *eagerness* to prove himself. Faulkner’s tricks were so goddamn laughably simple and easy to see through. They worked, nevertheless, and sometimes that made Jacob so fucking angry.

The fourth object; the smallest first aid kit he could find, was harder to hide beneath his jacket. Jacob wouldn’t be able to properly patch Sebastian up. No sutures. No bandages. Nothing that could be *seen*. Nothing that would be noticed by Faulkner. But he could do some basic disinfection, at least. He could do something against the pain, no matter how brief that would be. He could make sure the wounds on his back wouldn’t get infected. Wounds *he* had caused. Gashes that had been bleeding horribly, when he’d left Bastian in *that* room. Jacob had done worse. He’d *seen* worse. But somehow, seeing Sebastian bleed hurt in different ways. Somehow, it made Jacob hurt with both pain and understanding, with guilt and shame and an empathy that could only be born from experience.

And at last, some blow he’d stashed away for himself.

Something else would have been better. Heroin maybe. Against the pain. Against the despair. *Any* opiate, really, but Faulkner limited those for *very* special treats only and he *never* gave it away. Blow, on the other hand, he handed out generously, and not just to Jacob. It had been relatively easy to save some for Bastian. It would help with the bleeding. It would help with the pain. But this wasn’t medical grade cocaine. It was cut. It wasn’t sterile. It was potentially risky. But what of his reckless little plan *wasn’t*? A plan that was as reckless as it was suicidal.

Five things and an hour without supervision. It was all he had, all he’d found, all he could carry in and under his jacket without looking suspicious. It would have to make do.

*

Jacob took a deep breath before unlocking the door, bracing himself. Preparing to enter this place of pain and horror. Preparing to face his memories. Preparing to meet Bastian’s gaze, not accusatory, not shaming him… and maybe that was the worst part. This man had been everything Jacob hadn’t been, powerful and controlled, privileged and independent. And now he’d been reduced to *this*. Now, he was tasked to turn Bastian into *himself*.

Clearly, Sebastian wouldn’t be thrilled to see him. And obviously, he’d expect the worst every time Jacob entered the room. And he’d be right to assume it. With all the things he’d endured. And all the things he’d still have to endure. Until Faulkner was satisfied. Until Bastian was broken and defeated. Like himself.

The scent of the room hit Jacob like a brick wall. Every time he was in here. A rancid, nauseating mixture of blood and sweat and fear with old underlying heavy notes of come. Maybe he was imagining those. Maybe the room had taken on the stench and would carry it forever – or until this whole fucking compound was finally burnt to the ground. Obliterated and erased from existence.

He didn’t like being in here together with Sebastian. He didn’t like being in here, at all. The memories were still too vivid, the disgust too real. Mostly, disgust at himself. Because of his weakness and fear, because his hands were shaking now and had been shaking then. Because of how he had allowed Faulkner to break him, to turn him inside out, to twist and turn until the man Jacob had disappeared and a monster had been reborn in his place.

There were new memories now, too.

The scent of blood.

His shaking hands around Bastian’s throat, fingernails not quite grown back.

The desperate gurgles of a struggling throat, drowning on land with no help in sight.

And the sound of Sebastian’s visceral scream, born from pain that *Jacob* had caused.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure which was worse.

He normally didn't talk upon entering, but Jacob didn't want to scare.

“Hey.”

**

There was no window in this room.

A small thing. Intentional, of course. It made sense to him, in every way. A room with no natural lighting was enough to make almost anyone mad, given enough time, even without the visitors. No way for him to judge the time, either, no way to determine how many hours or days had passed, except when he had the frame of mind to notice if his visitors’ clothing had changed.

Years ago, in Thailand, he’d had a window. Tiny, and barred, and the insects came in through it, vicious and biting. But it had given him hope. It had given him his *stars*; something to focus on and remember there were still reasons to fight. To live.

Sebastian had no such hope here.

The room *itself* was bigger, and shockingly it *had* a bed in it. Just an old stained mattress, with nothing on it. Jacob’s bed, he knew, and he’d traced the tally marks in it more than once, understanding them and wondering how much of his fate he’d share.

The other meager furnishings were of no real use to him, of course, but the bed alone was better than the floor. Not that he used it much. Even when he did manage to crawl onto it, he wasn’t allowed to sleep for long; and by this point, if he lost consciousness - blissful as that escape might be, just for a short time - he didn’t feel any better when he woke up.

It had been about three days, maybe, as best as he could tell. Three days of torture, gradually intensifying both physically and mentally. Three days without the medication that kept his hidden heart condition stabilized.

It didn’t surprise him.

It did not surprise him in the slightest that Faulkner would draw this out. Sebastian couldn’t tell yet if the man meant to kill him - slowly - or if he meant to break him. Either way seemed equally likely. And either way, without his medication, Sebastian knew what was likely to happen if this went on much longer.

It did not surprise him, either, that he’d use Jacob.

It was for Jacob’s sake that Sebastian chose not to fight. Just as Jacob had done for him, only a few months prior.

With the beatings it had been almost easy. Familiar, even in their brutality. Jacob could have killed him just from that alone, but he was controlled. Contained. And Sebastian didn’t blame him. He had been almost alright, that first day.

The water had been so much worse. For the first time, Jacob would have seen fear in his eyes, had heard him choke and struggle for air. The whippings had been almost a blessing after that, even when he had finally screamed.

But today… Today had been the worst by far. A million miles worse. Today might have killed him, and it wouldn’t have even been Jacob’s fault. No one knew about his condition. No one knew that every shock from that machine brought him to an inch from death.

No, if there were more days like today, he knew he would not make it, regardless of what Faulkner’s intentions might be.

And that… felt like relief, as he lay on the dirty mattress, half conscious and still bleeding, his back still on fire from the whipping, his nerves frazzled and sparking, his heart struggling to keep a steady pace. Even though he knew, in the back of his mind, what it would do to Jacob if he accidentally killed him after all. What *Faulkner* would do to Jacob, if that wasn’t his plan.

And that broke whatever was left of his heart, but there would be no stopping it.

He had no energy left in him to flinch when the door opened, or to turn and look at who was walking through it this time; there was no point in overextending himself when he was in for hell either way. They could drag him off the mattress, for all he cared. Jacob had already done that more than once. It made no difference.

But it was Jacob’s voice he heard this time, unexpected and soft, and Sebastian did flinch at *that*.

What fresh hell would this be now?

**

No answer.

Maybe that was a blessing. Maybe it was a curse.

As little as he would usually talk, even to Sebastian, Jacob himself hadn’t spoken much during the past three days, numbed from shock and pain and Faulkner’s treats, embarrassed by the strange *rush* he felt and his body’s reactions, rock hard through all of it.

He wasn’t hard now. Faulkner had already given *that* kind of reward. In front of Bastian. Sometimes, Faulkner was that predictable. But it was still difficult to look into Sebastian’s eyes. He was terrified to find the same disgust in them that *he* felt. Not that any of this mattered anymore. Not that either of them could change the outcome of this.

What Jacob *could* change, was this night. And maybe help Bastian through it, as pointless and insignificant it would be. And maybe, just maybe, for a moment, just a fraction of a second, Jacob *understood*. Why Bastian had given him pointless and insignificant choices. It wasn’t much different from what he was doing now.

The flinch was worse than the silence, and it broke the ugly remnants of Jacob’s shrivelled, blackened heart. But he understood. He’d flinched, too, and for a lot longer than his own torture had lasted. Weeks and months afterwards. At every sudden movement. At every unexpected touch. Every touch but Bastian’s.

He turned off the noise and dimmed the light, relieving Sebastian’s nerves and his own, before stepping closer to the goddamn bed. He knew the pattern of stains intimately. The mattress had been drenched with his own tears and blood and sweat. And hundreds of loads of come. Not all of them he’d swallowed. Not all of them he’d taken. Maybe that’s where the *stench* came from. Maybe he hadn’t imagined that, at all.

Trying not to glance at the tally marks, Jacob crouched next to Bastian, resting two fingers over his pulse. Faulkner had been clear. He wanted Sebastian to *live*. He just wanted him *broken*. Pliant. Obedient. Hollow and easy to control. He wanted *Jacob*, all over again. And as often as he’d checked during the past few days, Sebastian’s pulse had worried him; a heartbeat weak and uneven and hard to even feel beneath his fingertips. It was no different now.

And with a sigh, Jacob emptied his pockets, slowly and unthreateningly, placing each item onto the mattress next to Bastian, for the man to see. The bottle of water and granola bar. The blow and the cigarette. And the first aid kit.

**

The second the noise machine turned off, Sebastian closed his eyes in relief, swallowing as he tried to ignore the ringing in his ears from the sudden silence. It confused him, though, that the lights had dimmed; that Jacob was being so *quiet*. And it hit him suddenly that… Faulkner hadn't come in with him.

The touch to his pulse was familiar by now; and Sebastian had to wonder if Jacob had figured it out, but he'd not said anything yet. Just reached out and touched - something that, once upon a time, had felt so unique and special. So rare. Something that had never, ever been casual - and yet, in the past few days, had evolved from hesitant to almost… instinctive.

Another unwelcome “gift” from Faulkner, he supposed. Taking away everything that had ever meant anything was kind of his thing, after all.

What was most confusing, though, was this strange display; these items slowly placed on display in front of his face, their meaning clear and so very tempting. But what were the chances of this being real? Of these gifts - offered so carefully without Faulkner’s overbearing presence - not being yet another trick?

He curled his fingers inwards, hesitant to so much as say hello, let alone seem too eager; but this was Jacob, the only person he’d ever met who seemed to truly *understand* him; the man who he’d come to love so goddamn much over this one hellish year. He couldn’t help but offer the shakiest of smiles as he slowly, carefully lifted himself up to a sitting position - just a little farther back on the mattress.

Somehow, he managed to find the words, his voice rough and cracking - barely audible after all the screaming - still hesitant, cautious and suspicious, but without a single ounce of blame.

“Am I supposed to choose?”

**

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there were images of Bastian Jacob couldn’t explain. Or maybe he could, but was too terrified to accept them for what they were. What they would *mean*. What consequences they would have. What punishments they would entail.

A smile bright as the sun, blinding almost in its clarity and warmth. Gentle words and even gentler touches that felt so out of place here in this world of hatred and violence, where every touch was meant to hurt and every word cut deep. Whispers and hushed breaths and images of things that could have never happened. Things Faulkner would have *never* approved of. Things he’d *never* allow. Snippets, rough around the edges and faded. Incomplete. Confusing. Echoes of impossible touches.

They came in the early hours of dawn, ghosting through the empty ruins of his mind. They visited Jacob in his dreams, vivid and shining and almost tormenting in their clarity. They distracted him during the day, a perpetual feeling of déjà-vu that never quite faded.

Like now.

The faded smile, just as out of place, just as *unreal*, unearthing half-remembered images of those other smiles, and it broke his heart to see it shattered like that. Shattered like the rest of Bastian. Like his voice. And maybe that hurt even more.

“No.”

A simple answer, like he’d been taught.

No, Jacob hadn’t talked much during the past days, even less than he usually would. Words felt futile and deceptive. Dangerous. And they would never be able to transport the *mess* inside his head anyway, to translate them into anything that would make *sense*. Faulkner was watching most of the time, anyway.

But he knew this answer wouldn’t do, wasn’t nearly enough.

“But we need to hurry. I’m supposed to meet him in an hour.”

**

That answer was somehow more confusing even than the action that had prompted the question.

If this were anyone else, of course, it would be less so. But if this were *not* a trick, this would mean careful, conscious thought. Foresight and planning. A willingness to risk absolutely everything just to help him. An unspeakable kindness.

But Jacob… didn’t make his own decisions. Ever.

It was much more likely that this was another game. Another mindfuck carefully orchestrated by the big man himself, and Jacob was once again only following orders. A thought that hurt even more than the beatings, but Sebastian couldn’t blame him for it, even as he couldn’t blame him for what he’d already done.

What he was undoubtedly *still* going to do.

Sebastian took a shaky breath, shallow and honestly unhelpful, his heartbeat erratic in his own ears. He wanted so badly to reach out - and not only to the tantalizing gifts on display, but to Jacob, the only source of comfort in this place. The only spark of humanity left.

They could have been happy, in another life. That thought never left him, even as the volts of electricity had shot through him, or the whips sliced him open. Even under the water, he couldn’t forget it.

“We?”

**

It wasn’t the first time - and if somehow, *miraculously*, they would both manage to survive this, if Jacob were lucky, just this once, maybe it wouldn’t even be the last – that Sebastian managed to revive parts of Jacob he’d thought dead. The last remnants of humanity, buried deep beneath the beast. A spark of defiance, the echoes of an old fire, beaten out of him a long time ago. And sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, the last residue of what used to be *humour*.

It surprised him, even through shame and guilt and pain, that his first instinctive reaction was *yes, we, dumbass*, but it was enough to break free from the strange stupor he was fighting so often now. A hesitance that stemmed not only from the rules that made up his life now, but from facing the horrors of what he’d done. The results of his obedience, his viciousness and brutality all too visible on Sebastian’s body.

But sometimes, Bastian was just… *stupid*, and maybe there was relief in that, in something so familiar and comforting, even though a part of Jacob understood the hesitation all too well. If it were him, he’d be suspicious, too. There was no kindness in this place. There was no such thing as *a gift*. Nothing was harmless, and nothing, ever, was *simple*.

With a sigh, his hands shaking more than they should, he reached out for the bottle of water to crack it open and hand it to Bastian.

“Yes. *We*.”

**

Whether due to exhaustion or pain or whether he was just plain losing his ability to function, he couldn’t quite read Jacob’s expression.

Not that it had ever been easy to do, really; Jacob was only ever an open book when he was high. Otherwise, he’d learned quickly to cover up his thoughts and emotions, and even with all of Bastian’s practice, he found it difficult to guess what the man might be thinking.

And now, Sebastian had no idea at all.

There almost seemed to be the ghost of a sparkle in his eyes, something vaguely remembered, but that couldn’t be even remotely right, could it?

Even he could see that the man’s hands were shaking, but that wasn’t unusual, especially these days. It told him as little as Jacob’s reply did.

But fuck it, he was going to die anyway, wasn’t he? May as well give in to the trick, if it *was* one, and let it happen quickly. An hour, Jacob had said, didn’t he?

He took the bottle carefully, raising it to his parched lips and drinking half of it in one go before the sudden wave of nausea hit his empty stomach; he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, fighting it as best he could with a groan.

God, he wanted to believe in this.

Just this one good thing. One last thing, probably.

“He… really doesn’t know you’re here?”

**

“No. He doesn’t.”

It was supposed to sound *casual*, but apart from the fact that Jacob had forgotten how *that* was even supposed to work, his voice cracked again with fear and guilt. Guilt not only because of what he’d done to Bastian – but because he was actively betraying Faulkner. A thought he’d tried to push away ever since he’d stolen the fucking granola bar.

A thought that came crept back into his conscience now, heavy and terrifying.

No, he didn’t make decisions anymore. The burden of choice having been taken from him almost a year ago, and sometimes, Jacob could find comfort and relief in that. And of all the impossible decisions he could have made, it had to be something as reckless and suicidal as *this*

For a man who’d tortured *him*.

Maybe Bastian’s stupidity was rubbing off of him.

“I’m… not fucking with you.”

Which *was* exactly what someone would say who’d *want* to fuck with him, and Jacob was more than aware of it. Maybe he was simply trying to fill the silence. Maybe he was trying to distract himself from guilt and fear.

No, Faulkner wouldn’t be happy, and Jacob could only imagine the consequences. For *both* of them. Because as hard as it had been, in those few moments of clarity, between bloodthirst and arousal and red, hot anger not even aimed at Bastian… *he’d tried to hold back*.

**

*I’m not fucking with you.*

Five little words.

So meaningful. So simple. So easily falsified - and yet, they pulled at his heart, threatened to drown him all over again with how much he *believed* it.

The weight seemed to slide off his shoulders as he breathed out, relaxing as if on command, bowing his head and nodding slowly. Letting it really sink in that Jacob was making this choice on his own - and risking everything for… what, exactly?

Sebastian couldn’t offer him a damn thing, now. Faulkner would make sure of that, before he killed him.

He held onto the water bottle, trying to steady his breathing, or his heart, or *something*. But nothing seemed to want to cooperate with him.

“Thanks.” His voice cracked again, and he licked his lips, daring to look up at Jacob’s face. There was still something like kindness there. Something real and warm. “I don’t… blame you, you know. You shouldn't risk this.”

No, his heart was not cooperating, at all. Not on any level.

“It’s not gonna save me, big guy.”

**

“Yeah. Well. You shouldn’t have betrayed him. Yet here we are.”

No, he shouldn’t risk this. This was goddamn fucking *stupid*, on *so* many levels, and yet, it felt right. Even in this room, where a life could die before the man living it.

Of course Bastian didn’t blame him. Jacob hadn’t blamed Bastian. Not really. Not when he was *clear*, or as clear as it got, these days. He’d barely made it through those past three days, clinging to every distraction and poison he’d been allowed.

“He wants you alive.”

As if that were a comfort, and both of them knew. There were worse fates than death, and both of them knew that, too. The tally marks on the head of the bed bore witness of when his own life had ended here.

But something else gnawed at him, something about the *tone* of Bastian’s voice as he spoke. Something heavy. Something fatal. Something knowing.

It gnawed at him as he took the granola bar, unwrapping it carefully before handing it to Sebastian. It gnawed at him as he opened the first aid kit.

But when the pieces fell into place, when realisation sunk in just as heavy, just as fatal, Jacob froze.

He’d been checking Sebastian’s vitals. And he’d been worried to find his heartbeat weak and irregular. Just moments ago, he’d noticed again. He’d been worried for a reason, it seemed.

“Your heart. It’s not working properly.”

**

Sebastian huffed softly. As if he’d *meant* to betray Faulkner in the first place. And even when he’d finally realized how deep he’d waded into shit, this had always been about bringing Faulkner a *gift* at the end of it all. But none of that mattered, so he didn’t bother to argue.

*He wants you alive.*

Somehow he managed to laugh at that, a broken, choked and unnatural sound. No, that was no comfort, knowing what that meant for his future if he managed to live through this. But what was the point of that now, anyway? There was no reason to fight a losing battle.

Death would be a gift. One that Faulkner would want to withhold, because *of course* he would - and for once, the mayor was almost guaranteed not to get his way.

It was just too bad that most likely, Jacob would be the immediate cause of it. Although… if Jacob were to meet with him in an hour…

Sebastian’s mind started spinning, almost frantically, working it out. If he died while Jacob was actively *with* Faulkner, then he couldn’t possibly be blamed for it, right? He could manage that, certainly -

He frowned down at the granola bar that had appeared in his hand, debating the point of even eating it now - but what a waste of a gift then, what a waste of this astronomical risk - only vaguely hearing Jacob’s sudden realization. He nodded quietly, watching Jacob’s hands.

“Not for years.”

**

“Mhm.”

It was the answer he *didn’t* want to hear. The answer he immediately knew was true. That slowly gnawing worry setting off an avalanche or *terror*. Because he very well knew what that meant. And didn’t have to be a physician to know what the outcome would be for Bastian, if Faulkner continued to increase the intensity of his torture.

*How bad?*

He wanted to ask, but stopped himself in his tracks.

No, he knew the answer. He knew it from Sebastian’s voice, heavy and dreadfully certain. He knew it from the faint pulse beneath his fingertips. He knew it from the dropping of his own heart, useless and burnt. Incapable of emotion, of feeling, of attachment.

If it weren’t for one stupid idiot who’d made this living hell… liveable.

The man who’d refused to kill him, twice, so many months ago.

The moment passed, and finally, Jacob unfroze; and something *strange* happened. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Something that had been fucked out of him early, along with the rest of who he’d been.

Resolution.

Because if there was a way to save Sebastian, he would find it. And he would do whatever it took. There was no decision-making involved, no struggling over choices or consequences or punishments. This was simple and clear. This was overriding Faulkner’s conditioning. It was overriding fear and doubt. It was overriding every artificially created instinct and reaction. Overriding it like Sebastian’s touch had, months ago, tearing down his defences and impulse of self-preservation.

He fumbled with the kit, looking for disinfection and painkillers.

“Medication?”

**

Once again he struggled to breathe in deeply, but barely managed, the effort seeming like just too much *work* to bother.

He could see Jacob wanting to ask, but what would it matter? And there was still the underlying truth - that this could very well still be a trap, meant only to trick him into complacency. If he told Jacob the truth, Faulkner could, and *would*, use that against him.

Slowly, he took a bite of the granola bar, dry and plain; and it tasted both like heaven and like ashes in his mouth, as he fought every deep urge inside him not to reach out and touch Jacob again. Just one more time.

He licked his lips again, shaking his head with another little smile.

“Yes. But it won’t matter now. It’s okay.”

**

“*Tell me.*”

An order.

Confident. Firm. Strong and certain.

Everything that Jacob hadn’t been for a whole year.

The tone of his own voice surprised him, *scared* him, almost.

It was absolutely forbidden to talk like this, and he hadn’t, not since those first ten nights, not since he’d understood the simplest of rules. Jacob hadn’t been able to voice as much as a *request* since he’d been here. Neither to Faulkner, nor to Sebastian.

But this was different. And this left no room for debate.

And, strangely enough, this didn’t feel like a transgression. This didn’t feel like sin. Like disrespect and audacity. This didn’t feel *wrong*. Not like that first touch had, checking Bastian’s pulse on the first day, Faulkner’s eyes on him, breathing down his neck.

This… felt right.

Busying himself, Jacob finally found the pain killers, holding them out for Bastian to take.

“I won’t let you die.”

Not a request. Not a question.

Even as his voice wavered with undeniable terror and undeniable fear, Jacob looked up at Sebastian.

In his new life, Jacob didn’t make the rules. Or decisions. Or choices.

But this?

This was non-negotiable.

**

The order was sharp and commanding and undeniable for what it was. And if this were any other situation, Sebastian would have been overwhelmed with pride for such significant progress. Such a huge development, almost an act of rebellion. A moment where Jacob showed such immeasurable strength and promise.

As it was, he couldn't help the smile, or the silent tear that slipped down his cheek as he nodded his head, finally giving in, reaching out to trail his shaking fingers across Jacob’s cheek - even as Jacob gave him an ultimatum that he didn’t want.

*I won’t let you die.*

As if that were a positive reinforcement.

Sebastian huffed again, taking the pills without complaint or comment, swallowing them with another long gulp of the water. No, there was not a single part of him that felt compelled to follow such an order. Not now.

*I don’t think there’s much you’re gonna be able to do about that.*

But this was Jacob, and there was something in Jacob's voice that always had the capacity to break him. Especially, apparently, when he was already compromised. When had this giant of a man become such a weakness? How had Faulkner not destroyed this one thing already?

“It’s the only way out, and you know it.”

**

Jacob’s head was still swimming.

It was strange, he thought, that even during he past three days, Jacob had avoided any direct order. That somefuckinghow, that had still felt utterly, entirely *wrong*. Like the touch, at first.

Even with his knuckles bloody, even with the flail in his hand, even controlling the same goddamn fucking machine that *Bastian* had taught him to use, an *order* had never felt appropriate. Any unnecessary touch had felt like a transgression. Unforgiveable and reckless.

Through Faulkner’s order, Jacob had been the one holding all power – and yet, it hadn’t felt that way.

It was strange, how this one singular fear and the resulting determination, the magic of resolution, made everything so much simpler.

At least for a moment. At least until Sebastian spoke.

Suddenly, his mouth felt dry, his body freezing again for a moment as Sebastian reached out to *touch*. Another  strange déjà-vu. A recurring dream, beautiful and arousing. The touch gentle and warm. Forbidden.

Like Jacob’s visit. Like every treacherous word they shared.

“I know.”

Yes, he knew how *that* felt.

And it was clear as day what was happening here.

Faulkner didn’t want to see Sebastian dead. The first relief Jacob had felt. In the beginning, at least. It had been with an cold shiver that turned the blood to ice in his veins that Jacob *realised*; he was tasked to turn Bastian into *him*. A life he knew.

But he’d survived, somehow. And so would Sebastian.

And Jacob wouldn’t budge now, not with that newly found confidence, and if it only lasted for this hour. An hour was all he needed.

“I asked you to kill me.”

His voice didn’t waver.

“Twice. But you didn’t.”

The memory was bitter and vivid, but somehow, Jacob had found a way to live. Had found a reason to live in this stupid dumbass of a man who had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever, it seemed.

“Do you remember what you told me?”

**

There was a difference, here.

There was something to be said for the beast of a man who held so much promise even when he’d begged for death. Who was growing into it now, even, with Sebastian’s fall from grace. There was something to be said for hope when there *was* a future, at least of some kind, left for a man.

What future remained for Sebastian, now? What hope remained, when he had fallen so far? There would be no return from this. Faulkner’s fury was absolute and unending.

Jacob, at least, could rise now to take his place, fulfilling the silent threat that had been present from the very start, with all of the Mayor’s subtle reminders. And very clearly, he would.

But god, he loved to hear that confidence in Jacob’s voice. Almost alien, but so strong, so determined, that it ached through Sebastian’s chest.

Like nothing he’d ever known in his life, he loved this man.

“There’s always something to hold onto. I know.” The reply came bitter and defeated as he quietly took another bite of the granola, shaking his head and avoiding the intensity of Jacob’s eyes. “Tell that to my heart, though. Hope can’t take me that far.”

**

The first day had been almost easy, compared to what had been coming.

With nothing but shame, Jacob remembered those first moments. That strange feeling of excitement that had mingled with fear. The *rush* of cruelty. The anticipation of something retaliation. A small moment of mindless, selfish joy at the prospect of repaying violence with violence. But the moment passed, leaving behind nothing but a hollow feeling of embarrassment. Because Jacob knew that neither of them *wanted* this. The man behind the violence had stood before them, with his disgusting smile.

Deliberately dismantling whatever this cautious, strange and gentle relationship they had was with every word and every order. That, too, had been clear as day.

Sometimes, Faulkner was dreadfully predictable. And Jacob couldn’t blame him. He would have done the same, and the very fact that *he was here, now* proved Faulkner right. It proved his tactics wrong, too. Because somehow, through the beatings and humiliations, through every attempt to drive them apart, that weird, fragile bond was still intact.

It was hard to look into Sebastian’s eyes now, even harder to speak, despite his newfound confidence, for as long as that would last. The shame was burning almost as hot as the guilt. There was no thrill anymore. No rush. Just endless exhaustion and fear of *what would come next* and the determination to keep Bastian alive.

The beatings, then, had almost been *easy*. Simple and experienced. Almost like they had been sparring. Just rougher. Without rules. Without resistance. Unhinged and brutal. But simple, in a way.

It had been a relief that Bastian’s clothes had hidden the injuries, but both of them didn’t have that luxury anymore. The bruises on Sebastian’s body shimmered in all colours of the rainbow now, silent, but accusatory. Shaming and blaming Jacob for what he’d become. It hadn’t mattered with the boys. It hadn’t mattered with Faulkner’s enemies. It hadn’t even fucking mattered when it had been *himself*.

But suddenly, somehow, now, with Bastian, *it did*.

The second day. Whips and water. The noise and sounds had kept Jacob up at night, the gurgling breaths for air, desperate in ways only a drowning man could be. Breaths that sounded familiar, ringing in his ears in yet another déjà-vu, horrible and well-known, just as the cracking of floggers and whips. Breaths sounding too much like his own, just a few months ago, when their roles had been reversed. Jacob’s hair had grown back. Mostly, anyway. His fingernails hadn’t. Every day was still a reminder. Of Sebastian’s strength. Of what Faulkner could do. Of what would happen to Jacob again, if he didn’t obey.

But nothing had prepared him for this day. The third day.

By this morning, the whippings had felt almost familiar. By this morning, Jacob had *somehow* managed to detach himself from his surroundings; the only thing reaching him were Faulkner’s orders and Bastian groans. Even as he broke skin. Even as the scent of blood made his dick swell.

Worse had been the shocks. The shocks and the *screams*. Visceral, unfamiliar and *unsettling*. The screams were still reverberating in his bones. Screams that had driven him to this secret visit. Stupid and reckless, and yet the only thing that had felt right.

But the threat of death now, not his own, but *Bastian’s*, felt so much worse than anything that had come before.

Because he realised, with pounding heart, that not only had Bastian made this hell bearable and liveable… he was the *only thing worth living for*.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Finally, he shook off the stupor, now that Bastian’s hand had left his skin, his cheek still tingling with the echo of touch.

"You said, *Do you know how much it would hurt me to kill you?*"

Oh, and he remembered his own response - *Do you know how much it would hurt me to live?* - and it had hurt. It still did. But he’d prevailed. Somehow. Against all odds.

“You’re asking the same of me now. But I won’t let you die.”

**

How Jacob had even remembered that, Sebastian didn’t know.

Bastian himself certainly did remember. But saying it aloud again felt like defeat, felt like being broken again, because he had meant it completely - the first real hint, probably, that he had completely fallen for Jacob - just as much as he felt the same now. And Jacob’s answer had been earth-shatteringly painful, enough to break his heart even then; to sow the first real seeds of guilt that he had felt probably in all his life.

No, he had no wish to think about that now. To let that guilt creep back in, because yes - their roles had been completely reversed now. And Jacob would indeed be the one to kill him, if Sebastian didn’t handle that himself.

He didn’t want Jacob to hurt.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, together with fresh tears, shaking his head again. He didn’t see a way out of this. Not unless Faulkner himself were gone, and that was a thought that he would never dare to vocalize, even with his last breath.

He couldn’t even argue that he wasn’t asking Jacob to kill him - because that wasn’t the point of the reminder, and he knew it. Jacob throwing his own words back in his face felt almost like reciprocation of the feeling that had prompted them in the first place, and he didn’t know if that was more or less painful than never voicing it at all.

More painful, certainly, than the bruises and the open wounds on his back. And he could barely voice anything now, anyway.

“I’m sorry, Jacob.”

**

“I don’t wanna hear it. The point being… I survived.”

A part of him wondered idly, with immeasurable astonishment and confusion, that after a year in silence, he could still *speak*. That he was able to string sentences together like a real human being. More than the monster’s two-word-answers and growls. More than obedient confirmations and half-sentences in the few private conversations he’d had with Sebastian.

Always terrified. Always paranoid. Always avoiding setting Faulkner off.

Yes, Bastian was right. He shouldn’t be here.

And Jacob was certain that he’d beg for death again, if Faulkner knew about this.

But in this moment, caught between fear and determination, he marvelled at the sound of his own voice. A voice that, somehow, miraculously he hadn’t lost yet. A voice he still knew how to use.

“You’ll survive, too. So tell me.”

Not that this knowledge alone would *solve* the problem.

Jacob was *still* under surveillance. He was still being watched, just not as closely. It was one thing to slip into a room he was *supposed* to be in for an hour without being noticed. It was an *entirely* different story to break into Bastian’s old rooms – if Faulkner hadn’t cleared those already – to look for pills that might not even be there anymore. Or, worse, trying to find another way to obtain them. It was likely a hopeless cause.

But he’d do what was necessary.

Because there was no life without Bastian.

No life worth living for.

**

*But you won’t, if he finds out. Neither of us will.*

He’d really never heard Jacob speak like this. Yes, he’d heard him open and loopy on mystery cocktails, but never like *this*. So steady and serious and *dedicated*, as if this would make any difference. As if determination alone could save them.

As if his rooms hadn’t already been turned upside down. It seemed an astronomically small chance that Faulkner hadn’t already found his stash of pills - and yet…

There had been no mention of it, this other massive secret that he’d managed to keep from Faulkner. Surely he’d have relished the opportunity to bring that up, too? To use it against him, as further proof of Sebastian’s dishonesty and betrayal? Further proof of his unworthiness?

With a deep and shaking sigh, he shifted closer, his voice soft and defeated as he breathed his secret to the only soul on this planet that was worth a damn. He reached out for his wrist almost absentmindedly, broken fingers resting over Jacob’s pulse as if it could steady his own.

“Left nightstand. There was a hidden compartment. Not on the bottom, on the top. They… they’d have been in there.”

**

Touch.

Gentle and unthreatening.

Deliberate and overwhelming, like 10,000 volts shooting up his spine.

Once again, it overrode all instincts, every impulse, every other thought.

Once again, it made Jacob hold his breath, his heart climbing up his throat, erratic and powerful.

And *this* time, Bastian would be able to tell, his treacherous pulse giving away the turmoil in his chest, the thunder rumbling in his ribcage.

“Understood.”

Soon enough, he’d find out what was left of Sebastian’s rooms. Maybe Faulkner was too tied up in cleaning up the mess, too distracted with Bastian’s torture to have them cleaned out immediately. Three days since Sebastian had dropped the bomb. Three days were *nothing*, right? There might very well still be a chance to find them.

He’d find out. And he’d find a way to get inside.

Which, in itself, was another almost blasphemous idea. Entering Bastian’s private realm. Forbidden like the commands. Forbidden like the touch. Forbidden like the betrayal he was committing this very moment, and he could feel his heart beat faster at the thought alone.

But there was no time to dwell on that, or on the sheer *excitement* and *curiosity* he felt. Jacob had never even *wondered*. Like a school boy believing his teachers lived inside the school building, he hadn’t spent much thought or time picturing Sebastian’s *life*. Blasphemous as those thoughts would have been, they wouldn’t have helped him, anyway. Too crass the difference between them. And their status. Their privileges. Even now, he felt a pang of jealousy stirring in the selfish parts of his hearts, even as his mind knew that, really, right now, there was *nothing* to be jealous of.

“Turn around.”

This time, it wasn’t an order, his voice soft, but noticeably exhausted. They’d be quickly running out of time soon.

**

Jacob’s pulse felt just as erratic as his own, only stronger - a thousand times stronger - and he wondered for a moment if he were just hallucinating now, his mind somehow convincing him that Jacob’s heart could ever match his.

He could barely string two thoughts together now, too exhausted to focus on anything but Jacob’s voice and pulse. There was no sense anymore of privacy, or of shame; Jacob had never been to his rooms, but they were no longer his anymore, so it didn’t even feel unnatural.

What was unnatural was the softness in that command, too gentle to feel real, and yet it was *so much* like those secret nights, where he had seen Jacob unfettered and unrestrained, the tender heart hidden and tucked away within the beast.

There was no question this time, no hesitation as his body moved on command, painfully slow, to obey; shifting uncomfortably to face the wall, exposing the mass of welts and open wounds on his back.

**

An artwork of pain and cruelty welcomed him.

The sight hurt.

Knowing that *he* had done this hurt.

It hurt that everything they were, everything they would ever be, was *pain*. Giving and receiving. Roles of power reversed at Faulkner’s will. Never equal. Never free.

He let his fingertips run over a particularly angry welt, holding his breath once again; the touch forbidden and blasphemous - *once again* - but what difference did that make now?

The blood was crusted in places, covering the black lines of Bastian’s tattoos where it had dried; and where he had broken skin, where the wounds were fresh and angry, destroying the artwork on Sebastian’s skin, it glistened red and wet.

Jacob had to resist the urge to lick it off, to run his tongue roughly over the red, deep lines; slowly and deliberately. Until they were clean. Until he could take away the pain. As if that were a comfort.

He swallowed the animal down, handing the cigarette to Sebastian before focusing on opening the sterile wipes.

“I can’t… stitch you up.”

Obviously. That shouldn’t even need saying.

“*He’d… know*. But I can clean it. I can do something against the pain.”

**

He flinched at the touch, feeling Jacob’s fingertips - once again shockingly gentle, yet still incredibly sharp and painful over the welt - tracing along his back, yet he did not move, letting the shiver travel down his spine as he breathed it out.

Sebastian looked down at the cigarette, holding it loosely in his broken fingers, overwhelmed suddenly with a sense of deja vu that really didn’t belong. Hadn’t he done that, once? Hadn’t that practically been the start of all this? Uncertainty and a cigarette?

This was an unnecessary kindness. Useless, really, and yet…

He meant to laugh, but the sound that came out was a sob, dry and painful and utterly wrecked; he managed just to nod, shuddering visibly as he tried and failed to swallow down the flood of tears burning his eyes.

**

Biting his tongue, he prepared the wipes and disinfectant, laying them out neatly on the stained mattress; opened, but still in their wrapping.

No, nothing had prepared him for this.

Not the torture. Not the screams.

For *this*.

The tears and the fear.

The *sob*.

A horrible sound that shook him to the core, reaching parts of his soul that could still *feel*. Parts long buried. Parts long forgotten.

Parts that, somehow, Bastian had always been able to revive, this undead part of him that just refused to die. It would have been easier to live here, to survive under Faulkner, without the remnants of humanity.

It would have been infinitely harder, too, without Sebastian.

Even now, his absence was painful, the canteen table empty. Once again, Jacob was alone with his tray and a bottle of whiskey, and the whispers and looks from the others. No more containers of food. No company. No kind eyes.

He’d never seen Bastian cry before, and this, by far, was the *worst* he’d experienced so far.

Once he was done sorting his supplies; the clear bag of coke coming last, he reached into his jacket for the lighter. A privilege earned by Sebastian’s pain, and the irony didn’t escape him.

He took cigarette from the broken fingers, pressing it lightly between Bastian’s lips, praying, desperately, that the scent would be gone in the morning. All of this familiar, if mirrored. And just like back then, the gesture was pointless, making no difference, at all.

He could only hope that for Bastian… it would.

Moving closer again, leaning over the bruised shoulder, he flicked the lighter, bringing the flame to the cigarette in silence, close enough to touch, close enough for Sebastian to feel his breath on his skin.

Close enough, but miles away.

**

It was useless to try to hide the tears. Sebastian’s body shuddered against his will, releasing the flood of despair that had been building for decades, hidden behind his endless smiles and sarcasm and kind words. He had never felt grief and hopelessness quite like this.

Even if he tried, even if he’d been able to keep the tears at bay, he was sure Jacob would have seen right through him, anyway.

The cigarette balanced loosely between his trembling lips, breathing in as if on command to coax the flame. He had never felt Jacob so *close* - not in these past few days, not in those secret nights - and yet not anywhere close enough.

It was such a small thing, this stupid cigarette. And yet it was not.

Such a deep and overwhelming love he felt. And yet it was *grief*, mourning a life that would never be, a connection that would never be fully realized - only glimpsed in these final terrifying, self-destructive moments.

A thoughtfulness and understanding proven with something so earth shatteringly unimportant as a cheap cigarette.

He inhaled slowly, carefully breathing in the smoke, holding it in as he did his best to bury all his emotions inside again, too; ignoring the tears and the throbbing pain of his muscles and his flickering heartbeat, focusing instead on the way Jacob’s breath had felt on his skin - or had he just imagined that? - and that gentle touch that he craved more than anything else.

“S’it really worth it?”

**

This part was routine, whether he liked it or not.

It was routine… and it wasn’t.

Jacob’s hands knew what to do, cleaning the areas around the gashes first, careful and gentle and silent, while he swallowed his guilt and his shame.

No matter how many lives he had destroyed in one way or another, no matter what atrocities he’d committed in the name of Faulkner… in the end, he’d stopped caring. His crimes had blurred together in a never-ending, meaningless rush of bloodlust and rage. A vicious circle of lust and relief, but without true satisfaction.

This, somehow, hurt more than all his sins combined.

This, somehow, made him ashamed.

Not just for the things he’d *done*, but for the things he’d thought. The things he’d *felt*. Invisible to anyone else, but heavy on his shoulders.

He’d made himself a home inside this strange new life.

He’d made himself a home inside *silence*, losing his voice a little more every day. Losing a part of his soul every day, too.

But this silence didn’t feel like home. It didn’t feel like comfort.

This silence was heavy and fatal and felt too much like death. Here, on a bed that had seen his own death, too, many months ago. This room wasn’t a torture chamber. It was a graveyard of souls, and it took immeasurable strength to keep his own tears from falling.

Because, whether he liked it or not, he *understood*.

“What?”

**

It was harder to dissociate now than it was when the beatings and whippings had occurred in the first place. Harder to pull himself away from the body that Jacob was touching, *caring for*, so gently and carefully. So much harder, because so much of his heart *wanted* to feel that touch, every horrifying painful moment of it - if only because it was Jacob.

He focused on the empty wall ahead of him, holding onto the smoke in his lungs until it burned as much as the rest of him did. The silence was disorienting and heavy; making him ache, making him want to scream again, making him want to confess every horrible thing he had ever done and beg Jacob to forgive him for the part he’d played in breaking him.

More than anything, Bastian wanted to tell him that there was no light without him; but the words caught like birds in his throat, fluttering and trapped, until they wore out and fell away.

Instead he could only find words for the obvious, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

“He’ll do the same to you. If he finds out.”

**

His fingers stopped their journey, breath catching in his throat as the rest of his body froze for a moment.

Oh, he *knew*.

Jacob was very much *aware* of the consequences if Faulkner ever found out.

Consequences he’d tried to avoid for months now, keeping his head down and his soul swallowed and buried in the corners of his mind that were farthest away from his heart. Consequences that would be horrifying, he knew.

“Mhm.”

It was almost funny, how much he’d feared to be denied his treat, only three days ago, in Faulkner’s office. How that, in its banality and simplicity, had been one of his greatest worries; a slap on the wrist the heaviest of his fears.

Jacob had been rewarded since, generously and plentifully, for every gruesome deed, for every scream and every drop of blood.

What he’d face now, would exceed his wildest expectations. That was certain. A punishment to fit the crime. And Faulkner didn’t take betrayal lightly.

“I know.”

Even in his own ears, his voice sounded hollow; the confidence and resolution gone, even though it still lived in his heart; stubborn and defiant. It was the only thing that made it still beat, he figured, through terror and fear and all-encompassing guilt.

With a sigh, he pulled himself away from the thoughts, stuffing the used wipes into the pockets of his jacket before flicking open the bottle of disinfectant. This would hurt. And this time, it wouldn’t even be intentional.

**

He had voiced the obvious, and yet Jacob froze as if it were somehow still a surprise. As if he’d needed the reminder that choices had consequences here.

There was something… empty in his answer, short and blunt as it was. And it was terrifyingly unconvincing.

Jacob hadn’t answered if it would be worth it.

But he *was* still here, carefully pouring disinfectant on open wounds that made Sebastian hiss sharply in fresh, nauseating waves of pain. He inhaled too quickly and coughed hard from the smoke, recovering with a deep shudder and a groan.

“It’s not too late for you to leave. So he… doesn’t find out…”

**

Behind Bastian’s back, Jacob’s shrug was pointless.

Like generic pain killers against broken bones. Like a cigarette shared in a graveyard of souls. Like disinfecting wounds that would likely be opened again in the morning.

It was as pointless as inconsequential choices, and yet, Sebastian had offered them.

Yes, maybe this insufferable form of stupidity was slowly rubbing off.

This was the very thing Jacob had warned Bastian of. Betrayal. Recklessness. Rebellion.

No, this wouldn’t be worth it, if Faulkner found out.

Objectively, rationally, in no way or form, would this make any difference for Sebastian’s suffering. In one day, he’d be thirsty again. Be hungry again. Be in pain again. In a few hours only, those wounds would be reopened and bleed once more. Onto a dirty mattress.

So how could it *ever* be worth it, if a world of pain and terror would wait for Jacob in return for inconsequential gifts?

And how could it *not* be, if it brought a second of relief to the man who’d reminded him of choice and decency and humanity?

He opened the tiny plastic bag, gathering the cocaine with his finger before slowly dabbing it onto the wounds. Risky in itself. Pointless.

And still worth it.

“If he found out, he already has.”

**

He gasped sharply as the cocaine sank into the wounds, shuddering as it was no less painful than the other touches, and then - it *was*, slowly numbing out the worst of the sharp pain.

It was almost enough to make him laugh again. What use was it, after all? He’d feel it all again in less than an hour. But it said something - volumes and volumes - that Jacob had thought to bring him even the most temporary relief. As he had thought of so much, with these generous and meaningful gifts.

“No, but he… you could still pass it off. Like… before.”

He didn’t gesture toward the tally marks on the bedframe; didn’t so much as glance at them. But he did make himself turn again, when he felt Jacob’s fingers finish with the last of the cocaine; shifting himself closer to the edge of the bed, as close as he dared.

He should be afraid to touch, shouldn't he?

And yet it seemed vital again, as he took the last of the cigarette from his own lips and offered it to Jacob instead, his fingers finding the man’s wrist once more, seeking out that wild, strong pulse - the only thing that seemed steady now in the room spinning around him.

“You were here to… check on me, right? …Don’t let it be a secret, then, if you think he knows.” He glanced at the cigarette in Jacob’s lips. “Use that. Put it out on me and you - you’ve got some proof that you weren’t hiding it. Tell him what you need to. *Do* what you need to. I'll go along with it.”

**

This was a sacrifice.

Jacob understood. He did.

And with a frown on his face, he froze again, trying to process the invitation, Bastian's touch almost unregistered.

The suggestion was smart. Generous. *Outrageous.* It was something he would’ve proposed himself, had their roles been reversed.

“Yeah. No. Not gonna happen.”

This was new, too.

Touch, at first. Cautious and scared.

Then *decision*. Born from necessity and long forgotten empathy.

The foolish bravery of command and resolution.

And now, just as blasphemous, just as audacious… *refusal*. Defiance.

*No* didn’t belong in Jacob’s vocabulary, not to be used as objection.

Yet it was the only appropriate answer to Bastian’s suggestion. Stupid, as he should have expected.

Shaking his head, Jacob took the last drag off the cigarette and made a point of putting it out on the bedframe instead of Sebastian’s tormented, broken and bruised body.

“I can pass it off just fine. I don’t need proof.”

That was the question, though, wasn’t it?

That was the *real* problem.

He *couldn’t*.

The very moment Faulkner would stand before him, forcing him to his knees, probing with his heartless eyes, triggering every single conditioning he’d so carefully installed… Jacob would *cave*. He would, inevitably, obey.

He wasn’t a person anymore. He was Faulkner’s creation.

“*You* didn’t need proof.”

Jacob knew that was only half the truth. Faulkner still *very much* didn’t trust him fully. But it was enough to let him roam freely for an hour or two. It was enough to leave him with the key card. It was enough to allow a lighter.

And to think that three days ago, something as simple as a *lie* had seemed impossible, an equally outrageous act of disrespect and disobedience. It still was, and the feeling of betrayal sat like a pile of rocks deep inside his stomach, the *fear* of Faulkner sharp and buzzing along his nerves.

But if Faulkner could believe that Jacob wouldn’t betray him, that he wouldn’t be capable of lying – maybe Jacob could believe it, too, *and lie anyway*, if only for a fateful moment.

If only to cover for what had to be done.

**

A refusal.

How… unheard of.

Sebastian knew his head was fuzzy in the moment - he could barely string together solid thoughts - but he couldn't think of a time,  after the very beginning, that Jacob had *refused.* Not since that first touch, when everything had seemed to change.

He still held on, now. He wasn't even sure how he was managing to stay upright, but he was pretty sure that this line of connection, tentative and forbidden, had something to do with it. He could still feel Jacob's pulse,  so strong and steady under his trembling fingertips.

It sure as fuck wasn't his own.

He huffed softly as he felt no burn against his broken and battered skin, shaking his head. Jacob might talk a good game now - which was a wonder in itself, really - but Sebastian knew better. There was no way Jacob wouldn't cave to Faulkner's questions, if pressed. His heart was in the right place, but the man was incapable of lying to the mayor.

“I had practice.”

There was a dullness to his answer,  a deadness to the certainty in those three quiet words that seemed to sap whatever energy he had left.

Yes, he would die here, one way or another. He was far past the point of fighting it, physically or otherwise, and whether Faulkner *meant* for it at all.

*He wants you alive.*

How laughable, that the last thing Sebastian would do, would be to fail him again.

It was just too bad he couldn't take Jacob with him. Maybe they'd have found some kind of heaven together, in whatever came after. Anything would be better than this.

Gods, but it was too exhausting to think. Too exhausting to sit up anymore,  without the pain of *touch* to spark his muscles into tension; he could barely resist the pull to sink down into the vile mattress again, to sink into oblivion, into nothingness and the ghost of Jacob's kindness.

**

“Yeah.”

The taste of the cigarette lingered, in a mouth that felt too dry, too treacherous and unreliable.

But treacherous to *whom*?

That was the real question here, wasn’t it?

Two weeks ago, his new world had still been perfectly intact. Broken and fractured as it was, held together by sheer stubbornness, glued in places and patched up by fear as much as a perverted new form of happiness. He’d made himself a home out of the ruins of his old life. A long time ago. A home built from despair and necessity, constructed in the painful process of losing his ego. His life. His soul. But it *had* been a home, unstable and crooked as himself. He’d found his place by Faulkner’s feet, sinking to his knees readily and greedily, to beg for scraps and praise and whatever treats the mayor would grant.

He’d made himself another home, too. Secretly. Without even realising it. Not an act of betrayal. No thought or intention behind it. And that was why he hadn’t noticed, fatally, surprisingly. Until now. Until he’d shown up with gifts and sorrow in this place that was reserved for pain, this graveyard, this torture chamber. He hadn’t noticed until it was too late. It was a home that had built itself, unnoticed and quietly. A home in which real smiles lived; not smug and condescending smirks. A home in which kindness lived, too; not the pretence of goodwill and generosity. Where food could say what words couldn’t.

A home at Sebastian’s side.

So *who* was he betraying here?

Two *days* ago, still, in Faulkner’s office, the refusal of treats and rewards had sounded like the end of the world. And all too eagerly, Jacob had thrown that first punch, if only to please the mayor. If only to be a *good boy*.

But already that first reward had felt differently. Tainted and spoilt in its core, no matter how excited a possessive part of Jacob had gotten. And the treats Faulkner handed out so generously now barely helped him sleep now.

Yes, he would falter under Faulkner’s gaze.

Yes, it was stupid, all of this. Pointless little gestures of empathy. Gifts that wouldn’t last.

And yet, there was no alternative to it.

“I’ll have to learn fast, then, won’t I?”

The tone of Bastian’s voice - so lifeless, so resigned, so defeated - reminded him of his own voice, months ago. In this very room. Men died here, but miraculously, breathtakingly, somehow Jacob had rediscovered his own voice here, too. And resolution. Refusal. *Purpose.*

“Doesn’t mean I’ll burn you with a cigarette.”

Not that *that* would make much of a difference, he thought. Not when he’d continue to carry out Faulkner’s orders in the morning again. Orders that would bring more pain. Every day now had been worse than the last, and Jacob didn’t want to think about the things he’d do tomorrow.

But Bastian was fading, slowly but surely; his body without tension, limp and wavering and terrifyingly weak.

“Listen.”

Trying to support the unstable body, Jacob shifted and moved off the bed, his large hands resting on either side of Bastian’s shoulders before letting them slide down his arms, keeping a steadying grip on each side of his body as he came down to kneel before Sebastian.

“Remember what else you said when I asked you to kill me?”

And somehow, this memory hurt even *more*.

“You said you’d *miss me*.”

Something he hadn’t quite believed when he’d heard it first. Something Jacob *felt* now.

“And I’d miss *you*. So I won’t let you die on me. I’ll get the meds. I’ll do what’s necessary. I’ll learn fast. You just hang on.”

**

It was futile, and they both knew it; Jacob’s question rhetorical and pointless.

There was no opportunity here to *learn fast*. Even Sebastian had started small, careful. Spread his rebellious disobedience out over time, cautious and experimental, slowly pushing his limits further and further. And he had not been broken the way Jacob had. He had started *young*. He had had *time*.

There was no time for caution, anymore. And Bastian knew full well how easily, how *quickly* Jacob would break. And it would destroy him, too. Faulkner would kill him in the worst possible way he could come up with.

“S’the least you could do, though.” He tried to smile and failed, the echoes of his own screams still ringing in his ears. “Wouldn’t even… feel it…”

Somehow Jacob managed to move and steady him just before he gave in, just before he sank back down into the filth that suddenly seemed like the most comfortable surface in the world, that one word - *listen* - spoken with such an urgency that it pulled him back into the present, into the moment, back into Jacob’s eyes again.

He could no longer be brave or strong in the face of those eyes, in the face of that *reminder* and those promises, so earnest and genuine and pure. As if Jacob truly believed in them. It broke his heart as once again the unhelpful thought flickered across his brain - *we could have been good together, we could have been happy* - and the tears slid hot and unwelcome down his cheeks. Jacob’s arms were the only thing holding him up now.

“Okay.” It was a lie he didn’t believe in, a promise he knew he couldn’t keep; but it was what Jacob wanted to hear, maybe even needed, and Sebastian wasn’t about to let him down if he could help it. “I’ll... I’ll hold on.”

**

It was a lie. All of it. And Jacob knew.

The promise sounded hollow and . And Bastian *would* feel it. If not now, then in the future; the scar a constant, daily reminder of how Jacob had failed him in this moment. When Faulkner wasn’t giving the orders. When Jacob had rediscovered *choice* and purpose and resistance and so many things he’d thought forgotten and buried. When Jacob had the power to change the outcome of things, for once, if only in this small, banal moment.

He understood now. Why Bastian had asked where Jacob had wanted to wait. Why he had slid the container of food over the canteen table. He understood, even though it was almost too late for that now.

A simple act of kindness was dangerous enough to cost both their lives.

“Good.”

It was another lie, but what else did they have? Lies piled upon lies to make this moment bearable. To make it through another day. To pretend, if only for a second, that there *was* a way out of this misery, and maybe soon.

And Jacob would do his damnedest to make this lie come true.

That there was still something inside him that could *feel* was surprising. The tears worse than the screams. The expression of defeat and weakness in a face without smile tearing at Jacob’s heart with immeasurable weight.

He missed the smiles. And he wondered if he’d ever see them again.

“*I’m sorry,*” Jacob whispered, swallowing dryly around a lump of guilt and regret, coming from the same place that could still *feel*. Somehow, Faulkner had forgotten to erase that. A flaw in his masterful creation. It was almost laughable. “For… what I’ve done.”

**

Another lie, equally soft, equally necessary. Spoken out of kindness and mercy.

But there was no way out, not for him, and Jacob seemed all too willing to jump into the fire to follow. Something that, once upon a time, Sebastian would have argued further, with every second of breath left in him, to discourage. But now… Now, it just seemed like a release. If the roles were reversed, Sebastian would do the same, because there would no longer be any *point* or purpose without him. It was, perhaps, the only escape. And maybe that was a mercy.

Ironic, too, that Faulkner would lose both his most valuable assets. A small comfort.

He leaned in to listen to the whisper, his brow furrowing deeply as the words registered. A confirmation, not only in Jacob’s very presence here but in those few whispered words, that Sebastian had been *right* - beneath the monster Faulkner worked so hard to create, beneath the drugs and violence and blood, there still breathed the man; so very human, still capable of attachment, of mercy and regret.

Never had Sebastian loved him more.

He shook his head, reaching out tentatively for what felt like the last time, gently touching the stubble of his jawline with the very tips of his fingers, focusing all his effort on speaking the words aloud, words that took all the energy left in him. But they were *important.*

“I’ll never blame you for what he’s done. Never. No matter what he makes you do.”

He closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to Jacob’s in a gentle but intentional kiss, letting the gesture say for him what words alone no longer could.

**

Once the fingers reached his jawline, Jacob held his breath.

Bastian’s touch had always been different. Had always been special.

It was barely there now. A ghost. An echo of something soon to be gone.

Maybe it was good, Jacob thought, that it was *him*. That Faulkner had chosen him to conduct Sebastian’s ongoing punishment. Because whether Bastian knew or not, Jacob had… held back. Just enough for it to go unnoticed. And yet, in the red hot heat of violence, in this state of mindless, endless rage that Faulkner had cultivated, where there was no ego, no love and no thought, this subtlest form of mercy had cost inhuman strength. To pull back the last part of himself that was still alive. The last remnants of the good man Jacob.

How he’d managed, he didn’t know. For how long he could keep trying, he didn’t know either.

But that Faulkner had chosen him – a logical choice, really – only meant that it would save Bastian from worse. From what other men of Faulkner’s could do. At least, with Jacob there, someone could watch over him. Because as bad as it was, as bad as *Jacob* was, who knew what someone else would do?

It was a small comfort. One that clearly didn’t help Bastian.

Jacob was still lost in thought when the impossible happened. When Sebastian’s lips touched his. Soft as a breeze. True and real. Shocking. Earth-shattering. And gentle.

In Faulkner’s world, nothing was soft.

Touch was meant to hurt. To manipulate. To control.

Words were sharp as razors, cutting deep, gutting hearts and souls until nothing remained but scorched earth. So Jacob had almost forgotten how to speak. Until Bastian had made him.

Nothing here was… gentle.

And after a year in this nightmarish place, Jacob had found himself hardened by Faulkner’s hand, changed by Faulkner’s words; distorted and deformed and fucked up beyond recognition. He’d found himself desensitised. To touch. To violence. To death and blood and sex.

Nothing here had meaning. Nothing was… sacred.

A life was worth nothing and violence was just another job. Boundaries didn’t exist. He’d been so desensitised to it all, by all those hands on him, touching him without the illusion privacy, without the illusion of dignity, without the illusion of consent, because consent was for people, not animals; touching him anywhere and everywhere that it had become meaningless. It was something that *happened*. Every day. Something trivial and expected, like combing his hair and getting dressed.

Sex was something that *happened*. Violence was something that *happened*.

Nothing special about it. Nothing intimate about it. Just something that… *was*. Something he had never questioned. Something he had passed on to countless, faceless boys, until his soul had disappeared.

Nothing was *ever* gentle here, but Bastian’s kiss… was.

Soft, but so forceful it knocked the remaining air right out of his lungs. A gentleness so powerful that it left Jacob speechless and frozen, staring at Bastian with a confusion that was raw and universal.

He couldn’t return it, couldn’t process it, couldn’t even fucking *move*.

Because this kiss… was impossible.

In a world of horror, it shone like a beacon. In a nightmare where touch was unholy and desecrated, where contact was meaningless and sex just a thing, it was the most beautiful thing Jacob could think of. A miracle. A blessing. Absolution for his sins.

In a world of meaninglessness and stupor, of indifference and brutality, it meant *everything*.

It wasn’t Jacob’s first kiss. Not by far. But he found himself incapable of remembering them. Found himself incapable of remembering *when* he’d last been kissed, of what came before this moment. It was the first one that *counted*.

The first one that meant the world.

**

It was immediately clear that Jacob would not return the kiss. And that was… alright.

Expected.

The confusion was written clear on his face, probably the most identifiable expression Sebastian had ever seen from him since he’d been brought here. Except, maybe, for those wide and beautiful smiles, from those forbidden nights he cherished so deep in his heart - but even those were born from Faulkner’s influence, from drugs and torment. This, at least, was pure.

Even if this, too, was painful.

But there was no blame here.

*I’m okay with dying.*

*I love you.*

*Remember me.*

All words that would remain trapped in his throat, caught beneath his heavy tongue as he pulled back, careful not to crowd him, not to push his luck, not to fall over and collapse.

He let his fingers trail along Jacob’s jaw as he let them fall, offering the smallest of smiles - the best he could manage now, but he hoped it was enough - and swallowed. No, he couldn’t stay upright anymore, and his pulse fluttered wildly erratic now.

“Don’t… don’t let him find you here.”

**

How odd it was, that decision-making had been almost easy – or, at least, remotely *possible* - when it had been to comfort Bastian. From stealing the fucking granola bar… to *this*. One decision after another, an avalanche of *choice*, impossible as the kiss.

It had been decision born from necessity. And something else. Something mighty and powerful in his chest that Jacob was too terrified to name.

Now, again, like so often, he was stuck.

Stuck and frozen and overwhelmed, caught in a whirlwind of confusion, incapable of acting.

Torn between the desire to *kiss back* and never let go again – and leaving the room in silence. Because this was dangerous. This was forbidden. And at least like this, if Faulkner ever found out, he could claim that *he* hadn’t done shit. Hadn’t initiated the kiss. Hadn’t answered it.

But God, beneath the confusion and turmoil, caught between selfish decisions he couldn’t possibly make, devastated and paralysed, he *wanted* to. A need so simple. A choice so clear. But a decision he couldn’t make. His body wouldn’t move.

Jacob had been forced into silence a long time ago. He hadn’t been talkative in a long time, and even the small, all too precious conversations he’d had with Bastian, had been taciturn and all but eloquent on Jacob’s side. That he had said so much today already was nothing short of a miracle.

But even if he had been more eloquent. Even if he had known the right words, big enough to express the overwhelming weight of emotion, strong enough to convey the impact of a simple kiss… they would have died on his tongue.

The silence was hard to shake. The shock was, too.

Faulkner wouldn’t approve of this, at all.

But it was too late for that now.

*All* of this was forbidden. All of this could bring his doom.

And when Bastian broke the kiss, Jacob could feel his heart *shatter*. Those dark ruins, haunted and empty. A collection of shards, just as sharp as Faulkner’s words, like a broken mirror that only showed *one* face. Faulkner’s, at first. But it was a different image now, and it was *Sebastian’s*.

His lips felt cold and tingly where Bastian’s had been. And without thinking, he reached up to touch the spot, his eyes burning and glossy. He couldn’t remember when he’d last cried.

Finally, Sebastian spoke.

But it wasn’t the words Jacob *wanted* to hear.

It was the truth, though. Brutal and devastating.

“… yeah. You’re… right.”

He almost choked on that, on tears and grief and sorrow; the answer nothing but a hoarse noise, rough and regretful.

Never had words felt this heavy. Never so fateful.

Not even Faulkner had managed that.

But heavier than his answer, hanging uselessly in the air between them, was the burden of the words unspoken.

**

He wouldn’t have imagined it like this.

And he *had* imagined it, though he knew now that he’d never admit it to another soul, never know the possibility of reciprocation. He had imagined all manner of unrealistic and fantastical things. Like Jacob kissing him back. Carefully whispered words held gently and protected, secret and safe. He’d never hear the words he so longed for. Never know what it was like for them to be *real.*

No, he had not imagined it like this.

So much left unsaid.

But this was better than nothing. Something to hold onto, in whatever hours he had left.

Even in the face of Jacob’s tears. Tears that he could almost believe might be for *them*.

Tears that made it harder and harder to breathe. Or maybe that was the weight of stones in his own chest, of a love unanswered beneath broken ribs, of the remnants of a heart that could no longer keep up with the burden of supporting his shattered body.

Without thought, without another word, he reached out again, this time for Jacob’s lips; to reach for the fingers that touched where he’d kissed as if the kiss itself were some kind of benediction.

He didn’t make it, the edges of his vision going dark as his body went limp.

**

Hope was a cruel emotion. Maybe the cruellest of them all.

The most stubborn. The most futile.

Almost indestructible, finding the tiniest cracks in his façade, in the bulwarks that protected whatever was left of him. This shell of a human being that held a hideous creature inside.

Jacob had clung to hope, in the beginning.

During those first days and nights in this very room, he had been praying for it to stop. Until *he* had stopped.

And even later, for a while, hope had creeped into his thoughts at times, presenting illogical and unrealistic images of escape and freedom and a happy, carefree life. Hope had taunted him, tempted him, *destroyed* him.

Hope had come in the form of Bastian’s smiles and a container of food. A different hope, this time. More humble. More realistic. Stunted and castrated like himself – but it was hope nevertheless.

In the past months, since Bastian had tormented him, hope had become a rare guest, and Jacob had welcomed that. No more dangerous thoughts. Dreams of *something else* that felt so real in his sleep; dreams that were destroyed over and over again in the light of day. Every morning a punch in the guts. Ever awakening a brutal shock when he *remembered*.

Because hope had the power to break him. Over and over and over again.

Hope was deceptive. Hope was cruel.

And he hadn’t missed it.

But here it was, shining and blinding, as if it had never been away, breaking his heart all over again in the split second he saw Sebastian reach out to him… and collapse onto him.

Jacob caught him, his reflexes sharpened by trauma and refined by Faulkner’s hand. And for a moment, he stayed like this, swallowing down the tears that threatened to choke him. Tears that would be hard to explain once he entered Faulkner’s office for his debrief. But for this silent moment, Jacob stayed. Feeling the weight of Sebastian’s body against his chest, in a safe embrace. A closeness he hadn’t known. A closeness that wouldn’t be allowed. A closeness he hadn’t dared imagine.

Now, though, he could. Just a feeling. Fleeting images of *could be*, blurry and fuzzy and so out of reach even his mind had trouble coming up with actual images.

But Sebastian was right.

He couldn’t let Faulkner catch him.

With aching heart and trembling hands, he guided Bastian’s body back on the mattress. Back on the filth and the dirt and the stains. Stains *he* had left there. Some of it was his own blood. His own sweat. His own tears. And maybe there was comfort in that, if only for a moment. That their blood would mingle there. And their tears. A place where they could touch. A safe space where they could be together. In the filth. In sin.

There was no blanket to cover Sebastian with. Nothing at all to bring comfort, and Jacob swallowed down a sigh. There would be no relief for Bastian until Faulkner would deem it so. But he could get the pills, at least. He could make Bastian survive.

He was careful to gather the garbage. The granola bar wrapper and the empty water bottle. The packaging of gauze and sterile wipes. The clear plastic bag. There could be no traces of his reckless adventure. It wouldn’t end well for neither of them.

And when there was nothing left to do anymore, when Jacob couldn’t stall, the brutal reality of this room settling in his mind once again, the weight of guilt on his shoulders, he stood. He *had* to readjust the light. Bright and unforgiving now. The kindness of twilight gone.

He *had* to turn on the noise again, too.

Because on thing was clear: Faulkner could never find out.

He’d be praised today. Jacob knew that already. Bastian was broken and the mayor was pleased, but he couldn’t look forward to the treats and rewards that Faulkner had in store for him. Little distractions that brought only temporary relief. Shallow and stale.

He would pretend to love them, if only to avoid suspicion.

If he could still pretend.

Swallowing again, he opened the door and looked back. And before he could close it behind him. Before the lock would fall into place, Jacob turned one more time to look at Bastian’s lifeless body. He didn’t look forward to tomorrow. He didn’t look forward to Faulkner’s new games.

“I’m sorry,” was the last thing he whispered before he left Bastian behind. In the filth. In the noise. In despair.

[empireofdogs]

pills || Jacob & Sebastian || corruption

"Still hurting?"

**

/ groaning as he shifts slightly, rubbing at his eyes

"Mhm. Can't sleep."

**

"Yeah. I can see that."

/ the days been long, the nights even longer, and it's not like *he* doesn't feel the exhaustion himself; his own bruises and injuries are all too noticeable already, but they're nothing compared to Bastian's broken body, but he doesn't want to think about *that*; and other than Bastian, *he* isn't too stubborn to do what helps

**

/ he's been properly bandaged and treated now, but he's in for a long road; the pills he's taking aren't cutting it, not enough to sleep, at any rate - he can at least manage, during the days - most of the time, but the lack of sleep is making him miserable

"Mm. Fuck off~"

**

/ the old reflex is still there, too incorporated, too internalised, to nod and bow and leave the room; it would be *so* easy, too, and so immeasurably hard; no, he hasn't fought for freedom with teeth and claws to cower and keep himself small, so he squares his aching shoulders and doesn't move

"Yeah. You'd like that I bet."

/ softer

"You know you're being stubborn, right?"

**

/ the old reflex is still there, too incorporated, too internalised, to nod and bow and leave the room; it would be *so* easy, too, and so immeasurably hard; no, he hasn't fought for freedom with teeth and claws to cower and keep himself small, so he squares his aching shoulders and doesn't move

"Yeah. You'd like that I bet."

/ softer

"You know you're being stubborn, right?"

**

/ there wasn't an ounce of command in those words, of course, just a weariness and almost *playfulness* that he's somehow found in this new level of existence with Jacob; but he's too far gone to notice the tension

“Mm. Tha's my middle name. Bastian Stubborn Bastard.”

**

/ he rolls his eyes, because now he *can*; he can do a lot of things now, without fear of reprimand and punishment; it’s the others that fear *him* now

“You’re a stupid fucking idiot.”

/ but he knew that before, didn’t he? Bastian’s stupidity the only reason they are even here, right now, bruised and beaten… but free of Faulkner’s rule

**

“Uh huh. And you *like* it, for some reason.”

/ he grins, in spite of the excruciating pain, because how could he not? Jacob is *his* now,  and he is Jacob's; and their lives are their own again

“You coming to bed?”

**

“I *tolerate* it.”

/ he’s shrugging out of his jacket, wincing himself at the badly calculated movement; he has to relearn routines here, too, for as long as he’s still healing; from the looks of it, that will be a lot faster than Jacob

“I could do that. Or I could get you something for the pain. So you could sleep for once.”

**

“But you don't have to… You just don't wanna get rid of me.”

/ the answer is soft, and a part of him still expects Jacob to change his mind, and yet somehow this feels right, two broken men learning to live again somehow

/ his eyes catch the wince this time, and he frowns at Jacob, his chest aching to see him in pain,  too

“If that's an A or B question,  I'm choosing you coming to bed.”

**

/ no, he doesn’t want to get rid of Bastian, the only constant in his life now, the only source of comfort in what is a painful, all too confusing transition; sometimes it’s all too much, overwhelming and paralysing; this is a world he doesn’t know anymore, with too many choices and too much freedom, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? somewhere along the way, he’d latched onto Bastian, against all reason, maybe, but now he can’t imagine going through these new pains without him; growing pains, for sure, but that doesn’t make it less terrifying

“I can do both.”

**

/ he hums softly, wincing hard as he turns to face Jacob; no, neither of them wants to face this alone, and they likely wouldn't manage if they tried; as it is, Bastian is having a hell of a hard enough time already,  and the non-opiates he's insisting on using don't seem to touch his pain at all

“I already took my pills.”

**

“Yeah. I can see how well those work.”

/ he huffs, starting to unbutton his shirt; he can feel the exhaustion in his *bones*, heavy and leaden; this isn’t just a physical phenomenon; his mind is tired, too; too much to process, too much to grow into, and no time to adjust, no time to rest, and certainly no time to think

“You wanna have some skittles to go with them?”

/ he frowns

“Are skittles still a thing?”

**

/ he lets his eyes linger on Jacob's chest as he undresses, a myriad of emotions filling him; he can't even remember how many days it's been now since all of this started, too blurred together by pain and trauma and pure exhaustion,  and he can only imagine how Jacob feels - he's still very much a man of few words

/ he huffs softly at the sarcasm, but June as Jacob questions it immediately after

“Don't see why they wouldn't be. Why, you want some? Could probably get ‘em delivered.”

**

/ sometimes it scares him, that the outside world still exists somewhere behind these walls, and he hasn’t dared to venture out, and wouldn’t have the time if he wanted to; but still, the thought is terrifying, like so many others

“I…”

/ *wanting* anything is still a strange concept after one year in hell, one year without choice or freedom or decision; he swallows that down, avoiding the question altogether; it’s better than yet another breakdown over tooth paste

“Just thought you might. Might even be more effective than your fucking Tylenol.”

**

/ he can't be sure, not in his current state, but he *thinks* he understands that pause, that hesitation, and he resolves to order some Skittles immediately when he gets up in the morning, to have them waiting for Jacob later in the day

/ but he understands what Jacob is getting at, too, and he closes his eyes, softening his voice again; the idea is terrifying to him - or, at least,  it had been,  once upon a time; he's not so sure if this even counts as *fear* anymore, after all Faulkner had done in those few days

“Don't wanna get addicted, Jacob. And I guarantee you I would.”

**

*So?*

/ he doesn’t say that, keeps the words inside just in time; a lot of things have lost their horror a long time ago, and he’s long since come to terms with the fact that, yes, he very much *was*; maybe not physically, Faulkner had made sure of that, too, but he can’t deny the constant *craving* for anything that alleviates the pain, that makes him forget; he’s craving *now*, too

“We have to be careful, then.”

/ and he will be, he *can* be, if that’s what Bastian needs him to be; he’s already secretly carrying a certain kind of medication with him, not his own, but Bastian doesn’t know that yet

**

“We…”

/ he hums the word, breathless and soft,  not quite a question, but he knows already that he'll have to watch out for Jacob, now that nothing could really *stop* him from consuming whatever the fuck he wanted, and it was already difficult,  so difficult, with everything that they faced ahead - and he wasn't sure he could manage that with an addiction of his own

/ but his body is practically screaming in pain by now, and it's only those many years of control that are keeping him from letting that out

“Just… just to sleep?”

**

/ this is different; the first crack in Bastian’s iron determination to live through this world of pain with nothing but coffee, stubbornness and Tylenol; the first sign he’s *caving*, or considering it; the first sign of fucking *reason*; for a second he stops undressing, his shirt already half off his shoulders, but his eyes rest on the man on the bed

“Just to sleep.”

/ and then, to make it through another day of excruciating pain and work, and another night; it’ll be a start

**

/ he licks his bruised lips, still so hesitant,  still barely believing that he's even *considering* this, but it's just medicine, isn't it? it's what the doctor had insisted on after treating him, and he knows logically he *should*, but there's too much to consider - his history, his parents, his heart - and it's too exhausting to even think about all of it now

“I… d'you really think it'll… help? Cause this… it's…”

**

“Excruciating? Yeah.”

/ he raises his brow, just for a moment; Bastian’s stubbornness *is* impressive, but entirely misplaced here

“Of course it’ll help. And I’ll keep an eye on you. Don’t worry.”

/ he shrugs out of his shirt, his movements still slow and cautious, before climbing onto the bed, straddling Bastian, careful to keep his full weight off his beaten and battered body; a body *he* has nearly destroyed

“I’m sorry. I… did this.”

**

/ he groans softly; he's tried hard not to complain, not to *say* what he's feeling; tried to get by with just the Tylenol, enough to rot his liver, as if to convince both himself and Jacob that this was *not that bad*; but Jacob isn't stupid either

/ he watches as the other man moves, careful and somehow having enough control of his own bruised body to keep from pressing down on him; he can't help but smile softly and reach up to touch his face, pressing a thumb to his lips

“No you didn't. He did.”

**

“Hm.”

/ that, too, is only half the truth, and Jacob knows that all too well, but now is not the time for self-hatred and guilt; he can do that later, and wash it down with whiskey and some pills himself, if he really wants to, or fuck it out of his system after shooting himself to the moon; now is not the time for his own struggles; he needs to bring Bastian to reason first

“You’re avoiding the subject again.”

/ leaning down, he presses a kiss against Bastian’s lips, chaste for now, and it’s still a fucking *miracle* he can do this; this is hardly a decision, this is *instinct*, and for too long, Jacob has been reduced to his instincts; so this… is almost easy

“I’ll keep an eye on you. We’ll be careful. And you’ll be able to sleep. Just imagine that. You *earned* this. You *deserve* this. You can stop fighting now. It’s okay.”

/ isn’t that something Faulkner has said? Almost word for word? A long time ago? In a different life? - he frowns at himself, if only for a moment, his skin crawling at the memory, but he swallows it down; it doesn’t change the fact that it’s *true*; it doesn’t change the fact that Bastian deserves rest, and peace, and a night without pain **

/ the kiss is almost enough to make him forget,  just for a moment,  that anything else had ever existed; he doesn't feel the pain, doesn't remember Faulkner or the room or that cell in Thailand, or Elias and his hounds and what it felt like to be *utterly broken*; no, for a moment, he feels like it Jacob could just bottle *this* up somehow,  he could survive on nothing else; he wouldn't mind *that* addiction

/ the promises are so soft and gentle,  so *easy* to listen and to believe in; eerily familiar in a way that somehow makes his stomach twist, but in the ghost of Jacob's kiss he can't place *why* - only that those words from Jacob's lips - *you can stop fighting now* - suddenly feel like everything he has ever needed to hear, cracking open what's left of his shattered ribcage and exposing every vulnerable beat of his heart

/ he's trembling, his tongue heavy in his mouth, nodding shakily up at him in a wordless response, once again handing over his trust to Jacob’s hands

**

/ for a moment, he thinks he just imagines it, the nod, the surrender; a surrender to *reason*, really, and that’s why Jacob doesn’t feel guilt over convincing him, doesn’t feel guilt over trying to talk him into what’s goddamn fucking necessary, *especially* if they want to make it through the next few days, if they want to persevere in this vacuum Faulkner’s death has created in the shadows; they’re new, they’re vulnerable, and they can’t allow to show an ounce of weakness, mercy or lenience

“Yeah?”

/ the word is a whisper, eyes searching for consent in Bastian’s gaze, for an affirmation that he hasn’t dreamt this

**

/ it feels like a tipping point,  something so much more than a simple yes; this is submission on an entirely different level for him - for *them* - and yet he's never felt more safe than with Jacob above him like this, straddling but hovering *over* him, close enough to crush his broken body but *not doing so*; and he can still feel that gentle kiss and the warmth of words that shouldn't feel so good but *do*

/ shakily he nods again, somehow loosening his tongue for that one necessary word

“Yeah…”

/ *I trust you.*

**

“’kay. Good.”

/ another kiss, soft and chaste – and he wonders where that even comes from; almost confused that something inside him can still be *soft* after all this time, but somehow, with Bastian, it feels like he’s never been different, never been broken, and even after days of almost brutal lust, this feels strangely *right*

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it feel good. You’ll feel better. Promise.”

/ he’s off the bed and off Sebastian’s lap in an instant, rummaging around in the drawer of the bedside table - *Faulkner’s* bedside table, and somehow, that thought feels so goddamn thrilling and satisfying every time it crosses his mind; there’s a good arsenal of medication in there, both given by the doctor… and not; but he finds what he’s looking for quickly, he’s made use of it himself during the past days, retrieving the medication before unbuckling his belt, the pill bottle still in his hands

**

/ he lets out something like a whine at the second kiss, so welcome and broken so soon; he struggles to follow Jacob's words as he’s suddenly *gone* again, out of bed so quickly - but what did he mean? How could he make it feel *good*?

/ it's got to be the exhaustion that's leaving him so confused, but he wants Jacob back in bed, wants his arms around him, wants *sleep*, even if it means waking up to Jacob's cock again in the morning - that's not so bad, either, even though it's rough - so he just watches quietly, reaching out to trail the ends of his fingers along Jacob's hips

**

/ the belt is gone quickly, and so are his pants, pushed down in a rough movement that doesn’t agree with his cracked rib, but that’s something to worry about later; besides, *he* doesn’t refuse medication; the pill bottle rattles softly in his hands as he climbs back onto the bed, folding back the blanket over Bastian’s naked body

/ it’s a sight he hasn’t gotten used to, not quite, not entirely, not after all the time’s Jacob has fucked him now, so desperate and hard, and the thought alone makes his cock swell up ever so slightly; he’s been ravenous, those past few days; ravenous and restless and never, ever truly satisfied; it’s a distraction, a part of him knows, a distraction to keep him from dealing with what would be *even more overwhelming*, but now’s not the time for that, either

“You’ll feel better soon. You’ve done so well.”

/ the words are surprisingly soft and gentle, but carry the need to care for the broken man in a bed that isn’t even theirs; and sometimes, at night, Jacob finds himself waking up to the scent of Faulkner’s cologne; but there’s another smell here, more comforting, more calming, and it’s the scent of *them*, heavy and *right*, and it’s easy to settle between Bastian’s legs; without questioning, without asking, simply because and he’s made Bastian *his*, because this is *right*

**

/ it's no surprise to see Jacob undressing, and while Sebastian's gaze is admiring, there's little *thought* behind it in this moment, just feeling; there's no fear here, just warmth and safety and yes, that deep and desperate coil of *want* that he can never really seem to shake; it doesn't matter how rough Jacob gets, how hard he goes, because it's never been *meant* to hurt, and Sebastian can tell the difference, so even with a broken body he's not *afraid* of what Jacob will take,  and he gives willingly

/ those gentle words feel like praise, and they make him smile again - he does remember those forbidden nights, so long ago now, when Jacob had insisted he keep his smile - warm and genuine as he reaches for Jacob, shifting to give him space between his knees as his fingers trace his jaw, always desperate to touch

“You're so good…”

**

/ his lips mirror the smile without Jacob even noticing; a sad smile, a little crooked and broken, but so incredibly rare he can’t even remember when he’s last smiled – at least when he hadn’t been drugged

/ the praise goes straight to his cock, as it always does; the mechanism too predictable, too deep-seated, too carefully crafted to expect anything else; this is one of Faulkner’s many gifts he has never asked for, but one he won’t complain about, not now, not with Bastian naked and ready and willing beneath him; and yet, Sebastian’s praise feels *different* and always has, addictive and warm and not at all toxic

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you. I’ll take care of you. ”

/ with the last fraction of self-control he has left, unstable and ever wavering as himself, he doesn’t fuck right into him; instead he opens the bottle and takes one out, putting it on his tongue for Sebastian to see

/ the taste is bitter and disgusting, really, but he’s been desensitised to most things a long time ago; to taste, to smell, to pain, to emotions; he’s tasted worse, and that, too, doesn’t feel too bad right now as he leans down again, slowly, prying Sebastian’s lips open with his tongue, delving in for a deep, slow kiss, wet and perfect and still feeling *so forbidden*, letting the pill slide into Bastian’s mouth with a moan

**

/ Jacob's smile is so rare and perfect and precious that it's impossible *not* to notice it,  impossible not to stare in awe as he's filled with affection and that deep, inexplicable joy he's come to associate with Jacob and Jacob alone

/ his breath catches as he watches Jacob put the pill on his own tongue, moaning as he realizes what he's doing and sinks *hard* into the kiss, his entire body relaxing as he obediently swallows the bitter pill, shivering deeply as the slow kiss continues; it feels like a reward, one he's never really known, but *gods* he wants it, *needs* it as he moans again, his cock responding so quickly it leaves him light headed, resting heavy and hard on his stomach as his hands slide over Jacob's skin

**

/ the moan is just *perfect*; gift and reward and more intoxicating than Faulkner’s scraps and treats and foul pleasures; even better is the way Bastian *melts* beneath him, his surrender beautiful and just as addictive as his praise

/ his cock twitches hard as he feels Sebastian *swallow*, accepting Jacob’s gift in return, and by all means, that shouldn’t get him worked up this fast and hard; he breaks the kiss with another moan, looking down at Bastian with satisfaction and greed

“There you go. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

/ before he drops the pill bottle onto the bed, Jacob takes one for himself, swallowing it unceremoniously and quickly, before focusing his attention back on Sebastian

/ his cock is leaking already, and he grinds down against Bastian’s with purpose, before letting his hand slide down Bastian’s body, firm and demanding, but so much slower than what Jacob knows; *for once* there’s no haste here, no mindless hurry, and he’s determined to fuck Sebastian to sleep

**

/ a part of him knows,  a part of him *remembers*, even in this state of pain and exhaustion and overwhelming adoration, that those are Faulkner's cold words coming out of Jacob's mouth; but it doesn’t matter - it hasn't yet, and it doesn't now, and maybe it never will,  because this is *Jacob* and there's a softness behind the words that Sebastian has never heard from any other lips

/ still, old habits die hard, and he knows to respond, shaking his head with another soft and breathless moan

“...no…”

/ his body responds too, in spite of the bruises and broken bones, arching up greedily into the touch, rocking his hips to meet Jacob; this too, is instinct over choice, but he hasn't reacted to *anyone* like this in well over a decade - not until Jacob had finally touched him, finally *fucked* him, however many days ago he'd killed Faulkner

/ it hits him suddenly that this,  too, is *new* - this touch, slow and gentle and controlled, is still only just a touch, and he wonders what that means; he shivers again, arching up to kiss him hungrily, murmuring against his lips

“Yours…”

**

“Yeah. You’re goddamn right you are.”

/ his hand finally reaches Bastian’s hipbone, sliding deeper still, between his legs, for now ignoring the hungry cock; instead it slips deeper, until he finds his entrance and pushes two fingers inside, only to find Bastian still so *full* of himself, a beautiful mess marked thoroughly inside out, and Jacob moans in response, lewd and unrestrained, feral and somehow still *surprised*

“*Fuck.* You’re still slick.”

/ of course Bastian is, because when *isn’t he* these days? but Jacob can’t hide the mix of pride and pleasure, of possessiveness mingling with sheer satisfaction that show in his voice, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to hide it, either

/ he doesn’t need more, withdrawing his fingers immediately and angling with shuddering breaths, the movements all too fluid, all too practiced and all too confident, before positioning the fat head of his cock against Bastian’s hole; he slides in *easily*, so easily it makes him dizzy and lightheaded, but finally, the buzzing of his nerves calms, the restless search for the next distraction, the next stimulus, the next relief; but nothing, ever, feels like *this*

**

/ Bastian laughs softly in spite of everything, arching up into the touch, feeling Jacob’s fingers slip inside; it doesn’t feel like an invasion, not with Jacob, no matter how many times it happens, no matter how much it might have hurt - though there’s something to say for the fact that it doesn’t hurt *now*

“You keep fucking me like this, I always will be.”

/ it’s impossible not to see how much Jacob *likes* that; and Bastian isn’t sure whether its about him or the idea of being in control for once, of being the one on top, of *owning* him; it doesn’t matter in the end, because they’re alive, they’re together, and Jacob smiles at him like he hung the moon in the sky

/ the gasp is cut off in his throat as Jacob slides right in, easy and slick, just the way Jacob likes it; and Sebastian’s fingers cling to him, ignoring the sharp pain from the broken bones as he braces himself

**

“Yeah.”

/ a shudder runs through his whole body, the image too delicious, too tantalising to not cling to it; and it costs inhuman strength to not fuck into the bruised, battered body; for once, this is for Sebastian, and Jacob, against all instincts, artificial as they might be, intends to make this *slow*

“Fuck… did I make you leak?”

/ he can feel his cock twitch hard in excitement, even as he starts to move, slow and deliberate, every thrust beautiful torture

“Did you leak when you fucked up Hamilton? You *did*, didn’t you? I bet you did. I *love* it.”

/ once again he grins; it’s unpracticed and it shows; he’s only now relearning the little things; smiles and words, touches and kisses… and this; maybe if he conquers the small things, he’ll be able to tackle the difficult ones, too; like choice and decision and freedom, and maybe one day, a bar of soap will not cause a breakdown; not today, though, but he can cling to *instinct* now; it's almost as good as choice

“Gonna make you leak every day. Forever.”

**

/ the question takes him off guard, makes him *flush* and squirm as he wonders suddenly why Jacob isn’t shoving him harder into the bed; it makes him self conscious beyond words

“I …”

/ he thinks back, gasping softly as he feels Jacob’s cock twitch inside him, so fucking thick, so solid, so *perfect* it’s distracting; but he recalls the day, difficult as it is to focus, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer, just in case this is some new test Jacob’s come up with

“Yeah. Felt - felt you when I knocked his teeth out. And after.”

/ he gasps again, shivering hard as Jacob pushes in deeper, and he can feel it *everywhere*, inside and out, so he focuses on the lopsided grin and catches his breath as best he can, biting his own lip as he grins, too

“Think you got enough stamina for that, big guy?”

**

/ the growl is low and feral, raw and dangerous; it’s easy to get lost, now that Faulkner isn’t around anymore, now that he got what he fucking deserved; but he’s a bloodhound without a leash, and that in itself is dangerous, and strangely enough, a part of him knows

“Fuck yeah. Try me.“

/ he doesn’t even notice the flush, not now, now heated as he is; all of his focus on the slow thrusts and Bastian’s expression, but he shudders again at the pet name; familiar as it is, it’s always filled him with pride, and he leans down to nuzzle into the crook of Bastian’s neck licking at one of the many bite marks he’s left there in the past days

/ yes, he loves to mark Sebastian inside out; there’s a dangerous possessiveness growing inside him that terrifies him; for so long, he’s been a prisoner, nothing but a dog, and he hadn’t owned *anything*, not the clothes on his body and not the goddamn stupid lighter he’d been given later on; none of this has been *his*, but *now*, now he has the chance to *own* again, and the most precious of possessions, too

„You’ll sleep like a fucking baby tonight. I promise”

**

/ holy fuck, but that growl made his cock jump, thick and heavy and already leaking onto his still-bruised abdomen, and it does it *again* when Jacob nuzzles into his neck, making him shiver and moan softly

/ he’s never cared for his scars, seeing them only as ugly reminders that he’s covered up with artwork he can bear to look at, but he’s found in these last few days that he doesn’t mind the biting, doesn’t mind Jacob leaving his marks on him - it’s like being owned, being *important* - and he’ll wear those marks proudly if that’s what Jacob wants from him

/ the promise takes him off guard, more so than the unusually slow, almost careful thrusts; his fingers curl into Jacob’s skin again, sliding up the back of his neck affectionately

“S’that why you’re bein’ so sweet? Trying to put me to sleep?”

**

/ *sweet*; he can’t remember when he’s been called *sweet* of all things, not before Faulkner, and *definitely* after, not after all the things he’s done; the word takes him by surprise, and for a moment he frowns, confused and baffled; there are many words he can think of to describe himself, but *sweet* is definitely not one of them “’m not sweet.”

/ it’s a growl, a huff, a grunt, murmured against the crook of Bastian’s neck as he kept licking the marks, nipping lightly at the skin; no, his *sweet* days are likely over; before they had even begun

"So? You haven’t slept in a while.”

/ it’s true, and Bastian knows it, not just the few nights since Faulkner’s death, spent in agony and pain, but the nights *before*, too, when the mayor has done his worst to deprive Bastian of sleep; this will take its toll, and apart from the last remnants empathy, just enough left for Bastian and Bastian alone, this is *dangerous*, this very well might become a problem bigger than both of them

**

/ it’s obvious that shocks Jacob, confuses him, but *it’s true* and blatantly obvious, at least to Sebastian - probably the only human being on earth who has ever seen it, but that doesn’t make it any less real, and Bastian can’t help but smile, sliding his fingers through Jacob’s hair - the hair that’s finally, finally growing out again

“Yeah you are.”

/ he would say more; he *wants* to, but Jacob is taking his breath away with these slow and deep thrusts, with the little licks and bites to the most sensitive part of his throat, and he just moans again, arching his neck to give him more space

/ the reminder hits him hard, a punch to the gut even in the midst of all this gentleness; because yes, it’s true, to a dangerous level; but there seem to be so many obstacles to sleep now - trauma, pain, nightmares and sheer *overexhaustion* that makes him see and hear things that aren’t there, the echo of that noise machine still present in his head

/ he goes quiet for a long moment, exhaling slowly as he tries to breathe away the ache; his voice softer now as he finds it again, nuzzling right back into Jacob’s skin

“See? Sweet.”

**

“Have you seen me?”

/ the question is heavier than it should be, not at all a joke or tease, but he tries to cover for it

“But this is better now, isn’t it? You’ll feel a lot better in a bit. Give it some time.”

/ his movements are slow, but intense; this isn’t necessarily gentle, it’s *laboured* if only for the goddamn effort to keep from properly *fucking* Bastian into the mattress, without reason or hesitation; every thrust is deliberate and heavy, every thrust accompanied by a moan

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take good care of you. I’ll make sure you’ll be fine. You don’t have to fight it. You can just relax. I’ll make sure you’ll be fine. You don’t have to be afraid. It’s what the doctor said, isn’t it? There’s no reason to be in pain.”

/ and they have been, for so long, *both* of them

/ he’s repeating himself, over and over and over again, but it doesn’t matter; it calms him as much as it’s supposed to calm Bastian, and it almost feels like accomplishment to have Sebastian convinced, almost like a victory, to have made him cave, to have made him surrender to goddamn fucking reason

**

“Course I see you.”

/ and he does; and there’s so much more he could say; like the fact that he saw Jacob when no one else did, when *Jacob* could no longer see himself, that man that had brought him five precious items in a stolen hour, that had risked everything for just those few moments of kindness, and that same man was still with him now, even if his hands were still covered in blood; but Jacob was too quick to cover for the moment and carry on talking, and Bastian’s brain was having a hard time keeping up

/ *Better* is subjective, and he’s always known that; he’s still in pain, both from broken bones and a broken mind, and every thrust shoves him down again onto the wounded skin of his back; but the slowness allows him to breathe, at least a little bit, and he can *feel* more of Jacob himself, and it almost feels like his dreams; almost feels like affection

/ so he nods and murmurs wordless affirmations softly into Jacob’s neck; closing his eyes against the quiet mantra of Jacob’s words mixed with Faulkner’s, trying to will his body to obey, to do as he’s told and *relax*

**

/ he doesn’t understand the strange tension in Bastian’s body, it must be the pain still; of course the medication will take some time to kick in, *he* doesn’t feel it either, not at all

“I don’t want you to hurt.”

/ especially not if *he’s* the reason Bastian is in so much pain; and he’s trying hard to keep his weight off the wounded body, even as his moans grow urgent, even as his muscles burn

/ *want* is a strange thing; something like choice, an expression of ego; and damn, is it hard to outgrow Faulkner’s many rules; but somehow, it’s easy when Bastian is involved, from the day he’d paid him that fateful visit that had set off an avalanche; it’s easy to *want* things for Bastian, to want things from Bastian, and again, it’s more instinct than choice, but that’s alright, too

/ his whole body is shuddering with each push inside; keeping it slow requires inhuman strength and control, control he didn’t even know he still had, but this is for Bastian’s benefit; this is a *reward*, and so he clings to the remnants of his self-control, keeping it gentle, keeping it deliberate, keeping it slow

**

/ he shivers again and moans low at that; *I don’t want you to hurt* sounding so much like something else, so much like what he feels, and he curls closer, drawing his legs up as if he can coax Jacob in deeper

“I… don’t either…”

/ it doesn’t take much more; it rarely does, even with how difficult this has always been, it’s only been easy with Jacob, in these dozens of times in the past few days - has it been so many already? - but it hits him hard and fast as a storm, taking his breath away as every thrust drags his cock between their bodies

/ he knows better than to fight this, too, knows how much Jacob *likes* it, even, so he doesn’t hold it back, feeling his body tense up even tighter before he lets go, coming hard with another low groan as his fingers claw into Jacob’s broad shoulders

**

/ it takes him by surprise, how quickly Sebastian comes undone, how *simple* it is to make him come, and he would have never thought; here, in Faulkner’s bed, with Jacob’s dick inside him, though, it is so beautifully easy, as if Jacob’s cock is enough, as if it’s all he needs

“Fuck… *That’s it…* Keep going.”

/ he can feel the hard twitches between their bodies, intense and urgent and perfectly desperate; he can feel Sebastian’s cock pumping, spilling its load in heavy squirts; it’s as beautiful as it is filthy, and Jacob resists the urge to delve deeper to lick it all up, to interrupt the closeness of this moment; so long he’d been starved for touch, depraved of contact, that Jacob now couldn’t *stop*, greedy and insatiable and always hungry for more

/ it’s hard to keep the pace slow, to shiver through each movement, too intense and not enough at the same time, Bastian’s hot body surrounding him, clinging to him, *driving him insane little by little with every move*; so instead he goes for another kiss, deep and wet and just as hungry, chasing the aftertaste of bitter pills and sweetest words with his tongue

**

/ *keep going* he says, as if Bastian’s doing anything but lying there, holding on and letting go; as if he’s even capable of doing much more in this state; its a strange feeling, almost like guilt, realizing that he *wants* to do more, *wants* to show Jacob *just what he can do*, but it’ll be some time before his body can truly handle that

/ but he does what he’s told, content to obey, desperate to please, and he holds on, nuzzling close and letting Jacob hear his moans, drinking in the skin contact and this strange, intense slowness that only serves to remind him of everything he has never had, never held onto, and the one thing that he cannot possibly bear to lose now

/ the kiss just tops it off, drawing out the pleasure even after the shockwaves fade, and he’s desperate to return it, desperate to pour everything he can into that kiss - as he does with every kiss, every time since that very first one, these kisses that mean so much more than sex or any words ever could - even as every movement begins to shift to slow motion

**

/ how strange, how pliant Bastian is under his touch, under the mass of his body, melting away with every thrust, with every *order*; how strange to think, how only *days* ago – is it even a week? – Jacob has been the one to obey, happily and eagerly, as always, giving always the right answers, thriving under Faulkner’s rule and Bastian’s touch, living off of praise and treats and a condescending pat on the head

/ it’s all so recent and all so fresh, and it’s hard to adapt, hard to grow into something new – what, Jacob can’t tell, maybe even more horrid than the creature Faulkner has made of him – and sometimes it’s confusing, how their roles are almost reversed now, but how that can be, Jacob doesn’t understand

/ but buried deep inside Bastian, the air heavy with the smell of come and Sebastian’s moans, intoxicating and dizzying, he doesn’t need to understand – when have dogs been required to *understand*? – he can just act on instinct, and instinct alone, to fuck, to kill, to eat and sleep, to mark what’s his, and isn’t Bastian exactly that now?

/ the bitterness lingers on Sebastian’s tongue, a little heavy in itself, but not unwelcome, a reminder of the *power* he holds and the satisfaction to have brought this stupid man to something like reason, but he can feel his own thoughts circle around nothing, floating up into the air as he keeps fucking, just slightly faster now, slightly more desperate, every movement taking him *there*, but painfully slowly, scratching at his nerves with every push inside; almost there, *almost*, as he growls into Sebastian’s mouth before tensing up himself, the heat in his stomach, so tormenting, so familiar, so urgent, burning him up from inside as he tips over with a tortured moan, pumping and twitching hard as he spills into the warm body, marking Bastian all over again, filling him up to the brim

**

/ the pill must finally be kicking in; it’s a slow awareness at first, an almost gentle easiness in his bones, a subtle relaxation in the back of his mind, slowing things down until suddenly it *hits*, hard and noticeable as Jacob’s movements feel almost *distant*, as if they’re fucking in water, as if waves wash over them both, both comforting and terrifying, and Sebastian isn’t sure if the sudden threat of nausea is from the pill, pain, exhaustion or *fear*

/ he moans and clings a little tighter to the only thing that feels safe, the most dangerous thing he knows; it shouldn’t make any sense and yet it does, this strange dance they’ve fallen into of control and submission, of choice and decision, obsession and possession and *belonging*

/ he’s still hard as if he hadn’t come at all, still flying through cloud nine with Jacob buried deep, completing him, making him whole; he doesn’t care about the mess on his chest, only the mess Jacob leaves inside him, and he gasps when he finally feels Jacob’s tension, feels him pump and pulse and relax, shuddering once again at the growl that sinks straight to his heart and right back again to his cock

/ he hums and shifts, hooking his legs around Jacob to pull him closer, hold him there, deep and hot and perfect

**

/ he’d crawl deeper, if he could; would push deeper and farther inside, because despite their bodies touching solidly, it’s somehow *never enough*; something so forbidden for so long, something Jacob hasn’t thought he’d experience ever again; he’s still starved, still depraved of touch and contact and *skin* that he fears he’s doomed to repeat this, over and over again, if only to find it *real*, if only to make sure this isn’t a dream; he fears he’s doomed to be caught this loop of craving and touching and not-quite-satisfaction, because maybe it will never be enough; but maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, either, maybe staying like this would be eternal bliss, maybe he wouldn’t need anything else then, when his restless nerves would begin to buzz again; but not now, not when the world around him is slowly shifting, like it is askew; like his senses are all fucked up, but he can’t bring himself to care

/ with a groan, he breaks the kiss, shallowly fucking into the perfect mess, fucking away the last lazy twitches; yes, the idea of keeping Sebastian that way is exhilarating, even as his head is swimming and his body feels *light*; thoroughly marked and thoroughly slick and *entirely* his; yes, he would melt into Sebastian’s body if only he *could*, because maybe then, he’d be at peace, finally *at peace*

“See? Wasn’t so bad. How’re you feeling?”

**

/ he moans again, a soft whine as Jacob breaks the kiss, and for a second he tries to chase after it, tries to hold on before he realizes Jacob is *still there*, still moving, still holding him, inside and outside, sharing his breaths, as he should be, and Sebastian can breathe without feeling like he’s drowning

/ but there it is again, Faulkner’s voice from Jacob’s lips, *see? Wasn’t so bad*, and his stomach lurches in fear; there’s a question there, some other question, something important and kind, but he doesn’t quite hear it

/ he wants to warn him, to tell Jacob there’s a snake in his mouth, wants to tear it out before it strikes and poisons them both with its venom, but his own tongue is heavy and useless behind his teeth - so he uses those instead, turning his head to bite at his jaw and then his lip, clinging close as if holding him would be enough to protect them both

**

“The fuck?”

/ the bites are confusing, surprising, and seem entirely out of place; they don’t replace an answer and *yet* they’re language he knows, instinctive and feral and violent; still, they don’t seem to belong here, in something that was supposed to be non-violent and slow, something for Bastian’s benefit, something calming and caring… but maybe there *wasn’t* enough human left in Jacob after all; maybe that was something he couldn’t do anymore, and all attempts of care would inevitably end in something painful

/ but he can do that, it’s what he knows, so he growls deep in his throat, licking his lip where Bastian had bitten them before leaning down again to return the bite, moaning softly, pushing deep into the fucked out, perfect hole, his body still shuddering from sensitivity and need, even as his limbs grow heavy and sensation becomes fuzzy and unreal

**

/ despite the instinct, despite the fact that *he* had just done it, Sebastian whines and shivers as if it were a punishment when Jacob bites back, harsh and sharp and *alien* in the moment, yet it’s almost grounding, pulling him right back out of his head, out of his fear

/ he arches his hips up, inviting, parting his lips to pull Jacob right back into another kiss, and *that’s* heaven again as he lets out a long, breathy moan into Jacob’s mouth, even as he fights to keep his eyes open, his fingers sliding through dampened hair

“Don’ leave me...”

**

/ he swallows the moans, greedy and insatiable, and in the past days, Jacob has wondered if he’s *ever* heard anything more beautiful, more tantalising and more addictive than anything else he’d known; more than the smiles, even, more than the blow, more than the praise and the bloodlust and alcohol

/ *Don’ leave me...* - the words have an urgency that’s unfamiliar, something that tears at Jacob’s heart, something needy and fragile; something he *knows*, although never this quiet, never this humble; Jacob’s needs show in loud and brazen ways, vibrant and desperate and brutal

"What makes you think I’d allow that? What makes you think I’ll let you go again? You’re *mine* now.”

/ for once, something was *his*, and wasn’t Bastian the most desirable possession he could imagine? To prove his point, Jacob shifts, sitting up carefully without sliding out; he gives Bastian’s cock a few deliberate strokes, firm and slow and *possessive*, gathering the come on it with his hand before lifting it to his mouth to clean it; his cock twitches lazily inside Sebastian, almost as sluggish as his own mind, his limbs heavy and pleasantly warm, his mind – finally, miraculously – slowing

**

/ Jacob’s voice is beyond comforting, even with those strange echoes behind it; rich and warm and dark, half growled against his lips; unbelievably precious - and utterly perfect to him

*What makes you think I’ll let you go again?*

/ it was one thing to smile with inexplicable pride at the idea of Jacob having the capacity to choose to *allow* anything; it was another to feel that second question in his heart, tugging at him painfully hard

/ yes, for once in his life he felt he *belonged*, here in Jacob’s brutal arms and at his side, the pair of them a category five hurricane bent on destruction and restoration as *they* saw fit; yes, he belonged here, for and to Jacob alone

“But you’re mine, too.”

/ he hums softly, letting his eyes settle closed as Jacob moves above and inside him, his own cock still hard and twitching in Jacob’s hand

**

/ those words scratch at him, lightly, but vehemently; he doesn’t like it, not when he’s just broken free of his shackles, not when he’s torn off the leash, not when he has *just* killed Faulkner; but all of that is just an illusion, isn’t it? the shackles are very much still there, and he can feel them, can feel the invisible leash still chocking him every day; he can feel them every time Sebastian asks a trivial question – oatmeal or eggs, blue shirt or black, 2pm or 4pm – and it’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, it’s absolutely driving him insane… but he can’t answer; choice is still impossible, and the world confusing and too vast, and whenever he looks at Sebastian for *help*, desperate and frozen, absolutely helpless without guidance, without order, without *a leash*, comforting and safe, he *feels* them

/ so of course, Bastian is right, but it still feels like a collar around his neck, like a hand choking him, but in this moment he realises: it’s alright, if that hand is *Bastian’s*, if *he* is holding the leash; he can trust here, because he already does, because he’s already searching for *his* eyes when the world gets overwhelming and he freezes

“Mhm.”

/ he growls, scooping the rest of the mess up with his thumb, licking it clean before bending down to do the same with Bastian’s chest, cleaning up the mess bit by bit… until morning comes

“Feeling better?”

**

/ with his eyes closed, he doesn’t see if there’s any recoil at his words, the first time he’s dared to say them, and perhaps it’s better this way; not to know, not to see, especially now when he can feel the effects of that pill, his blood pulsing through him like waves on a shore, loud and unruly in his ears, but *steady* again thanks to Jacob

/ he hums again, sinking into the pillows and obscenely comfortable mattress beneath him; this bed that no longer smells like Faulkner unless he’s in it alone; now it just smells like *them*, and he doesn’t mind that so much

“Mm. Feel… heavy.”

**

“Hm.”

/ when he’s satisfied with his work, Bastian’s chest glistening wet, but reasonably clean, he slowly pulls out, spent and something like sated; it won’t last long, it never does, but for *now* he can feel his heart rate slow, his body pleasantly warm and, yes, heavy, too; his fingers reach down, between them, to the sacred place where his cock had been, as if to make sure he was still marked, as if to admire his work, spreading the slick around Bastian’s hole with a pleased hum

“Heavy’s good. You should’ve listened to me sooner.”

/ isn’t that absolutely hilarious? words that flow from his tongue as if it doesn’t remember the past year, as if he were still *himself*, not this stunted and deformed creature of blood and death, speaking with fangs and not words, with no free will of his own but the instinct to survive, the instinct to *claim*

**

“Mmm.”

/ he’s not even sure if that’s an affirmation or not, because he sure as hell isn’t certain that he likes this - this heavy, murky, immobilized feeling; but it’s keeping him still, at least, and still means less pain, so he feels like he might even be able to sleep like this, maybe even sooner than he’d like - though, at the rate things have been going, the sooner the better

“You jus’ want me to pass out so I’ll shut up…”

**

/ no, that’s *definitely* not the reason; as much as Jacob has been forced into silence, as much as he’s gotten used to it, maybe, sometimes even made himself comfortable in the quiet of his cell, in the silence between them, Jacob had found more comfort in Bastian’s voice; nothing could be farther from the truth than Sebastian’s remark; but the man *is* incurably stupid, and Jacob has learnt that a long time ago

“I want you to heal so I can fuck you without holding back.”

/ oh, he hasn’t, and if there were still some spark of remorse left in him, he might even regret it; but his impulses are too strong, and Bastian’s moans too sweet, and he doesn’t even feel his own cracked rib when he pounds him into the wall or floor or bed; he feels it afterwards, though, his own body burning up with pain every minute of the day he *isn’t* under the influence of something, but this is nice, the sharp burns and dull aches, the pain and throbbing and stabbing sensations are fading to a hum, and he finally lies down next to Sebastian, his body heavy and warm and dirty; but he doesn’t mind, he’s lost the ability to care about that kind of mess in the room they both knew intimately

**

/ the reply makes him laugh, a low chuckle in the back of his throat; Jacob has fucked him all over this room, and the office, and plenty of other places already, leaving cracks and tears and blood stains behind and not bothering to hide any of it; always high on something, whether it’s alcohol or blow or just *bloodlust*, and there was no mercy here, no *holding back*, not even that first night when he could barely breathe on his own, when everything had reached such a violent tipping point that Jacob had completely lost himself even after it was done

/ so no, he’s not stupid, he knows Jacob has not been *holding back*; but he smiles anyway, heavy and aching, and tries not to think about what that even means for them

“Lookin’ forward to it, big guy.”

/ he turns slowly, carefully, wincing sharply as the movement reminds him of why he’s supposed to be resting in the first place, and curls closer into Jacob’s chest

**

“Hm.”

/ a noise between a huff and a growl, approving and maybe a little apologetic, and maybe, just maybe, a bit *hopeful*, but this time, it doesn’t feel cruel, *this time* it feels like hope actually has something to offer; something good and powerful, something as close to happiness as Jacob could get

“Me too.”

/ the worry shows as Sebastian turns, straining his sutures and straining himself, but Jacob himself has done worse, and *daily*

/ but this, too, is new; something that takes his breath away, something so *close* that he freezes all over again; something as simple and casual as this, a body against his chest; banal and ordinary to anyone else, but miraculous and *strange* to him; yes, he’s been starving for touch, for touch that *doesn’t* hurt, and here it is, quiet and sudden, something so unexpected and beautiful, something trivial, really, by any means, but he’d never dared dream, he’d never dared *wish* for it; not just fingertips along his jawline, not just a touch to the back of his neck, but something *solid* something perfect and forbidden, as if Faulkner were still here, as if he doesn’t *deserve* this.

“Will you take your medicine again tomorrow?”

**

/ it’s warm and cozy like this, even with his skin stretching and pulling uncomfortably against his sutures, even with his weight resting on shattered bone and bruised muscle; he settles in as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, as if this is perfectly normal and natural when it’s anything but, for either of them

/ he presses close, skin to skin, his head resting in the crook of Jacob’s arm; he’s not holding, nor is he begging to be held, but it’s close, it’s something, and when he moves his hand to rest in the center of Jacob’s chest, fingers pressing down to feel the strength of his heartbeat, it feels even better

/ he hums thoughtfully, his mind adrift already, so close to the bliss of unconsciousness, almost there, and he smiles again that he’s pulled away from it, but he manages to murmur a question of his own, one he already knows the answer to

“Would it make you happy?”

**

/ happiness. there it is again, this strange concept; and the question hits him with force; for a long moment, Jacob stares at the ceiling - *Faulkner’s* ceiling, his mind empty and yet too crowded, overrun by memories and feelings and fears, even as his body melts more and more into the mattress

/ he can’t remember when someone had last asked him that - *would it make you happy?* - even before Faulkner, even before his life had been turned upside down and dragged into the shadows, into a world hidden from the world, this hell on earth where he could both exist and not exist, like Schrödinger’s dog; apart from that, when had it mattered, if he were happy, or not?

/ and it feels hard to imagine, how that would even feel, being happy – outside of drug-induced illusions, blissful waking dreams that draw him in for a few hours but dissipate the next morning

“Yes.”

/ it’s a lie, but not because he doesn’t want Bastian to take his medicine – and Jacob *will* make it worth his while, this has worked wonderfully, and he sure as hell will *take care* of Sebastian in any way he can – but because *happy* isn’t the right word here; he’ll be relieved and pleased and something like proud… but *happiness* seems so far out of reach

**

/ it’s a lie and he knows it, somewhere in the back of his mind, because happiness has always been out of reach, dangling in front of them both like a bone on a stick, something fate never intended for either of them

/ and yet it’s a soft dream, a quiet one, and the gentlest of lies, coming from a place of comfort with the intent to appease him, and if it has even the slightest chance of making their lives bearable, of making whatever *this* is into something halfway good, how could he not cave and give Jacob what he wants?

/ he’s quiet a little too long, his thoughts drifting along the waves that threaten to rise too close to his face, but he’s safe here beside Jacob, so somehow he remembers how to speak

“Okay. I’ll take it.”

**

/ the silence is long and heavy, and it’s getting harder and harder to hold onto thoughts and feelings and memories; but that’s not too bad, because they are heavier than the silence, and nothing good lives there, nothing kind

/ *kindness* lies next to him, pressed close despite the danger, touching without hurting; an impossible dream he hadn’t dared dream, amidst the scent of come, amidst the horrors of violence, in a dead man’s bed

“Mhm.”

/ so Bastian knows it’s a lie, but some things don’t need to be said; he’ll understand, Jacob is certain;  it was a strange question, this one, but somehow, oddly enough, Jacob finds himself fascinated by it; somehow, oddly enough, he can’t let it go, wants to hear it again; because maybe, eventually, he’ll have an answer that isn’t a lie, maybe they both will

**

/ there’s nothing left to say, not when he can’t seem to string any coherent thought together anymore, not when this fucking pill weighs him down so heavy he feels like he would sink through the bed and into the floor, an anchor centered in his failure of a heart - or maybe that’s just Jacob, burrowed up inside

/ he focuses instead on Jacob’s breath, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and he imagines he can hear his heartbeat too, loud and glowing beneath the pulse of his fingers, and nothing has ever seemed more hypnotic as he drifts, letting sleep finally pull him down into emptiness

[empireofdogs]

tagslist

corruption verse

heir verse

rivals verse

two hounds verse

Sebastian / Jacob

Sebastian / Faulkner

Faulkner / Sebastian / Jacob

Jacob / Emmett

timeline

[empireofdogs]

timeline || heir

day 0 Jacob is captured (March)

0-10 days later: the 10 days inside the room

day 10: Jacob's training starts

one week after day 0: Jacob is allowed to mingle

three weeks after day 0: Sebastian offers food for the first time (how to treat a skittish dog || part 1 || familiarisation)

??? Jacob asks Bastian to kill him for the first time (refusal starter)

2-3 months in (May / June): incident in the canteen - Bastian touches Jacob for the first time (how to treat a skittish dog || part 2 || touch)

2-3 months in (May / June), one day after touch: Jacob refuses to obey Faulkner, is being sent back to the room for 1-3 days, asks Sebastian to stay

1-3 days back in the room: Sebastian stays with Jacob, Faulkner notices on his visits, Jacob lies about Bastian fucking him, when Faulkner returns, Sebastian pretends to be just done, two tally marks are made

a few days after the second day in the room: Jacob asks Bastian to kill him again

7-8 months in: Sebastian dreams of Jacob (dreams thread)

8 months later (November): Faulkner drugs Jacob, shower encounter (how to treat a skittish dog || part 5 || drugged)

a few days after drugged: Faulkner confronts Bastian (questions thread)

how to treat a skittish dog || part 6 || torture

after diversion from corruption:

Bastian steps into the line of fire, Jacob saves him and brings him back to Faulkner, as Bastian recovers Faulkner decides to make use of the bond between Bastian and Jacob and decides to make Bastian Jacob's handler

Bastian recovers and is presented with the news

Bastian's training as Jacob's handler begins; first by merely watching Faulkner train Jacob

presented with the responsibility for Jacob, Bastian begins taking over the dirty jobs for Faulkner

Faulkner lets Bastian take over more and more, giving more responsibility to him and gradually withdraws from Jacob's training, but keeps supervising the training (involves many firsts: rewards, drugs, blow jobs, sex, punishments)

Faulkner allows Bastian to let Jacob live in his rooms

punishment thread (and the three days of recovery afterwards)

Bastian is granted more space (a proper apartment with patio / roof access) and Faulkner launches the next step in his political career

the final test: Faulkner decides to put Jacob and Bastian to the test; Jacob is abandoned after a job (while still under secret surveillance); Jacob is overwhelmed with the situation and freedom and returns to Bastian and Faulkner

Bastian rewards a defeated Jacob with a kiss

Faulkner orchestrates Bastian's campaign to run for Senate

Faulkner presents Bastian with a wife and plans for his wedding (plans thread), Jacob snaps and freaks out

Sebastian meets Thalia

Sebastian & Thalia marry

Bastian & Thalia move together , Jacob with them

Bastian & Thalia have a child

Faulkner's death (including the hotel scene with Bastian hushing Jacob, waiting for his climax to spill the news)

[empireofdogs]

timeline || corruption

day 0 Jacob is captured (March)

0-10 days later: the 10 days inside the room

day 10: Jacob's training starts

one week after day 0: Jacob is allowed to mingle

three weeks after day 0: Sebastian offers food for the first time (how to treat a skittish dog || part 1 || familiarisation)

??? Jacob asks Bastian to kill him for the first time (refusal starter)

2-3 months in (May / June): incident in the canteen - Bastian touches Jacob for the first time (how to treat a skittish dog || part 2 || touch)

2-3 months in (May / June), one day after touch: Jacob refuses to obey Faulkner, is being sent back to the room for 1-3 days, asks Sebastian to stay

1-3 days back in the room: Sebastian stays with Jacob, Faulkner notices on his visits, Jacob lies about Bastian fucking him, when Faulkner returns, Sebastian pretends to be just done, two tally marks are made

a few days after the second day in the room: Jacob asks Bastian to kill him again

7-8 months in: Sebastian dreams of Jacob (dreams thread)

8 months later (November): Faulkner drugs Jacob, shower encounter (how to treat a skittish dog || part 5 || drugged)

a few days after drugged: Faulkner confronts Bastian (questions thread)

???? Jacob accidentally kills a man, Bastian is tasked to torture him (head shave & all) (how to treat a skittish dog || part 6 || torture)

11 months after day 0 (February the next year): bomb drop, Jacob is tasked to torture Bastian

same day: day 1 of Bastian's torture(beatings, Jacob's reward, Bastian is brought into the room, touch II)

day 2 of Bastian's torture: whippings, waterboarding

day 3 of Bastian's torture: electrocution, whippings

day 3 of Bastian's torture: the kiss

possibly: (in between) Jacob retrieves the medication and brings it to Bastian (might be somewhere on day 4) - along the same lines: Faulkner confronts Bastian about the medication

day 4 of Bastian's torture: more whippings, Faulkner orders Jacob to fuck Bastian, Jacob refuses, Faulkner prepares to have Bastian transferred (either finds pain killers or knows about the medication in the first place)

day 4 of Bastian's torture: Faulkner confronts Jacob, has Jacob dragged into the room, Jacob snaps as he's brought back to the room and starts fighting his way through Faulkner's men, Jacob frees Sebastian and together they take down Faulkner's army

the night of Faulkner's death: Jacob kills Faulkner, Sebastian touches him, Jacob fucks Bastian for the first time in Faulkner's office, the night continues in his rooms

the morning after Faulkner's death: Jacob fucks Sebastian awake, aftercare, the beginning of a new empire

??? after Faulkner's death: how to treat a rabid dog

[empireofdogs]

corruption masterpost

threads

before Faulkner's death:

how to treat a skittish dog || part 1 || familiarisation

how to treat a skittish dog || part 2 || touch

how to treat a skittish dog || part 3 || no

how to treat a skittish dog || part 4 || refusal

how to treat a skittish dog || part 5 || drugged

how to treat a skittish dog || part 6 || torture

how to treat a skittish dog || part 7 || dreams

questions (Sebastian & Faulkner)

the kiss

bomb drop

after Faulkner's death:

how to treat a rabid dog

[empireofdogs]

a moment of surprise || Sebastian & Faulkner

Whenever Faulkner looked at Sebastian, he couldn’t help but feel proud.

Proud, but… *regretful*.

This man could very well have been his masterpiece; trained early, raised *just* right, loyalty and viciousness perfectly balanced in one mind, skilled and collected and highly intelligent. Possibly worthy of becoming Faulkner’s successor, even… if not for those lost five years.

Five years without contact. Five years in which Faulkner hadn’t been able to shape him. To *control* his development and education. Five years in which the boy had been almost ruined.

Those five years that had brought back a different man.

It had been with regret that Faulkner had heard the first *no*, after Sebastian’s return.

Rare as it would be, it was a noticeable crack in otherwise shining loyalty. A flaw in an otherwise perfect display of obedience.

Nobody was at fault here, sadly, except for those who were already dead, and that was frustrating. Faulkner pretended to be understanding of Sebastian’s shortcomings. He could comprehend, to a degree, that this boy needed *time*, but it had been years now, and Sebastian still shied away from certain… *necessities*.

But perhaps, where Sebastian had failed, Jacob would eventually step in, given time and the right training. He was still too unstable, too unpredictable and his loyalty and obedience entirely dependent on treats and rewards, threats and punishments, but he had already proven to be useful. Jacob *didn’t* say no, anymore.

But a broken man couldn’t lead. He could just obey.

Jacob would be a rabid dog on a leash, for the rest of his life, barely tamed. Perhaps. Or perhaps he could be more. The future would tell. His blind obedience and gratitude were a good start.

At best, Faulkner would have two loyal dogs at his disposal. One for business. One for the gritty work. Brains and fangs.

But what he *really* needed, was an heir.

Leaning back in his office chair, listening carefully, Faulkner eyed Sebastian with interest as he spoke, the heavy hardwood desk between them.

Faulkner could admire the way Sebastian stood in front of his desk, could admire the hard work and patience he’d poured into this boy; the way he stood straight and still, attentive, yet relaxed. His eyes focused, his voice measured, his speech well-articulated; recounting stats and updates without using as much as a single note.

This promising young man was professional in his office and an attack dog in the streets; a perfect amalgam of businessman and killer. Pulling fingernails with the same expression he recounted the weekly report now. Feared, respected and *respectful*.

Faulkner had taught him all the right things. Discipline. Obedience. Manners.

It would be *so easy* to move him into the right position. Local politics first; but who knew how far he could rise, with a face and self-control like his? Criminal records could disappear quickly. It wouldn’t even be difficult. And Sebastian was handsome, well-spoken; with a carefully modulated voice that could *almost* match Faulkner’s. His eyes as clear and alert as they were intense.

And even better, he could *lead*.

All in all, Sebastian would be the perfect successor; the perfect heir.

If not for this one flaw. The blemish on his otherwise impressive record.

He’d certainly have to learn to be more talkative, to smile more and not shy away from touch; handshakes and pats on shoulders and backs were as popular as ever. He would also have to learn to do *all* the dirty work, but Sebastian was still young and Faulkner was not old yet. He could learn.

There still was a ray of hope. There still was… time.

Faulkner had seen improvements in his attitude. He’d attempted to do what he’d refused for almost five years now. He’d help fuck Jacob into submission again, and as short-lived as the joy over this advancement was, it gave Faulkner hope that this boy could be saved from his own misguided morals. From his inhibitions. Or whatever held him back.

It would take some refinement, but for today, Faulkner was pleased, nodding curtly as Sebastian finished his report.

“Excellent,” he said, eyeing the boy with his signature smile. Suave, as likeable as it was unreadable, and perfectly crafted for newspapers and tv screens.

“Move the shipping to next week. I don’t care how. We can’t risk the coast guard sniffing around tomorrow. And reschedule the meeting with the chief of police. He needs to learn to inform us *in time*. We will let him simmer for a day or two,” he stood and moved, straightening his grey suit; tailored, elegant, never pretentious. A *classic*, like Faulkner himself.

At the liquor cabinet by the window, he poured himself a drink. He didn’t ask Sebastian. The time for coffee was over. Business was over. It was time for his guard dog’s treat.

“You’re done for today. You did well, Sebastian. Exceptionally well. Then again,” he chuckled softly, and took a long moment to look out of the window, taking a sip; his back still towards Sebastian, if only to keep the boy waiting for a second longer.

“I didn’t expect anything else from you.”

There *was* one thing that had troubled Faulkner recently, about this extraordinary young man that needed *just* an ounce of refinement. Glimpses. Eye contact that lasted just a bit too long. Food exchanged over the canteen table. Faulkner had watched. The slow approach of his two favourite little dogs. He hadn’t minded, at first. They would have to work together, after all. And he had followed with interest how Sebastian had kept this bloodthirsty bulldozer of a man under control.

Something had changed, however, in the past few days. A certain tension that was almost palpable. Something Faulkner couldn’t pinpoint yet.

But he would.

**

Reporting to Faulkner had always been a little nerve wracking, even now, even if Sebastian didn't outwardly show it.

He knew with confidence that he had little to worry about. Faulkner demanded perfection, and Sebastian had grown into his role through nearly two decades of his guidance. There were few surprises in regards to his expectations, at least; and more often than not,  Sebastian executed his orders with precision.

But memories died hard, and he knew too well the consequences of failure. Or, of Faulkner's anger,  if he were to find out about that one recent afternoon that now lived rent-free in Sebastian's head.

But today, to all appearances, he was relaxed and confident as he gave his report, and he was inwardly relieved to see the approval in Faulkner's hard eyes. He got a smile, even; something that used to make his heart swell and his stomach flutter. Now, it only made breathing that much easier.

He nodded at the new string of orders, letting his eyes follow Faulkner's movement across the room. “Of course sir. I'll have your schedule updated by the end of the day.” Sebastian was careful to keep the flutter of pride out of his voice as he watched Faulkner get himself a drink, but it was impossible not to feel it. Between the balance he had to keep, juggling so many secrets of his own, it felt goddamn good to still pull this shit off so perfectly. And he had so little to feel good about anymore.

“Thank you, sir.”

**

With a smile, Faulkner finally turned and nodded his approval, his eyes roaming once more over Sebastian’s impressive figure, still on the exact same spot in front of the desk. He hadn’t moved. It didn’t even look as if he’d had as much as breathed. It really *was* a shame that he carried this one flaw, all too obvious over his otherwise perfect performance. Because sometimes, the young man reminded him of himself. Collected and precise. Calm and determined. Intelligent and lethal.

*There is still time*, he reminded himself and took another sip. *For both of them.*

For now, he had to be patient, and he would watch Sebastian’s progress carefully. Especially after he had found out what was going on between him and Jacob. He’d watch this beast carefully, as well.

Another nod, and he raised the index and middle finger of his free hand.

Today, they didn’t point at the floor, like they so often did. Today, he pointed them at the large desk instead; the gesture sharp and precise, commanding Sebastian to move and fulfil the task at hand. It didn’t need further verbal specification of *what* Sebastian was ordered to do. After almost nineteen years, he *knew*.

No, *today*, Faulkner wouldn’t command him to strip and kneel and wet his cock sufficiently before he fucked him; he wouldn’t command him to wet it as much or as  little as he liked. As much or as little as Sebastian thought he *deserved*. And wasn’t it interesting, to see him struggle with that; with deciding how much he deserved?

But recently, Sebastian had been very good. He had earned his treat; and that would include a proper lubrication. He would even be allowed to remain partially clothed, as much of a pity that was. Jacob was a lot less complicated, but also a lot less suitable to take over Faulkner’s small empire.

“It’s time for your reward.”

**

That nod, that smile, used to be something he'd lived and breathed for; something that he'd loved and adored and dreamt about. In his naïve years,  so far away now they almost felt like a different life,  he'd almost believed there was something behind it.

But these days he knew better.

Just as he'd finally figured out the truth with Elias. He'd long ago learned that he could not trust his heart. And he could not allow anyone to find out that it was, by all means, his greatest weakness. He couldn't afford for it to be used against him.

But it was difficult not to still feel those echoes for Faulkner even now, after all these years of careful conditioning. Difficult not to admire the brutal elegance of the man in that power suit, and those hard, grey-blue eyes that he didn't hesitate to meet. Difficult not to still feel… something. As much as he remained unwilling to identify or acknowledge it.

Just as he felt *something* for Jacob. Something that, strangely enough, felt entirely new and the same, simultaneously.

And so his mouth went just a little dry as those fingers raised, directing him to the desk; the gesture sending a deep shudder down his spine and a single throb between his legs. That,  too, was complicated; despite how deeply it had been burned into him; the reaction that made him sick half the time now, if he allowed himself the luxury of thought or reflection. But of course, as with any order, Sebastian showed no hint of hesitation or delay, moving finally to step forward, his fingers moving to unbutton and unzip his trousers.

He exhaled slowly as he bent, forehead pressed to the hardwood, focusing on counting his breaths as he waited.

**

Faulkner couldn’t remember how many times he’d watched Sebastian bend over for him. So easily. So willingly. Obediently. Hundreds of times? Thousands, even? After so many years, it was hard to tell, and it didn’t quite matter, really, but there was something about it that made Faulkner feel proud. Again.

Sebastian made him proud quite often.

He couldn’t help the feeling of accomplishment as he watched, standing unmoving and still himself by the liquor cabinet, only his eyes following Sebastian’s movements. This man, right here, was *his* work, and both of them knew. The efficiency and calm of his movements. The silent submission. The skill outside of this office. This was Faulkner’s achievement. His guidance, his training, his strict hand and stern gaze.

Nowadays, something like nostalgia mingled with the pride, when he watched; unhurried and admiring. Nowadays, he could almost see a timelapse in front of his inner eye. From the thin, but wiry boy he’d once been – a boy full of promise and potential - to the proud young soldier... to the truly magnificent man he now was. Still full of promise and potential. Perhaps more than ever. This, as well, the future would tell.

Moments passed. Seconds. Minutes.

Faulkner liked to revel in those moments, to savour them for years to come. And patience was as much a virtue as humbleness; and those minutes of waiting would remind Sebastian of both.

After taking one last sip from his glass, he put it down again, reaching for something else in the cabinet; a small bottle of lube that remained unused, most of the time. Today, however, Sebastian had excelled, and a special reward was due.

He could hear his own measured steps on the carpet as he approached Sebastian’s spread out form, so perfectly aligned with the desk, radiating strength and submission alike; breathing and waiting in anticipation. Faulkner came to a halt and stood behind him; close, but still not touching, putting the small plastic bottle on the desk next to him, so Sebastian could hear it.

Finally, he reached out to sprawl one hand out on Sebastian’s back. Solid. Firm. Possessive. Pushing him down with an appreciative hum.

“Now, tell me, how good have you been, Sebastian?”

**

**

Time had a horrible habit of standing still, in these moments. Every second became an hour, and every breath felt like an eternity. He never knew how long Faulkner would make him wait.

Or if this would be… painful, or pleasant.

These days, of course, that much at least was somewhat more predictable. The more he managed to please Faulkner, the better this would be. But… Sebastian never really *knew.* It wasn't beyond the scope of reality for things to switch. Even as a reward.

Still. He breathed in as he listened to the steady footsteps drawing closer, and breathed out at the soft sound of the bottle being set on the desk. That sound, at least, brought relief. Faulkner only brought that bottle out when he was particularly happy. When Sebastian had been practically *perfect.*

Faulkner's hand on his back felt enormous - solid and warm,  heavier than it should be. A weight that required nearly zero effort to push him down, to bury or drown him; both familiar and deeply comforting.

His heart rate picked up as his breathing slowed, murmuring his response just as clearly and succinctly as he'd given his report.

“I've been very good, sir. The very best I can be. For you.”

**

“Indeed, you have been. And I won’t accept anything else from you. You do know that, don’t you?”

He chuckled almost softly; a rare sound and reserved for special occasions. But he was pleased. With Sebastian’s work. With his improvement. With his *answer*.

No, he couldn’t help but feel nostalgic sometimes, seeing the passing of time in Sebastian’s face as much as in his own. In gestures, situations and answers as familiar as these. Trained and ingrained into this remarkable man.

It was strange now, at times, to compare him to Jacob; this new little wolf under his roof.

At times, Faulkner thought they couldn’t be more different. Other times, he saw a likeness between them that was striking… and possibly dangerous.

This very situation, however, they couldn’t handle more differently.

Where Sebastian submitted quietly and without any form of resistance, where his body was pliant and calm beneath Faulkner, Jacob still visibly struggled. Oh, he did obey. He knew better than misbehaving these days, but his agitation and unrest was noticeable under Faulkner’s fingertips. He felt every shudder of fear or anger or lust. He could see it in his eyes, too, could hear it in his moans and gasps and growls. Jacob had yet to learn to control his emotions and impulses. A feral beast of a man, fighting against fate, struggling with his new role.

Whereas Sebastian had found it. Almost, at least.

“Good boy.”

Faulkner’s hand left Sebastian’s back to push his pants down to his knees; buttons opened and unzipped without hesitation. The boy knew his role; and he knew what he was supposed to do. He knew to be respectful.

With a soft pop, he opened the bottle of lube, feeling the first signs of throbbing in his own cock. Slow, steady, but exciting. But just like Sebastian, Faulkner knew discipline. He knew patience. So he ignored it for now, coated his finger with lube and reached between the boy’s cheeks. **

With a soft noise of affirmation, Sebastian would nod, his voice rough.

“Yes sir.”

It wasn't just an instinctive response. Far from it, these days, when he actively sought to impress, to please, to meet and exceed every expectation Faulkner threw his way. No matter what the man wanted from him.

Hell, he would hand him the head of the man he'd *loved* on a silver platter. Faulkner just… didn't know that, yet.

His submission to Faulkner was almost perfect, in every regard, really. Except for that little wild streak in him, that desperate flame he fought to hold onto, that tiny piece of *himself* that he refused to allow to flicker out.

But this… no, he didn't bother to fight this. Not since the beginning. This was a battle not worth losing.

He'd inhale audibly at the praise, focusing on how his fingers feel against the wooden surface of the desk as his pants slide down past his thighs; as a cold slick finger presses against his entrance. He can't help the way his own cock stirs; slow, but thick and heavy between his legs. Another conditioned response, completely separate from his unreliable heart.

*Breathe. Just breathe.*

**

“Relax. You’ll enjoy this.”

It was rare that Faulkner took his time like this, running his fingertips over Sebastian’s entrance a few times, teasing, circling, before slowly pushing inside. But the boy had earned it. He’d earned the pleasure. He’d earned Faulkner’s attention. And his *time*.

In this regard, the mayor had always been particular. Just as he was particular with his praise.

It was important to show he wasn’t in a hurry. It was important to show that this was, indeed, a special treat. For exceptional behaviour and obedience.

After all, it was important to be as clear and determined with praise as with punishment. Both were useful tools to shape wanted behaviours and ensure lasting loyalty. But most people failed to recognise that praise and rewards were *just* as important as pain and sanctions and criticism. It was why Faulkner succeeded, where others failed. It was what Jacob was learning just now, and what Sebastian had already soaked up with his flesh and bones.

He hummed softly as he pushed a second finger inside, probing slowly and deliberately, gradually stretching Sebastian open for his cock; swelling and hardening with every moment passing. Reaching forward, he rested his other hand on the boy’s shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into the skin beneath his shirt with his thumb.

“*Very* good boy.”

**

*Relax.*

That word alone was nearly enough to throw his body into autopilot, exhaling deeply as the tension slowly left his muscles. He stopped focusing on his fingertips, his mind centering inward again,  his eyes closing out the light of this giant lavish hell.

He focused instead on the darkness behind his eyelids, breathing in, breathing out. Counting his heartbeats, feeling more and more detached from his useless body until he can see pinpoints of stars,  grounding him just enough to keep from breaking completely. Just enough to keep his heartbeat steady through the unshakeable threat of collapse.

Yes, he could still feel those intrusive fingers,  but they no longer mattered. Neither did the gentle hand at his shoulder, no doubt meant to be reassuring, some shadow of kindness and affection. Neither did those awful words, meant to be the highest of compliments, meant to be *comforting*, but left him feeling lower than bones in the dirt.

And neither did the soft moan he let out in response, an empty reaction that felt no deeper than a scar, but expected.

Sebastian had become very, very good at meeting expectations.

*

He could feel Sebastian breathe around him, tense and full of anticipation. Until that tension left him. Until he could hear the soft, sweet moan.

“That’s it. Good.”

It was time now. Sebastian was well prepared and… *open*, lying bare and ready in front of him, like sacrifice on an altar. This had never changed, apart from a few early and expected struggles; and with deep satisfaction, Faulkner withdrew his fingers, letting them slide up Sebastian’s crack deliberately until they hit thin air.

Finally, it was time to open his own fly, to open his buttons and zipper, letting Sebastian hear the familiar noise. Allowing him to prepare for what was coming. And once again, he took the bottle of lube, pouring some of it onto his hand before putting it down again. All deliberate. All precise. All so Sebastian could hear.

Quiet, familiar sounds. Without hectic. Without rush.

Just a soft exhale, and Faulkner freed his own cock, bringing it to full hardness with a few gentle strokes, slicking it up properly before slowly pushing inside the heat of Sebastian’s body. His hand wandered now, to the boy’s front, finding him half hard before wrapping his hand around him.

“See? I told you, you would like it.”

**

Faulkner had never been like the rest. It had started so early,  so… routine. This too, even with his variations,  was more or less predictable.

Even if the frequency of these occurrences themselves had slowed down with time, which was complicated enough in its own right. Sebastian often grappled with himself over whether what he actually felt was relief or jealousy since Jacob had come into the picture.

Which meant this… hadn't happened in some time. Once upon a time,  that would have felt like a punishment on its own.

But now, Faulkner was making a show of being practically gentle. Using the lube, taking it slow. His deep voice soothing and warm and melodic.

It didn't matter.

There was no panic here.

And Sebastian was already far,  far away.

It didn't hurt as Faulkner filled him, the lube making this easy for once. Even the hand around his cock would have felt good, really, if Sebastian himself was still there. His cock responded, but he only moaned softly, eyes still closed as he obediently pressed his ass back.

**

“You should know better than not giving confirmation, Sebastian.”

Faulkner set a steady rhythm, measured and precise; his hand moving from Sebastian’s shoulder to his head, combing through that thick, dark hair with a smile.

Yes, it would be easy to move him into the right positions. Looks like his would get him far, paired with that sharp mind and discipline. He’d look fantastic on screen. He’d win over the hearts of business partners, voters and even influential politicians alike. Until he would be one of them.

But it was moments like this one where Sebastian and Jacob weren’t much alike. Even here, this boy was collected. Quiet. Pushing back against Faulkner’s cock in the same measured way Faulkner fucked him. Where Jacob was huffing and grunting and moaning with each thrust, whether it be from pain or arousal, Sebastian was *in control*. It made reading him so much harder, but Faulkner didn’t have to read him anymore. Not normally. Sebastian was loyal and obedient, as ever.

But it still bothered Faulkner; the not-knowing. Whatever had happened between his favourite dogs, it was noticeable. It was irritating. It was worrisome. Perhaps it was simply jealousy, but he had to know.

The hand around Sebastian’s cock kept stroking, just as steadily and persistently, until Faulkner could feel him swell and harden beneath his fingers.

“There you go.”

**

Faulkner's voice filtered through slowly,  trickling through the fog in Sebastian’s brain like molasses. Not angry, not yet. The hand in his hair wasn't even rough - almost affectionate, if he didn't know any better. But still,  he'd been given a warning that Sebastian was not stupid enough not to acknowledge, his voice soft with just the right amount of breathlessness.

“I - I'm sorry. Been so long… I got… a little lost.”

He'd crane his neck slightly, arching into Faulkner's touch. Gods, if he were ten years younger, he might have fallen for this; these gentle touches, this false affection. Almost enough to make him feel wanted. Needed.

As if any of this were real.

“Feels… so good. You're so good to me.”

Thankfully his cock is cooperating this time, responding to those relentless strokes right on cue, as if he actually *means* what he says. As if he gives a single fuck what Faulkner does to him.

“Please…”

**

A simple *yes sir* would have been enough, but seeing a desperation as honest and raw as this was… almost endearing; an echo of times long gone, of the boy Sebastian had once been.

“I’m good to you because you earned it.”

The begging came as a surprise, but Faulkner could feel his cock twitch in response. He valued the control Sebastian exerted over himself. His actions. His words. The tone of his voice.  Every aspect of his being was measured and deliberate. It was what had impressed Faulkner. It was what would make this boy… suitable for more. Perhaps even destined for greatness.

It had taken time for Sebastian to grow from the squirming, wiry boy to the proud man on the desk now. And the amount of discipline he’d shown after he’d return from those five lost years was… remarkable.

“Have I neglected you, Sebastian?” he chuckled for a moment and stilled, combing through the boy’s hair a few times. “You aren’t… jealous of Jacob, are you?”

That would be ridiculous.

Jacob was a wolf in human form. Useful, deadly, but entirely unsophisticated. Entirely out of control and a victim of his urges and impulses. Faulkner would know. He’d made him this way. It would be interesting to see if there was more to him, if he could overcome his feral state and be more than a thoughtless asset. If there was still a mind beneath that monster; a man that could think and rationalise. But for now, he really wasn’t competition for Sebastian to fear. No, broken men couldn’t lead.

Sebastian could.

But there was something to be said about the sound of his voice as he *begged*.

A surprise, but a good one.

Maybe Faulkner really  had neglected Sebastian.

Maybe the underlying problem between Jacob and him really was just that simple and inherently natural: the jealousy of two rivalling dogs. Faulkner could certainly handle that.

For now, however, the mayor couldn’t leave the beg unanswered. Good behaviour deserved rewards. Positive reinforcement was a necessity, after all. So, with a smile, Faulkner picked up the speed, thrusting harder and faster into Sebastian’s willing body.

Yes, jealousy could be a useful tool here, and Faulkner could see the opportunities that would arise. Maybe he even *hoped* it was as simple as that. He could use jealousy and envy it to his advantage, to push Sebastian further. Maybe it would help the boy to accept his role in all of this; to tend to the tasks he’d been shying away from. Maybe a rival had been what he’d needed all along. To fight for Faulkner’s attention again instead of taking it for granted.

Oh yes, a situation like this, he could handle.

**

No,  Sebastian didn't give a single fuck what Faulkner did to him, these days. But he had become very good at *pretending* that he did. The little beg had given him no shame, because it had been his choice - and it hadn't been real to begin with.

“No, sir. I… I understand, sir. You've been so good to me.”

The idea that he'd be jealous of Jacob was laughable, really. If he didn't actually feel *bad* for the man,  he'd be rejoicing that Faulkner's attention to his new pet had given Sebastian a much-needed reprieve.

But begging had its purpose, and it worked like a charm.

The moan of relief that escaped his throat as Faulkner picked up the pace was almost real. He had long ago lost the desire for anything slow or gentle or affectionate; Sebastian was under no illusion that any of this was *real,* and taking it slow often only felt worse, in the end.

This way, at least, it would be over soon.

He closed his eyes against the desk, trying once again to separate his mind *just* enough, as if he were pulling himself under control rather than escaping. But this time -

This time it was different.

Faulkner had said *his* name, and something curled and coiled in his gut; and before he knew it Sebastian's mind had latched onto the thought like a lifeline. Suddenly it was no longer Faulkner’s cock pounding into him, but Jacob's.

Jacob's hand brushing through his hair.

For the first time in a long time, Sebastian pushed back into the thrusts, subtly, but perfectly matching Faulkner's pace, as if he were trying to gain his attention again.

**

“Good,” Faulkner chuckled, breath barely strained, still as collected and composed as ever. “Jealousy wouldn’t suit you.”

He wasn’t entirely certain if he could believe Sebastian. There was still something… off. Something subtle in the air. Unspoken and almost not there. A shift. A disturbance. A spark.

Sparks could be dangerous. They could light the way to a bright future – or set empires in flames. It could lead to either a shining light or a massive explosion. And Faulkner was a careful man. He didn’t take risks. He would find out.

Sebastian’s moan came as a surprise. Raw and beautiful and almost greedy. There was life in his impressive body after all, as it pushed back ever so subtly. Taking in more of Faulkner’s cock, meeting the hard, powerful thrusts. Yes, he *had* neglected Sebastian. It had made the boy perfectly needy. For Faulkner’s attention. His approval. His time. And he could use that to his advantage, as well.

“There you go. Good boy. You like this, don’t you?”

With a soft groan, nothing more than a hushed noise, he placed his hand on the small of Sebastian’s back, still solid, still heavy, keeping it there for a moment before pushing it further up his spine, slowly, ever so slowly, under the black dress shirt, revealing the equally black ink Faulkner had never approved of.

But it had been too late when he had found out, would hinder Sebastian’s political career, should Faulkner decide to let him follow in his steps. The only consolation here was that Sebastian knew to cover it all up; Faulkner’s expectations unspoken, but respected. Sebastian was his masterpiece, after all.

**

“No sir.”

No, he's not jealous. Not of Jacob.

Faulkner, on the other hand…

Faulkner, who has his freedom. Who has his control and his privacy. Faulkner, who has the power of decision and choice.

Faulkner, who can touch Jacob at will.

Sebastian breathed, trying to let go of *that* dangerous thought. It would do him no good to acknowledge it; not here.

“Yes, sir.”

He hated it, but what did that matter? Faulkner, at least, was relatively kind to Sebastian. Even when he got rough, he wasn't *trying* to hurt him. Not like he was with Jacob. But even then…

Faulkner was nothing like Elias. Nothing like the man who had stopped pretending as soon as he'd hooked Sebastian in his claws, who took what he wanted, when he wanted, and left him bleeding every time.

Faulkner was… easy. His baseline. And he had never known anything better, really.

He was hard in Faulkner's hand, letting out the softest of moans, rocking back into the man that owned him, shivering as the cool air slid across his back. Maybe that meant he did like it, after all. Maybe he really was that fucked.

Not that it mattered.

*Dogs don't choose their owners.*

**

Faulkner could feel the telltale signs of pleasure pooling deep in his stomach. An electric current gathering at the base of his spine, waiting to crawl, waiting to spread. And he could see the signs of arousal in Sebastian, too. The subtle shivers. The soft breaths and moans. The hardness of his massive cock as he pushed back eagerly. Like a good boy. Like Faulkner had taught him. For decades.

But he wasn’t unhinged. He wasn’t hopeless. Never was. Never would be. He wasn’t anything like Jacob, that feral animal. Sebastian was in control, even here, even succumbing to pleasure, enjoying his reward. Like a good boy. Like Faulkner had taught him.

It was with a soft chuckle that he stilled his hips, one hand roaming up Sebastian’s tattooed spine, the other still wrapped around his cock, giving it long, deliberate strokes. He could feel the tip wet and heated as he took a moment to gather the fluids with his thumb, spreading it gently around the head, rubbing along the slit.

“Are you ready, Sebastian? Do you want your reward now?”

**

His breath caught in his throat when he felt Faulkner go still again; for a single, terrifying moment, he thought he'd been caught.

Had he slipped? Had he spoken a name aloud?

But no, clearly not; Faulkner was still working him up, and his heart could relax, even as his cock jumped at the extra attention. Sebastian licked his lips, panting silently as he tried to get the image of Jacob's huge hands, calloused and rough and covered in blood, out of his head.

Nearly impossible not to moan; not when his stupid brain supplied him with images like *that*.

“Yes sir.” His quiet voice was even softer now as he struggled to keep himself in line; noticeably breathless, his cock dripping in Faulkner's hand. “Please sir…”

**

For a second, Faulkner could swear he could sense something like fear in Sebastian’s muscles.

How curious.

It was by no means unwise of him to fear Faulkner. And fear was always a good instrument, even for the most loyal of his men. Even for his most dangerous, leashed dogs. But something felt off, like so often lately.

Perhaps it was only the fear that Faulkner would stop and leave him there, open and wanting; and he decided to believe it was just that, when Sebastian’s cock jumped happily in his hand. When that beautiful moan came. Unravelled, just under the surface, barely hidden by Sebastian’s controlled demeanour. *Barely.*

He chuckled.

“Aren’t you eager today, Sebastian? Very well. You’ve been so good. You earned it.”

And with that, he picked up the pace in earnest, his fist closing tighter around the boy’s excited flesh, smearing slick all over his length.

With that, Faulkner allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment, letting his thoughts quieten down. The plans, the worries of a man born to lead, the visions of a bright future for Sebastian and his empire. He let it come to a halt for one precious moment, indulging in the feeling of Sebastian tight and shivering around him, a wet cock in his hand as he thrust hard and with determination now.

He let some moans slip, as well, rare and low, but Sebastian had been good. He deserved a reward. And he deserved to know just *how* good he’d been.

A few more thrusts, and Faulkner came with a soft grown, both hands digging harder into Sebastian’s flesh, stilling his hips as he spilled over, his cock pumping deep inside the boy’s body, claiming and marking him like it were the first time. Somethings never lost their fascination.

“There you go.”

**

If it weren't for Faulkner's voice, he might have been undone.

That hand stroking him, firm and slick. Those harder, faster thrusts, just shy of rough, were almost perfect.

And while once upon a time, Faulkner's moans - soft and quiet and controlled as his own had become - would have been the ultimate reward, the clearest sign of the man's satisfaction; this time, they broke the spell.

He had been close. So close to the edge, so close to a release that might have actually felt good, even if only for a few moments. But instead his cock twitched and trembled as Faulkner spilled inside him, but he felt no such release.

So close.

But despite the sudden bubbling of frustration in his chest, Sebastian knew better than to let it show. As much as he wanted to close his fingers around his own cock and fuck his hand until he saw stars, he had far, far too much self control by now for *that.*

Until later, maybe. Alone again in his simple room, and alone with his dreams.

There would be no hint of frustration or dissatisfaction as he spoke, his tone controlled and compliant as always.

“Thank you sir…”

**

The last lazy twitches slowly subsided, but Faulkner took his time to draw this out, humming low in his throat as his left hand wandered back down Sebastians spine, down to his ass. He wouldn’t waste a drop, not if he could make Sebastian think of him instead. Not when he could be reminded of his determination loyalty with every step back to his quarters, carrying his gift and reward deep inside.

It was a shame he hadn’t let Faulkner reward him in even better ways, his cock still hard and straining in the mayor’s hand, almost twitching, but nothing more.

Things had become complicated here as well, after those lost five years. It had been so easy to reward the boy and young soldier. It had been satisfying to see him quiver and tremble through his sloppy, honest release, bent over and ass up for Faulkner, whimpering and begging for relief. If not with words, it had been his body who’d told the story.

But ever since those lost five years, Faulkner’s biggest regret, Sebastian had been a different man. Controlled, yes. Hardened, certainly. Even more *lethally efficient*, surely. But in moments like this, it made reading him harder. It made rewarding him harder, too.

Sebastian had returned hardened, but broken. And to Faulkner’s disappointment, it hadn’t been *him*.

“Again?”

With a sigh, his apparent dissatisfaction more brutal than a punishment could ever be, he pulled out, wiping his cock clean along Sebastian’s crevice until he was satisfied and tucked himself in again.

“It’s your reward, after all. What you do with it… is up to you.”

**

Sebastian panted softly, slowly, against the wooden desk, his heart pounding in his ears. He kept his eyes closed.

No, he hadn't managed. Too easily thrown off, too lost in his own head to convince his body to do what it was supposed to do and keep appearances up. At least he was still *hard.* But that one word from Faulkner, dripping with disappointment, was enough to make him exhale slowly, shivering.

He had come so far, in the past couple of years since he'd returned. He'd gone from not being able to react at all, to being able to successfully hide a whole goddamn relationship from the man, and still manage to come on his cock. Sometimes.

“I'm sorry. Can't… help it.”

He had been so goddamn close. But he'd managed to fuck this up with a failure.

At least Faulkner had been pleased to start with. **

With a shrug, Faulkner zipped up and closed his button. Sometimes, silence was worse than reprimands. Sometimes, disappointment and disapproval hit harder than punishments. He trusted that this quiet moment would be enough for Sebastian to meditate on both.

Straightening his suit again, he took a step back, eyeing the spread out man in front of him one last time with a raised brow. Remarkable as he was, Sebastian was still *flawed*. Indeed, refinement was necessary, before he could follow in Faulkner’s footsteps. Before he could attempt greatness.

Patience was a virtue, Faulkner reminded himself. And that wasn’t only true for his dogs.

He took a few steps towards the liquor cabinet, where his glass still stood, and with his back to Sebastian, after the mayor was certain that the boy, too, had been reminded of the importance of patience, bent over the desk; he decided to release him.

“You can dress again.”

Certainly, Sebastian would follow swiftly. Certainly, he would have his mind on other things now. This little act would mark  the end of their meetings on any other day. But not today.

Today, Faulkner intended to use this moment of quietness and distraction to interrogate. A moment of surprise was all he needed.

Taking his drink into his hand, he listened to the soft noise of a zipper before speaking again.

“So, what exactly *is* going on between you and Jacob, son?”

*

Those few moments of silence were heavy as they were no doubt intended to be. As he so often did, Sebastian found himself counting his breaths, rather than focus on the dangerous feeling of exposure, bent over with his ass up to the world.

He spoke not a word, and knew better than to move until given permission.

When it was finally given, he moved efficiently, straightening out his suit and somehow managing to button his trousers over his still-insistent erection.

Until the question caused his heart to skip a beat, but he hardly blinked as he turned around to face Faulkner.

*Son.* The term hardly made him pause - the question far more important in the moment - but later… later, he was sure that term would fuck with him all over again.

“I've been supervising him as instructed,  sir. Are you unhappy with his progress?”

**

Finally, he turned, watching with interest, his gaze stern, but not angry. Not yet. He watched Sebastian’s movements as he tucked away his massive cock, still so stubbornly hard. But he’d had his chance. He’d had his moment. And if he’d refused to let go, that was on Sebastian, not him.

It was just as interesting as seeing him struggle with wetting Faulkner’s cock. Seeing him struggle to decide what he deserved. How much pleasure. How much pain. How much reward. How much torture. Faulkner sometimes suspected his inability to find release had something to do with it.

Maybe Sebastian was sabotaging himself, over and over again.

When things could be so easy. When the world – and Faulkner’s legacy, his inheritance, his empire – could be his, in the future.

But Faulkner hadn’t given up on him. Not yet. Sebastian was still young, indeed.

“That’s *not* what I asked, Sebastian. I can see you have been supervising him. And I am not unhappy with his progress. I asked what is going on between the two of you. Don’t mistake me for a fool. That would be very dangerous.”

He raised his brow, studying Sebastian before taking a sip.

“What has he done? Does he need another behavioural adjustment? Because that can be arranged. I trust your judgement.”

**

What was dangerous, was this question.

A question that he'd known would drop, eventually. The fact that it had been *this* long already, before Faulkner had noticed enough to ask, was frankly shocking. And Sebastian had to navigate this carefully, or it would be both his own and Jacob's lives on the line.

*Oh, I'm no fool. I just know how to train him better than you do.*

Sebastian breathed in, resuming the usual stance he's known for, his hands held loosely in front of the bulge in his pants, already ignored.

“There is nothing *going on...* I've been trying a few methods of my own to get him to fall into line. You gave me freedom to experiment, and I'm using it. It's working.”

He'd tilt his head,  just slightly, unafraid as ever to meet Faulkner's eyes.

“If you trust my judgment, then *trust* me. He's come a long way. He needs no adjustment.”

**

Oh, the *spirit*.

Faulkner couldn’t help but laugh, taking the tiniest sip from his drink, looking Sebastian over with renewed interest.

This spirit was what had set the young Sebastian apart from the others already. This spirit was what had caught Faulkner’s eye. Paired with intelligence, good looks, and a gritty determination that had been rare for boys his age. It was rare for men his age, as well.

Yes, despite the flaws, despite the lost years, despite his shortcomings, Faulkner felt confident that he just might be *the one*.

It was the only reason he let Sebastian talk like this, pushing his limits almost to the point of disrespectfulness. Addressing Faulkner with more modesty and respect would do him good, but he decided to let that slide. For now.

“*Freedom to experiment?* Careful now. That is *not* what I said, and you very well know that, Sebastian.” For a second, his eyes turned icy and his smile froze.

“I do trust your judgement. Which is exactly why we are having this conversation, at all, and why you aren’t on your hands and knees on the floor right now. Do I need to remind you who you answer to? You are to supervise Jacob, but you are also to report to me. That I trust your judgment does not mean I do not expect an explanation. So do elaborate. What is going on? What are those methods?”

**

Even in the face of Faulkner's frozen stare, Sebastian did not falter. Years upon years of facing him,  *learning* him,  had built in a certain resistance to what would have most of Faulkner's other soldiers quaking. It was a trait he'd used here and elsewhere, something he had carried with him since long before his eighteenth birthday.

But he knew better than to be truly defiant,  too. Faulkner expected deference and humility. It was a razor thin line he walked, but he was well-practiced in this,  too.

“I need no reminders,  sir. I do answer to you… Preferably with complete and accurate results.”

*Here's the tricky part.*

Navigating what to tell Faulkner,  when this question eventually surfaced, had kept him awake many long nights. If Jacob were anyone else, Sebastian would have no difficulty with this, at all.

But he had to wind up *caring* about this man who reminded him so much of himself. Jacob's plight had woken a deep protective streak within him, and he'd be damned before he actually gave Faulkner ammunition to use against him.

He sure as fuck wasn't about to tell him that it had started with the careful treatment of Jacob as if he were a scared, beaten dog being tamed.

But he couldn't lie, either, or this would all end very, very quickly.

“I had intended to give you a full and proper report once I'd confirmed my methods’ efficiency. But if you'd like details… I've been exploring the use of touch. A different form of command.”

This, at least, was safe. It spoke of a certain recklessness and daring on his own part, and a shocking level of control. No one else got away with touching Jacob - Sebastian had seen one too many arms broken to know that - so it was unlikely this information could, or would, be used elsewhere.

And Faulkner himself used only brutality on him, from what Sebastian could tell.

“It’s kept him from acting out on more than one occasion. Kept him out of fights. I believe it's made him trust me.”

**

“Oh, I have seen that. And I have been *very* impressed with how well you control him.”

This time, he didn’t laugh, the cold stare still resting on Sebastian’s form as he emptied his glass.

“Which is why I allowed this to go on for so long.”

In the end, Faulkner could be a *very* pragmatic man. And he had watched Sebastian and Jacob carefully. Sometimes with worry and anger. Sometimes with satisfaction. Sometimes with undeniable pride.

It had been an unusual approach he’d seen. The food and extended walks. The strange, one-sided talks. The *touch*. Reckless. Unbelievably bold. And successful.

Certainly not an approach he would have chosen for himself. It wasn’t that he shied away from touch. He used it in his own ways. Just as successful, just as effective. With Jacob, he built on *fear* instead of trust. He didn’t need Jacob to trust him to control the monster. But Faulkner wasn’t stupid. He saw the results. He saw the effectiveness. He saw the *taming* of the most dangerous beast he’d created.

And it was important that Sebastian could control Jacob, after all, whenever Faulkner wasn’t around. Especially if he would follow through with his plan of building him up, of grooming him for greatness.

Yes, Faulkner had been impressed.

He could accept different methods if Sebastian could provide *results*. And results he’d seen, more than once. Both men worked well together, brain and fangs, and Sebastian had proven time and time again that he could handle the beast. With a touch. With a word. With a stare.

The pragmatist in Faulkner could see and respect that, and allowed it to continue.

But he could also call Sebastian’s bluff.

As much as the boy tried to divert from it. As much as his voice was unwavering, the right, respectful words on his tongue as any other day.

Something *was* going on.

The stares had changed. The air around them.

And right now, Sebastian was trying to lie.

“So when would that full and proper report have happened, son? It’s been six months now. It’s not your effectiveness I question. I have been pleased with your results and his progress. It’s the *change* that has very well been noticeable in the past week that I am questioning. I worry about his stability. We don’t need a ticking bomb around.”

**

He was trapped here, between truth and lies, a veritable Scylla and Charybdis.

There was no way out of this that wouldn't have some repercussions. Not even if he told the truth. *Especially* if he told the truth.

Because yes, something had irreversibly changed that night in Jacob's room. The world itself had shifted beneath their feet. Subtle, and not, at the same time.

And Faulkner had never, ever been stupid.

“I've been working on it. If you insist, I'll show you.”

He had, even. Sebastian knew better than to bullshit *that* - he had slowly but surely been putting together a very carefully curated written report, one that would appear fully in line with his usual meticulous standards. Documenting every single *public* interaction, the results,  his observations. One that would not appear to be lacking details, but hid the true magnitude of what he'd done.

“He's not a bomb. If you're seeing a change,  it's…”

He'd allow himself a pause,  a moment to breathe in as if he were deeply troubled. He *was,* but not for the lie.

“I fucked him.”

**

„Hm.“

Faulkner had dedicated years and decades of his life to perfecting his demeanour and appearance.

The carefully modulated voice; just the right mix of authoritarian and likeable, sympathetic and *trustworthy*. The rehearsed, practiced smiles; smooth and relatable. The carefully chosen clothes. Even his hair, speckled in the right amount of salt and pepper. Something nature only rarely could achieve.

Everything about him - his gaze, his smile, his clothes, his movements - was anything but deliberate, calculated and *man-made*.

He left nothing to chance.

He was *in control*

Yes, Faulkner had dedicated decades of his life to *perfection*.

Otherwise, he might have done a double-take.

Because Sebastian was saying was so surprising, so *shocking*, that even Faulkner needed to take a calm breath to digest. It didn‘t show, not on the outside, if for the raise of his eyebrow that he *allowed* to be seen. Whether it was in approval or disapproval, he would yet have to decide.

Forgotten the report - at least for now, he would demand it later - when there were more pressing matters at hand.

Putting the glass down, finally, he hummed and took measured steps towards Sebastian, taking his time, drawing out the moment, as he‘d liked to do. He came to a  halt in front of Sebastian again, too close for comfort, unafraid of looking into his eyes. It had never intimidated him that the boy was taller. They both knew who was in control.

„And who exactly gave you permission to do so?“

**

Safe to say his words had the desired effect.

As carefully crafted as the man was, it was pretty much impossible to witness a moment where Faulkner was caught off guard. And for almost anyone else, they'd not even notice; but Sebastian had grown up studying him, *idolizing* him; memorizing and mirroring his mannerisms. Both to know him, and to become him.

So yes, he could see it, subtle as it was. The briefest moment of hesitation. That little hum and quirk of his eyebrow as Faulkner advanced on him,  slow and steady as a predator.

This wouldn't be good. Might even reverse all he had just done to *please* Faulkner. But, at least, it should fall mostly on *him.*

Strangely enough, that thought kept his heartbeat steady, his breathing even and measured as he met Faulkner’s eyes.

“It was necessity.”

**

“Necessary?”

It was hard to believe, and his emotions were *complex*. But Faulkner had routine in not letting them show. They would be looked at and analysed later.

There was anger about the blatant transgression. The boy knew about the rules and certainly should know better than acting out of line.

Disappointment, too, because this was *Sebastian*. A young man Faulkner had high hopes for. A young man who could rise, and maybe farther than Faulkner, if given the right training and treatment.

And maybe, because perhaps all of this meant that Sebastian was willing to do the dirty work, after all, pride and relief mingled with anger and disappointment. Maybe the boy had *finally* come to his senses, throwing useless ideals of morality aside to accept the gritty tasks for the necessity they were. Embracing them to do what had to be done.

But this was so out of character, so unusual for him, that it caused Faulkner to worry, as well. This was Sebastian, who had always refused to fuck even the most insignificant pathetic little whore for reasons Faulkner was certain not even the boy could understand. It was curious, sometimes, to see him commit the most gruesome atrocities without the blink of an eye, efficient and lethal and without a pang of guilt – but see him shy away from pulling his cock out at the same time.

There had only been *one* instance, when he had helped fuck Jacob back into submission; and the short-lived pride about that turned into concern now. Wasn’t it curious, that both times, it had been Jacob? He couldn’t risk for his two most dangerous dogs to *bond*.

If he wasn’t careful, this could very well blow up in his face.

“*Explain.*”

**

No, this would not end well.

He could practically see the gears working in Faulkner's mind. The disbelief, the suspicion, the concern. And he was right, really. That was the worst of it - the man was *right.*

It was lucky, honestly, that Sebastian still held his strangely deep loyalty to the man. Otherwise, this… could truly have turned out the way Faulkner feared.

But this was so much simpler, and so much more complicated.

“The other night, when you had me bring him back to his room after his sparring session. He was worked up. Once the door shut, he… challenged me. He needed to be put in his place.” He ran his tongue over his teeth,  swallowing as if re-centering himself. As if recalling something that actually disturbed him. “It was that or break his face. I knew you didn't want him damaged.”

**

“So you *put* him in his place?”

Faulkner let the words sit on his tongue for a long moment, still eyeing Sebastian; studying him, reading the unreadable.

Standing uncomfortably close, Faulkner’s voice was dripping with suspicion. It was intentional, calculated, like all of his actions; and the unspoken, dangerous threat didn’t need words to be understood. Not from someone as intelligent as Sebastian.

This was either really good news… or exceptionally bad ones.

Faulkner would have yet to find out.

All of this made sense. The glimpses. The strange tension between his two favourite dogs. The heavy silence when they were in the same room.

All of this made sense… and didn’t.

It wasn’t like Sebastian to resort to fucking Jacob – without permission, even – but Faulkner found that he *wished* it were.

Perhaps this was nothing more than two dogs fighting for dominance, possibly laced with something as trivial as jealousy. Perhaps this was Sebastian *finally* finding his place.

But what if he were wrong?

“Normally, I’d congratulate you on your resolve and progress, but why now? Weren’t you eager to reassure me only minutes ago that your method of using *touch* to control him was a success? Weren’t you adamant on insisting he didn’t do anything and wouldn’t need behavioural *adjustment*? To me, it doesn’t sound as if you have the situation under control, Sebastian.”

**

The young soldier looked down at Faulkner, inhaling a long, slow breath. His heart remained steady and calm, pulsing slow and even.

“Yes. I did.”

Sometimes, in extremely rare occurrences, Sebastian truly wished that he could have let go of that last part of himself. That he could have become everything Faulkner needed him to be. That he could *do* everything Faulkner wanted him to do.

This was not one of those times.

But he could, at least, make it believable that he had finally crossed that line.

“Because he was high on cocaine and adrenaline. The touch isn't as effective when *he's* not present. And you needed him to… not be compromised. So I did what was necessary.” He tensed his jaw, just slightly,  before lowering his eyes and softening his tone. “I apologize for acting out of turn. I do. But his behavior *has been* corrected,  sir. I think you'll find he won't try it again.”

**

“Hm.”

For a long moment, Faulkner let his gaze burn into Sebastian’s form. Searching. Examining. Analysing.

Sebastian’s breathing was as steady as his pulse, his argumentation sound and rational. His gaze was clear and unapologetic. If for the apology itself. It was hard to read someone who was as controlled as Sebastian, but he was loyal. And Faulkner couldn’t find a single sign in his expression that he was remotely insecure or agitated. Nothing that would indicate the boy didn’t speak the truth.

Finally, after an eternity, Faulkner relaxed his shoulders and stepped away from Sebastian, returning to his chair behind the desk. He didn’t smile. There was no reason to, but he could let his concerns rest for now.

“Good.” He folded his hands. “Apology accepted.”

**

Faulkner wasn't pleased. Not by a long shot. And Sebastian was certain there would still be repercussions. Severe ones, possibly.

But he seemed *convinced.*

And Sebastian had long ago learned to take the small victories.

“Thank you, sir.”

He turned to follow Faulkner's movements, continuing to face him as the man sat down again.

“I assure you he's under control. He just needs refinement.”

**

“*So do you.*”

The answer came swiftly and without pause, gaze hard and relentless on Sebastian.

But the boy was correct. If Jacob’s behaviour had been corrected, his methods proved him right, and Faulkner could accept that. He could not, however, accept to be played like that.

“I’m still disappointed, Sebastian. Very disappointed. I have watched you closely over the last months and, yes, I have been very impressed. A mistake as foolish as this one is not like you. You should have reported the incident right away, and you know that.” He cleared his throat.

“But I trust you will continue to be able to handle Jacob- Because I do plan on transferring the responsibility for him onto you,” he paused, his gaze stern. “*Eventually.* When he is… more submissive. And *you* had time to contemplate your decisions. I had intended to start your training soon, but you will have to prove yourself again before I can risk giving you responsibility for someone as dangerous as him, even temporarily.”

**

That response was almost brutal, but it was so in line with what Sebastian had come to expect that he did not flinch in the face of the man's controlled anger.

Still. It stung. And that perhaps was the most confusing.

Faulkner's disappointment still *hurt.* Even if it were the best possible outcome of this particular situation. Even if he had long ago lost the idolizing spark he had held for the man. He still yearned for Faulkner's approval; to meet his standards of perfection.

Faulkner still represented perhaps the only way to become something more. Something *better.*

Sure, he could argue his position. He could insist that there was time only for a split second decision. But spending any more time or attention on building upon a lie was far too risky to pursue.

And that,  too, would be unlike him,  after all. Faulkner was used to straightforward explanations and reasoning. And Sebastian never made excuses. He took his reprimands and punishments with dignity.

“I understand, sir. I won't disappoint you again.”

**

“You better won’t.”

His features softened, ever so slightly. Nothing his more simple-minded men would even notice. But Sebastian would.

“Because I still have great plans for you, Sebastian. If you prove yourself worthy. Don’t let Jacob distract you.” For a moment, his gaze hardened again; another warning, another threat, wordless, but delivered with precision.

“Don’t let him *surpass* you.”

Because everyone could be replaced, in one way or another. And perhaps there was more to Jacob than a rabid animal on a leash. Sebastian should never forget that he wasn’t the only one with *potential* here.

“That being said, I appreciate you are *finally* coming to your senses. It’s good to see you do what’s necessary. I have been waiting for a long time to see that happen. I welcome your progress and will put it to the test.”

**

*Don't let Jacob distract you.*

Fuck, but it was far too late for that, wasn't it? And yet… he was still here. Still performing perfectly, technically speaking. Even with his own hidden, darker secrets that, frankly, were so, so much worse. So much harder to keep under wraps until the right moment.

So it was… almost insulting, really, to think that he'd be so easily thrown off. He was better than that. Always had been.

*Don't let him **surpass** you.*

Sebastian inhaled sharply, tensing his jaw slightly. Just enough to give Faulkner a reaction that he could read. A reaction he wanted, most likely. One that he felt very, *very* deep down inside his chest, too closely tied into that ache to be *good enough*.

An ache that he had already begun letting go of. Because there was no way Faulkner would let him live, let alone take his place, once he dropped his bombshell.

“Of course,  sir. As you command.”

**

“Good. I expect to see your report on Jacob by tomorrow morning.”

Faulkner nodded, noticing with satisfaction the clench of Sebastian’s jaw.

Perfect.

He knew the boy would adjust his own behaviour himself. Too eager to please. Too loyal to accept anything else but his approval.

“I will *also* think about your punishment. Don’t think I will let you go unpunished after making a mistake as grave as this one. But you can send in Jacob tonight.”

Jacob’s punishments were always easier. He was still so simple in his needs, unable to control them. Or himself. At least for now. Pain and humiliation did the trick. And the denial of his favourite treats. If he weren’t in line already, he would be, by the end of the night.

For Sebastian, he needed something more refined.

Faulkner was certain that his disapproval would gnaw at the boy; and maybe someone with a weaker grip and less ambition would think that would be punishment enough. But he wasn’t known to be *lenient*. It needed to hurt more than a stern gaze, a hard word, and the bruised pride of a *favourite*. Even if he knew that perhaps, those things would be enough already, and that Sebastian would show his best behaviour again in the morning, without protest, without excuses, without a pout or scowl or frown.

No, Faulkner would need something far more personal.

**

Faulkner had never been one not to call a bluff, and Sebastian was once again incredibly grateful for his own fucking forethought.

“Not a problem,  sir.” He'd not even need to add anything else tonight, though he would give it another read before handing it over. Just to be safe.

More concerning was Faulkner's promise of a punishment. The man had a habit of getting *creative.* The punishments he'd come up with… those had a habit of getting under his skin. Creating scars and nightmares of their own.

He didn't fear Faulkner himself. But the threat of a special punishment for a *grave mistake* was enough to cause a sinking weight of dread to form in his gut.

God, he hoped that Jacob would have it easier.

“Yes, sir.”

**

Faulkner had to admit; he didn’t know many men who took a punishment and reprimand with as much grace and dignity as Sebastian did. He didn’t suffer through it. He *accepted* it.

Never had he complained or made excuses. Never had he begged or, worse, tried to negotiate.

No. Sebastian stood straight and tall as he received his punishments, faced the consequences of his actions with acceptance, as rare as they admittedly were. He welcomed the inevitable sanctions with an understanding for his own failures, with pride and respect. And he *never* made the same mistake twice.

A smirk on his lips, Faulkner raised a brow.

“Of course not. Why *would* it be a problem, after all?”

Perhaps all of this was a good sign. Perhaps initial difficulties were bound to happen, after Sebastian had refused to perform certain tasks for so long. Perhaps this was even… forgivable. Once he had received his punishment. With grace and dignity and respect.

And Faulkner was getting a good idea of how he wanted the sanctions to look like.

Tomorrow morning, Sebastian would find his office half empty. Devoid of the plants he so desperately clung to. A sentimental, useless attachment Faulkner didn’t understand. But he didn’t need to understand it to *use* it. Perhaps he would hold onto one of them himself; put on display in his office as a reminder.

Sebastian would find his office half empty and wouldn’t return to his quarters in the evening. Not for a week. Not for as long as it had taken him to reveal his *secret* to Faulkner. Because Faulkner didn’t like secrets; and the boy should have known better, insecure or not. He would be brought to a room like Jacob’s. A room *exactly* like Jacob’s. No windows. No hot water. No *kitchen*.

Just another small reminder of how easy it was to fall from grace. How easy it was to be replaced by a rabid dog. Of  how similar they were, and how quickly one could be turned into the other. A reminder of how things had been and could be again, if Sebastian wasn’t careful.

It would do him good, teach him modesty and humbleness again. And maybe *some* rivalry with Jacob would do him good, too, to get back on track.

Then, Faulkner knew, the real work would begin. To build him up. To groom him. To start a new phase of his training. If he behaved. If he didn’t continue making mistakes.

“You’re dismissed,” he finally said, watching Sebastian’s measured steps as he left the room.

Yes, he could marvel at the masterpiece he’d created, with pride *and* regret.

And he could see it. In Sebastian’s calm. His efficiency. His ruthlessness, if needed. Pulling fingernails with the same expression he’d recounted the weekly report.

Faulkner could see his *heir*.

Because broken men couldn’t lead.

Sebastian, however, could.

Whenever Faulkner looked at Sebastian, he couldn’t help but feel proud.

Proud, but… *regretful*.

This man could very well have been his masterpiece; trained early, raised *just* right, loyalty and viciousness perfectly balanced in one mind, skilled and collected and highly intelligent. Possibly worthy of becoming Faulkner’s successor, even… if not for those lost five years.

Five years without contact. Five years in which Faulkner hadn’t been able to shape him. To *control* his development and education. Five years in which the boy had been almost ruined.

Those five years that had brought back a different man.

It had been with regret that Faulkner had heard the first *no*, after Sebastian’s return.

Rare as it would be, it was a noticeable crack in otherwise shining loyalty. A flaw in an otherwise perfect display of obedience.

Nobody was at fault here, sadly, except for those who were already dead, and that was frustrating. Faulkner pretended to be understanding of Sebastian’s shortcomings. He could comprehend, to a degree, that this boy needed *time*, but it had been years now, and Sebastian still shied away from certain… *necessities*.

But perhaps, where Sebastian had failed, Jacob would eventually step in, given time and the right training. He was still too unstable, too unpredictable and his loyalty and obedience entirely dependent on treats and rewards, threats and punishments, but he had already proven to be useful. Jacob *didn’t* say no, anymore.

But a broken man couldn’t lead. He could just obey.

Jacob would be a rabid dog on a leash, for the rest of his life, barely tamed. Perhaps. Or perhaps he could be more. The future would tell. His blind obedience and gratitude were a good start.

At best, Faulkner would have two loyal dogs at his disposal. One for business. One for the gritty work. Brains and fangs.

But what he *really* needed, was an heir.

Leaning back in his office chair, listening carefully, Faulkner eyed Sebastian with interest as he spoke, the heavy hardwood desk between them.

Faulkner could admire the way Sebastian stood in front of his desk, could admire the hard work and patience he’d poured into this boy; the way he stood straight and still, attentive, yet relaxed. His eyes focused, his voice measured, his speech well-articulated; recounting stats and updates without using as much as a single note.

This promising young man was professional in his office and an attack dog in the streets; a perfect amalgam of businessman and killer. Pulling fingernails with the same expression he recounted the weekly report now. Feared, respected and *respectful*.

Faulkner had taught him all the right things. Discipline. Obedience. Manners.

It would be *so easy* to move him into the right position. Local politics first; but who knew how far he could rise, with a face and self-control like his? Criminal records could disappear quickly. It wouldn’t even be difficult. And Sebastian was handsome, well-spoken; with a carefully modulated voice that could *almost* match Faulkner’s. His eyes as clear and alert as they were intense.

And even better, he could *lead*.

All in all, Sebastian would be the perfect successor; the perfect heir.

If not for this one flaw. The blemish on his otherwise impressive record.

He’d certainly have to learn to be more talkative, to smile more and not shy away from touch; handshakes and pats on shoulders and backs were as popular as ever. He would also have to learn to do *all* the dirty work, but Sebastian was still young and Faulkner was not old yet. He could learn.

There still was a ray of hope. There still was… time.

Faulkner had seen improvements in his attitude. He’d attempted to do what he’d refused for almost five years now. He’d help fuck Jacob into submission again, and as short-lived as the joy over this advancement was, it gave Faulkner hope that this boy could be saved from his own misguided morals. From his inhibitions. Or whatever held him back.

It would take some refinement, but for today, Faulkner was pleased, nodding curtly as Sebastian finished his report.

“Excellent,” he said, eyeing the boy with his signature smile. Suave, as likeable as it was unreadable, and perfectly crafted for newspapers and tv screens.

“Move the shipping to next week. I don’t care how. We can’t risk the coast guard sniffing around tomorrow. And reschedule the meeting with the chief of police. He needs to learn to inform us *in time*. We will let him simmer for a day or two,” he stood and moved, straightening his grey suit; tailored, elegant, never pretentious. A *classic*, like Faulkner himself.

At the liquor cabinet by the window, he poured himself a drink. He didn’t ask Sebastian. The time for coffee was over. Business was over. It was time for his guard dog’s treat.

“You’re done for today. You did well, Sebastian. Exceptionally well. Then again,” he chuckled softly, and took a long moment to look out of the window, taking a sip; his back still towards Sebastian, if only to keep the boy waiting for a second longer.

“I didn’t expect anything else from you.”

There *was* one thing that had troubled Faulkner recently, about this extraordinary young man that needed *just* an ounce of refinement. Glimpses. Eye contact that lasted just a bit too long. Food exchanged over the canteen table. Faulkner had watched. The slow approach of his two favourite little dogs. He hadn’t minded, at first. They would have to work together, after all. And he had followed with interest how Sebastian had kept this bloodthirsty bulldozer of a man under control.

Something had changed, however, in the past few days. A certain tension that was almost palpable. Something Faulkner couldn’t pinpoint yet.

But he would.

**

Reporting to Faulkner had always been a little nerve wracking, even now, even if Sebastian didn't outwardly show it.

He knew with confidence that he had little to worry about. Faulkner demanded perfection, and Sebastian had grown into his role through nearly two decades of his guidance. There were few surprises in regards to his expectations, at least; and more often than not,  Sebastian executed his orders with precision.

But memories died hard, and he knew too well the consequences of failure. Or, of Faulkner's anger,  if he were to find out about that one recent afternoon that now lived rent-free in Sebastian's head.

But today, to all appearances, he was relaxed and confident as he gave his report, and he was inwardly relieved to see the approval in Faulkner's hard eyes. He got a smile, even; something that used to make his heart swell and his stomach flutter. Now, it only made breathing that much easier.

He nodded at the new string of orders, letting his eyes follow Faulkner's movement across the room. “Of course sir. I'll have your schedule updated by the end of the day.” Sebastian was careful to keep the flutter of pride out of his voice as he watched Faulkner get himself a drink, but it was impossible not to feel it. Between the balance he had to keep, juggling so many secrets of his own, it felt goddamn good to still pull this shit off so perfectly. And he had so little to feel good about anymore.

“Thank you, sir.”

**

With a smile, Faulkner finally turned and nodded his approval, his eyes roaming once more over Sebastian’s impressive figure, still on the exact same spot in front of the desk. He hadn’t moved. It didn’t even look as if he’d had as much as breathed. It really *was* a shame that he carried this one flaw, all too obvious over his otherwise perfect performance. Because sometimes, the young man reminded him of himself. Collected and precise. Calm and determined. Intelligent and lethal.

*There is still time*, he reminded himself and took another sip. *For both of them.*

For now, he had to be patient, and he would watch Sebastian’s progress carefully. Especially after he had found out what was going on between him and Jacob. He’d watch this beast carefully, as well.

Another nod, and he raised the index and middle finger of his free hand.

Today, they didn’t point at the floor, like they so often did. Today, he pointed them at the large desk instead; the gesture sharp and precise, commanding Sebastian to move and fulfil the task at hand. It didn’t need further verbal specification of *what* Sebastian was ordered to do. After almost nineteen years, he *knew*.

No, *today*, Faulkner wouldn’t command him to strip and kneel and wet his cock sufficiently before he fucked him; he wouldn’t command him to wet it as much or as  little as he liked. As much or as little as Sebastian thought he *deserved*. And wasn’t it interesting, to see him struggle with that; with deciding how much he deserved?

But recently, Sebastian had been very good. He had earned his treat; and that would include a proper lubrication. He would even be allowed to remain partially clothed, as much of a pity that was. Jacob was a lot less complicated, but also a lot less suitable to take over Faulkner’s small empire.

“It’s time for your reward.”

**

That nod, that smile, used to be something he'd lived and breathed for; something that he'd loved and adored and dreamt about. In his naïve years,  so far away now they almost felt like a different life,  he'd almost believed there was something behind it.

But these days he knew better.

Just as he'd finally figured out the truth with Elias. He'd long ago learned that he could not trust his heart. And he could not allow anyone to find out that it was, by all means, his greatest weakness. He couldn't afford for it to be used against him.

But it was difficult not to still feel those echoes for Faulkner even now, after all these years of careful conditioning. Difficult not to admire the brutal elegance of the man in that power suit, and those hard, grey-blue eyes that he didn't hesitate to meet. Difficult not to still feel… something. As much as he remained unwilling to identify or acknowledge it.

Just as he felt *something* for Jacob. Something that, strangely enough, felt entirely new and the same, simultaneously.

And so his mouth went just a little dry as those fingers raised, directing him to the desk; the gesture sending a deep shudder down his spine and a single throb between his legs. That,  too, was complicated; despite how deeply it had been burned into him; the reaction that made him sick half the time now, if he allowed himself the luxury of thought or reflection. But of course, as with any order, Sebastian showed no hint of hesitation or delay, moving finally to step forward, his fingers moving to unbutton and unzip his trousers.

He exhaled slowly as he bent, forehead pressed to the hardwood, focusing on counting his breaths as he waited.

**

Faulkner couldn’t remember how many times he’d watched Sebastian bend over for him. So easily. So willingly. Obediently. Hundreds of times? Thousands, even? After so many years, it was hard to tell, and it didn’t quite matter, really, but there was something about it that made Faulkner feel proud. Again.

Sebastian made him proud quite often.

He couldn’t help the feeling of accomplishment as he watched, standing unmoving and still himself by the liquor cabinet, only his eyes following Sebastian’s movements. This man, right here, was *his* work, and both of them knew. The efficiency and calm of his movements. The silent submission. The skill outside of this office. This was Faulkner’s achievement. His guidance, his training, his strict hand and stern gaze.

Nowadays, something like nostalgia mingled with the pride, when he watched; unhurried and admiring. Nowadays, he could almost see a timelapse in front of his inner eye. From the thin, but wiry boy he’d once been – a boy full of promise and potential - to the proud young soldier... to the truly magnificent man he now was. Still full of promise and potential. Perhaps more than ever. This, as well, the future would tell.

Moments passed. Seconds. Minutes.

Faulkner liked to revel in those moments, to savour them for years to come. And patience was as much a virtue as humbleness; and those minutes of waiting would remind Sebastian of both.

After taking one last sip from his glass, he put it down again, reaching for something else in the cabinet; a small bottle of lube that remained unused, most of the time. Today, however, Sebastian had excelled, and a special reward was due.

He could hear his own measured steps on the carpet as he approached Sebastian’s spread out form, so perfectly aligned with the desk, radiating strength and submission alike; breathing and waiting in anticipation. Faulkner came to a halt and stood behind him; close, but still not touching, putting the small plastic bottle on the desk next to him, so Sebastian could hear it.

Finally, he reached out to sprawl one hand out on Sebastian’s back. Solid. Firm. Possessive. Pushing him down with an appreciative hum.

“Now, tell me, how good have you been, Sebastian?”

**

**

Time had a horrible habit of standing still, in these moments. Every second became an hour, and every breath felt like an eternity. He never knew how long Faulkner would make him wait.

Or if this would be… painful, or pleasant.

These days, of course, that much at least was somewhat more predictable. The more he managed to please Faulkner, the better this would be. But… Sebastian never really *knew.* It wasn't beyond the scope of reality for things to switch. Even as a reward.

Still. He breathed in as he listened to the steady footsteps drawing closer, and breathed out at the soft sound of the bottle being set on the desk. That sound, at least, brought relief. Faulkner only brought that bottle out when he was particularly happy. When Sebastian had been practically *perfect.*

Faulkner's hand on his back felt enormous - solid and warm,  heavier than it should be. A weight that required nearly zero effort to push him down, to bury or drown him; both familiar and deeply comforting.

His heart rate picked up as his breathing slowed, murmuring his response just as clearly and succinctly as he'd given his report.

“I've been very good, sir. The very best I can be. For you.”

**

“Indeed, you have been. And I won’t accept anything else from you. You do know that, don’t you?”

He chuckled almost softly; a rare sound and reserved for special occasions. But he was pleased. With Sebastian’s work. With his improvement. With his *answer*.

No, he couldn’t help but feel nostalgic sometimes, seeing the passing of time in Sebastian’s face as much as in his own. In gestures, situations and answers as familiar as these. Trained and ingrained into this remarkable man.

It was strange now, at times, to compare him to Jacob; this new little wolf under his roof.

At times, Faulkner thought they couldn’t be more different. Other times, he saw a likeness between them that was striking… and possibly dangerous.

This very situation, however, they couldn’t handle more differently.

Where Sebastian submitted quietly and without any form of resistance, where his body was pliant and calm beneath Faulkner, Jacob still visibly struggled. Oh, he did obey. He knew better than misbehaving these days, but his agitation and unrest was noticeable under Faulkner’s fingertips. He felt every shudder of fear or anger or lust. He could see it in his eyes, too, could hear it in his moans and gasps and growls. Jacob had yet to learn to control his emotions and impulses. A feral beast of a man, fighting against fate, struggling with his new role.

Whereas Sebastian had found it. Almost, at least.

“Good boy.”

Faulkner’s hand left Sebastian’s back to push his pants down to his knees; buttons opened and unzipped without hesitation. The boy knew his role; and he knew what he was supposed to do. He knew to be respectful.

With a soft pop, he opened the bottle of lube, feeling the first signs of throbbing in his own cock. Slow, steady, but exciting. But just like Sebastian, Faulkner knew discipline. He knew patience. So he ignored it for now, coated his finger with lube and reached between the boy’s cheeks. **

With a soft noise of affirmation, Sebastian would nod, his voice rough.

“Yes sir.”

It wasn't just an instinctive response. Far from it, these days, when he actively sought to impress, to please, to meet and exceed every expectation Faulkner threw his way. No matter what the man wanted from him.

Hell, he would hand him the head of the man he'd *loved* on a silver platter. Faulkner just… didn't know that, yet.

His submission to Faulkner was almost perfect, in every regard, really. Except for that little wild streak in him, that desperate flame he fought to hold onto, that tiny piece of *himself* that he refused to allow to flicker out.

But this… no, he didn't bother to fight this. Not since the beginning. This was a battle not worth losing.

He'd inhale audibly at the praise, focusing on how his fingers feel against the wooden surface of the desk as his pants slide down past his thighs; as a cold slick finger presses against his entrance. He can't help the way his own cock stirs; slow, but thick and heavy between his legs. Another conditioned response, completely separate from his unreliable heart.

*Breathe. Just breathe.*

**

“Relax. You’ll enjoy this.”

It was rare that Faulkner took his time like this, running his fingertips over Sebastian’s entrance a few times, teasing, circling, before slowly pushing inside. But the boy had earned it. He’d earned the pleasure. He’d earned Faulkner’s attention. And his *time*.

In this regard, the mayor had always been particular. Just as he was particular with his praise.

It was important to show he wasn’t in a hurry. It was important to show that this was, indeed, a special treat. For exceptional behaviour and obedience.

After all, it was important to be as clear and determined with praise as with punishment. Both were useful tools to shape wanted behaviours and ensure lasting loyalty. But most people failed to recognise that praise and rewards were *just* as important as pain and sanctions and criticism. It was why Faulkner succeeded, where others failed. It was what Jacob was learning just now, and what Sebastian had already soaked up with his flesh and bones.

He hummed softly as he pushed a second finger inside, probing slowly and deliberately, gradually stretching Sebastian open for his cock; swelling and hardening with every moment passing. Reaching forward, he rested his other hand on the boy’s shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into the skin beneath his shirt with his thumb.

“*Very* good boy.”

**

*Relax.*

That word alone was nearly enough to throw his body into autopilot, exhaling deeply as the tension slowly left his muscles. He stopped focusing on his fingertips, his mind centering inward again,  his eyes closing out the light of this giant lavish hell.

He focused instead on the darkness behind his eyelids, breathing in, breathing out. Counting his heartbeats, feeling more and more detached from his useless body until he can see pinpoints of stars,  grounding him just enough to keep from breaking completely. Just enough to keep his heartbeat steady through the unshakeable threat of collapse.

Yes, he could still feel those intrusive fingers,  but they no longer mattered. Neither did the gentle hand at his shoulder, no doubt meant to be reassuring, some shadow of kindness and affection. Neither did those awful words, meant to be the highest of compliments, meant to be *comforting*, but left him feeling lower than bones in the dirt.

And neither did the soft moan he let out in response, an empty reaction that felt no deeper than a scar, but expected.

Sebastian had become very, very good at meeting expectations.

*

He could feel Sebastian breathe around him, tense and full of anticipation. Until that tension left him. Until he could hear the soft, sweet moan.

“That’s it. Good.”

It was time now. Sebastian was well prepared and… *open*, lying bare and ready in front of him, like sacrifice on an altar. This had never changed, apart from a few early and expected struggles; and with deep satisfaction, Faulkner withdrew his fingers, letting them slide up Sebastian’s crack deliberately until they hit thin air.

Finally, it was time to open his own fly, to open his buttons and zipper, letting Sebastian hear the familiar noise. Allowing him to prepare for what was coming. And once again, he took the bottle of lube, pouring some of it onto his hand before putting it down again. All deliberate. All precise. All so Sebastian could hear.

Quiet, familiar sounds. Without hectic. Without rush.

Just a soft exhale, and Faulkner freed his own cock, bringing it to full hardness with a few gentle strokes, slicking it up properly before slowly pushing inside the heat of Sebastian’s body. His hand wandered now, to the boy’s front, finding him half hard before wrapping his hand around him.

“See? I told you, you would like it.”

**

Faulkner had never been like the rest. It had started so early,  so… routine. This too, even with his variations,  was more or less predictable.

Even if the frequency of these occurrences themselves had slowed down with time, which was complicated enough in its own right. Sebastian often grappled with himself over whether what he actually felt was relief or jealousy since Jacob had come into the picture.

Which meant this… hadn't happened in some time. Once upon a time,  that would have felt like a punishment on its own.

But now, Faulkner was making a show of being practically gentle. Using the lube, taking it slow. His deep voice soothing and warm and melodic.

It didn't matter.

There was no panic here.

And Sebastian was already far,  far away.

It didn't hurt as Faulkner filled him, the lube making this easy for once. Even the hand around his cock would have felt good, really, if Sebastian himself was still there. His cock responded, but he only moaned softly, eyes still closed as he obediently pressed his ass back.

**

“You should know better than not giving confirmation, Sebastian.”

Faulkner set a steady rhythm, measured and precise; his hand moving from Sebastian’s shoulder to his head, combing through that thick, dark hair with a smile.

Yes, it would be easy to move him into the right positions. Looks like his would get him far, paired with that sharp mind and discipline. He’d look fantastic on screen. He’d win over the hearts of business partners, voters and even influential politicians alike. Until he would be one of them.

But it was moments like this one where Sebastian and Jacob weren’t much alike. Even here, this boy was collected. Quiet. Pushing back against Faulkner’s cock in the same measured way Faulkner fucked him. Where Jacob was huffing and grunting and moaning with each thrust, whether it be from pain or arousal, Sebastian was *in control*. It made reading him so much harder, but Faulkner didn’t have to read him anymore. Not normally. Sebastian was loyal and obedient, as ever.

But it still bothered Faulkner; the not-knowing. Whatever had happened between his favourite dogs, it was noticeable. It was irritating. It was worrisome. Perhaps it was simply jealousy, but he had to know.

The hand around Sebastian’s cock kept stroking, just as steadily and persistently, until Faulkner could feel him swell and harden beneath his fingers.

“There you go.”

**

Faulkner's voice filtered through slowly,  trickling through the fog in Sebastian’s brain like molasses. Not angry, not yet. The hand in his hair wasn't even rough - almost affectionate, if he didn't know any better. But still,  he'd been given a warning that Sebastian was not stupid enough not to acknowledge, his voice soft with just the right amount of breathlessness.

“I - I'm sorry. Been so long… I got… a little lost.”

He'd crane his neck slightly, arching into Faulkner's touch. Gods, if he were ten years younger, he might have fallen for this; these gentle touches, this false affection. Almost enough to make him feel wanted. Needed.

As if any of this were real.

“Feels… so good. You're so good to me.”

Thankfully his cock is cooperating this time, responding to those relentless strokes right on cue, as if he actually *means* what he says. As if he gives a single fuck what Faulkner does to him.

“Please…”

**

A simple *yes sir* would have been enough, but seeing a desperation as honest and raw as this was… almost endearing; an echo of times long gone, of the boy Sebastian had once been.

“I’m good to you because you earned it.”

The begging came as a surprise, but Faulkner could feel his cock twitch in response. He valued the control Sebastian exerted over himself. His actions. His words. The tone of his voice.  Every aspect of his being was measured and deliberate. It was what had impressed Faulkner. It was what would make this boy… suitable for more. Perhaps even destined for greatness.

It had taken time for Sebastian to grow from the squirming, wiry boy to the proud man on the desk now. And the amount of discipline he’d shown after he’d return from those five lost years was… remarkable.

“Have I neglected you, Sebastian?” he chuckled for a moment and stilled, combing through the boy’s hair a few times. “You aren’t… jealous of Jacob, are you?”

That would be ridiculous.

Jacob was a wolf in human form. Useful, deadly, but entirely unsophisticated. Entirely out of control and a victim of his urges and impulses. Faulkner would know. He’d made him this way. It would be interesting to see if there was more to him, if he could overcome his feral state and be more than a thoughtless asset. If there was still a mind beneath that monster; a man that could think and rationalise. But for now, he really wasn’t competition for Sebastian to fear. No, broken men couldn’t lead.

Sebastian could.

But there was something to be said about the sound of his voice as he *begged*.

A surprise, but a good one.

Maybe Faulkner really  had neglected Sebastian.

Maybe the underlying problem between Jacob and him really was just that simple and inherently natural: the jealousy of two rivalling dogs. Faulkner could certainly handle that.

For now, however, the mayor couldn’t leave the beg unanswered. Good behaviour deserved rewards. Positive reinforcement was a necessity, after all. So, with a smile, Faulkner picked up the speed, thrusting harder and faster into Sebastian’s willing body.

Yes, jealousy could be a useful tool here, and Faulkner could see the opportunities that would arise. Maybe he even *hoped* it was as simple as that. He could use jealousy and envy it to his advantage, to push Sebastian further. Maybe it would help the boy to accept his role in all of this; to tend to the tasks he’d been shying away from. Maybe a rival had been what he’d needed all along. To fight for Faulkner’s attention again instead of taking it for granted.

Oh yes, a situation like this, he could handle.

**

No,  Sebastian didn't give a single fuck what Faulkner did to him, these days. But he had become very good at *pretending* that he did. The little beg had given him no shame, because it had been his choice - and it hadn't been real to begin with.

“No, sir. I… I understand, sir. You've been so good to me.”

The idea that he'd be jealous of Jacob was laughable, really. If he didn't actually feel *bad* for the man,  he'd be rejoicing that Faulkner's attention to his new pet had given Sebastian a much-needed reprieve.

But begging had its purpose, and it worked like a charm.

The moan of relief that escaped his throat as Faulkner picked up the pace was almost real. He had long ago lost the desire for anything slow or gentle or affectionate; Sebastian was under no illusion that any of this was *real,* and taking it slow often only felt worse, in the end.

This way, at least, it would be over soon.

He closed his eyes against the desk, trying once again to separate his mind *just* enough, as if he were pulling himself under control rather than escaping. But this time -

This time it was different.

Faulkner had said *his* name, and something curled and coiled in his gut; and before he knew it Sebastian's mind had latched onto the thought like a lifeline. Suddenly it was no longer Faulkner’s cock pounding into him, but Jacob's.

Jacob's hand brushing through his hair.

For the first time in a long time, Sebastian pushed back into the thrusts, subtly, but perfectly matching Faulkner's pace, as if he were trying to gain his attention again.

**

“Good,” Faulkner chuckled, breath barely strained, still as collected and composed as ever. “Jealousy wouldn’t suit you.”

He wasn’t entirely certain if he could believe Sebastian. There was still something… off. Something subtle in the air. Unspoken and almost not there. A shift. A disturbance. A spark.

Sparks could be dangerous. They could light the way to a bright future – or set empires in flames. It could lead to either a shining light or a massive explosion. And Faulkner was a careful man. He didn’t take risks. He would find out.

Sebastian’s moan came as a surprise. Raw and beautiful and almost greedy. There was life in his impressive body after all, as it pushed back ever so subtly. Taking in more of Faulkner’s cock, meeting the hard, powerful thrusts. Yes, he *had* neglected Sebastian. It had made the boy perfectly needy. For Faulkner’s attention. His approval. His time. And he could use that to his advantage, as well.

“There you go. Good boy. You like this, don’t you?”

With a soft groan, nothing more than a hushed noise, he placed his hand on the small of Sebastian’s back, still solid, still heavy, keeping it there for a moment before pushing it further up his spine, slowly, ever so slowly, under the black dress shirt, revealing the equally black ink Faulkner had never approved of.

But it had been too late when he had found out, would hinder Sebastian’s political career, should Faulkner decide to let him follow in his steps. The only consolation here was that Sebastian knew to cover it all up; Faulkner’s expectations unspoken, but respected. Sebastian was his masterpiece, after all.

**

“No sir.”

No, he's not jealous. Not of Jacob.

Faulkner, on the other hand…

Faulkner, who has his freedom. Who has his control and his privacy. Faulkner, who has the power of decision and choice.

Faulkner, who can touch Jacob at will.

Sebastian breathed, trying to let go of *that* dangerous thought. It would do him no good to acknowledge it; not here.

“Yes, sir.”

He hated it, but what did that matter? Faulkner, at least, was relatively kind to Sebastian. Even when he got rough, he wasn't *trying* to hurt him. Not like he was with Jacob. But even then…

Faulkner was nothing like Elias. Nothing like the man who had stopped pretending as soon as he'd hooked Sebastian in his claws, who took what he wanted, when he wanted, and left him bleeding every time.

Faulkner was… easy. His baseline. And he had never known anything better, really.

He was hard in Faulkner's hand, letting out the softest of moans, rocking back into the man that owned him, shivering as the cool air slid across his back. Maybe that meant he did like it, after all. Maybe he really was that fucked.

Not that it mattered.

*Dogs don't choose their owners.*

**

Faulkner could feel the telltale signs of pleasure pooling deep in his stomach. An electric current gathering at the base of his spine, waiting to crawl, waiting to spread. And he could see the signs of arousal in Sebastian, too. The subtle shivers. The soft breaths and moans. The hardness of his massive cock as he pushed back eagerly. Like a good boy. Like Faulkner had taught him. For decades.

But he wasn’t unhinged. He wasn’t hopeless. Never was. Never would be. He wasn’t anything like Jacob, that feral animal. Sebastian was in control, even here, even succumbing to pleasure, enjoying his reward. Like a good boy. Like Faulkner had taught him.

It was with a soft chuckle that he stilled his hips, one hand roaming up Sebastian’s tattooed spine, the other still wrapped around his cock, giving it long, deliberate strokes. He could feel the tip wet and heated as he took a moment to gather the fluids with his thumb, spreading it gently around the head, rubbing along the slit.

“Are you ready, Sebastian? Do you want your reward now?”

**

His breath caught in his throat when he felt Faulkner go still again; for a single, terrifying moment, he thought he'd been caught.

Had he slipped? Had he spoken a name aloud?

But no, clearly not; Faulkner was still working him up, and his heart could relax, even as his cock jumped at the extra attention. Sebastian licked his lips, panting silently as he tried to get the image of Jacob's huge hands, calloused and rough and covered in blood, out of his head.

Nearly impossible not to moan; not when his stupid brain supplied him with images like *that*.

“Yes sir.” His quiet voice was even softer now as he struggled to keep himself in line; noticeably breathless, his cock dripping in Faulkner's hand. “Please sir…”

**

For a second, Faulkner could swear he could sense something like fear in Sebastian’s muscles.

How curious.

It was by no means unwise of him to fear Faulkner. And fear was always a good instrument, even for the most loyal of his men. Even for his most dangerous, leashed dogs. But something felt off, like so often lately.

Perhaps it was only the fear that Faulkner would stop and leave him there, open and wanting; and he decided to believe it was just that, when Sebastian’s cock jumped happily in his hand. When that beautiful moan came. Unravelled, just under the surface, barely hidden by Sebastian’s controlled demeanour. *Barely.*

He chuckled.

“Aren’t you eager today, Sebastian? Very well. You’ve been so good. You earned it.”

And with that, he picked up the pace in earnest, his fist closing tighter around the boy’s excited flesh, smearing slick all over his length.

With that, Faulkner allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment, letting his thoughts quieten down. The plans, the worries of a man born to lead, the visions of a bright future for Sebastian and his empire. He let it come to a halt for one precious moment, indulging in the feeling of Sebastian tight and shivering around him, a wet cock in his hand as he thrust hard and with determination now.

He let some moans slip, as well, rare and low, but Sebastian had been good. He deserved a reward. And he deserved to know just *how* good he’d been.

A few more thrusts, and Faulkner came with a soft grown, both hands digging harder into Sebastian’s flesh, stilling his hips as he spilled over, his cock pumping deep inside the boy’s body, claiming and marking him like it were the first time. Somethings never lost their fascination.

“There you go.”

**

If it weren't for Faulkner's voice, he might have been undone.

That hand stroking him, firm and slick. Those harder, faster thrusts, just shy of rough, were almost perfect.

And while once upon a time, Faulkner's moans - soft and quiet and controlled as his own had become - would have been the ultimate reward, the clearest sign of the man's satisfaction; this time, they broke the spell.

He had been close. So close to the edge, so close to a release that might have actually felt good, even if only for a few moments. But instead his cock twitched and trembled as Faulkner spilled inside him, but he felt no such release.

So close.

But despite the sudden bubbling of frustration in his chest, Sebastian knew better than to let it show. As much as he wanted to close his fingers around his own cock and fuck his hand until he saw stars, he had far, far too much self control by now for *that.*

Until later, maybe. Alone again in his simple room, and alone with his dreams.

There would be no hint of frustration or dissatisfaction as he spoke, his tone controlled and compliant as always.

“Thank you sir…”

**

The last lazy twitches slowly subsided, but Faulkner took his time to draw this out, humming low in his throat as his left hand wandered back down Sebastians spine, down to his ass. He wouldn’t waste a drop, not if he could make Sebastian think of him instead. Not when he could be reminded of his determination loyalty with every step back to his quarters, carrying his gift and reward deep inside.

It was a shame he hadn’t let Faulkner reward him in even better ways, his cock still hard and straining in the mayor’s hand, almost twitching, but nothing more.

Things had become complicated here as well, after those lost five years. It had been so easy to reward the boy and young soldier. It had been satisfying to see him quiver and tremble through his sloppy, honest release, bent over and ass up for Faulkner, whimpering and begging for relief. If not with words, it had been his body who’d told the story.

But ever since those lost five years, Faulkner’s biggest regret, Sebastian had been a different man. Controlled, yes. Hardened, certainly. Even more *lethally efficient*, surely. But in moments like this, it made reading him harder. It made rewarding him harder, too.

Sebastian had returned hardened, but broken. And to Faulkner’s disappointment, it hadn’t been *him*.

“Again?”

With a sigh, his apparent dissatisfaction more brutal than a punishment could ever be, he pulled out, wiping his cock clean along Sebastian’s crevice until he was satisfied and tucked himself in again.

“It’s your reward, after all. What you do with it… is up to you.”

**

Sebastian panted softly, slowly, against the wooden desk, his heart pounding in his ears. He kept his eyes closed.

No, he hadn't managed. Too easily thrown off, too lost in his own head to convince his body to do what it was supposed to do and keep appearances up. At least he was still *hard.* But that one word from Faulkner, dripping with disappointment, was enough to make him exhale slowly, shivering.

He had come so far, in the past couple of years since he'd returned. He'd gone from not being able to react at all, to being able to successfully hide a whole goddamn relationship from the man, and still manage to come on his cock. Sometimes.

“I'm sorry. Can't… help it.”

He had been so goddamn close. But he'd managed to fuck this up with a failure.

At least Faulkner had been pleased to start with. **

With a shrug, Faulkner zipped up and closed his button. Sometimes, silence was worse than reprimands. Sometimes, disappointment and disapproval hit harder than punishments. He trusted that this quiet moment would be enough for Sebastian to meditate on both.

Straightening his suit again, he took a step back, eyeing the spread out man in front of him one last time with a raised brow. Remarkable as he was, Sebastian was still *flawed*. Indeed, refinement was necessary, before he could follow in Faulkner’s footsteps. Before he could attempt greatness.

Patience was a virtue, Faulkner reminded himself. And that wasn’t only true for his dogs.

He took a few steps towards the liquor cabinet, where his glass still stood, and with his back to Sebastian, after the mayor was certain that the boy, too, had been reminded of the importance of patience, bent over the desk; he decided to release him.

“You can dress again.”

Certainly, Sebastian would follow swiftly. Certainly, he would have his mind on other things now. This little act would mark  the end of their meetings on any other day. But not today.

Today, Faulkner intended to use this moment of quietness and distraction to interrogate. A moment of surprise was all he needed.

Taking his drink into his hand, he listened to the soft noise of a zipper before speaking again.

“So, what exactly *is* going on between you and Jacob, son?”

*

Those few moments of silence were heavy as they were no doubt intended to be. As he so often did, Sebastian found himself counting his breaths, rather than focus on the dangerous feeling of exposure, bent over with his ass up to the world.

He spoke not a word, and knew better than to move until given permission.

When it was finally given, he moved efficiently, straightening out his suit and somehow managing to button his trousers over his still-insistent erection.

Until the question caused his heart to skip a beat, but he hardly blinked as he turned around to face Faulkner.

*Son.* The term hardly made him pause - the question far more important in the moment - but later… later, he was sure that term would fuck with him all over again.

“I've been supervising him as instructed,  sir. Are you unhappy with his progress?”

**

Finally, he turned, watching with interest, his gaze stern, but not angry. Not yet. He watched Sebastian’s movements as he tucked away his massive cock, still so stubbornly hard. But he’d had his chance. He’d had his moment. And if he’d refused to let go, that was on Sebastian, not him.

It was just as interesting as seeing him struggle with wetting Faulkner’s cock. Seeing him struggle to decide what he deserved. How much pleasure. How much pain. How much reward. How much torture. Faulkner sometimes suspected his inability to find release had something to do with it.

Maybe Sebastian was sabotaging himself, over and over again.

When things could be so easy. When the world – and Faulkner’s legacy, his inheritance, his empire – could be his, in the future.

But Faulkner hadn’t given up on him. Not yet. Sebastian was still young, indeed.

“That’s *not* what I asked, Sebastian. I can see you have been supervising him. And I am not unhappy with his progress. I asked what is going on between the two of you. Don’t mistake me for a fool. That would be very dangerous.”

He raised his brow, studying Sebastian before taking a sip.

“What has he done? Does he need another behavioural adjustment? Because that can be arranged. I trust your judgement.”

**

What was dangerous, was this question.

A question that he'd known would drop, eventually. The fact that it had been *this* long already, before Faulkner had noticed enough to ask, was frankly shocking. And Sebastian had to navigate this carefully, or it would be both his own and Jacob's lives on the line.

*Oh, I'm no fool. I just know how to train him better than you do.*

Sebastian breathed in, resuming the usual stance he's known for, his hands held loosely in front of the bulge in his pants, already ignored.

“There is nothing *going on...* I've been trying a few methods of my own to get him to fall into line. You gave me freedom to experiment, and I'm using it. It's working.”

He'd tilt his head,  just slightly, unafraid as ever to meet Faulkner's eyes.

“If you trust my judgment, then *trust* me. He's come a long way. He needs no adjustment.”

**

Oh, the *spirit*.

Faulkner couldn’t help but laugh, taking the tiniest sip from his drink, looking Sebastian over with renewed interest.

This spirit was what had set the young Sebastian apart from the others already. This spirit was what had caught Faulkner’s eye. Paired with intelligence, good looks, and a gritty determination that had been rare for boys his age. It was rare for men his age, as well.

Yes, despite the flaws, despite the lost years, despite his shortcomings, Faulkner felt confident that he just might be *the one*.

It was the only reason he let Sebastian talk like this, pushing his limits almost to the point of disrespectfulness. Addressing Faulkner with more modesty and respect would do him good, but he decided to let that slide. For now.

“*Freedom to experiment?* Careful now. That is *not* what I said, and you very well know that, Sebastian.” For a second, his eyes turned icy and his smile froze.

“I do trust your judgement. Which is exactly why we are having this conversation, at all, and why you aren’t on your hands and knees on the floor right now. Do I need to remind you who you answer to? You are to supervise Jacob, but you are also to report to me. That I trust your judgment does not mean I do not expect an explanation. So do elaborate. What is going on? What are those methods?”

**

Even in the face of Faulkner's frozen stare, Sebastian did not falter. Years upon years of facing him,  *learning* him,  had built in a certain resistance to what would have most of Faulkner's other soldiers quaking. It was a trait he'd used here and elsewhere, something he had carried with him since long before his eighteenth birthday.

But he knew better than to be truly defiant,  too. Faulkner expected deference and humility. It was a razor thin line he walked, but he was well-practiced in this,  too.

“I need no reminders,  sir. I do answer to you… Preferably with complete and accurate results.”

*Here's the tricky part.*

Navigating what to tell Faulkner,  when this question eventually surfaced, had kept him awake many long nights. If Jacob were anyone else, Sebastian would have no difficulty with this, at all.

But he had to wind up *caring* about this man who reminded him so much of himself. Jacob's plight had woken a deep protective streak within him, and he'd be damned before he actually gave Faulkner ammunition to use against him.

He sure as fuck wasn't about to tell him that it had started with the careful treatment of Jacob as if he were a scared, beaten dog being tamed.

But he couldn't lie, either, or this would all end very, very quickly.

“I had intended to give you a full and proper report once I'd confirmed my methods’ efficiency. But if you'd like details… I've been exploring the use of touch. A different form of command.”

This, at least, was safe. It spoke of a certain recklessness and daring on his own part, and a shocking level of control. No one else got away with touching Jacob - Sebastian had seen one too many arms broken to know that - so it was unlikely this information could, or would, be used elsewhere.

And Faulkner himself used only brutality on him, from what Sebastian could tell.

“It’s kept him from acting out on more than one occasion. Kept him out of fights. I believe it's made him trust me.”

**

“Oh, I have seen that. And I have been *very* impressed with how well you control him.”

This time, he didn’t laugh, the cold stare still resting on Sebastian’s form as he emptied his glass.

“Which is why I allowed this to go on for so long.”

In the end, Faulkner could be a *very* pragmatic man. And he had watched Sebastian and Jacob carefully. Sometimes with worry and anger. Sometimes with satisfaction. Sometimes with undeniable pride.

It had been an unusual approach he’d seen. The food and extended walks. The strange, one-sided talks. The *touch*. Reckless. Unbelievably bold. And successful.

Certainly not an approach he would have chosen for himself. It wasn’t that he shied away from touch. He used it in his own ways. Just as successful, just as effective. With Jacob, he built on *fear* instead of trust. He didn’t need Jacob to trust him to control the monster. But Faulkner wasn’t stupid. He saw the results. He saw the effectiveness. He saw the *taming* of the most dangerous beast he’d created.

And it was important that Sebastian could control Jacob, after all, whenever Faulkner wasn’t around. Especially if he would follow through with his plan of building him up, of grooming him for greatness.

Yes, Faulkner had been impressed.

He could accept different methods if Sebastian could provide *results*. And results he’d seen, more than once. Both men worked well together, brain and fangs, and Sebastian had proven time and time again that he could handle the beast. With a touch. With a word. With a stare.

The pragmatist in Faulkner could see and respect that, and allowed it to continue.

But he could also call Sebastian’s bluff.

As much as the boy tried to divert from it. As much as his voice was unwavering, the right, respectful words on his tongue as any other day.

Something *was* going on.

The stares had changed. The air around them.

And right now, Sebastian was trying to lie.

“So when would that full and proper report have happened, son? It’s been six months now. It’s not your effectiveness I question. I have been pleased with your results and his progress. It’s the *change* that has very well been noticeable in the past week that I am questioning. I worry about his stability. We don’t need a ticking bomb around.”

**

He was trapped here, between truth and lies, a veritable Scylla and Charybdis.

There was no way out of this that wouldn't have some repercussions. Not even if he told the truth. *Especially* if he told the truth.

Because yes, something had irreversibly changed that night in Jacob's room. The world itself had shifted beneath their feet. Subtle, and not, at the same time.

And Faulkner had never, ever been stupid.

“I've been working on it. If you insist, I'll show you.”

He had, even. Sebastian knew better than to bullshit *that* - he had slowly but surely been putting together a very carefully curated written report, one that would appear fully in line with his usual meticulous standards. Documenting every single *public* interaction, the results,  his observations. One that would not appear to be lacking details, but hid the true magnitude of what he'd done.

“He's not a bomb. If you're seeing a change,  it's…”

He'd allow himself a pause,  a moment to breathe in as if he were deeply troubled. He *was,* but not for the lie.

“I fucked him.”

**

„Hm.“

Faulkner had dedicated years and decades of his life to perfecting his demeanour and appearance.

The carefully modulated voice; just the right mix of authoritarian and likeable, sympathetic and *trustworthy*. The rehearsed, practiced smiles; smooth and relatable. The carefully chosen clothes. Even his hair, speckled in the right amount of salt and pepper. Something nature only rarely could achieve.

Everything about him - his gaze, his smile, his clothes, his movements - was anything but deliberate, calculated and *man-made*.

He left nothing to chance.

He was *in control*

Yes, Faulkner had dedicated decades of his life to *perfection*.

Otherwise, he might have done a double-take.

Because Sebastian was saying was so surprising, so *shocking*, that even Faulkner needed to take a calm breath to digest. It didn‘t show, not on the outside, if for the raise of his eyebrow that he *allowed* to be seen. Whether it was in approval or disapproval, he would yet have to decide.

Forgotten the report - at least for now, he would demand it later - when there were more pressing matters at hand.

Putting the glass down, finally, he hummed and took measured steps towards Sebastian, taking his time, drawing out the moment, as he‘d liked to do. He came to a  halt in front of Sebastian again, too close for comfort, unafraid of looking into his eyes. It had never intimidated him that the boy was taller. They both knew who was in control.

„And who exactly gave you permission to do so?“

**

Safe to say his words had the desired effect.

As carefully crafted as the man was, it was pretty much impossible to witness a moment where Faulkner was caught off guard. And for almost anyone else, they'd not even notice; but Sebastian had grown up studying him, *idolizing* him; memorizing and mirroring his mannerisms. Both to know him, and to become him.

So yes, he could see it, subtle as it was. The briefest moment of hesitation. That little hum and quirk of his eyebrow as Faulkner advanced on him,  slow and steady as a predator.

This wouldn't be good. Might even reverse all he had just done to *please* Faulkner. But, at least, it should fall mostly on *him.*

Strangely enough, that thought kept his heartbeat steady, his breathing even and measured as he met Faulkner’s eyes.

“It was necessity.”

**

“Necessary?”

It was hard to believe, and his emotions were *complex*. But Faulkner had routine in not letting them show. They would be looked at and analysed later.

There was anger about the blatant transgression. The boy knew about the rules and certainly should know better than acting out of line.

Disappointment, too, because this was *Sebastian*. A young man Faulkner had high hopes for. A young man who could rise, and maybe farther than Faulkner, if given the right training and treatment.

And maybe, because perhaps all of this meant that Sebastian was willing to do the dirty work, after all, pride and relief mingled with anger and disappointment. Maybe the boy had *finally* come to his senses, throwing useless ideals of morality aside to accept the gritty tasks for the necessity they were. Embracing them to do what had to be done.

But this was so out of character, so unusual for him, that it caused Faulkner to worry, as well. This was Sebastian, who had always refused to fuck even the most insignificant pathetic little whore for reasons Faulkner was certain not even the boy could understand. It was curious, sometimes, to see him commit the most gruesome atrocities without the blink of an eye, efficient and lethal and without a pang of guilt – but see him shy away from pulling his cock out at the same time.

There had only been *one* instance, when he had helped fuck Jacob back into submission; and the short-lived pride about that turned into concern now. Wasn’t it curious, that both times, it had been Jacob? He couldn’t risk for his two most dangerous dogs to *bond*.

If he wasn’t careful, this could very well blow up in his face.

“*Explain.*”

**

No, this would not end well.

He could practically see the gears working in Faulkner's mind. The disbelief, the suspicion, the concern. And he was right, really. That was the worst of it - the man was *right.*

It was lucky, honestly, that Sebastian still held his strangely deep loyalty to the man. Otherwise, this… could truly have turned out the way Faulkner feared.

But this was so much simpler, and so much more complicated.

“The other night, when you had me bring him back to his room after his sparring session. He was worked up. Once the door shut, he… challenged me. He needed to be put in his place.” He ran his tongue over his teeth,  swallowing as if re-centering himself. As if recalling something that actually disturbed him. “It was that or break his face. I knew you didn't want him damaged.”

**

“So you *put* him in his place?”

Faulkner let the words sit on his tongue for a long moment, still eyeing Sebastian; studying him, reading the unreadable.

Standing uncomfortably close, Faulkner’s voice was dripping with suspicion. It was intentional, calculated, like all of his actions; and the unspoken, dangerous threat didn’t need words to be understood. Not from someone as intelligent as Sebastian.

This was either really good news… or exceptionally bad ones.

Faulkner would have yet to find out.

All of this made sense. The glimpses. The strange tension between his two favourite dogs. The heavy silence when they were in the same room.

All of this made sense… and didn’t.

It wasn’t like Sebastian to resort to fucking Jacob – without permission, even – but Faulkner found that he *wished* it were.

Perhaps this was nothing more than two dogs fighting for dominance, possibly laced with something as trivial as jealousy. Perhaps this was Sebastian *finally* finding his place.

But what if he were wrong?

“Normally, I’d congratulate you on your resolve and progress, but why now? Weren’t you eager to reassure me only minutes ago that your method of using *touch* to control him was a success? Weren’t you adamant on insisting he didn’t do anything and wouldn’t need behavioural *adjustment*? To me, it doesn’t sound as if you have the situation under control, Sebastian.”

**

The young soldier looked down at Faulkner, inhaling a long, slow breath. His heart remained steady and calm, pulsing slow and even.

“Yes. I did.”

Sometimes, in extremely rare occurrences, Sebastian truly wished that he could have let go of that last part of himself. That he could have become everything Faulkner needed him to be. That he could *do* everything Faulkner wanted him to do.

This was not one of those times.

But he could, at least, make it believable that he had finally crossed that line.

“Because he was high on cocaine and adrenaline. The touch isn't as effective when *he's* not present. And you needed him to… not be compromised. So I did what was necessary.” He tensed his jaw, just slightly,  before lowering his eyes and softening his tone. “I apologize for acting out of turn. I do. But his behavior *has been* corrected,  sir. I think you'll find he won't try it again.”

**

“Hm.”

For a long moment, Faulkner let his gaze burn into Sebastian’s form. Searching. Examining. Analysing.

Sebastian’s breathing was as steady as his pulse, his argumentation sound and rational. His gaze was clear and unapologetic. If for the apology itself. It was hard to read someone who was as controlled as Sebastian, but he was loyal. And Faulkner couldn’t find a single sign in his expression that he was remotely insecure or agitated. Nothing that would indicate the boy didn’t speak the truth.

Finally, after an eternity, Faulkner relaxed his shoulders and stepped away from Sebastian, returning to his chair behind the desk. He didn’t smile. There was no reason to, but he could let his concerns rest for now.

“Good.” He folded his hands. “Apology accepted.”

**

Faulkner wasn't pleased. Not by a long shot. And Sebastian was certain there would still be repercussions. Severe ones, possibly.

But he seemed *convinced.*

And Sebastian had long ago learned to take the small victories.

“Thank you, sir.”

He turned to follow Faulkner's movements, continuing to face him as the man sat down again.

“I assure you he's under control. He just needs refinement.”

**

“*So do you.*”

The answer came swiftly and without pause, gaze hard and relentless on Sebastian.

But the boy was correct. If Jacob’s behaviour had been corrected, his methods proved him right, and Faulkner could accept that. He could not, however, accept to be played like that.

“I’m still disappointed, Sebastian. Very disappointed. I have watched you closely over the last months and, yes, I have been very impressed. A mistake as foolish as this one is not like you. You should have reported the incident right away, and you know that.” He cleared his throat.

“But I trust you will continue to be able to handle Jacob- Because I do plan on transferring the responsibility for him onto you,” he paused, his gaze stern. “*Eventually.* When he is… more submissive. And *you* had time to contemplate your decisions. I had intended to start your training soon, but you will have to prove yourself again before I can risk giving you responsibility for someone as dangerous as him, even temporarily.”

**

That response was almost brutal, but it was so in line with what Sebastian had come to expect that he did not flinch in the face of the man's controlled anger.

Still. It stung. And that perhaps was the most confusing.

Faulkner's disappointment still *hurt.* Even if it were the best possible outcome of this particular situation. Even if he had long ago lost the idolizing spark he had held for the man. He still yearned for Faulkner's approval; to meet his standards of perfection.

Faulkner still represented perhaps the only way to become something more. Something *better.*

Sure, he could argue his position. He could insist that there was time only for a split second decision. But spending any more time or attention on building upon a lie was far too risky to pursue.

And that,  too, would be unlike him,  after all. Faulkner was used to straightforward explanations and reasoning. And Sebastian never made excuses. He took his reprimands and punishments with dignity.

“I understand, sir. I won't disappoint you again.”

**

“You better won’t.”

His features softened, ever so slightly. Nothing his more simple-minded men would even notice. But Sebastian would.

“Because I still have great plans for you, Sebastian. If you prove yourself worthy. Don’t let Jacob distract you.” For a moment, his gaze hardened again; another warning, another threat, wordless, but delivered with precision.

“Don’t let him *surpass* you.”

Because everyone could be replaced, in one way or another. And perhaps there was more to Jacob than a rabid animal on a leash. Sebastian should never forget that he wasn’t the only one with *potential* here.

“That being said, I appreciate you are *finally* coming to your senses. It’s good to see you do what’s necessary. I have been waiting for a long time to see that happen. I welcome your progress and will put it to the test.”

**

*Don't let Jacob distract you.*

Fuck, but it was far too late for that, wasn't it? And yet… he was still here. Still performing perfectly, technically speaking. Even with his own hidden, darker secrets that, frankly, were so, so much worse. So much harder to keep under wraps until the right moment.

So it was… almost insulting, really, to think that he'd be so easily thrown off. He was better than that. Always had been.

*Don't let him **surpass** you.*

Sebastian inhaled sharply, tensing his jaw slightly. Just enough to give Faulkner a reaction that he could read. A reaction he wanted, most likely. One that he felt very, *very* deep down inside his chest, too closely tied into that ache to be *good enough*.

An ache that he had already begun letting go of. Because there was no way Faulkner would let him live, let alone take his place, once he dropped his bombshell.

“Of course,  sir. As you command.”

**

“Good. I expect to see your report on Jacob by tomorrow morning.”

Faulkner nodded, noticing with satisfaction the clench of Sebastian’s jaw.

Perfect.

He knew the boy would adjust his own behaviour himself. Too eager to please. Too loyal to accept anything else but his approval.

“I will *also* think about your punishment. Don’t think I will let you go unpunished after making a mistake as grave as this one. But you can send in Jacob tonight.”

Jacob’s punishments were always easier. He was still so simple in his needs, unable to control them. Or himself. At least for now. Pain and humiliation did the trick. And the denial of his favourite treats. If he weren’t in line already, he would be, by the end of the night.

For Sebastian, he needed something more refined.

Faulkner was certain that his disapproval would gnaw at the boy; and maybe someone with a weaker grip and less ambition would think that would be punishment enough. But he wasn’t known to be *lenient*. It needed to hurt more than a stern gaze, a hard word, and the bruised pride of a *favourite*. Even if he knew that perhaps, those things would be enough already, and that Sebastian would show his best behaviour again in the morning, without protest, without excuses, without a pout or scowl or frown.

No, Faulkner would need something far more personal.

**

Faulkner had never been one not to call a bluff, and Sebastian was once again incredibly grateful for his own fucking forethought.

“Not a problem,  sir.” He'd not even need to add anything else tonight, though he would give it another read before handing it over. Just to be safe.

More concerning was Faulkner's promise of a punishment. The man had a habit of getting *creative.* The punishments he'd come up with… those had a habit of getting under his skin. Creating scars and nightmares of their own.

He didn't fear Faulkner himself. But the threat of a special punishment for a *grave mistake* was enough to cause a sinking weight of dread to form in his gut.

God, he hoped that Jacob would have it easier.

“Yes, sir.”

**

Faulkner had to admit; he didn’t know many men who took a punishment and reprimand with as much grace and dignity as Sebastian did. He didn’t suffer through it. He *accepted* it.

Never had he complained or made excuses. Never had he begged or, worse, tried to negotiate.

No. Sebastian stood straight and tall as he received his punishments, faced the consequences of his actions with acceptance, as rare as they admittedly were. He welcomed the inevitable sanctions with an understanding for his own failures, with pride and respect. And he *never* made the same mistake twice.

A smirk on his lips, Faulkner raised a brow.

“Of course not. Why *would* it be a problem, after all?”

Perhaps all of this was a good sign. Perhaps initial difficulties were bound to happen, after Sebastian had refused to perform certain tasks for so long. Perhaps this was even… forgivable. Once he had received his punishment. With grace and dignity and respect.

And Faulkner was getting a good idea of how he wanted the sanctions to look like.

Tomorrow morning, Sebastian would find his office half empty. Devoid of the plants he so desperately clung to. A sentimental, useless attachment Faulkner didn’t understand. But he didn’t need to understand it to *use* it. Perhaps he would hold onto one of them himself; put on display in his office as a reminder.

Sebastian would find his office half empty and wouldn’t return to his quarters in the evening. Not for a week. Not for as long as it had taken him to reveal his *secret* to Faulkner. Because Faulkner didn’t like secrets; and the boy should have known better, insecure or not. He would be brought to a room like Jacob’s. A room *exactly* like Jacob’s. No windows. No hot water. No *kitchen*.

Just another small reminder of how easy it was to fall from grace. How easy it was to be replaced by a rabid dog. Of  how similar they were, and how quickly one could be turned into the other. A reminder of how things had been and could be again, if Sebastian wasn’t careful.

It would do him good, teach him modesty and humbleness again. And maybe *some* rivalry with Jacob would do him good, too, to get back on track.

Then, Faulkner knew, the real work would begin. To build him up. To groom him. To start a new phase of his training. If he behaved. If he didn’t continue making mistakes.

“You’re dismissed,” he finally said, watching Sebastian’s measured steps as he left the room.

Yes, he could marvel at the masterpiece he’d created, with pride *and* regret.

And he could see it. In Sebastian’s calm. His efficiency. His ruthlessness, if needed. Pulling fingernails with the same expression he’d recounted the weekly report.

Faulkner could see his *heir*.

Because broken men couldn’t lead.

Sebastian, however, could.

[empireofdogs]

how to treat skittish dogs || part 5 || drugged

Sometimes, the stars aligned in the most beautiful fucking ways.

It had been a good day. As good as days here could be, anyway, but Jacob rarely thought in those terms anymore. This was life now. This was his world. This was the only truth he knew. And a good day… was a good day.

Jacob had managed to impress.

He’d managed to stay in Faulkner’s good graces for a while now, had stayed out of trouble, kept his head down and *obeyed*. Without backtalk. Without questioning. Without as much as a frown or a displeased glimpse or a single moment of hesitation.

Not when Faulkner had ordered him to kill a man today. Slowly. Painfully. Intimately. A man Jacob hadn’t even known, *again*; a man whose screams had mingled with the others in his thoughts. Their faces filled with terror and fear had become interchangeable. They had faded in his mind after just a few hours. Just like the faces of those boys, cheeks blotchy and wet with tears, when Jacob forced his cock down their tight little asses and even tighter throats. He hadn’t hesitated fucking them, either. He had *enjoyed* it. And sometimes, that almost felt like relief. Sometimes, Jacob could almost forget, when he blocked out the screams and pleas in a language he rarely understood.

Faulkner had been in a good mood. Faulkner had been *pleased*. And generous.

It didn’t matter anymore what he’d done and seen. It didn’t matter that Faulkner had stripped him naked except for his dress shirt, torn open and useless now. It didn’t matter that he’d been fucked over that goddamn fucking desk. Faulkner hadn’t even made it hurt tonight.

Tonight, Jacob had been rewarded generously.

Jacob didn’t even know what Faulkner had given him. He‘d learnt not to question it. Had learnt not to ask; to accept the treats without second thoughts. The alcohol certainly helped, and he felt heavy and weightless, every muscle relaxed. There was no pain. There was no thought. There was no shame or guilt or remorse. Not even anger.

He‘d tried to stand, tried to move and gather the rest of his clothes, but when he‘d tried to cling to the goddamn fucking desk for support, his hand had only met thin air. *Nothing* was where it was supposed to be anymore, not even his clothes, but that was okay.

It was safer to stay on the floor, at least for now.

So when Jacob lay on the old, ornate carpet, half naked and entirely out of his mind, he didn’t care about the screams or the blood or Faulkner’s come trickling out of his ass.

He felt perfectly light and perfectly careless.

*When* Faulkner had left, Jacob couldn’t remember, but he knew it was time to go back to his room when a face appeared on top of him; a face that suddenly took up his entire field of view.

A face Jacob knew too well.

His features pulled into a loopy, all too happy grin. Unfiltered. Open. *Relieved.*

He hadn’t seen Sebastian in a few days.

It was dangerous to *like* people around here. It was dangerous to *miss* them.

But Jacob’s sluggish brain couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t remember if his life depended on it, and maybe it did.

His tongue felt so goddamn useless and heavy.

“Heeeyyyy…”

**

He had been gone for four days on his latest assignment, but one of the first orders Sebastian had been given since he'd returned was to stand guard outside Faulkner's office. Not an unusual order, by any means. And an easy one, certainly. Practically a break, if he were honest.

But he had been standing here for a little over an hour.

Jacob was in that room with Him. And Sebastian could hear *everything.*

Most of the time he could dissociate from the things he heard or saw. He'd long ago figured out how to remain present enough to follow orders, but not *think* or worse,  *feel.* And in these last two years, especially, he had finally become calloused enough,  hard enough,  *jaded* enough that even the worst sounds had little effect on him anymore.

But… this was Jacob.

And today, as he stood there, alone, stone still and silent, a twinge of jealousy coiled *low* in his stomach. Jealousy mingled with arousal and confusion.

Because he wasn't even sure who he was jealous *of.* But he was starting to think that it wasn't Jacob.

It had been a deep relief to hear it end.

He'd nodded once as Faulkner had left, the order unspoken but understood. Sebastian would take Jacob back to his room, watch him carefully as he came down from whatever the fuck Faulkner had given him.

Sebastian tried not to let his eyes wander over Jacob's exposed skin as he crouched beside him, but that was nearly impossible when there was *so goddamn much* of it.

But worse was the smile.

A smile he'd never seen before. Warm and unfiltered and bright as the sun. He knew it was the drugs, but still, it sucked Sebastian's breath right out of his lungs. He couldn't help but return a similar smile, reaching out to touch the side of Jacob's neck without thinking, thumb brushing almost affectionately over the pulsing vein.

“Hey there big guy. Let's get you out of here.”

**

The smile broke through his barricades like Sebastian’s touch had, weeks ago.

Jacob hadn’t known Sebastian could smile like *this*; and for a moment, he felt as if his body was *melting* into the carpet, heavy and warm and happy. He didn’t get to see many smiles around here; and the ones he’d seen had all come from Sebastian. Faint. Reserved. But kind.

*This*, though, was something entirely different, so warm, disarming and friendly that he almost forgot *where* he was; and Jacob couldn’t help but widen his grin in response.

“Where… where wwre…” His tongue didn’t want to obey. It felt too large, too heavy, too relaxed. “Wher’ve you been? ‘missed you.”

And Jacob had. Secretly. He’d never admitted it, and never would, not like this, but somehow, the endless days in this goddamn dreadful place had felt even longer, more hopeless and painful and devastating without Sebastian around.

The touch almost didn’t register. His body was warm and tingly, and his mind so far gone that he didn’t notice he was leaning into it. Instinct had taken over his body. Unfiltered and honest, like his grin.

Kind touches were even rarer than smiles here. And maybe it was whatever the hell Faulkner had given him, or maybe this was just his fucking life, but Jacob couldn’t remember a soft, kind touch like this... ever. It felt good.

He craned his head up as if telling a secret.

“It fuckin’ suuucks when you’re not around. Well. Sucks… *even more*, y’know,” Jacob whispered, but the shadow in his mind didn’t last. He couldn’t hold onto it, couldn’t grasp it, and that was a blessing. With another grin, his dropped onto the carpet again.

“How’re you?”

** It took everything in him not to get lost in that loopy, drugged out smile, as warm as he felt suddenly.

But it was Jacob's words that shot straight through him, so disarming they might compromise him permanently. He could swear his heart skipped not just one, but several beats.

Jacob had *missed* him.

“He sent me to Philly for a few days. But I'm back now.” He couldn't wipe the damn smile off his face, his hand warm on Jacob's neck. He kept his voice down, trying his very best to speak normally, as if his heart wasn't threatening to fly out of his rib cage. “I know. I… missed you too.”

And fuck, if that wasn't the truth. It had been good, staying in hotel rooms for those few nights, the relative freedom that had allowed him. To think and to dream without the fear of being *caught.*

Carefully,  he tried to pull Jacob's ruined shirt over him properly, but that was a lost cause, the buttons torn right off. He looked around the room for the rest of his clothes, stilling as he glanced back down at that perfect beaming smile.

“I'm okay... You look like you're doing alright yourself, huh?”

**

“Yeah, ‘m fine. I *rrreaaally* good,” he chuckled, while something inside him screamed. It wasn’t the truth, and a part of him knew it. A part buried under waves of happiness and relief, hidden by the rush of endorphins and the lightness of his mind. Those past four days had been just as awful, just as humiliating, and just as brutal and shameful as any other day around here had been. Maybe even more so, without Sebastian and his faint, careful smiles. Without the food. Without stupid fucking choices that made no sense. But right now, Jacob couldn’t feel it.

It was hard to remember why he was naked. Why he smelled of sweat and come. But it was also hard to remember shame. It was hard to remember *anything* right now, to feel anything but a blissful happiness. Things weren’t so bad right now, were they? With Sebastian around, his body satisfied and sticky and spent and floating endlessly in a sea of carelessness.

“Didn’t know you could smile”, he chuckled at himself again, but the surprise was still so genuine, his eyes following Sebastian’s face, his movements, his *smile*.

Jacob reached up as if to touch it, to touch *Sebastian*, but something held him back. Something deep inside. Inhibitions and fears that had been forced into him, a festering foreign matter in his mind and soul, placed there with surgical precision. Something inside him remembered *he wasn’t supposed to touch*, no matter how high the rest of him was flying. So he let his arm fall again, back onto the floor, his face surrounded by a halo of thick, dark hair; and the sensation of the carpet was deeply irritating.

**

*No, you aren't… You're just high.*

Sebastian licked his lips but didn't say it,  getting lost in that beautiful smile again rather than look down at his sweating, nearly naked body. He should *really* find his damn pants,  but it was so difficult to pull away, with Jacob looking at him like that.

“That's good. I should –”

Jacob's hand reached up,  and Sebastian *faltered.*

Jacob had never touched him. Never, but for Sebastian's recent spat of unexplainable dreams. Not for all the times they'd spoken, trained together, been out on a job together. Nor all the times Sebastian had touched *him.*

He'd never so much as tried.

And… he didn't now, either. That hand fell again, as if weighted by all of their combined sins, and Sebastian could breathe again.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can smile, Jacob. Just like you... You've got a good smile.” As if to strengthen his point,  he'd smile again, touching Jacob's cheek. “I should get you back to your room, though. You'll feel even better on your bed.”

**

“I have?”

He reached up to touch his lips, frowning as if only now becoming aware of his face, his features, his grin. It was confusing. Like any other thought, it was fleeting, and Jacob felt too relaxed to chase after it.

“’m glad. ‘m really glad you’re back, ‘bastian.”

Butchered as it was, the name felt new and foreign on his tongue. Foreign, but warm. It felt… *right*. Comforting, even through the fog in his brain.

Jacob had *never* called Sebastian by his name. But he’d never spoken much, in general. Not after the second time in that room, not after he’d felt the punishment for his own goddamn fucking stupidity. It had been shorter, this time, just two days, just one night - but that hadn’t made it easier. What *had* made it bearable, though, at least slightly, had been Sebastian’s presence. Silent. In the corner of the room. While Jacob suffered through the rest. He’d been terrified when Faulkner had shown up, but somehow, the man had never found out.

Sometimes he was afraid he would. But not now.

Thinking felt like swimming through a stream of honey. Warm and sweet, thick and incredibly difficult. His mind so goddamn sluggish and slow, everything processed with delay; every touch and sensation, every feeling. Every word.

He didn’t want to move, and he didn’t care about his bed, but he leaned into Sebastian’s touch with a sigh.

“Wait… you *missed* me?”

**                                                                                     

Sebastian thought for a moment that Jacob's smile *might* be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in this place, but he sure as hell wasn't going to put *that* into words.

“I'm glad to be back, too. Means I get to annoy you again. My favorite thing.”

He kept the tone light, reaching out for Jacob's shorts - his trousers appeared nearly torn to shreds - but he couldn't help but smile again at the sound of the shortened name.

No one had ever called him that. Not once. And funny enough, he decided instantly that he liked it. Especially since… Jacob had never used his name, either.

Carefully,  he began to pull the boxers up Jacob's legs,  trying *desperately* not to look at the giant cock between them, or think about how often he'd dreamt of touching it.

“Of course I did.”

He spoke without thinking, but it was too late to take it back; too true, as well, considering that he'd lasted all of *two goddamn days* away from the compound before he'd fallen into bed with someone who looked halfway like him.

Yeah, he was fucked. But one more secret he'd take to an early grave didn't really matter, did it?

**

“Huh…”

Jacob’s mind had trouble processing all the things Sebastian said; too caught up by his face, the smile and his eyes. Eyes he could drown in, right now, and it felt so real to imagine it. No thoughts. No feelings. No ego. Relieved from memory of the tasks that earned him both Faulkner’s praise and a place in hell. Just drowning forever in a sea of blue.

He could imagine that, and he wouldn’t be sad to stop existing. He’d be surrounded by calm. Surrounded by kindness. Surrounded by Sebastian. And that really didn’t sound too bad right now.

It took him a long moment to realise what Sebastian was doing, the boxers already up his knees, but Jacob didn’t feel like moving. The whole thing seemed pointless, anyway. And nobody else had bothered to dress him before dragging him back to his room.

“’s okay. You don’… you don’t have ta… ‘bastian. *Everyone’s* seen my dick already. S’okay.”  

No, he didn’t want to go back. He wouldn’t feel better in *his* bed.

Because it wasn’t *his* room. And it wasn’t *his* bed. Nothing here was his. The only thing, the only *person* that felt like comfort in a world of sin and guilt and never-ending pain and fury, was Sebastian. Who was still trying to pull up boxers on a body that didn’t obey either of them.

“Really, s’okay. Everyone here’s fucked me, too. Remember?”

For a moment, the memories stirred, but they had no power over him. And even through the fog, even through the waves of bliss, Jacob felt relieved.

“Why didn’t you? Why didn’t *you* fuck me?”

**

It was a struggle, bringing those boxers up past his knees, the muscular thighs very much not cooperating with his efforts to give Jacob some sense of decency.

*”S'okay…”*

Once again Sebastian paused, looking back at Jacob's face to meet those warm dark eyes. Yes, everyone had seen. Everyone knew. But Jacob was still a person. A man, not a beast. And he deserved some modesty, little as Sebastian could provide.

“That's… not the point…”

His hands went still when he asked *that* question, a shiver running down his spine; for a moment, just a moment,  he thinks of his dreams, and of the man he'd brought back to the hotel room in Philadelphia.

When he speaks again,  his voice is barely above a whisper, knowing full well that it's unimportant; Jacob probably couldn't answer, anyway.

“Did you *want* me to?”

**

“Then wha’s the point? *Nobody* bothers…”

He could feel his forehead pull into a frown.

*Why?*

That was the recurring theme here, wasn’t it? The recurring question not even his half-sober, permanently sleep-deprived brain could ever understand. Why Sebastian was *different*. Why he cared. Why he hadn’t fucked him when the others had; over and over again until Jacob had *felt* his mind crack and his spirit break. Why he went through the trouble of pulling his boxers up on a body that was perfectly relaxed and heavy… and incapable of moving on command. Jacob had forgotten how dignity felt.

The question threw him off, his thoughts too slow and confused to follow entirely.

“Hm… no.”

Even now, light and heavy at once, with no orientation in the room and cotton in his skull, Jacob could tell there was a different level to Sebastian’s question-answer. One he couldn’t quite grasp.

It wasn’t like he’d had a choice. It wasn’t like he’d been asked what *he* wanted. That was *ridiculous*. No, he couldn’t even choose his clothes, or his toothpaste, or his goddamn fucking underwear. And sex was something that just… happened. Part of his life now. Sometimes painful. Sometimes nice. Sometimes punishment. Sometimes reward. It was something that just… was.

He hadn’t thought what he *wanted* in a long time. Who he wanted to fuck. If he wanted to fuck. Maybe he didn’t know how to “want” anything anymore.

“not… not like that…”

A shadow crept over his face, and for a moment, the loopy smile disappeared entirely. But this, too, wouldn’t last.

“And i’s not about what I wanna do. ‘s about what *they* wanna do. What *he* wants to do.”

**

That, at least, was an easy answer.

“Because it's what I would want, if it were me.”

And because he knew Jacob hadn't wanted any of this. Maybe it would be different, if he had. But this was not a life he had chosen. And he deserved some dignity, whatever scraps there were left to give.

Still,  Sebastian momentarily stopped the struggle with the boxers, resting his fingertips on Jacob's thigh to look at him again as he spoke.

Yes, that answer told him everything he needed to know.

“That's why.” His own voice slipped to barely a whisper, but deadly serious. “Until it's what *you'd* want me to do, nothing in the world could make me do it.”

**

“Huh.”

It was hard to follow the words, but it wasn’t hard to follow the *tone* of Sebastian’s voice. There it was a again; a hidden kindness, shining brighter now than ever. A warmth that felt like comfort, like forgiveness, like *home*. More than his fucking bed or room ever could. It was a cell, and Sebastian knew that, too.

Yes, thoughts were as fleeting as his feelings; all drowned out by something like euphoria. A forgotten feeling, but so welcome. The smile was back, the shadow gone.

“Y’now… I woulda… I would’ve hired you. I like you. You’re a good man. Stupid. Confusing. But good. Couldn’t’ve paid as much as he does- how much’s he payin’ you? Cause I’m sure’s fuck not getting’ paid.” He laughed. “Might’ve let you fuck me, too.”

**

Sebastian fell silent as Jacob spoke again. Something about this drug, whatever the fuck Faulkner had given him, had made Jacob open up like a fucking book. Honest and blunt and… shockingly sweet. With the most perfect bright smile that he never would have guessed hid behind that intensely murderous glare.

But the words, spilled so freely and openly from smiling lips, froze him.

*You're a good man.*

He barely heard the rest. Words that would have made him laugh, probably.

*Stupid. Confusing. But good.*

Sebastian bit his tongue, trying to remember if anyone had ever called him anything close to that. *A good man.* Hell, he'd never even had the chance to *try* to be that, had he? The idea had never been anything more than the worthless dream of a child, long since dead.

He cleared his throat, pulling himself out of those dangerous thoughts, smiling again as the rest of what Jacob had said finally registered. As that *laugh* registered, both brightening and breaking his heart.

*God, if only.*

“That… that would  have been real good, I think.” He let his fingers trail ever so lightly along Jacob's skin, just above the fabric of those damn boxers. “Another life, maybe. I… I think we both might have liked that.”

**

“Yeah…”

Still smiling, he looked up at Sebastian as if he were the stars in the night sky. Stars he hadn’t seen for so long, but if Sebastian was here, that would be okay. He didn’t need the sky. He didn’t need the sun or the stars, if he could look up like this and see Bastian’s face.

“I think… I would’ve liked that.”

This time, the touch registered, and Jacob couldn’t help but shiver in response. A touch so light, so barely-there and *gentle*, that his eyes lost focus for a moment. Nothing in this cruel new world had been gentle. Everything was hard and desperate and brutal. A world in which violence ruled, and sometimes, during darker nights, when the nightmares had ended but the morning not quite begun, Jacob could feel loneliness creep through the cracks of what was left of him. Those moments were rare, and blind rage was easier than feeling… *that*.

No, almost every touch here had hurt, one way or another. Either his body, his mind or his spirit. And the ones that didn’t… were eating his soul, bit by bit, until nothing would be left.

Fleeting thoughts. All of them. Forgotten in a second as his eyes focused again on Sebastian’s face with a grin.

“’s really okay, tho. You can… you can just… leave it. I don’t care anymore.”

**

Fuck all the gods, but that smile was making him weak. Bordering on deadly at this point.

But it was the sweetest thing he'd ever seen. The sweetest thing he'd have ever *heard,* even. The idea that they might have found each other in another life, maybe even been together,  been *happy* together, was something so unreal,  so dangerously,  terribly fragile and beautiful.

It was a life not meant for either of them,  and yet it was there, in the light of Jacob's smile.

How was he supposed to look away?

“Alright. I'll leave it.” He'd smile gently, looking him over a moment, his eyes very pointedly skipping over his cock. “You think you can stand if you lean on me? Or should I carry you?”

**

“You just wanna show off.”

Jacob chuckled, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. A wave of dizziness hit him; the world spinning around him as he tried to figure out where the goddamn fucking ceiling was. This wouldn’t be easy. But he wouldn’t let himself be carried around bridal-style. Floating and careless as he might be, drugged out of his mind and disoriented, he might have just found that last crumb of dignity left in his soul.

“Fuck…”

This wouldn’t be easy. Especially since he had no desire moving, no desire to go back to his prison. Not that this room was particularly better, with memories lurking in every corner. Right now, that was easy, though. Right now, those memories couldn’t harm him. There was no pain or worry; and Jacob never wanted to come down from it again.

It scared him what would come after.

**

Laughing,  Sebastian would sit back a little, giving Jacob room to try to move on his own.

“Maybe. But I bet you'd like it, anyway.”

He'd help by gently tugging those stupid boxers down off Jacob's legs before he tripped himself over them. After,  he'd stand,  taking hold of both of Jacob's strong arms to half-pull him,  half-guide him, stumbling, to his feet.

“I know. But I've got you.”

**

*I’ve got you.*

That shouldn’t sound so comforting, and a part of Jacob wondered if it was the drugs – whatever the fuck kind of cocktail Faulkner had chosen for him tonight – or something else.

As if this wasn’t about walking down a few halls; a task simple enough any other time of the day. As if this wasn’t about only a few minutes, until Jacob would be lying on his bed. Fucked out and dirty, smelling of Faulkner and shame. But it felt more like a promise than a phrase that soon would be forgotten; and Jacob wanted to believe it, if only from the drugs.

It shouldn’t *feel* so comforting, and neither should the touch as he was pulled up. It wasn’t like the first time, no. With his mind clouded and his senses unreliable, it felt different. But it felt as if he could let himself fall for once… without tumbling into endless depths of darkness.

Jacob could feel his body sway, could see the room come back to his vision, and he hated it. How much nicer had it been, when Sebastian had been the only thing he’d seen.

Fleeting thoughts; all of them. They came and went like clouds. Jacob couldn’t hold them, couldn’t follow them, could only cling to Bastian for support.

“Y’know… the pad krao… the pao kra…” he huffed in frustration. His tongue felt paralysed.  “… the Thai stuff… t’was good. Really good. You’re one helluva cook… t‘was really, *really* good…”

Looking at his feet, he added a little quieter, a little less loopy: “And the steak… ‘n potatoes… that was… nice of you. Really nice. Nobody here’s just nice. Just you. You’re the only one. The rest’re fucking cunts. Fuckin’ hate them.”

**

Jacob's body was anything but steady, but Sebastian held onto him, just as he promised; his own body a pillar as the other man struggled to remain on his feet. He tried not to think too much about what Faulkner must have given him, and what it could do to him.

No, he would never have made it to his room on his own. But Sebastian wanted to preserve his dignity, and he sure as fuck wasn't about to drag him. No matter what anyone else here would do.

So he held Jacob up, warm and strong, trying to keep him from swaying too far.

“You liked it that much, huh?” He couldn't help but blush at the compliment, so genuine and open. Jacob *remembered.* He'd never so much as mentioned it before. But suddenly nothing seemed to matter quite as much as this.

Because there was no way for anyone to know what *cooking* for another person meant to him. How personal it could be. How intimate. He'd never quite had the full luxury of it here, but this had been… close. Just one small way to show that he cared.

And Jacob had remembered it.

“Yeah… I agree with you there, big guy. ‘Cept you... You're alright.” He cleared his throat, guiding Jacob down the hall carefully. “I'd… do it more, if I could.”

**

„Yeah. T‘was *really* good. Like… not just for… *here*-standards. For… outside standards.“ It was hard to keep track of his thoughts, his sentences and the moving world around him; his words slurred and almost unrecognisable, but Jacob frowned.

„I… think.“

To remember the *outside* was even harder. Whenever he had been allowed to leave the compound, it had been under Sebastian‘s watchful eye; still on a short leash, except for someone else holding it than Faulkner. And Jacob hadn‘t been allowed to see much of it apart from blood and dirt, anyway. And blood always looked the same. Anywhere.

*Big guy.*

Something about that shouldn‘t feel so… good. Flattering. Thrilling. *Comforting*, even. It showed in his face; an excited glimmer in his eyes, a satisfied widening of his loopy smile. A subtle raise and swell of his chest. Jacob could feel it *deeper*, too. A strange surge of pride and heat in the bottom of his stomach and below, in his dick. It was a good compliment, he decided. He would‘ve liked it, if there were enough left of him.

„’m alright?“ he laughed, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the swaying walls out, clinging to Sebastian for support. „’m a fuckin’ dog on a leash. ‘m a monster. ‘n you don’ even know me. *I* don’ even know me. I’m gone. Yeah. Almost gone. I think I‘ll be gone soon. But tha’s okay. ‘s okay. s‘ easier. I think… I think you would’ve liked me, though. I think you would’ve liked me, ‘bastian.“

Every step was a challenge. Barefoot on the cold, polished floor. There was something sticky between his cheeks and between his thighs. Right now, Jacob couldn’t remember what it was, but it made his skin crawl. He tried to look at his feet, but the movement of them made orientation hard. The walls seemed to sway and waver even more like he did. Everything seemed to be in motion. Nothing was where Jacob remembered it to be.

But Sebastian pulled him along; solid and strong. He kept him up, kept him awake, kept him from *falling*. Onto the floor. Into despair. Into the dark.

Sometimes it was just easier to be dragged along.

Sometimes it was easier to *fall*.

**

Sebastian still couldn't help the smile and the soft color rising to his cheeks at such a heartfelt compliment, despite the slurring voice and stumbling steps. He held him up, guiding him through the halls with a quiet nod. “Maybe someday we'll see a little more outside. You and me.”

It was dangerous to say aloud, but frankly, Sebastian didn't care. He could defend his choice of words any day of the week. Faulkner trusted his judgment. All he'd have to do is remind the man that encouragement was a necessary foil to punishments.

It was all too clear that Jacob liked the pet name. That, too, was dangerous. The way that smile lit up Jacob's face…

The laugh, though, broke his heart; too rare and beautiful a sound to be so sad. Sebastian listened as they walked, as Jacob's thoughts spilled from his lips. Nothing had ever been more true; Sebastian knew it, felt it himself. He'd so often wondered how much of himself was left inside the monster Faulkner had created - or how much of it had been him, to begin with. The lines were blurred, these days.

But *some* of what lived, was still him.

“You’re probably right… but I can still see you. And I do like you. You've just got to hold on to what's left.” Finally, they'd managed to make it to Jacob's room - a cell,  almost - and he'd get them inside, shutting the door securely behind them.

“I've got you, though. Gonna keep an eye on you, make sure you're okay. Think you can make it to the shower?”

**

“Yeah,” he slurred. “That’d be nice.”

Even drugged out of his mind, even with his body all tingly and his brain liquified, Jacob didn’t believe it. Faulkner wouldn’t allow them to just go out to have a few drinks. Too high the risk of Jacob taking off; although, much to his surprise, he’d felt that urge dwindling. Faltering. Flickering out like the last pieces of his soul.

Something else had taken its place. Fear.

For however long he’d been here, in this dreadful, nightmarish place, it had become familiar. Predictable. And there was safety in the familiar. As much as that stubborn last little shard of his soul was dreaming of freedom, the idea of the outside world had started to scare him. The unknown was dangerous. Choices felt dangerous.

Sometimes, *this* was easier.

Returning to his windowless room, this glorified prison cell with an uncomfortable bed and a shower… wasn’t. Jacob hated this room, not as much as *the other*, but a faint tension in his shoulders gave it away.

“No point ‘n holding on.”

He looked at Sebastian with a frown. “’m okay. ‘m fine.”

*You don’t have to watch me.*

The words never left his tongue, sat there with stubborn bitterness, an echo of long destroyed pride. No, he didn’t have any dignity left.

And maybe he *wanted* to be watched, if it meant that Sebastian would stay just a little longer.

“Don’need a shower.”

**

*There is. There's always hope.*

The words remain unspoken this time. As much as he wanted to help Jacob,  how should he try to explain such complicated ideals to another person? Someone who had,  by comparison, had it even worse than him by now? Someone drugged up beyond comprehension, at that?

No, Jacob wouldn't understand if he tried to *explain.*

He'd hum at the frown, shaking his head with a light, unperturbed expression. *You are the farthest thing from okay.*

“I'm staying anyway. And yes, you do.”

**

… and wasn’t that a relief?

A relief that showed all too openly in another unfiltered grin. All of Jacob’s emotions had been displaying vibrantly on his face today, raw and bright in fucking technicolour, a constant shift and change like the tides; and Jacob had as little control over them than he had over his useless, heavy body. But even as he became aware of it; tonight, he didn’t care. As little as he cared about the sweaty stickiness of his skin. Or the come still trickling out of his ass.

Carelessness was bliss.

Or maybe it was Sebastian’s presence and touch.

“Hm… Think so?”

He looked down at himself, swaying just from shifting his gaze. He didn’t look dirty. He just looked exposed.

“’m still naked, huh?“ A chuckle and another grin, loopy and silly, and Jacob felt himself tighten his grip around Sebastian’s shoulder.

“But ’bastian. Hey. ‘bastian. I know’m not talking much. Sometimes I feel bad about it. But… talking… ‘s *haaarrd*. ‘s hard. But, y’know. ‘m grateful. Really am. ‘s my favourite part of the week. The food. ‘s not much to look forward to here. The fucking… sometimes. But sometimes not. Oh. And *this*… I *really* like *this*…” He frowned too himself again, trying to put his sensations into words – the bliss, the carelessness, the *lightness* of his thoughts, the absence of pain and anger, of worry and guilt - but failed. “but… s’ not much. But your food… ‘s my favourite part of the week.” He tried to look into Sebastian’s eyes, but it was hard to focus.

“Y’know, ‘m usually noooot big on pasta. But yours was good. Last week. ‘t was good. ‘bastian. Those lettuce wraps, too. *Rrrrreally* good. I like Thai food. Used to be my favourite. Y’know… before. ‘n a good steak. Also my favourite. Loved a good steak. Yours’s good. Really good.”

**

Jesus Christ, if Jacob kept smiling like that, Sebastian might actually get himself into some serious fucking trouble. There was something so pure in it, and just as addicting as whatever Faulkner had actually given Jacob himself.

“Yeah, a shower will feel good. Promise.” He'd try not to look down at him, but when Jacob had to fucking *point it out*,  his eyes glanced down along the man's muscular body. “Yeah… still naked, big guy. That'll make it easy.”

It's impossible not to notice the way Jacob's fingers tighten on his shoulder,  and fucking hell, Sebastian just wants to *hold* him. As if that would do any goddamn bit of good here.

*It would, though, wouldn't it?*

Jacob certainly didn't seem likely to rip Sebastian's arms off, anymore. Not with the way he clung now. Looking at him like this, *talking* to him as if spilling the darkest secrets he knew, admitting that it was Sebastian’s little gestures that he looked forward to so much. Who knew that it could be so difficult not to just pull him into a goddamn hug?

“That's… I'm so glad. Those little things are important.” He'd smile,  keeping his voice down, as if sharing another big secret of his own. “I lived in Thailand, you know. A couple of years. I know a lot of recipes. You got any requests for next time?”

**

“’kay. Shower.”

It felt good to be pliant. It felt good to agree. It felt good to be heavily weightless.

And maybe that was what Faulkner had intended. Hadn’t there been questions?

Jacob couldn’t remember, and it was too hard to try, still hard to hold onto his thoughtless thoughts; his mind still so sluggish and pleasantly lazy, but warm and fuzzy. Yeah, he decided he liked it.

“No. No requis- no requests. S’prise me.” Jacob definitely wouldn’t bother putting difficult names on delicious Thai meals, although it was a shame. He knew he wouldn’t be able to voice requests the next day. Choices had become impossible. “But the curry was good… three weeks ago. I think it was three weeks ago? ‘s haaaaard to keep track. So hard. Hey. ‘bastian. What month is it? Did I miss Christmas?” The ramblings went on and on, mindlessly and without filter, but for once, it felt good to talk. It felt good to hear *his own voice* again, that low velvety baritone that could enchant many, when he hadn’t sounded like himself in so long. And a part of him knew this still wasn’t him, not really, but in a hell like this one, it was as close as he could get. Even if he’d fall silent again tomorrow. Even if that voice would be taken again from him by Faulkner. And his body. And his soul. Tonight, Jacob could pretend.

He could only digest Sebastian’s words with delay, the frown replacing the loopy grins and chuckles once again. A shadow that wouldn’t last, like his thoughts.

*I lived in Thailand, you know. A couple of years.*

It sounded like a fairytale. Impossible. Unheard of. Shocking.

Sebastian really must be stupid to come back to… *this*.

“He… let you live in Thailand? For a *couple of years*?”

**

Sebastian smiled warmly and led him over to the shower. Slow and steady. It wasn't much of one, but it did at least get warm; and he continued to hold Jacob up as he let the water run, silently wondering just how much comfort Faulkner would allow tonight. He might not even bother, considering Jacob's mental state, but Sebastian knew at least that tonight, it wouldn't be cold.

“Probably best if you sit down. There you go.” He'd try to guide Jacob down as gently as possible onto the floor, carefully pulling the tattered shirt away from his frame. “Curry it is. That's one of my favorites, too.”

The stream of questions and thoughts was still breaking his heart, but Sebastian only encouraged it, quietly listening with just the right answers thrown in.

“Not yet. It's still November.” He'd smile as he reached out and felt the water. Warm, indeed. “Hey, look at that, we've got hot water tonight…”

The sudden question made him look back at Jacob's face, just catching the frown,  the *confusion.* Of course. Jacob thought Sebastian had always had some kind of freedom here. They didn't get the same treatment. Why would he have thought otherwise?

No, he didn't know. Why should he?

His heart had caught in his throat, but Sebastian cleared it, shrugging. “He let me enlist in the Marines. I was stationed there. Come on. Under the water, big guy.”

**

*November*

How long had he been here? Since March? February even? It had all become a blur. The days. The months. The faces. The orders. Faulkner’s treats and punishments. It had all become one and the same.

It meant that his birthday had come and gone. Months ago. Not that it had particular meaning to him. No meaning other than the passing of time in this strange limbo.

It was hard to tell the seasons apart when he was rarely allowed outside by day. And at night, when shadows covered the world and everything looked the same. He was just given slightly warmer clothes. No calendars. No windows. Disorientation. Submission. Yeah, those techniques were working, Jacob decided. But there was no feeling attached to the realisation.

His feelings were elsewhere, in his sparkling eyes and sloppy grin, watching Sebastian’s every move with the fascination of a newborn fawn.

Sitting on the cool tiles felt good. But the water felt even better.

He was relieved he could sit. Standing. Moving. Walking. All of that had been exhausting and dizzying. The floor felt perfectly safe and comfortable for now as Sebastian talked to him and peeled the shirt from his shoulders.

“Yaaay!” Jacob couldn’t remember when the water had been quite this hot, quite this perfect. He must have *really* been good today. Sometimes it was that easy. “I like hot water. ‘n I like curries, too.”

His gaze never left Sebastian, glued to his moving arms, his eyes, his smile.

“’fghanistan. Four years. ‘mong others. I like it when you say that.”

**

He could feel Jacob's eyes on him, a hound easily tracking his movements even in such a state, and it felt *good*. He'd never known such dark eyes to be so bright.

His own smile matched Jacob's; he knew *that* kind of joy and relief at the idea of hot running water. It was a luxury that too many took for granted.

“You like what? ‘Big guy?’” He'd smile again,  wetting a wash cloth with soap and water. “Good. Cause that's what you are.” He kept his tone light and teasing.

“I was gone for ten years. Eight of those were in Thailand.” He'd begin running the washcloth over Jacob's skin, starting with his arms and chest; his movements are gentle and smooth, careful and nearly reverent, but with an almost clinical approach that indicated he had no fear of actually *touching*.

“How long were you in?”

**

For a moment, Jacob closed his eyes and sighed heavily, droplets of pleasant warmth hitting his overheated face. The water felt as if it could melt him, his skin, his flesh, his bones, his mind. Dissolving in a warm, happy puddle didn’t sound too bad, being washed away in the blink of an eye, down the drain, into freedom… or nothingness.

If there were no hell, his sins might even be forgotten. Eventually.

He could melt into Sebastian’s words, too, and easily. The praise warmer than the water, coating Jacob like a comforting blanket in the deepest, longest winter he had ever experienced. It lasted for almost eight months now.

It didn’t matter that it sounded like praising a dog, a little puppy who’d just learnt to roll over and bark on command. But he was that now, wasn’t he? And wasn’t it fitting them? He was fucked up so thoroughly, turned inside out by Faulkner’s hand, that it sounded like the purest form of a compliment he’d ever come across. The highest praise. The warmest comfort.

Or maybe something had been inherently wrong with him all along.

He could live with that, could live with *everything* if Sebastian would just continue talking like that, calling him that, *touching* him like this.

A touch that felt less powerful, less urgent, less *paralysing* than Sebastian’s touch had felt before. Instead, it was gentle, and warm. Like the praise. Like the water.

“Mhm.”

He almost hummed in contentment, chest swelling with pride as he idly tried to remember. How he’d smelled *before* all of this. The scent of his soap. The scent of his shampoo. Of his aftershave. He couldn’t remember it. It was long gone. Evaporated. Like his old life. Like his old self.

All that was left was the generic smell of generic soap. And Sebastian’s praise.

Thoughts were still fleeting, and that was good.

“’leven years. Longest fuckin’ years ‘f my life.” **

When Jacob closed his eyes, Sebastian almost felt like he could breathe again. His eyes wandered over Jacob's face, taking in the sudden *peace* in his expression,  a relaxation he'd never seen in the man taking over.

He was beautiful like this. Beautiful anyway, really, anytime Sebastian had seen him, but… this was another level. He felt another deep surge of empathy and protectiveness, of a need to try to give this man more moments like this one. Even if they were fleeting. Even if he wouldn't remember them.

He'd lick his lips as he continues the slow and steady movement of the washcloth, trying to focus on the conversation and not on Jacob's naked, wet body so *close* in front of him.

That, and he knew perfectly well those eleven years could not possibly be the longest in Jacob's life. Or, at least, they wouldn't remain so. And, in a rare occurrence, Sebastian actually felt a stab of something like guilt twisting in his heart, for having played any part in that at all.

“I know what you mean.”

**

It occurred to him, with a frown; something like a moment of clarity, a moment of recognition, undisturbed by hatred, unaffected by bliss. He’d been fucking wrong. Those eleven years would feel like a walk in the park. Jacob hadn’t even made it through a year in this hell. No burns he’d suffer here – unless Faulkner, in a perverse twist of mood, would decide he liked *that*, too. Bullet wounds, perhaps, when it would come to that. Not even his first year, when he’d been thin and naïve and scrawny, eventually chosen to be his unit’s mattress, could compete to this.

“Y’know, scratch that. I think this place’s worse,” he finally said, the frown still lingering. He hoped he wouldn’t come down anytime soon. Because Jacob had a feeling he wouldn’t like what waited for him in his heart.

It was so much nicer to focus on Sebastian’s gentle touch. So different. So comforting. So chaste. Unlike *anything* he’d experienced here. And when he opened his eyes again, blinded by the light, for a moment, all he could see was Sebastian.

“But this’s nice. You’re okay.”

Somewhere in his living hell, slipping in and out of feverish anger and drug-induced bliss, somewhere in the shadows of this half-lucid nightmare, pleasure and pain had become the same. Fear and anticipation. Shame and pride. Captivity and freedom. Guilt and innocence. They had been wielded together by Faulkner’s skilled hands, until they were inseparable to Jacob. Until they had melted into one.

He could find peace in the screams of innocent boys. He could find freedom in Faulkner’s hard whippings. He could find lust in being fucked without a choice. The treats were nice, but sometimes, so was the punishment, when a little stubborn voice - a little light that was somehow still there - inside Jacob told him he deserved it, and more.

But that light was flickering and would soon burn out.

Jacob was looking forward to it.

What he *couldn’t* find, though, neither in Faulkner’s office nor his cell with the flimsy bed, neither in foreign boys’ throats nor in the sparring ring with blood dripping down his fist, was *happiness*.

But looking up at Sebastian and his smile, Jacob thought he just might have found it.

Maybe it was the drugs.

Fuck, he definitely wanted more of whatever it had been that Faulkner had been given.

**

Sebastian had finished washing down both of Jacob's arms and was halfway down his chest when the man spoke again, and it made him pause, just for a moment.

A part of him genuinely had hoped that this mystery drug cocktail would have been strong enough to make him forget, even for a little while, that these past months were so goddamn traumatic. But even that had been… so short lived. The ache in Jacob's face was so visible that Sebastian doubted he'd even seen peace there at all.

His voice was almost a whisper as he finally responded, nodding as he resumed his careful washing. “It probably is. I'm… sorry.”

He'd catch that look as Jacob opened his eyes again, though, and he'd flush hard. And without thinking about it, without intending to at all, his other hand reached out to rest on Jacob's neck, his thumb stroking softly along the pulsing vein.

“I'm right here with you.”

**

*I'm… sorry.*

Had he hallucinated that?

An apology?

He blinked up at Sebastian, confusion in his eyes even as his body relaxed into the gentle care.

It didn’t change anything. Just two words. Meaningless and inconsequential, like the choices Sebastian was trying to push onto him. Evaporating in the air the moment they’d been spoken. The ghost of a feeling. An echo of empathy.

Two impossible words, that changed nothing.

Two impossible words that made Jacob’s eye water and his chest hurt.

He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, trusting the chemical bliss would carry the feeling away, like clouds in the sky. Trusting that this, too, was fleeting. Like everything else tonight.

Instead, he focused on the water. The washcloth. The touch.

It was a touch not meant to hurt. A touch not meant to destroy and dissect. Sebastian’s touch had no agenda, no ulterior motive. A touch that meant no harm. He’d forgotten how that felt. And maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t known it in his life in the first place. Maybe this was new.

Maybe he’d had to descend to hell to find a slice of heaven in those blue eyes.

Maybe he was just high as a kite and drugged out of his skull, and mistook a prison guard for his friend.

He doubted it.

But when *was* he sober, these days?

It was confusing. It hurt his head.

It was nicer to relax into the warm, comforting touch with a sigh, looking up at Sebastian again, who once again filled out all of Jacob’s vision; so close, close enough to touch.

And Jacob knew he wasn’t supposed to. Jacob knew he would get into *serious* trouble, but he’d stopped caring. Maybe that was the drugs, too.

So, holding his breath, eyes locked with Sebastian’s, Jacob reached out and *touched*. Just his jawline, fingertips brushing over skin as if they were barely there, just a *taste* of what real touch could feel like. Because Jacob hadn’t touched in so long.

A touch that was gentle. A touch that didn’t hurt. A touch that made him feel almost human again. Almost innocent in a world full of sins and pain.

Jacob had forgotten to breathe, but his lungs didn’t need air right now as he marvelled at the softness. For the first time since he’d been here, his hands weren’t used to bruise or break or beat of choke. They weren’t used to cause pain, in the most gruelling and cruel way possible.

And Jacob couldn’t remember a touch like this, either.

Not quite like the 100,000 volts of Sebastian’s touch, bypassing every thought and instinct, every other urge than to *submit*. This was different. It felt almost like absolution.

He’d regret this, he knew. He’d pay for this, eventually.

But it was worth it, anyway.

**

Jacob may not have said a word, but that touch alone said so much more than any words could ever hope to accomplish.

Sebastian froze, holding his breath as Jacob's fingers made contact with his skin. For once, he did not flinch at the touch; a touch so light it was barely there, yet he could feel it through his entire body like a live wire.

This wasn't allowed. Not by any means.

But the lines had become blurred, now, whatever this was. And Sebastian didn't care to look too closely at where the line was, anymore. He didn't want to pull away, and he sure as fuck wasn't about to punish Jacob.

No, all he wanted to do was *kiss* him.

The urge swelled up, immensely powerful, a tidal wave threatening to drown him. It seemed almost impossible to squash, with the way Jacob held eye contact. The intensity damn near hurt; he could feel it right through to his fingertips, a desperate ache in his very bones.

He might have done, it too; once upon a time, any *other* time, anywhere else but here. If not for one terrible, glaringly obvious fact.

Jacob was *fucked up.*

Whatever was in his blood right now had him flying higher than Everest. And since Sebastian himself was stone sober at the moment, he was acutely aware of the fact that Jacob might not *mean* those doe-eyed looks, that perfectly soft touch that made his heart ache.

And a kiss in this state, after so long here,  could cross so many more lines than fucking him ever would.

It broke his heart.

Once upon a time, any other time, anywhere else but here… he probably could have been happy with Jacob. They could have been happy *together.* But Sebastian refused to break what little remained of Jacob's fragile mental state.

So instead of the kiss that would have threatened to blow up every wall they'd both built around themselves, Sebastian just returned the touch, equally soft, equally tender; the gentlest smile hopefully telling Jacob what words could not.

**

It was the strangest déjà- vu.

So many weeks and months ago, so early in his time here, Jacob had stood before Sebastian, eyes closed and waiting. For a blow. For *pain*. For punishment.

The pain that had never come. Not in ways Jacob had expected it.

There hadn’t been a punishment. There hadn’t been a beating.

Only kindness.

And some dangerous ideas that Jacob had regretted so deeply, afterwards.

He’d learnt to stay away from dangerous ideas after that.

He’d learnt to bury ideas of dignity and choice and freedom deep inside the remnants of his heart. Where they couldn’t do any more harm. Where he could forget them and leave them to die.

It hadn’t been his choice; it never was. But it had been necessary.  

He’d gotten used to the feeling of absolute powerlessness; and there was a strange calm in *acceptance*. Knowing that he had no say, that whatever would come – no matter how hard he kicked or screamed or begged or tried – there was *nothing* he could do about it. Nothing but accept it. Nothing but bury it. Nothing but *endure*.

The decision wasn’t his. And never would be. And every day could bring total destruction, if he wasn’t careful, if he wasn’t *good*. Biting his tongue, keeping his head down, trying to *avoid* the hammer to fall.

And burying dangerous ideas and useless needs until he’d suppressed it all, until he’d almost forgotten who he’d been before, and how happiness could have looked like, had been a necessity for survival.

And somehow, he was still here.

And somehow, he still remembered it; the punishment that never came.

And *somefuckinghow*, the punishment didn’t come now, either.

Because Jacob wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t like Sebastian. He didn’t have the freedom to go outside, or have a window, or have a life that was *his* to shape.

Jacob’s body wasn’t his own anymore. 

And he wasn’t allowed to touch. Not like Sebastian was.

But there was no reprimand. There was no pain. Just like months before, there was no blow. No sanction. No correction.

Instead, miraculously, this featherlight touch was *answered*, and Jacob could only look up in wonder, breath hitching in his throat. But he didn’t need the oxygen. He could die like this and be satisfied. At least his last moment in this world would be *gentle* and without pain.

Jacob smiled up, a little less loopy and a little sadder, and with regret, he dropped his hand again, let it fall into his naked lap. He’d been absolutely reckless, as it had been, but he wouldn’t push his luck, not even fucked up beyond recognition, not even drugged out of his skull.

The moment passed, and his fingertips still tingled where they had touched Sebastian, an echo of softness, and Jacob could breathe again.

“Why’d you stay? When I asked you?”

**

Every time Sebastian began to doubt how much more his heart could take, it was crushed just a little bit more.

Nothing had ever seemed so heavy as that perfect smile, so heartbreakingly sad and pure and broken. And his face had never felt so cold as when those gentle fingertips fell away.

*Why’d you stay?*

Not because he'd wanted to, certainly. Every cell in his body had screamed against being in that room, of having any part to play at all in what had happened in there. Those couple of days - the sounds, the smells, the images - they had been added to his slew of nightmares, and it hadn't even been *him.*

His throat felt tight as he answered.

“Because you asked me.” He shifted,  finally letting his own fingers slide away from Jacob's skin, resuming the slow and gentle motions of the washcloth. “I've… I know what it's like. What's happened to you. If… my being there made it… even the tiniest bit more bearable… then. That's why. You asked me.”

**

“You’re weird.”

With a sigh, he let his head fall back against the cool tiles; the absence of touch felt cold and dangerous. It felt *lonely*.

Not as lonely as his nights here. Or the days and nights in *that* room. Not as lonely as it felt to be bent over the fucking desk, with only fractured thoughts and a shattered soul to keep him company.

It felt lonely, nevertheless, the echo of touch still throbbing in his fingertips and jawline.

“Weird ‘n’ stupid.”

He tried to focus on the washcloth, roaming over his skin almost idly, taking away what grime and sweat had still lingered, even though Jacob hadn’t cared in the first place. The true stain couldn’t be washed away. The true stain was inside, on his blackened, broken, rotten heart.

When had his thoughts taken such a dangerous turn?

Jacob could only help the bliss would take them away, and soon.

“But… thanks…”

Had it helped? That was a weird phrase for something as soul-breaking and bone-shattering as his days there. Nothing could have helped. Nothing could have made it easier.

But Sebastian’s presence, at least, had made it bearable.

It was a shame Faulkner had done the same to him, and it surprised Jacob. It rattled his beliefs to the core. It pulled away the ground beneath his feet and the safety net he’d been weaving.

Because it meant that nobody was safe, if not even Sebastian was.

The familiar had just become dangerous again, and even drugged and dizzy, Jacob didn’t like that.

“’m sorry…”

**

That, at least, brought out another smile, soft and gentle as he admired the way the water ran down the curve of Jacob's neck.

“Yeah. Guess I am. I don't mind, though.”

He sure as fuck didn't mind if it meant he could give this man the tiniest fraction of hope. If he could help him survive this hellscape of a life. Or even if it could make him smile again, just once.

*You find the craziest things to live for, when you're already in hell.*

“S'alright.” He frowned softly, running the cloth over the dried streaks of come on Jacob's inner thigh. “Well. It's not. But… I'm still breathing. Enough to be weird and stupid, at least.”

**

It was easy to laugh, a little too loud and a little too frantically; easy to let the darker thoughts soar up into the air, like leaves in the wind, flickering by on a stormy autumn day.

It was November, wasn’t it?

Yes, it surely was a blessing that he wasn’t capable of holding onto thoughts and feelings tonight. As dangerous as his memories had been, they had evaporated into smoke, until only Sebastian’s smile remained.

“You’re funny.”

The water was warm and relaxing, washing the ever-present tension from his muscles, from his mind. This, too, was comforting, and Jacob decided he could sit here forever. Nothing on his mind. Lazy and weightless, with Sebastian taking care of him. Smiling down. Saying funny things.

It was better than getting up in the morning, facing the same dreadful routing, until he could numb the pain again with whatever Jacob could get his hands on. It was better than going out again tomorrow night, in a world of shadows that knew no seasons, reading from the spread out guts and gore of Faulkner’s enemies like they were tea leaves.

This… was nice. Innocent. Relaxed.

He spread his thighs slowly and without shame when Sebastian’s hands moved there. Even if he hadn’t been drugged, even if he were something like sober, Jacob had long since accepted that he wasn’t granted decency and modesty here. He rarely felt shame anymore. And Sebastian had seen it all before. Like anyone else.

So he just looked down, watching the wash cloth work over those dried stains.

“He got me good, huh?”

**

“Am I?”

It was enough to keep the smile on his face even as he washed away the evidence of rape, even as his stomach twisted remembering what he had *heard* from outside that heavy office door. Jacob didn't seem to care, in the moment at least, with his head in the clouds.

Not for the first time, Sebastian wondered if it would be easier on himself if he would just give in to the drugs, too. But Faulkner wanted him with a clear head.

Jacob's smile and laughter was enough, until he had to bring up what Faulkner had left behind. And Sebastian could no longer hold onto the smile, a curtain suddenly passing over the brightness of his eyes as his lips pressed together in a frown.

He worked just a little faster to rub the stains away. *No part of this is good.*

“Yeah. He did.” He swallowed hard as he worked up,  almost clinically now as he approached Jacob's cock. “I'm sorry. Almost done.”

**

Something was *wrong*.

Dark thoughts could shift and disappear tonight, carried away like the wind, replaced by sunshine and happiness just a moment later. But just as quickly, they could return. They wouldn’t last – nothing did, tonight, except for the gentle motions of the wash cloth – but they darkened Jacob’s face in the fraction of a second.

The sun was gone.

It had been something Jacob had said, or done, he was sure – when wasn’t it? Minor disobedience or misbehaviours could result in severe punishment here, and Jacob knew that. But he couldn’t remember what mistake he’d made now.

Something so aggravating and severe that Sebastian’s smile was gone.

“Hey. ‘bastian. Hey.”

Without thinking, he reached up again, touching the man’s cheek ever so softly. This, too, he would regret, sooner or later. Jacob knew.

Sebastian was working his way up to his dick, and he should probably move and shift, to make the work easier, but right now, Jacob didn’t care.

“Why aren’t you smiling anymore? What’d I do? ‘m sorry. ‘Kay? I’ll be good. ‘Kay? Don’ stop smiling.”

**

Sebastian's eyes flicked up to Jacob's face the second he spoke, the troubled clouds in his eyes shifting as he heard his name again.

So he was looking directly at him when,  miraculously, Jacob touched him again. His fingers once again so gentle and soft, his dark eyes concerned and plaintive. That soft touch sucked the air right from his lungs, and his heart skipped several beats.

*Jesus Christ, I think I might actually be falling for you. Fuck.*

“You didn't do anything wrong, Jacob. Don't be sorry. It's okay. You're good, I promise. You've been *so* good.”

Gods, but he might actually be capable of doing anything for the sake of this man. Because somehow - *somehow* - even as his hand moved up and covered his cock with the cloth, he *somehow* managed to smile again. Because Jacob had dared to touch Sebastian again, dared to question, dared to bargain, dared to *demand* it.

“Okay. I can do that, big guy. I'll keep smiling.”

*Because you want me to.*

**

“Good. I wanna be good. ‘m trying *soo* hard. ‘s not easy.”

But the world was good again, and the smile was back, erasing the worries and fears, erasing the doubts, erasing the darkness of his soul, if only for the blink of an eye. If only because he was flying high. Whatever Faulkner had chosen tonight, Jacob fucking *loved* it.

The blow made him aggressive. The alcohol stopped the thoughts and shaking. The heroin made him forget. The fucking extinguished the fire in his veins, if only for an hour or two.

But nothing had been quite like *this*. Floating in a bubble of happiness, not a care in the world. Weightless and heavy at the same time. All worries and pain erased. No more shame. No more guilt. No *fear*.

Just honesty and bliss.

He’d beg for this, if he had to.

And knowing Faulkner, he would.

And before he could think the loopy grin was back, smiling back at Sebastian in relief. Because he’d been *good*. The praise shot through him; warm and satisfying, calming and exciting at the same time.

He liked the sound of his name when Sebastian said it. He liked the way he called him a *big guy*, because that meant he was strong, didn’t it? Because it sounded like praise. Because it meant Jacob could please, and would live through another day without excruciating pain? 

With swollen chest, he hummed and sighed, withdrawing his fingertips before he’d be punished. *Better safe than sorry.* But as the washcloth covered his cock, he could feel something else swell, too.

**

“I know. I know it's not easy. But you're doing so good.”

He could see the immediate effect his words had on Jacob, how quickly he seemed to relax again, reprising when he was praised. That made this easier, at least. So much easier.

Even if his jawline once again felt cold the second Jacob withdrew his fingers. Was it possible to hate being touched and still want it so badly?

Jacob certainly didn't seem to mind - not if his body had anything to say about it. Sebastian could feel his cock twitch immediately, swelling at the attention. An expected response, even if it were *not* so brutally conditioned into him. As it was,  Sebastian tried to clean him quickly, as if it would make this any easier.

“You know.” Maybe talking would help distract him, too. “I… kinda like that you call me Bastian. No one ever has before.”

**

*You're doing so good.*

No praise could ever feel better, no words more comforting.

This wasn’t even about being *a good man* anymore. Those hopes were long gone and buried with the rest; with dreams about freedom and decision, with shame and hope and the man he’d once been. This was far more simple, and infinitely more complicated. One task at a time, he tried to please. One day at a time, he tried to survive.

And sometimes, that meant being allowed to fly so high that memories had no power over him anymore. Sometimes that meant being able to sleep.

But nothing had ever been a reward quite like this. The gentle touches. The smiles. The soft voice as Sebastian kept talking. The warm water. This was a perfect moment, a small bubble of comfort in a world of pain and anger. As perfect as a moment could be in hell.

“What’d you mean? Thought that was your name? ‘bastian?” Only now, Jacob became aware of his slurring, and just barely. He laughed. “Oh. Yeah. Bastian. I like it.”

With a grunt, he tried to sit up a little straighter now, trying to readjust himself as his cock hardened under Sebastian’s care. Slowly, at first, but it burnt with more and more urgency the more he tried to clean it. Whether he tried to gain more friction or reduce it, he wasn't even sure.

Jacob wasn’t ashamed, not of his body, and hadn’t been in a long time.

**

Sebastian chuckled softly as Jacob only now seemed to realize that he'd been slurring his name this whole time. Not that he cared at all. He meant it - he did actually like it.

“You keep using it, then. I could get used to that… Like the way you say it.”

He tried not to show his reaction as Jacob's cock stiffened, slow at first, then *shockingly fast* under his touch. But even if Jacob wasn't feeling self conscious, Sebastian was, the moment the other man shifted under the water. Was he trying to pull away?

“Do you… You wanna do this instead?” He asked the question without thinking, but of course,  it was a question that Jacob almost certainly wouldn't be able to answer. “I could… could just let it be. Not trying to do anything to you.”

But his brain was already unhelpfully supplying the echoes of muscle memory, of what it *felt like* to hold Jacob's heavy cock in his hand, to stroke him to completion. The way Jacob sounded when he let go. The relief in the way he'd groan.

But there was no blood here. No violence initiating it. Just the soft sound of the shower and Jacob's steady breaths.

**

It was strange, how quickly his body reacted to stimuli these days.

Not unexpected, because even now, Jacob was aware how *very intentional* it had been, but maybe that made it even stranger. To *know* what was happening, to identify the techniques and methods Faulkner was using… and still hopelessly surrendering to them.

His mind and body had separated, early on, and Faulkner had only used it to his advantage.

It was strange, too, how normal this had become. No intimacy about it. No privacy. An almost mechanical act, if it weren’t for the *need* and urgency Jacob felt every time anew. There was nothing special about anything sexual anymore. Just something that… happened. Daily. A punishment. A tool. A reward. It was anything but… what it should have been.

Jacob got hard constantly now, without control or shame. Trying not to think of the *thing* he’d become.

He got hard when he was bent over Faulkner’s desk, groaning in pain as he suffered through his punishment, leaking onto the floor as if he loved it. And maybe he did.

He got hard in the face of of blood and gore, when his heart was still pumping with bloodlust and fury, waiting for his reward impatiently, but frozen to the spot, like a good boy.

He got hard at the sight of blotchy cheeks and skinny little asses, the screams only spurring him on as he buried his cock deep, just as he’d buried himself.

There was nothing special about it anymore. It was just something that… existed. Entwined with his being. A necessity like food and sleep. Urgent, powerful, frantic. Unless someone decided to relieve him. Or let him off his leash.

This wasn’t a decision he could make, and as he looked up, helpless, hopeless and overwhelmed, Jacob couldn’t answer.

**

Sebastian's heart sank again at Jacob's silence paired with the insistent rise of the monstrous cock under his fingers. His hand had stilled now, slowly pulling back, in an attempt to keep this from getting any worse.

Too little too late.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sebastian knew that he probably should be worried. Jacob was a beast when aroused; violent and greedy, and he took what he needed, as he'd been trained to do.

Unless what he needed was offered to him first. Controlled. Measured. Simple.

It had led to Sebastian crossing his own line before, more than once. But he'd survived it, at least. And that, at least, hadn't given him nightmares, yet.

But it wasn't fear for himself that Sebastian felt as he looked into Jacob's pleading eyes. Sure, it was a *possibility* that the man could try to overpower him. But he’d have no chance in this state.

And Seb… couldn't see it, either. Not in those eyes that begged for understanding.

No, if he left it now, the man would suffer, aching and helpless, because Jacob sure as hell knew better than to take care of things himself.

With a deep breath and a quiet voice, Sebastian spoke, resting his hand along the length of Jacob's cock again. So fucking hard, burning hot under his fingers.

“You want me to help you?”

**

That, at least, was an easy enough question to answer. Not much of a choice. Nothing confusing about it.

So he nodded, groaning at the simple touch of Sebastian’s hand against his rock hard dick, aching already with need and insistence.

“Yeah,” he coughed out, voice raw and pleading. “Please.”

It would be a long, rough night otherwise, and even through the fog, even through that peaceful bliss of weightless floating, he knew. Coming down was inevitable, as unwelcome as the thought was. As welcome this break from hell. But he’d come down. And he’d crash. Jacob didn’t need a raging boner that wouldn’t go down to on top of that. Incapable of touching himself, sweating hopelessly through the night, to add insult to injury.

He *needed* help.

And he remembered it.

How nice Sebastian’s hands felt, when they wrapped around Jacob’s cock and brought *relief*. It always ended too soon. And Jacob had begun looking forward to it, whenever it was just the two of them. Whenever he was certain he’d get Sebastian’s attention and care. Excelling in both violence and efficiency, in brutality and obedience - always on his best behaviour, if only to earn this very special, rarest of treats.

“I like it when you do that.”

He’d forgotten he had no filter tonight.

He’d also forgotten that he didn’t care.

**

His fingers wrapped around Jacob's cock before the man had even gotten out the word *please,* acting as if the confirmation had been an order. He shifted a little closer, telling himself it was only to make this odd angle just a little bit more comfortable. It didn't matter that he ended up wet, too.

“Okay... I've got you. Just relax.”

It seemed like such a stupid, senseless thing to say, but he hoped his voice could be soothing. Something to focus and hold onto.

This, at least, Sebastian had learned he could manage. His fingers weren't hesitant as they circled around him, stroking firmly along that impressive length. Usually,  he'd make it quick, jerking him off with an intensity that often matched the violence they'd just dealt; done and over with,  a relief for both of them.

*I like it when you do that.*

*Goddamn…* He licked his lips and shifted again, tried not to think about *that* dangerous thought, or the sudden pulse of interest in his own cock.

“Yeah? Alright. You just enjoy it, then big guy. It's okay. I'll take care of you.”

This time… he dared to move a little slower, at least at first. Letting Jacob feel the warmth of his hand as he stroked him, root to tip, twisting at the end before sliding back down again.

Jacob deserved to actually feel something nice, for once. And that, at least, Sebastian could give him.

**

As freely as the words had flown all night, as generous as he’d been with them, Jacob found it hard to talk now. He’d enjoyed the sound of his own voice, slurred and mumbled as the words had been. Something he’d taken for granted for so long.

He’d almost felt human again, having a voice, having something to say. Having someone to *listen*. An illusion, like the happiness. Like the bliss. Like the fleeting little clouds of feelings. It was a beautiful illusion; one he wasn’t willing to let go of just yet.

It was hard to get anything out but that needy, raw moan the moment he felt Sebastian’s fingers wrapped around him.

Tense and frozen, spellbound like so often when *this* happened. He wasn’t allowed to speak, after all. He wasn’t allowed to touch. He wasn’t allowed to struggle. Or this would end very soon.

And yet, it was different.

Something inside him *wanted* to say something. Into the quiet of the moment, under the warm spray of water. Lulled and calmed by Sebastian’s soothing voice, repeating phrases like mantras, pulling Jacob in deeper and deeper, even as his hips tensed in response to the gentle care.

*You just enjoy it, then big guy.*

When had that mattered, since he was here?

It almost felt forbidden. Almost like breaking the rules.

To enjoy something that was just a tool to control.

But he *did* enjoy it, enjoyed the long, gentle strokes; maddeningly slow. And that, too, confused him, surprised him, made him search for answers in Sebastian’s eyes.

This wasn’t like the feverish rush Jacob knew. Over before it really had begun. Mixing pleasure with fury, lust with violence, white with red. This wasn’t hurried and rough and brutal.

This was… slow, and he let out an almost pained sound, relieved, but aching, his cock leaking already under the water. All evidence of his arousal washed away.

Finally, he managed, as he watched the spray of water deepen the colour of Sebastian’s shirt.

“You’re… you’re gettin’ wet.”

**

Jacob's sudden silence again was almost as jarring as it had been to hear the stream of consciousness,  but it wasn't truly surprising, either. If anything, this was more normal - if anything about this scenario at all could be considered *normal.*

From the moment Jacob moaned, Sebastian watched him, keeping an eye on the tension of his muscles and his heaving chest. That, at least, was easier than focusing on the way Jacob's cock felt in his hand, or the eyes he could feel on him, the questions unspoken but hanging thick in the air. Or the way Sebastian's heart still hammered in his ribcage.

Fuck, but he still wanted to kiss him. Not for the first time, the thought occurred to him that he hated Faulkner for this - if only for this. For what he'd done to Jacob.

To both of them.

He cleared his throat, laughing softly in relief to hear Jacob's voice again, knowing it was monumental that he had spoken at all; smiling as he slid his thumb over the tip of Jacob's leaking cock. “So? At least it's just water this time.”

He hummed softly, keeping the strokes going at a steady, even pace. “You want me to go faster? Or… keep it slow like this?”

**

It was a relief to hear Sebastian talk. To fill the space between them. To fill the silence Jacob couldn’t fill. When the world around him felt warped, his head dizzy and fuzzy from pleasure and drugs, Bastian’s voice felt like an anchor, grounding him, guiding him, keeping him tied to reality. Another leash, but for once, it was welcome. For once, Jacob *embraced* it; clung to it like a lifeline.

And above it, above the anchor and lifeline, above the leash that guided and never forced, above the soft noise of the water, was Sebastian’s laughter. Clear and warm. How it could feel so familiar, so *disarming* already – like his *touch * - was beyond Jacob. Maybe that, too, was the drugs.

But he couldn’t help but return the laugh, couldn’t help but *respond*, although it felt like swimming against a violent current, when his conditioned response to the well-known touch was to surrender to the stupor, to drown in a sea of passiveness.

“Yeah,” he forced out, with inhuman strength, his eyes locked with Sebastian’s, clinging to that anchor, refusing to be pulled under again. “That was… hard… to get off.”

The memory was as clear as Bastian’s voice. Both of them had been out, and the events before had become as fuzzy as his thoughts, but he remembered Sebastian, silent and still and familiar, covered in guts and gore like Jacob himself, jerking him off to completion in the cool air of the night. It had been rough and hard and hurried. Not like this. Not like now. And the day after, Sebastian had left. It had been confusing, but now his cock jumped at the memory, the scent of blood and gore suddenly vivid and real in Jacob’s nose, over the scent of cheap generic soap.

The choice, however, was as impossible as any other, leaving him helpless and overwhelmed, pleading with his eyes silently. But for what, Jacob didn’t know. He’d long lost the ability to make decisions. Good dogs only followed orders. They accepted treats when offered. But they never got to decide.

**

Once Jacob's eyes caught his, Sebastian really couldn't make himself pull away. Logically, he knew it was the drugs; but Bastian wished maybe he was under the influence too, to give some excuse for being equally swept away.

“Yeah. It was. This is much better now, though.”

Crazy thing was,  even knowing this was only happening because of whatever magic cocktail Jacob had been given, this *was*... almost nice. Even if he was getting wet under the spray of the water, it was warm and comfortable, at least. Jacob felt good in his hand,  too; relaxed, rather than coiled up like a spring with the danger of an explosive reaction if Bastian didn't act quickly enough. There was no blood here. No mess. No danger.

And Jacob was looking at him like he was the only man alive.

Sebastian wanted nothing more than to keep this different. To keep it *good.*

“That's alright. We'll take it slow, then.” He kept his voice hushed, a low murmur over the sound of the water as he tried not to think about the way Jacob's cock jumped between his fingers. Trying to ignore how his own cock was undeniably reacting now, stirring a little too quickly for comfort. “You've been so good. It's okay to enjoy things, too, you know. I want you to have that.”

**

This was familiar, and it *wasn’t*. Sebastian *never* talked when it happened. He never took it slow. And that, in itself, was overwhelming and Jacob didn’t fight the desperate moan, shifting to spread his legs, to give better access to the centre of his *need*. It felt good that Sebastian took care of him. Always had, but never like this. With his voice in Jacob’s ears, and Jacob’s head somewhere in the clouds, without filter, without restraints.

“*Yeah.* Better.”

Jacob was all but writhing under Sebastian’s hand, solid and comforting and maddeningly skilled. Whatever Bastian would have said, whatever he’d demanded, whatever he’d asked, Jacob would have happily agreed. To anything and everything. It felt easy to agree. It felt *good* to agree. To comply. To surrender. And the tiniest voice in his head whispered thoughts he didn’t want to hear, not now, not here. That maybe this was exactly *why* Faulkner had drugged him. Once again. The pleasure of submission felt like bliss, and – at least earlier tonight, without the stupor, without the current - speaking had never felt so easy. He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to *agree*.

But a part of him was relieved, that this stayed slow. That Sebastian kept talking, filling his mind with warmth and approval. The praise felt better even than the touch, and Jacob could almost believe it. It would be so easy to believe, here and now, with the drug running through his system and Sebastian humming the sweetest lies, if it weren’t for the tiniest voice in his head. Jacob tried to pretend anyway.

“Slow’s good.”

Still, it was hard to talk, hard to force the words out against inhuman *routine*. But the shift had brought something else into his field of view. Something new. Something surprising. Something that was even more interesting now than Sebastian’s eyes. It was the impressive bulging of his very wet pants.

“You’re… hard.”

**

With each firm stroke of his hand, wet and easy under the shower,  Jacob relaxed more and more, practically melting under Sebastian's touch. If he were anywhere else, if *they* were anyone else it would have been so easy, so natural to move forward, slide between Jacob's spread legs and crawl into his lap -

Fuck, those thoughts were too goddamn dangerous. Better to focus. To make sure Jacob enjoyed this and then Sebastian could just… forget it about it again later.

*He won't remember this anyway.*

His fingers would tighten just slightly, ramping up the intensity of the strokes without going much faster, shifting a little closer now that Jacob himself had adjusted.

But then Jacob spoke, pointing out the obvious, what he *wished* he could hide, and Bastian felt a shiver run down his spine. *I wouldn't. Don't think that of me. Not now.*

He'd continue stroking, taking a deep and shaky breath.

“S’okay, Jacob. Don't you worry about me. I've got you.”

**

Yes, this *was* familiar, and it *wasn’t*.

Sebastian didn’t talk while jerking him off. He didn’t take it slow. And he didn’t get *hard*. Never had. Not when Jacob had been tied up, ass up, covered in come and tears in *that* room. Not even when they had *pretended*, miraculously fooling  Faulkner into believing he’d been there for any other reason than Jacob having *asked* him to stay. Not when he brought  relief after bloodshed and death. Sebastian had always remained collected and firm, and he’d never shown any signs of arousal. It made *this* all the more surprising. Remarkable… *exciting*.

Familiar and not, this felt *good*. Some strange Twilight zone episode of his twisted and stunted life in a cage. He could be happy like this. Kept and leashed, maybe, but with Sebastian murmuring reassurances and praise, Jacob didn’t mind anymore. If he could fly high like this, a solid hand around his hungry, aching, desperately leaking cock, he’d agree to this and more.

“*Yeah.*”

It was strange. It was surprising. But he wasn’t anxious.

Not like when he saw Faulkner’s hard cock. The complicated feelings that came with that. Twisted and stunted of their own. A mix of arousal and expectation, of fear and disgust, anticipation and shame.

Not like the desperation and anger, the *fear* and self-hatred he’d felt in *that* room.

*This* was different.

*This* made him curious.

It was almost like an echo from a different life. Where there hadn’t been stupors and Jacob hadn’t been paraded around like a glorified pet. Where sex hadn’t just *happened*. Where it hadn’t been nothing but an instrument, a tool for rewards and punishments. This… almost made him hungry, and he couldn’t avert his eyes, even as his moans grew needy and laboured. Even as his cock jumped and leaked all too happily into Sebastian’s hand.

And with his head high in the clouds, his whole body pleasantly warm and heavy, with no filters in place to keep his tongue from getting ahead of his thoughts, the words slipped out unchecked, and they terrified Jacob the moment they were spoken.

“I wanna see it.”

**

There was something immediately different in Jacob's dark eyes that stole Sebastian's breath away.

*Interest.*

It was undeniable that he was distracted, staring even as his cock continued to respond to every touch; but it wasn't fear or wariness or caution that Sebastian saw in them now.

He shook his wet hair out of his eyes, taking shallow breaths now as he tried to focus, to think of *anything else.*

“Listen, you don't -”

*I wanna see it.*

That… wasn't just obedience and submission. That wasn't an empty phrase Jacob had been taught, either.

He was expressing a clear desire for probably the first time Sebastian was actively aware of. Unprompted, even.

Fuck, but this was suddenly so much more complicated than he could have imagined it to be. Hadn't he been trying to encourage Jacob to express *something* - anything - that he actually wanted? Wasn't that the whole point, trying to get him to hold onto himself?

“Are you… You sure, big guy? Would it… help?”

**

*Would it help?*

A small voice, maybe the last little flame that was burning, the last spark of who he used to be, the last remnants of his soul knew the answer to that. It wouldn’t. Not by a long shot. It wouldn’t make his chains and leash disappear. It wouldn’t erase the memories. It wouldn’t heal the festering, open wounds Faulkner had left. It wouldn’t erase Faulkner.

No, it wouldn’t help.

But to his surprise, Jacob wasn’t afraid.

He wasn’t afraid of the hard cock in front of him. He wasn’t afraid of what it could do and the pain it could cause. He wasn’t afraid of… Sebastian.

The man who had wanted to *dress* Jacob. The man who had refused to *drag* him along. The man with the smile, and the kindness and the *touch*. The man who had brought food. The man who had *stayed* during Jacob’s worst moments.

It trickled down slowly, through layers of cotton and confusion, into his sluggish, all too happy mind: Sebastian had never hurt him. Not the way he could have. Not when it could have been easy. Unless Jacob had earned it. Unless he’d had to be punished. But Jacob understood that, at least, and he hadn’t fought. Not the punishment. Not Faulkner. Not Sebastian.

And although it was forbidden, although he knew he wasn’t supposed to, Jacob found himself reaching out. As if watching something else take control of his arm. Maybe his former self. The man he’d buried. Something that wasn’t affected by fear. Something that could thrive again under the influence of this mad drug cocktail that made him feel *so good*.

He could only watch as he reached out, almost losing his balance as his weight shifted, the floor seemed to move as much as the wall, but he managed to *touch*, rubbing the palm of his hand over the massive bulge in Sebastian’s pants. Yes, he could live like this. It would make this life bearable. It would make this life worth living. If he could have Sebastian. And this. And something that turned off the thoughts.

**

No, it wouldn't *help.* Sebastian did know that much, in the end. Faulkner had fucked all of that up beyond comprehension. There was no *helping.*

And Sebastian… had been just as much a part of this from the beginning. Following Faulkner’s orders to train and condition and punish.

To break, as he had been broken himself.

But it felt like, despite the drugs, Sebastian was finally getting a little glimpse of the true man buried so deep inside that shell. That need for connection and touch and contact. The attachment to Sebastian's smile, of all things. And now… this.

That did not make this assignment any easier. It sure as fuck did not make this desperate, confusing *desire* any easier, either, because it was foolish to even dream that either of them would be allowed this.

Almost too late, Sebastian noticed Jacob losing his balance as he *actually reached for him*, shifting forward to catch him just as Jacob’s hand made contact. His breath caught in a quiet but barely audible gasp, but he managed not to let go of Jacob's cock, still stroking as he held the man steady.

“Shit – Okay, I – I've got you, Jacob. I got you. You can touch, it's okay.”

**

*You can touch.*

It was as if those words lifted the spell, pulled him out of his frozen state, out of the passiveness. He had *permission*. And Jacob could celebrate the smallest victories now, had learnt to live with so little in those past months. Most things were forbidden here. At least to *him*. There were only few things he was *allowed* to do in this world of rules and punishments, that this felt… *thrilling*.

He looked up with glossy eyes - questioning, hopeful, confused, relieved, begging, pleading, excited, *all at once* - and moaned, the same loopy grin on his lips, but somehow even wider now, and just as unfiltered and honest.

“You’re wet,” he slurred again, clinging to Sebastian’s shoulder with his free hand. Bastian was under the shower with him now, and seeing him clothed and drenched was unbelievably funny. And somehow, deeper in his stomach, unbelievably comforting.

Because Sebastian hadn’t just dumped him. Like the others. He was still here, taking care of Jacob; and maybe this was the *one* good thing he had learnt in this horrible place, a cursed knowledge paid with blood and tears and the loss of his soul, something he could only accept being drugged out of his skull, the smallest comfort in a hellscape of pain and suffering: sometimes, it felt good to be taken care of.

“’n thisis nice… Real nice.”

The world was still spinning, and so was his head, but his hand was eager now, rubbing along the wet front of Sebastian’s pants with enthusiasm while clinging to the strong shoulders with the other.

“*Fuck*. You’re *huuuge*.”

**

Sebastian’s breaths came deeper now,  heavier as he adjusted to the way Jacob looked at him when he gave his permission, and the way that giant hand rubbed up and down the front of his now soaking-wet trousers.

Permission was a fickle thing, in this place. Too often taken away, and never returned; and too often not respected. As it was,  Sebastian considered himself lucky. He was allowed more permissions than most, including the permission to *refuse;* something he most certainly did not take for granted.

But the flip side,  too, was that Sebastian himself never *gave* permission, either. Not for this. Not for anyone here.

*And Faulkner doesn't count.*

But this… yeah, he wanted this,  too. And it showed, with his soft panting breaths, the way his hips rocked just slightly forward into that hand.

Even if Jacob was drugged out of his mind and wouldn't remember this. The man was *so close* and he sure as fuck wanted to touch *him*; and this was probably the next best thing to kissing Jacob,  or so Sebastian supposed. He'd take it.

“Yeah… yeah,  it's nice, I – fuck.”

He licked his lips and laughed suddenly as Jacob seemed to really feel him out,  processing what was under that painfully tight fabric.

“Mmmmhm. You'd know, wouldn't you,  big guy?” He’d punctuate the little tease with a flick of his thumb over the tip of Jacob's leaking cock,  then swirl around the head and back down to cup his tightening balls, humming softly.

**

He was *aching* now, anticipation burning in his muscles, a vibrant hum in his bones that promised *relief*.

Sebastian’s tease so surprising, so out of place, that for one bright, shining moment, Jacob forgot where he was. That he could forget *who* he was, and what he’d become.

For one bright, shining, blissful moment, he was just… happy.

“Y’know…” It was hard to talk, every breath a moan now, unrestrained as his words, his body shivering and writhing under Sebastian’s touch. “Bastian. I could live like this… if… it *were* like this. All the time. I’d be happy. ‘f you were there. You’re a good man. You are.”

He felt raw already, nerves burning and his cock on fire; and the tease surprised him. It almost sent him over the edge, unexpected and… light. As if he were free. As if this were *real*. A deep shudder down his spine, but he could stop himself just in time, miraculously. Instead, he laughed, his eyes searching Bastian’s again.

“Yeah. Yeah. I’d know.”

Grinning up at Sebastian, brainless and boneless as he was, Jacob could feel it was time, could feel his balls tighten, the familiar tension coiling in his stomach. And with a groan deep in his chest, just as unfiltered, just as honest, Jacob let go of Sebastian to let himself fall back against the cool tiles, his head hitting the wall a little too hard, giving him better access again to his dripping cock. He didn’t feel it, didn’t even hear the dull thud; all sensation gathered elsewhere, where Sebastian’s hand connected with his body.

A part of him didn’t want this to end, even with his dick heavy and so dark it had almost turned purple. He felt sensitive enough that a shallow breeze of air could send him over now, but somewhere in the depths of his heart, he wasn’t ready to face the brutal reality of existence again. Maybe he was lucky and the drugs wouldn’t wear off until he was asleep.

**

Jacob was a shivering and moaning mess, perfectly wrecked and absolutely beautiful in this state of vulnerable, submissive bliss. Sebastian was tempted to draw it out, just to give Jacob some semblance of lasting happiness, of safety within that vulnerability, but the man needed release too. He could see it, feel it; the man was wound up so tightly that Sebastian was pretty sure almost anything would send him off the edge.

He slowed his strokes.

He wanted to make it *good*.

*I could live like this.

I’d be happy. If you were there.

You're a good man.*

Sebastian's heart probably stopped in that moment. He figured if it did, and he died just like this, in this moment, yeah,  he'd be happy too, maybe for the first time in his life - because something about the way Jacob said those words made him actually *believe* it.

No, he had never been a good man, but maybe, like this… he could be.

“Just like this? You and me? I think you're right… I think we'd be okay.” He'd smile at him, warm and honest and pure, his heart breaking in the confines of his chest. “We'd both be happy. Jus’ you and me. I'd give anything for that.”

He'd inhale sharply as Jacob laughs and groans and falls back, flinching at the thud of his head against the wall. He can *feel* Jacob's body going into overdrive beneath his fingers; his cock impossibly hard, so hot despite the running water, his balls heavy and tight, thighs trembling.

Still under the water, Sebastian slid his hand behind Jacob's head, checking first for splits in the scalp before letting his fingers rest there, buried in his hair.

“I've got you now, though. Right here with me. As long as you want me to. As long as I can. I'll stay.” He shook the water out of his eyes, sliding the length of his palm down Jacob's cock, a solid, warm, firm stroke, then twisting back up again.

“Let me make it good for once. Come for me, Jacob. For you and me.”

**

*Jus’ you and me.*

That sounded… *forbidden*. Forbidden enough that he hadn’t even dared think that far, but once he does, it feels like *heaven*.

“Yeah. No. Not just… even if it wasn’… just you and me.” He took a shuddering breath; whether it was from *painful* arousal, fear of Faulkner or something like *hope*, Jacob couldn’t tell. His fuzzy mind was elsewhere.

“If… I could have *this*, I’d let him fuck me. I’d let him whip me. Y’know. Bastian? I’d… do it all. I’d be *so* good. He could show me around on a fucking leash and jerk me off’n front of the whole world… I’d do what he says. I’d rip’em all apart. Whatever he wants. I wouldn’t care. If the days could end like *this*. It’d be… enough. I’d be fine. I’d be happy. I could live like this… even with ev’ryhthin’ else. Even with him. Y’know?” For a second, he held his breath, his eyes full of hurt and desperation. “But’m always tryin’ to be good. ‘s hard. ‘s *so* hard.” It was. And he knew he couldn’t be any *better*, even if he tried, and that the lovely image his drugged brain had just painted would be nothing but smoke come morning, a tempting fever dream and illusion, shattered in the light of the day.

Because even his clouded brain did realise that *as long as you want me to” and *as long as I can” were two *very* different things.

But the doubts disappeared the second he could feel Sebastian’s hand in his hair, just above the nape of his neck; a gesture so familiar – *and not* – that his body relaxed immediately. Sebastian’s touch had always brought calm and comfort and security. It was terrifying at times. But not tonight. Leaning into the solid hand, Jacob moaned, interrupting the stream of words that escaped without filter.

He was babbling again, but he was too far gone to notice or stop, and the thoughts were running freely again, despite of his rock hard cock and the hand around it. Because this was different. This was *good*. And he found that not only would he agree to everything Sebastian could possibly say, not only would he obey to everything he could possibly demand… he’d follow him. Anywhere.

So there was no moment of hesitation. There was no struggle. Just obedience.

*Let me make it good for once.*

“’s always good. With you,” was the last somewhat coherent thing he could force out, before the thoughts stopped. Before he threw his head back, into the safe hand between him and the bathroom wall. Before he arched his back and his body reared and convulsed, and his cock started spilling violently into the maddening hand, sputtering and twitching in ways Jacob hadn’t thought possible.

**

*Even if it wasn't just you and me.*

No, that was too much,  wasn't it? There was no way Sebastian alone could be enough - not to make the rest of this hell bearable. Not what Jacob had to go through. The torture, the beatings, the rapes; the endless cycle of drugs and violence and nightmares and blood.

It was humbling and devastating at the same time. Because he had never been *enough.* Not for anyone or anything. Not for Faulkner, for Elias, or even himself.

And yet… here he was, with the same goddamn sentiment; if he were in Jacob's place he'd no doubt be saying the very same. Because it seemed like lately Jacob was all Sebastian could think about,  too… all that made this bearable.

When had existence become so goddamn complicated?

He couldn't speak, not through Jacob's drugged babbling or his own tumultuous thoughts.  He instead focused on the sound of Jacob's voice, stroking until he heard that same voice catch and moan. His own cock twitched hard but remained trapped where it was, ignored as Sebastian worked his fingers along Jacob's length, trying to capture every aspect of this moment to memory. Jacob's heaving chest, the twitches, the arching of his back, the choked sound of his moans, relief and pleasure rolled into one.

*Always good. With you.*

Yes, he would hold onto this. As he held onto Jacob now, sliding his fingers gently through the wet hair.

“I've got you, Jacob. That's it... Good boy.”

**

His climax rippled through his body like a tornado with unknown force. Familiar and different. Like everything tonight. From the smiles to the pace to Sebastian’s voice shining like a beacon in an ever-moving, wavering world.

He couldn’t stop moaning, wasn’t even *afraid* to be heard, didn’t waste a single thought about Faulkner or *what he could do* if he caught him, caught *them. But it was hard to tell, whether this was even allowed or not – wasn’t it what Sebastian did all the time, when they were out, when *he* held Jacob’s leash? Wasn’t it what everyone did? Where was the difference, except for speed and voice and *emotion*? Those thoughts would come later, but he wasn’t disturbed by them now; wide eyes wandering down to *watch*, glued to Sebastian’s large hand around him, pumping and milking him as he kept spilling over, the water washing all evidence off easily.

*That's it... Good boy.*

Jacob hadn’t even been done, had been flighing high, riding it out breathlessly and expecting to settle, when Sebastian’s word hit him with force, when his body went haywire and a *second* wave rolled over him. Surprise all over his face, eyes wide and pleading as his body trembled, he clung to Sebastian’s shoulder, watching helplessly as his cock started twitching *again*, almost dried out and almost painfully.

“*Fuck.*”

*Good boy.*

Two cursed words, words Sebastian had *never* said. Words embedded in his mind and heart and soul like toxic waste. Praise and humiliation. Craved and hated. An unachievable goal. But never had they sound like this. Never had they reached his core with such force, like absolution for his sins. Like it could be true, just for once, just for now. Just because Sebastian had *said so*. It felt addictive, more than Sebastian’s voice or touch or the fucking drug in his system that made happiness so easy.

Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was Bastian, and maybe it didn’t matter in the end, but it felt like losing the ground beneath his feet; falling and soaring, light and heavy at the same time, safe in Sebastian’s hands, held through it as his body kept jerking and shuddering all the way through it. His hips were tense, pushing up, daring to thrust, at least once or twice, allowing himself the pleasure of demanding more than receiving.

Until he couldn’t spill anymore. Until the last twitches subsided with regret. Until his body settled, even if his mind didn’t clear, and he looked up at Sebastian again in relief and confusion.

**

Usually, it wasn't like this.

Usually,  it was fast and almost clinical, the way Sebastian touched him,  jerking him off in the midst of carnage until an equally brief release freed them both to return some sense of normalcy.

Usually, Sebastian barely heard the moans.

Usually,  it meant absolutely fucking nothing.

But tonight, he hung on every sound, every twitch, that goddamn hold on his shoulder that felt as if it were there to steady him as much as it was to steady Jacob.

*Good boy.*

Two words that he hated, but could make all the difference in the right context. As they had here, when they'd spilled from his lips, thoughtless and natural as breathing.

God, a part of him wanted to say it again, just to see what would happen. Just to see Jacob teetering constantly in bliss.

“I've got you.”

Sebastian ignored the way his voice cracked, panting softly himself, still in his place under the spray of water as he stroked much gentler now, only long enough to wash away the last of the evidence. His hand finally stilled, then rested just below Jacob's navel.

Safe. Not quite chaste. But keeping the contact that seemed so necessary to continue breathing.

“You okay?”

**

His heart was still thundering in his throat, and all Jacob could see once more was Sebastian; his whole vision filled by his face again - huge, but blurry - and once again, that felt comforting. His body slowly coming down, but his mind flying high; and whatever kind of cocktail Faulkner had given him softened the crash.

There was no hole in his heart. There was no emptiness or pain or regret. No fears, associations or longing. No memories creeping in that would have *ruined* this. Nothing unwelcome. Nothing painful. Just this. Just bliss. Just Sebastian and his hand’s *touching*, holding him together from the back of his head to his abdomen. Keeping him from melting away and losing his form, being washed away through the drain into nothingness. Earlier, that thought had been comforting. Now, it felt more relieving to be *held*; as if Bastian’s hand could keep him in this reality, far away from gore and guilt and *Faulkner*.

He grinned up, just as loopy, just as far gone, and nodded.

“Yeah.”

Rough and raw, he couldn’t recognise the sound of his own voice, but that didn’t matter. More often than not, he couldn’t, these days. Just as he couldn’t recognise himself anymore. And that was okay, for as long as Sebastian continued the *touch*. Familiar, but different. Grounding still. Calming his thoughts. Confirming the boundaries of his physical form. A short-circuit in his brain. Now, though, it also felt *vital*.

“Hey. Bastian.” He grinned again, licking his lips.

“You still hard?” **

Fuck, he's never going to see Jacob the same again. Not after seeing him *smile* like this.

He might spend every waking moment working just to see it again.

It's a relief unlike any other to see it, to *know* that this is alright, that Jacob hadn't been somehow broken by this too. That he could still look at Sebastian and see safety. His thumb slid gently through Jacob's hair, soothing over his scalp, feeling these few seconds as if they were lifetimes.

But the sudden question made him flush, glancing down for half a moment as he's reminded that yes, he very much *is.* Nothing a cold shower and some time alone couldn't fix, but he sure as fuck wasn't hiding it.

“I… yeah... Yeah. Sorry.”

**

For a moment, Jacob frowned. There was something going on in Sebastian’s face that was hard to read and hard to grasp, especially with his thoughts swimming away and his body beautifully exhausted and light. Something melancholic. Something strange and… heavy. Something Jacob would have loved to understand, but he couldn’t hold that thought for long enough. It flew away, like his memories and guilt, and the world was a beautiful place.

“Why’re you sorry? Tha’s stupid.”

It *was* ridiculous. Nobody here was *ever* sorry. Nobody here had *ever* apologised. Not for a boner. Not for pain. Not for fucking Jacob. Not for all the other things that had happened and kept happening.

And unless it was towards Faulkner, Jacob had learnt to not be sorry – or *feel* sorry - either. Not when he did the same things. To different people. Not when he did worse.

“I wanna suck it.”

He licked his lips again, beaming up, trying to get his eyes to focus.

“Used to *love* it. Suckin’ dicks. Used to *really* love it. Before this.” The frown on his forehead didn’t last.

“I wanna suck yours. Cause you’re nice. ‘n I bet you gotta nice cock.” 

**

“Because I don't – I'm not–”

*Like them. Like **him**.*

The defense died on his lips, the very words stolen from him as Jacob once again clearly expressed his desires; and, once again, Sebastian found himself powerless to resist.

For one terrifying moment it felt almost like a trap. The animal he'd trained finally obeying, learning its lessons and using them against him. Tempting him. Tormenting him.

Because he was pretty fucking sure that this would absolutely be forbidden - without Faulkner's permission or order, anyway.

Which Sebastian would naturally have refused, even if his cock twitched *hard* just imagining it.

*Fuck.*

He didn't let go.

“Okay. If - if that's what you want, big guy. You can.”

**

His eyes lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, no thoughts behind them but purest *excitement*. This almost felt like a vacation. From himself. From the pain of looking into a mirror. From Faulkner. From this life. From all the things that remained blurry and unthreatening at the back of his mind right now.

In a moment without memories, he could let his instincts rule. Whether they were his own or conditioned, whether they were natural or created artificially, by someone else, whether they had been his all along or had been forced into him; none of it mattered. His mind was too occupied with simpler things, urgent things, too clouded and fuzzy to dwell on existential questions. It hardly ever did, these days. Because in a way, his life was simple here. Fuck. Hurt. Kill. Obey. If no thoughts could get in the way.

And in a way, *this* was simple, too.

He reached out again with a huff, finding Sebastian’s cock in those wet, tight pants. It felt *massive*.

“Yeah. I wanna suck you off.”

**

There was no mistaking that look in Jacob's eyes. Drugs or not, that hunger was *real.*

More real, even, than the eyes of the man he'd met in Philadelphia.

He inhaled sharply as Jacob reached for him again, his eyes closing just for a moment as he focused on the touch. The palm of Jacob's hand seemed almost burning hot as he fumbled with the soaked pants.

Somehow, he managed to stand, breaking contact with only one hand; keeping his right hand gently resting at the base of Jacob's skull. The other made short work of his zipper, helping Jacob along while looking for the tiniest hint of a changing mind.

There was none,  and he pulled himself out, stroking once along the entire length. He felt exposed,  open, *vulnerable* even - such clear desire on full display,  the kind of desire he *never* showed.

And yet it *was* desire, truly, his heart thudding loud in his ears above the steady sound of the running water; so he remained still, his hand guiding Jacob to stroke him.

**

It felt good; the hand at the back of his neck. Still solid. Still warm. It made parting with Sebastian’s face bearable. It made losing the eye contact acceptable.

Until Jacob’s gaze found something even more interesting, following the movement of Bastian’s hand; his attention focused on every motion, every detail, as that hand opened the fly and pulled out a *monster*.

Jacob had been right. Sebastian was as enormous as he was, and his eyes grew wide at the sight; as wide as his loopy, drugged-out grin the very moment he looked up at Sebastian.

“*Fuuuuuuuck…*”

It was as much an expression of surprise as it was of a strange, beautiful frenzy, as much praise as it was anticipation. It was anything and everything at once, a breath of wonder and awe, and all the words he couldn’t remember.

There was no refusal as his hand was guided, no hesitation as he wrapped his hand around the beast of a cock; pliant and obedient, his eyes still clouded, but glistening with pure excitement.

Licking his lips in anticipation, Jacob could feel his mouth water; and maybe that, too, was nothing but a conditioned response, but maybe it was more. Something he’d forgotten a long time ago. Desire. Want. *Choice*.

This was different from the constant inhuman *need*, different from the insatiable hunger that Faulkner had cultivated in him.

This was more human than animal, more man than beast, but the feeling of *urgency* was just the same as licked his lips and kept stroking.

**

Sebastian let out the softest of laughs, a brief exhale of relief and amusement at Jacob's awed reaction.

Yes, this was desire, strong and real. And for once, it seemed to be mutual.

He let his hand fall, fingertips tracing only along the back of Jacob's hand before letting him take over the inquisitive, curious strokes. His cock was leaking already, overeager and desperate as Sebastian himself felt.

If he'd had less control, less patience, he'd have tugged Jacob to him already. Or worse, shoved inside, taken his throat or his ass or both. But even as desperate as this, Sebastian managed to keep still, despite his trembling fingers.

“So? Is it what you thought?”

**

The question, light and teasing and goddamn *perfect* any other second, made Jacob pause. And through layers of fog and smoke, realisation slowly trickling into his thoughts, lazy and sluggish.

Jacob had *really* caught a glimpse of Sebastian’s cock before. He’d imagined it, a dozen times today alone; but he’d never… *seen* it.

And by all means, that *shouldn’t* feel strange at all, but for a short moment, Jacob realised he basically knew every other dick around here. Intimately. He’d seen them, felt them, *tasted* them. With tears in his eyes and screams stuck in his throat. And for that short, *terrible* moment, he could see every single one of them. Faulkner’s; average, really, but with a nice curve to it that Jacob might have found appealing, if it had belonged to *anyone* else. And the others, every shape and form and size under the rainbow. Interchangeable, one more horrific than the other. Only the foreign boys didn’t feel threatening, and he saw more of their faces and asses, anyway. Nothing special about that, anymore. An average day in a hell full of cocks.

He'd seen them all. And everyone had seen *Jacob*.

What he hadn’t seen, *not once*, not for a second… was *this*.

He swallowed dryly, forcing himself out of his haze and giving Sebastian’s cock a few thoughtful strokes.

It was strange to think that something that should *feel* dangerous, after all he’d seen, after all he’d done, after all he’d been forced to do… didn’t.

And eyeing it again, he frowned.

No, Bastian’s cock didn’t feel threatening. Not like the rest. Not like Faulkner’s men, all animals in their own right. But the worst of them, the king of the beasts… was Jacob.

The short, terrible moment passed, and Jacob’s goldfish brain couldn’t hold onto it. Miraculously. Fortunately.

Instead, the grin was back, as if nothing had ever happened. Just as honest. Just as raw. Just as unstained.

“’s even better.”

And to prove his point, he leaned forward, nuzzling against the length with purest enthusiasm, moaning against the velvety skin even as he dove deeper, mouthing at those perfect balls.

Yeah, this was even better than he’d imagined.

**

The moment Sebastian said it, he regretted it; it had been an attempt to try to keep this otherwise dangerous moment light, but it sure as fuck had backfired.

There was a pause. A frown and thoughtfulness in Jacob's eyes, though he didn't pull back. He didn't speak, and Sebastian’s own thoughts kicked into overdrive. Had he misread desire after all? Had Faulkner fucked him up *that* thoroughly that he couldn't even tell the difference anymore?

But the moment Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, to remind him *you do not have to do this,* cursing his own inability to manage to remain a decent fucking human being –  Jacob's smile returned, pure and perfect, delighted and sweet, and he swallowed the protest down again.

Jesus, this was confusing.

The enthusiasm could be faked, sure. But… as far as he knew, Jacob had never smiled like that. Not with any of the others. So what would be the point here, unless he meant it? And if he meant it, what had that moment been about?

He felt like he knew, but God, it was hard to focus on his thoughts now. He managed somehow to keep himself still, to allow Jacob to take this at his own pace for once, shivering as he slowly relaxed into the pleasure himself, his fingers carding through Jacob's hair.

“Good. Let it… let it be good.”

**231

Bastian’s skin was smooth and salty as Jacob kept mouthing along that massive cock. Smooth and salty and delightfully *hot*. This wasn’t something he’d be allowed to do with Faulkner. This wasn’t something he’d *wanted* to do with Faulkner, either.

This wasn’t the straightforward, practiced routine he’d been taught. A ritual. An act. A carefully laid out ceremonial, with clearly defined moves and responses. No exploration. No excitement. Not like *this*. *Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir.*

And Jacob’s body had learnt to react, had learnt to enjoy what troubled pleasures this life had to offer, to embrace and welcome pain and lust without questioning the shattered remains of his heart. He’d been taught and trained to be responsive and pliant under Faulkner’s hand. But it all remained empty at its core. Hollow. Mechanical. Even earlier, when he’d bucked his hips and moaned, thrusting all too eagerly into Faulkner’s offered fist like the animal he was. The king of the beasts, bowing to its master.

*This* didn’t feel empty. This didn’t feel hollow. This was like a memory he couldn’t recall. A dream he hadn’t dared dream. A wish that had been buried under screams and echoes of pain. Some of them had been his own. Some of them had been others.

No, Faulkner’s cock had never been this hot, had never felt this *tempting*. Neither were the dicks of those boys, limp and unexcited in his mouth until *sometimes* he could force them to hardness.

It was never like this. It never *felt* like this, and with a relieved moan, after another open-mouthed journey up the smooth, heated, *perfect* cock, Jacob finally allowed himself to wrap his lips around the tip, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. His hand held Bastian at the base, his grip firm and warm and just a bit desperate as he started to bob his head, keeping the movements light and shallow and excited.

*Let it be good.*

This was more familiar. This was simple. His body and tongue knew what to do, even before his lazy brain could process the command. A response like a reflex. Conditioned and ingrained and beautifully easy. Beautifully simple. And for once, an order he could obey *happily*. He’d been trained to submit without resistance and hesitation, and maybe it was time to learn to obey with *joy*, by Bastian’s much gentler hand.

And oh, Jacob could do that.

And he damn well would make it *good*. And for once, he *wanted* to, with all of his blackened, shrivelled heart.

He let the cock slide out of his mouth with a delightfully wet sound, looking up at Sebastian with glossy, eager eyes, the grin somehow even wider than before.

“Yes sir. I’ll make it good. I’ll be so good.”

**

He had only just closed his eyes, allowing himself for once in his life to sink into something that was pure pleasure, hot and real and immediate; something almost completely untainted. Such a relief. Such a painful brief glimpse of something perfect, something only ever imagined.

Until Jacob spoke, smiling so brightly Sebastian could *hear it* in his voice.

*Fuck.  No no no –*

He stepped back before he could even think about it, feeling his cock slide back through Jacob's fingers.

No, this wasn't right. Not if Jacob was calling him that. Not if he thought this was an *order.*

He had *wanted* Jacob to want this. And nothing seemed worse suddenly than being wrong about it. He couldn't keep the tremble out of his hands or his voice when he managed somehow to find it again.

“Not like that. You - I want this to be good for *you.*”

The words felt caught in his throat. How could he bring himself to say it? To explain to Jacob that if *he* didn't want this, he'd prefer the man never to touch him at all?

“I'm not *making* you, you understand me?”

**

He chased after Bastian’s cock with a needy, helpless whine, consumed by frustration and fear. Rewards were never *guaranteed* here, and Jacob had learnt that the hard way, along with every other painful lesson Faulkner had had to offer. Rewards were *granted*, and they could be taken away easily. Like now.

Although unlike with Faulkner, Jacob could feel his body move forward, going after the delicious prize on his own volition. It was dangerous, it was reckless, it was forbidden. But the craving was more powerful than acceptance.

Once again, he almost fell over from the unexpected movement and the weight of his body, but this time, Jacob miraculously managed to hold himself back. The walls were still moving, but he was slowly getting used that that, at least.

*Fuck.*

He’d done something wrong, *awfully, terribly wrong*, when Jacob had been *so* sure that here, finally, he could be wholeheartedly, excitedly and passionately *good*. It hurt his scrambled brain to think about it, and all he could do was look up with a confused frown.

“’m sorry.”

His hand felt empty without that heavy cock under his fingertips. Empty like his mouth and brain and soul, and Bastian’s words reached Jacob’s mind with delay. This, too, was confusing. Nobody had to *make* Jacob obey, these days. He just did as he was told. Never with as much enthusiasm as today. Never with a joy as pure and untainted as this. But he didn’t need to be *made*. Not anymore. And not that it would have mattered, in the first place. Jacob was never *asked*.

Sebastian was a confusing man, but far more annoying was the monstrous, dripping cock right in front of Jacob. Just out of reach.

“I understand. I do. ‘s good for me. ‘s *so* good. *Please.*”

**

He was shaking, standing under the running water, his cock still dripping and hard as Jacob *reached for him.*

He never did that. He… knew better.

And he never *begged.*

Sebastian's head was swimming too, his heart pounding as he fought himself. God, he wanted this, felt almost as if he needed it; and Jacob was so… convincing.

It felt too real not to believe that Jacob wanted this, despite the instinctive response to a perceived order. But a part of him still doubted, was still afraid that Jacob was only, in fact, being *very good* and doing what he thought was expected of him. What he knew Sebastian wanted.

God, Sebastian hated Faulkner sometimes.

“Only because you *want* to, Jacob. Not because you have to.”

*Please.*

He'd pause, then move within reach again, giving Jacob what he was begging for, his cock twitching again at the first touch. **

“I want to.”

And it felt as if he’d never wanted anything more in his entire life. More than his old life. More than peace of mind. More than absolution, independence and *freedom*. All of this, he’d buried already. All of this a mere figment of imagination, forever out of reach now, and nothing but a fever dream. Blurry around the edges and hard to grasp.

This, though, Sebastian’s inviting, tempting cock, was *so* close. And the closest thing he could imagine to happiness, right now.

This time, his grip around Bastian’s cock was tighter. Harder. Greedy. More desperate. Just a fraction. Just as much as he dared without fear of being punished. This time, Jacob wouldn’t fuck up. This time, he’d hold onto it, *cling* to it, if necessary; cling to this forbidden glimpse into a world without torture and suffering, into a world of bliss and pleasure and something like innocence.

“Thank you-“

The instinctive *sir* was swallowed down with a deep breath, because this time, he didn’t waste a second, shoving his face forward to wrap his lips around the meaty, hard cock with a relieved moan. And even though he knew it all too well, Jacob didn’t like this kind of hurry; this need to consume *the thing* before *the thing* was gone. Before it could be taken away again. Food. Treats. Pleasure. This was a very familiar feverish urgency. Well-known, but not welcome. Not here. Not now.

**

He completely failed to bite back the deep gasp, fingers curling in Jacob's hair as he braced his other hand against the shower wall. No, there had to be real desire there, otherwise he'd have to be crazy, wouldn't he? To misinterpret this?

He didn't want to think, didn't want to *feel*, too absorbed by the affection he felt,  too confused to understand anymore. This, at least, was easy - if he could manage not to think.

But something had changed,  between the exploratory touches from a moment ago, and now. There was a desperation as if Jacob were a starving man, as if Sebastian threatened to take away what was left if he didn't take it *now.*

Somehow he forced himself to speak again, despite his heart threatening to slam right out of his ribcage.

“S-slow down, big guy. I'm not goin’ anywhere. If it's what you want,  I want you to *enjoy* it, OK?”

**

Yes, he was familiar with this kind of hurry, and by now, it was etched into his being, fused with his marrow. Experience had shaped his needs and behaviour; something so simple, yet horrible. And in his clearer moments Jacob could *recognise* it for what it was; and that somehow managed to make this even *worse*.

*Consume the thing before the thing is gone.*

No, this wasn’t one of Sebastian’s precious meals, wolved down at his table in the canteen under Bastian’s eyes before anyone could notice, before Faulkner could put an end to it. This wasn’t one of Faulkner’s rewards, fleeting offers as fickle as the man himself; gone in an instant if Jacob was just the fraction of a second *too slow* to accept them, holding out his arm in perfect obedience or bowing down to sniff his gifts off the table in relief, swallowing whatever poison the man had to offer these days. This wasn’t a tight fist around his dick, rough and impatient as much as himself, providing a short-lived pleasure that was over before it even had begun.

This was *Bastian*. In his shower. Holding out the perfect treat, whispering hoarse words of reassurance. The *meaning* was hard to grasp for Jacob’s lazy brain, but the *tone* remained, wrapping around him like a blanket, comforting and warm, as Jacob slowed down.

Still, there was no finesse here. No patience.

Just letting the tip of Sebastian’s cock hit the back of his throat, sucking with as much greed as desperation; sucking like his life depended on it. Slowly. Hungrily. Sloppily. He didn’t take Sebastian in deep, not yet, not when he wanted to taste that bittersweet salt. Not when he wanted to *feel* first. The hand in his wet hair, grounding, solid and comforting. The weight on his tongue as he let the heavy cock slide over it, even as he could feel himself drool all over his chin, moaning eagerly each time he pushed down onto Bastian’s perfect dick. 

**

This… this was probably the closest he'd felt to peace in a long time.

He'd long ago learned to live with himself. To squash any flare or spark of guilt until he rarely felt anything anymore, no matter what Faulkner commanded him to do, no matter how gruesome or cruel.  He'd learned to survive, certainly, on fitful sleep and physical trauma, on a little too much to drink and secret medication.

But survival had never really meant peace. Not since Thailand. Certainly not since Elias. And he had long ago given up on the idea of ever really *living.*

This, though.

This… felt close.

This was so much more than a secretive, sloppy blow job. For both of them. The connection, the mutual understanding, the *trust*, went so much deeper. It made this… mean something, where ordinarily, for anyone else, anywhere else, it sure as fuck shouldn't.

He wasn't even sure it would mean the same for Jacob tomorrow, once the drugs wore off. But, at least in the moment, as Sebastian shivered between the attentions of his tongue and hand and lips, it felt like it might mean the same.

**

A few lazy strokes, twisting his wrist with each movement the only refinement he could master, before Jacob closed his eyes and relaxed his throat, pushing forward slowly, until he could feel his nose against Bastian’s stomach, listening to his heartbeat and Sebastian’s breathing above him.

He could feel his own dick swell *again*, resting pleasantly half-hard and lazy between his thighs. Just a pleasant buzz, seemingly impossible after the exertion it had gone through today alone. How it was still stirring – or stirring *again* - after all the times it had been used today, with the boys, with Faulkner, and earlier tonight in this very shower, was astonishing even to Jacob, even as his thoughts floated in regions he couldn’t read, his mind as empty as his soul. It was without urgency, though, just a pleasant, gentle throb to accompany the tingling on his tongue and the static buzzing in his head.

This was as close to oblivion as he could get. As close to bliss and peace. A hard cock in his throat and saliva on his skin, eyes closed in rapture as he devoured Sebastian like he was starving. It was beautifully simple. Beautifully simple to have no thoughts. Beautifully simple to just be. To be touched with gentleness and warmth instead of brutality. To hear words of encouragement instead of destruction. It was beautifully simple to be allowed to *want*. For once. The briefest glimpse of whatever was left of his ego. A short-lived privilege, like the rest, and a part of him knew that. Taken away and revoked the next day, when silence would settle again, when every touch would hurt once more.

It felt safe here, caught between the wall and Sebastian’s body, with empty mind and full mouth, but everything tonight was fleeting, and with a pang of regret Jacob realised, that this would be fleeting, too. This special treat. This perfect reward. This echo of things that never were and would never be allowed to exist.

**

It was nearly impossible not to moan as Jacob took him in deeper. It wasn't a shock like it would be if this were anyone else in front of him, but *god* it felt good - smooth and practiced and hungry.

He couldn't find his voice again, his words caught in his throat as he tried to keep his hips still, to *keep* this at Jacob's pace. Instead his fingers moved, brushing his gentle hand through Jacob's hair again and down the side of his face, sliding ever so smoothly thanks to the water.

Yes, this was almost peaceful. Even with the desperate ache of his cock, the heat pooling in his spine. It wouldn't last long, but he’d carry this with him all the same.

**

The touch made him shiver. Familiar, but different, like so much tonight. Not used to control. Not used to pacify. Not like 10,000 volts shooting through his nervous system until his body was set on autopilot. Not that *that* had been unpleasant. Not that Jacob had fought it.

But *this*, this was gentler. This was kind, and he could feel himself lean into that hand as he pulled away with a delightfully wet and gurgling sound, feeling the beast of a cock leave his throat even as his eyes watered. For a moment, the exhaustion left him panting, grinning another loopy grin up at Sebastian’s warm eyes as the water washed away what drool and slime remained on his chin, before delving down again.

This wouldn’t last much longer, Sebastian’s balls tight and full and his cock *straining* and dark; and even through the euphoric emptiness of his mind, he could feel sadness about it. In a heartbeat, he dove down again, nuzzling along the perfect balls, sucking them in one by one with a hungry moan, before mouthing up the heated monster once again, letting it rub along his face and nose for Sebastian so *see*. With glossy eyes, he finally closed his lips around Bastian again, sucking hard before swallowing him down with a hum until he was pressed against Sebastian’s body, his hands clawing at his sides as if he were drowning. And maybe he was. In pleasure and bliss and mindless, perfect peace.

**

No, there was no way to make this last.

He was too far gone,  too caught in the moment, in the way Jacob looked up at him with shining eyes and a smile. And this would be forever engraved in his memory, in his dreams, in his fantasies - Jacob's attentions maddeningly perfect, so much like worship that it made his heart ache almost as much as his cock.

He'd lock himself into this moment forever, if he could; in this tormenting moment just before release, this taste of something so beautiful and infinite.

But it was the way Jacob *clung* to him that had him gasping, his thoughts tipping into emptiness as pleasure overwhelmed everything else; he only just managed to hold onto that edge of control, just enough not to thrust mindlessly into Jacob's willing throat as he came harder than he ever had in his life.

**

Feeling the twitches and spasms, Jacob closed his eyes, pressing his face hard against Sebastian’s stomach in bliss, even as he felt his long forgotten gag reflex stir. Bastian *was* deliciously massive, filling him deep, stretching him wide, but the dangerous moment was short and his excitement endless as Jacob felt Sebastian’s release.

He wanted to pull away, wanted to *taste* and feel his priceless reward hitting the roof of his mouth in this squirts, wanted Bastian to make a mess on his face and call him a *good boy* again. His cock liked those images, liked how deep Sebastian could reach inside Jacob’s body, deeper than Faulkner or the nameless boys ever could; swelling lazily as he kept working. He wanted all that, and more, wanted to wrap his own fist around himself, another echo of extinct instincts, and he knew better than to try. Instead, his hands remained clasped around those hips, clawing desperately at Sebastian’s flesh, as if that could make the moment *last*, as if that could open a gate to a different world, where this could be *normal*; where *he* could be normal, too. But those were long forgotten dreams, remnants of a different life, just as forgotten. Jacob didn’t need to be normal again, if only this could last. This closeness. This bliss. The unforced want. *Sebastian.*

He didn’t even need to taste, didn’t need to hear the praise, didn’t need *free will*, if he could have those simple, infinitely complicated and unreachable things.

So he didn’t pull away, let Bastian feel the tightness, let him ride it out in any way he would desire as Jacob swallowed around him. A small sign of gratitude for something so simple. So complicated. Something so *out of reach*. The illusion of want. The illusion of happiness. The illusion of being more man than animal. 

**

He had no idea how much time passed with his hand buried in Jacob's wet hair and his cock buried in his throat. It might have only been a few seconds. It might have been hours. It didn't matter.

For him it was an eternity, a glimpse of heaven and hell together. The bliss of a moment better than any he’d ever known, and the torment of knowing he'd never deserve more than this. Probably didn't even deserve it now, but by some miracle he was allowed this, just once. If only to never know it again.

He would have wanted so much more. And he'd imagine it again - later tonight even, no doubt - in his dreams and in the early hours of the morning, over the canteen tables and in the sparring ring with Jacob panting underneath him. He'd have wanted to take his time, to make this something so much more than it was, to show Jacob that he was wanted, special, *cared for.*

But he could hold onto this, brief as it was.

And like anything good he'd ever touched, it ended, his thoughts filtering back, thick and heavy at first as his fingers stroked through that thick dark hair again, down his cheek and his jaw, affectionate and slow. Carefully, gently, he'd pull back, his cock not even softened yet from the release, his voice a low murmur over the water, offering up the words he knows Jacob craves to hear more than anything else.

“Good boy. You've been *so* good.”

**

The moment he felt Sebastian’s cock slide out, the moment he could breathe freely again, a short cough escaping in between the heavy panting, the moment he could feel his throat free and light and undisturbed, he could feel *fear* seep back into the vacuum, taking up the space that moments before, Sebastian had occupied. In Jacob’s mind. In his thoughts. In his heart and in his body.

The emptiness felt as heavy as the weight on his shoulders, but it didn’t last long. Nothing did tonight, and through the unstable peace and happiness in his mind, that didn’t bother Jacob. It would. Later.  

Instead he moaned, chasing after Bastian’s still hard cock with a greedy whine, for as long as touch was *permitted*. Pressing back into Sebastian’s hand, leaning into every touch of fingertips, he continued nuzzling along his length, licking along the smooth, dark skin with flattened tongue, chasing after his taste, his heat, his approval.

And when that came, this highest form of praise, almost stronger than the drugs, more powerful than Sebastian’s touch. The rarest of rewards, coming from Bastian. Like a fever dream, completing the illusion in this safe bubble outside of reality.

*Twice* tonight, and that felt like bliss, too, as if he could die tonight and regret nothing. *Twice* tonight, and he’d do anything and everything, to hear it again. More addictive than Faulkner’s cocktails could ever be. Another borrowed piece of peacefulness. A poisoned compliment to replace what his confidence had once been. A shard with sharp edges, fitting the fractured, shattered mosaic of his mind so perfectly, making him whole again for just a moment. Some pathetic, synthetic glue to fill the cracks in his being and the last bits left of his spirit, to hold him together for yet another day or week.

And yet, it was all he wanted to hear.

All he wanted to *be*.

And it showed in the stupidly relieved and unfiltered grin he offered, as his hand wrapped around the still hard cock.

“Yeah.”

He took Bastian’s cock in once again, still so hungry, still insatiable, sucking shallowly at the tip for as long as it remained perfectly stiff, moaning happily and gratefully in response to the highest compliment, the rarest of rewards, even as his own dick twitched in excitement.

**

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that Jacob seemed to have no intention of stopping, now that he'd gotten a taste of what he so clearly wanted. And a deep part of him truly wanted to *let* him, to just relax and allow Jacob to take everything he wanted, even if it were only just this once, even if he was so deeply drugged out that he'd be unlikely to remember a moment of this.

His cock clearly had absolutely no intention of settling down, either, not with the attention Jacob was giving it - more than he ever gave it himself, honestly - but he knew, too, that this was bordering on suicidal. Faulkner had given no such permission for *this*, and Sebastian was not naive enough to believe he'd just be *okay* with it. If Sebastian didn't stop this now, it might be too late to unravel later.

No, as much as he wanted this, he had to end it. Gently. Carefully. So as not to hurt Jacob in this fragile state of mind.

Gently, he'd coax Jacob to look back up at him again, smiling down at him as he runs his fingers through the long, dark hair.

"Let's get you up and out of here, big guy. Gotta dry you off."

**

It was strange, always, how *soothing* Bastian’s touch could be in a world of nightmares and carnage, of subjugation and twisted pleasures. How it could stop all conscious thought and craving; the rage and defeat, the confusion and secret longing for a life that would never be. Old dreams and new ones, buried side by side in a shallow grave.

It was strange how it pulled his whole being back into the moment, how it drew his attention to Sebastian in an instance. How suddenly, miraculously *touch* made it *okay*. All of this. With his hand on the back of Jacob’s neck, or in his hair, like now, Sebastian could end *all* resistance; render the last pathetic remnants of spirit and will useless for as long as that touch lasted. And with a whisper, Jacob knew, Bastian could make him burn down the entire fucking world. With a whisper, he could make Jacob step in front of a train, thoughtless, loyal and without hesitation. Not just because he was flying high. Not just because his mind was porous and mercurial right now. No. Today, *just like any other day*, for a whisper and a touch, without questioning, he’d end his life; not that *that* was worth anything anymore these days. And yet, it was all Jacob had left to give, when Faulkner had taken everything else. And with his defences down, with his mind wide open and raw, he could *admit* what he struggled against so desperately any other day.

The gentle brush of finger through his hair could even distract him from the giant cock in front of his face, and Jacob looked up with another dazed, wide grin, eyes shining with gratitude and happiness.

The smile lasted as long as the distraction, until Bastian’s words processed and Jacob’s features pulled into a displeased frown.

“Yeah, I don’t wanna.”

Nothing good ever lasted here. And all good thing were buried in this place, eventually. His life and soul, and every fleeting pleasure and treat Jacob could earn for the atrocities he committed, but didn’t care about anymore. He didn’t want *this* to end. Not so soon. Not tonight.

He tried chasing Sebastian’s cock once again, his own dick twitching in excitement, beautifully unaware of the looming disappointment and denial, until he had an idea. Looking up, he grinned again.

“Bastian. Hey. Bastian. What if I let you fuck me? Can we keep going if I let you fuck me? Yeah?”

Everybody else had already, so *that* wouldn’t make much of a difference.

Except it *would*, because it would be Bastian. Because Jacob would *want* it. Because for once, it would mean something.

**

Not for the first time, Sebastian dared to imagine the idea of a life beyond these walls.  A purpose beyond what Faulkner had created. Living for something other than the strict orders he'd become so accustomed to being fed all his life. An escape to something like freedom, where he might actually look *forward* to breathing for once, rather than just surviving another day after endless day.

It was a breathtaking little promise of a dream.  Dangerous and extraordinary. But it was there, in this soft moment as he ran his fingers through Jacob's hair, imagining what life might be like if they could find their way out of this place. If he could believe that he could be  a *person,* wanted for *who he was,* even just for a little while.

It was so, so tempting to give in to it.

Just as tempting as Jacob's sudden defiance, righteous and unheard of, and that alone made Sebastian want to give in to exactly that. That beautiful bright smile, so carefree and warm and eager, *hungry for him*, was just about downright impossible to refuse. Sebastian never wanted to tell this man *no* again for the rest of his life.

But giving in very well might mean both their lives were to be cut very very short.

He didn't know how he managed to pull himself together enough to answer, pulling Jacob up carefully and biting his own lip to keep from just fucking kissing him.

“Okay. Yeah, we can… we can do that.”

And fuck, it broke his heart to lie, but he had to; he knew he'd be needed soon, and he was sure that once Jacob was dry and in bed he'd pass out from the drugs. Sebastian was counting on it, really - otherwise, he was well aware that he might just end up giving in. How could he resist when Jacob was begging for it?

“I can't do that in the shower, though. Let's get you to bed first and you can tell me again what you want.”

**

Something was *wrong* with Sebastian’s face, like a shadow over his features, like a cloud in his eyes, a darkening of his smile, but Jacob couldn’t wonder about that for long, couldn’t hold onto the observation and thoughts for much longer than a breath and a heartbeat. Not when Bastian *agreed*.

Wishes didn’t come true here. Wishes were beaten and fucked out of him instead until there was no will and choice left. Even the smallest ones, the humble ones. And some wishes Jacob hadn’t even known he’d harboured. Like a comfortable bed. A day without pain. Or a small act of kindness.

A kindness Sebastian had shown him plenty of today, and it still made his head spin. This still felt like a fever dream, some wonderful mirage his drugged brain had conjured up, making up stories of want and happiness, making him believe he was *being seen*. Making him believe, just for a moment, that he was more than teeth and claws, more than fist and cock; more than a brainless beast on a too short leash.

“We *can*?”

Too excited, too fucking *incredulous* and too relieved to question or think, Jacob just nodded, letting himself be pulled up and handled, beaming up with another loopy grin.

“Yeah. ‘f course. You can fuck me on the bed. Or wherever… ‘m not picky.”

Jacob had never been. But even if he had been, by now, that wouldn’t matter anymore. But the shower was probably not the best idea, and Jacob had to agree on that as he stood, swaying beneath Sebastian’s steadying hands with a wide enough grin that he felt as if it would split his face, his cheeks *hurting*, numb and tingling from the unfamiliar use. When he’d last smiled that much, Jacob couldn’t remember. Not just since he’d been brought here, stuck in this place between life and hell, between pain and damnation. No, not just since he’d entered this realm of carnage and despair. He couldn’t recall when he’d last smiled that much… at all. Ever since he could think. Not just because he was drugged out of his skull. Not just because it was hard to remember his own fucking name.

He remembered *Bastian’s”, though, would remember it if his brain got liquified and flushed through the drain. It was a name much more important than his own, anyway.

**

He was amazed it worked so easily, convincing Jacob up and out of the shower with that promise. Somehow he managed to turn the water off while keeping Jacob from falling, wrapping a towel around him and guiding him toward the bed with careful steps.

With each step, his heart beat just a little faster, a silent danger all on its own. Would Jacob fall asleep after all? Or would he end up giving in and signing what could be a death sentence for both of them? There was no purpose, he knew, in reminding Jacob of *consequences*; he was pretty sure, even in this blissful state, that Jacob would only say it would be worth it - and Sebastian was inclined to agree with him, deep down.

It didn’t seem like such a terrible way to go, anyway. Being *happy* for once.

“I’ve got you, mate. Come on.”

Every touch is gentle and intentional as he finds a towel, ignoring the fact that he himself is soaking wet, and he guides Jacob to his bed, hoping against all hope that the mix of drugs and serotonin proves overpowering.

**

Somehow, the way from his tiny bathroom to his even tinier bed felt endless. No, that wasn’t right. Not *his*. Nothing here was, and Jacob was reminded of that every day. Not the bed, not the pillow, not the fucking clothes he wore; those belonged to a dead man. Not even *Jacob* belonged to himself anymore, not his body, not his dick and not his heart, but that thought was unpleasant, and the night had been so light and perfect, so he swallowed it down again. Like the rest. Like he always did. Until he could fuck it out on some poor soul who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Until he could take those thoughts and fears out on someone unfortunate enough to cross Faulkner. Just as he had crossed him. Ages ago. In a different life.

His steps insecure and wobbly, he clung to Sebastian on the short way to the bed, his dick swinging all too excitedly with each movement before he flopped down with a yawn. After the shower, his body felt heavy and warm and delightfully *clean*, if only for a little while.

“You’re still wet,” he said, watching Bastian take the towel, his wet hair clinging to his forehead. His eyelids started feeling heavy, too. “You should get naked if you wanna fuck me. Won’t be as wet.”

Jacob chuckled again, almost a giggle, unheard in this doomed place, featherlight and low. The night made him reckless, and he’d gotten away with it before, so he reached out to touch Sebastian’s face again, running his fingertips over his jawline as he watched.

He wanted nothing more than to make this *last*. Maybe he wasn’t even as excited about being fucked – because when *wasn’t* he fucked in one way or another, really – as about getting Sebastian to *stay*. To enjoy more of his smiles and more of his touches. And Jacob would do *anything* to stall, to keep the other here with him, in his small prison.

Cause he knew, come morning, he’d be back in a life he’d never wanted

“Bastian… d’you think can we do this again tomorrow?” For a moment, his features darkened again, fighting fuzzy memories with neither contour nor weight.

“Or… do we have to be ourselves again?”

**

It’s dangerous, so fucking dangerous to listen to such a suggestion, but Jacob’s right, he needs to get out of the wet clothes because *that* too would cause far too many unnecessary questions, and it’s sure as fuck uncomfortable too; so he laughed a little, licking his lips as he rubs the towel over Jacob’s dripping hair.

“Yeah, I guess I probably should, huh?”

But it was the touch - another touch - that shocked straight through to his heart, stunning him into silence as his eyes locked onto Jacob’s smile. No, such a smile didn’t belong here, not in this room that was little more than a cell, not in this building, not within a hundred fucking miles of Faulkner and his empire. And yet there it was, bright and beautiful as the stars that had given him the strength he’d needed in a different prison, a different cell, years ago and thousands of miles away.

He wanted nothing more than just to *stay here*, just for tonight, just to be close. And he would feel the ghost of that touch for the rest of his bitter and miserable life. He was sure of it.

Slowly, carefully, even as he pulled his own soaking shirt off, he guided Jacob to lie down, resting the man’s head on the pillow with a brush of fingers across his temple. He bit down on his emotions at the fucking *hammer* of a question. What could he possibly say to that when they both knew the answer?

“I dunno, Jacob. I guess we’ll have to see what tomorrow looks like, first.” His voice was damn near a whisper, hoping it would be soothing. “But you know… I’d want to. To be like this again.”

**

The shirt came off and Jacob’s eyes widened in awe and surprise. He didn’t know what he’d expected, *if* he had suspected *anything*, at all, his head swimming and his eyes losing focus every so often as his tongue kept slurring words together. But he hadn’t suspected *this*.

Sebastian *never* took off his shirt. He *never* showed his skin. And he *never* touched. Not like this. Never smiled. Not like this. He sure as hell didn’t *allow* touch*.

All of this remarkable, all of this a small miracle, something unheard of and surreal, but Jacob’s lazy brain couldn’t even process the extraordinary nature of each of those things, let alone piece them together into a picture of the impossible.

But the gasp of surprise was genuine when Bastian pulled the shirt over his head, revealing bare skin and wiry muscle, scars and tattoos that matched Jacob’s own. Without thinking, because a part of him didn’t remember the rules, and another part just *didn’t care*, he reached out to trace the first scar he could find, old and healed over, speaking of a life Jacob could only guess at. Maybe a life that was waiting for him. Maybe a life he was already living.

“Me too. I’d want that, too...”

Lying down felt nice. Nice and warm and relaxing and he could feel a warmth spread through his body that pulled him under with every breath he took. Every limb heavy and relaxed, melting into the pathetic cot as if it were the softest, most comfortable bed he’d ever eyes. He wanted to rest his eyes, just for a moment. Today had been *exhausting*.

“Tha’s… tha’s not what’ll happen, though, right?”

Even his hand felt heavy, as it traced from the scar to Bastian’s jawline again. The smile on his lips darkened and faded, as bitter realisation trickled into the void behind his eyelids.

*Of course* they would be themselves again. Silently sitting at the canteen table as if none of this had ever happened. And Jacob would have forgotten how to speak, hostile and aggressive as ever, all furrowed brows and squared shoulders again, once the drugs wore off and reality came back stabbing him in the back in the morning. The realisation weighed heavy; heavier than his arm, and he couldn’t hold his hand up anymore, letting it fall back onto the bed with a sigh.

“This was…. fun, though. You’re… good. You’re a good man, Bastian.”

**

While he couldn’t quite read the expressions on Jacob’s face, the drugs clearly taking over sensible thought now, that gasp was obvious enough to understand. He kept still as Jacob reached out yet again to touch, pressing his lips together in a sad smile as those gentle fingers traced over an old bullet wound that had almost killed him - *always almost, never quite hitting the mark* - but for once he neither flinched nor pulled away.

“We’ll make it happen again. One of these days.” That, at least, was a half truth, as Bastian was certain that Faulkner would absolutely use this particular cocktail again; in terms of what the Mayor found useful, this was an excellent mix. “Soon. It could be real soon.”

Before he knew it he found himself mirroring that hand on his jaw, tracing Jacob’s face gently with an affection that didn’t belong here in the same way that Jacob’s smile didn’t belong, but goddamn it if he wouldn’t try to show the man what it was like to be touched without hurting.

No, he wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow, when Jacob would likely no longer remember an unclouded moment from tonight, and Sebastian would likely make himself sick over the concepts of attachment and consent.

No, he was not a good man, but maybe, just maybe, if Jacob believed it, he could st least find some sleep tonight.

But finally, Jacob was drifting off, relaxed and comfortable to all appearances, and Sebastian just held the touch, sitting quietly beside him as he watched Jacob’s eyes grow heavier and heavier.

“..You deserve better.”

[empireofdogs]

how to treat skittish dogs || part 2 || touch

“Such a big dick, but he doesn’t even know how to properly use it.”

Jacob flinched. He’d already chewed on the insides of his cheeks until he could taste blood. There wasn’t much else he could do.

Because Faulkner had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t approve of Jacob damaging his assets. Ever since he had been let out, he’d broken wrists and jaws and worse too often. Jacob hadn’t kept track.

But today had been *one of those days*.

A day without privacy. A day without mercy. A day without a modicum of grace, dignity or honour.

This time Faulkner had jerked him off in front of *everyone*. And he’d helplessly bucked his hips, desperate for relief; nothing but an animal, a dog on a short leash. Desperate to *forget*.

Today, Jacob was worn thin already. It was the kind of day when he would have broken jaws and wrists or worse. For a wrong glance. A wrong word. An uninvited touch.

And now, in the canteen, he felt *naked*.

He could feel the eyes on him, and he could hear the conversations, even though he pretended not to hear, not to feel, not to see. It was safer that way. For everyone.

By now, Jacob was held together by caffeine, rage and blow. That, and the cheap alcohol on the canteen’s table. He had already secured himself a bottle, and he clung to it desperately now.

Because *remembered* this particular voice. And he remembered this particular face.

It appeared in Jacob’s nightmares, but he hadn’t seen it around Faulkner’s property ever since they had let him out.

He remembered this face; and the man it belonged to.

A man who had visited Jacob, during those fateful ten days and nights.

And he had visited *often*.

And *apparently*, the voice that belonged to that face wasn’t even done yet. Some people just didn’t know when to shut up.

“Moaning like a bitch with my cock in his mouth. *Fucking faggot…*”

It only took a fraction of a second, and Jacob was on his feet. Glaring, growling, snarling; and pushing his chair back so forcefully and fast that it fell to the ground with loud clatter.

Oh, Jacob would fuck this one up.

And he‘d fuck him up *good*.

Delightfully. Joyfully. Gladly.

It didn’t matter what Faulkner would approve of or not.

Today, Jacob was ready to *kill*.

**

Sebastian was just coming back from the gym, working out his own slew of memories and frustrations, before he found himself in the canteen, silent as he joined the queue.

He had hardly gotten his food when he heard the first comments, closer than he'd have thought, and he did a double take before realizing those words weren't meant for *him*. Sighing deeply, and taking a moment to close his eyes and breathe, he would debate getting involved, knowing very well from experience what this was likely to lead to.

He'd slipped forward, leaving the tray of food abandoned as he moved closer. He'd be standing within a foot of Jacob when the man moves so suddenly. The grinding clatter of the chair startles many, but not him; and before Jacob could launch himself over the table at the moron antagonizing him,  Sebastian stepped in, crowding him.

“*Lake.*” His usually soft voice was sharp now, hard and commanding. “Dinner’s over. My office, now.”

**

A silence was settling.

In the canteen. Between them. In his heart.

Jacob could hear his own breathing. Agitated. Erratic. Heavy.

But he didn‘t move. Didn‘t obey.

Instead, he stared at Sebastian with every bit of hatred, frustration and blood lust that had just broken free. Caged up so carefully any other day, buried deep and dulled by alcohol and Faulkner‘s treats, they rushed through him with overwhelming force. A tidal wave of swallowed emotions, ready to ignite a fire that would burn him and everyone around to the ground. All it needed was another spark.

In a distant corner of his mind, Jacob knew that this wasn‘t about Sebastian. But the man was getting between him and revenge. Catharsis. Relief.

In this moment, Jacob was done with the fucking public humiliations, the whispers, the shame, the agony he endured every day and every night; and it didn‘t matter that Sebastian had offered food and insubstantial choices that didn‘t make a difference. His calm, his voice and something that sometimes felt like kindness; it didn‘t fucking matter anymore. Because right now, Sebastian was just one of Faulkner‘s men.

The enemy.

And the strange effect that his voice usually had on Jacob - the voice that blazed through all of his defences, that made obeying so easy sometimes, the voice that even provided something like comfort on a good day - this strange effect fizzled out somewhere in the short distance between them.

There was no fucking spell. There was no relief.

There was just wrath.

„No.“

**

The tone of command that he'd used clearly didn't have the necessary effect. It hadn't been instinctive, as his instinct rarely led him to sharpness; but there were expectations here that never died. Most often, that unexpected sharpness worked wonders with his subordinates,  who both alienated and feared him. Sebastian had learned to lead, and to make others listen, one way or another.

And that meant he recognized immediately that his approach would have no success here. Seb knew the primal look in Jacob's eyes, felt it deep in his bones. He'd been there before, over and over again. And he'd done what Jacob was about to do, too. Without guilt or mercy.

But it would only make things worse, this he knew. Even here. *Especially* here. And he had begun to see Jacob as… almost a friend, though he was absolutely certain that the feeling wasn't mutual. There was a silent protectiveness that walked hand in hand with the deeper connection they shared; the histories that matched up eerily close.

“*Yes*, Jacob.”

There was still a firmness there, behind the gentle softness of his natural voice. Nothing about it matched the tension in the canteen, or the danger of the moment. But, while it might be an incredibly *small* amount of trust,  he had built what rapport he had with Jacob, by being himself.

Perhaps that was what made him reach out, touching the man's shoulder without a care in the world,  as if it were the most natural thing to do and not an almost guaranteed way to have his entire fucking arm ripped off.

He didn't pull his hand away, either.

“Not here, and not now. Come with me.”

**

Touch.

Sudden, yet not shocking.

Firm, but not unkind.

Jacob hadn’t let *anyone* touch him. Not when he’d had a choice. There was the sparring. There were nights he had to be dragged back to his room, because he couldn’t walk anymore. Thankfully, Jacob didn’t remember much of those moments. Then there was Faulkner, too. But if he could help it, at all, Jacob refused to be touched. And the consequences of unwanted touch hat been fatal for some.

But as it was, the surprise of Sebastian’s hand meeting his shoulder was enough to swat that hand away. Hard and fast and brutal. Jacob’s reflexes were still intact. Trauma had heightened them, sharpened and refined them. Despite the lack of sleep and with buzzing nerves, despite his clouded, useless mind, Jacob was still *fast*. Fast and violent. It was useful to Faulkner. So he allowed it.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Sebastian was lucky that, somewhere along the way, Jacob’s hatred towards each and everyone in this place had somewhat faded when it came to him, and him alone.

Otherwise, he’d be dead by now. Or as good as dead.

That, in itself, was baffling.

That Jacob’s hand stopped there. With a rough swat. With a warning. With a growl. That it didn’t land in Sebastian’s fucking face or his ribs or stomach. That it didn’t catch Sebastian’s wrist in one violent move to… snap it.

It was baffling that Sebastian could get away with this unspeakable transgression. That he got away with it without severe physical harm. Like the others who had tried. At least with them, Jacob had a choice; or something resembling it. With Faulkner, he hadn’t.

But why he made the choice to *spare* Sebastian, he didn’t know.

Instead, he stood with heavy breaths and clenched teeth, trying to stare Sebastian into the ground.

“Fuck off.”

**

No, it wasn't a surprise that Jacob had swatted his hand away. Not in the least. Nor was it a surprise to see just how quickly the man moved; Sebastian had seen those reflexes already, in the ring and elsewhere, and had reflexes of his own to match. Likely brought about by the same reasons.

And while he *could* have,  Sebastian doesn't bother to catch Jacob's hand by the wrist. Not yet. He wasn't afraid of Jacob, but doing *that* was about the same as putting his hand right between a pit bull's teeth and expecting not to get bitten.

Instead he met that furious gaze, blinking calm and steady, his own breathing barely affected. No, he was not afraid, and it showed.

“Mm. I'd like to, but you're coming with me before I do.”

**

It felt as if all eyes were on them now.

And *this* time, Jacob didn’t mind. This time, they didn’t see his flaws, his humiliating weakness. They didn’t see the deformed creature he had become. They saw his strength, his power and wrath.

That Sebastian’s voice was still calm surprised him, though.

That all that anger and force bounced off of him, so easily. A bulwark for Jacob’s madness. A barrage for the tsunami of his anger. His calm façade stole Jacob’s thunder; and what was Jacob now, without his thunder?

After those weeks here, in this soul-destroying place, every emotion was stunted and castrated; every emotion but that devastating, burning rage.

Jacob had never asked his name. But he’d paid attention. To the men. To Faulkner. Jacob himself had never used it. He hadn’t talked much, at all. Not when Sebastian had brought food again. Not when he had offered more inconsequential choices Jacob couldn’t make. But it was easier to think of this man if he had a name. And it suited him, somehow.

It suited the calm of his voice.

Maybe it was the voice of reason. Maybe it was just an echo of Faulkner’s orders.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Nothing really did, anymore.

With a sigh, Jacob’s shoulders slumped in surrender; his thunder stolen, his anger tamed. A toothless dog on his invisible leash. Castrated, like his feelings.

Yes, it felt like all eyes were on them right now.

And this time, after just seconds, all they could see was weakness. *Again.*

But before Jacob could nod to signal his inevitable capitulation, before he could turn to follow Sebastian once again, that fucking idiot spoke up. And if Jacob had any say in it, it would be for the very last time.

“Yeah, fuck off. And give this big boy something to suck on. That’ll calm him.”

Maybe the blow hadn’t worn off yet. Or maybe Jacob had just stopped giving a fuck.

It didn’t need words, although Jacob surely would have found them, in a different life. Some deliberate choice words to serve with his fist. But not now. Not when his tongue didn’t know how to speak anymore. It would have been too slow, anyway. Too slow to match the surprising speed of the mass of his body, charging at the asshole without thought or reason.

So thoroughly deformed, every fibre primed for violence, every ounce of his soul occupied by aggression, Faulkner had created a monster. Now he would have to deal with the beast he had created.

**

It was remarkable how quickly that fury seemed to dampen and dissipate in the face of Sebastian’s quiet calm. But for Seb, based on his handling of the man up to this point, it wasn't entirely surprising, either.

They had shared fury and trauma. And while so much remained unspoken,  Sebastian still carried it with him, buried deep, but closer than he'd let anyone see. And perhaps he understood the man better than he knew himself, at least for now. He hoped to change that, in the future, but it would take time.

He's only moments away from offering a tiny approving smile when he hears that absolute fucking moron open his mouth again; Sebastian exhales slowly,  exasperated as he sees that desperate fire return to Jacob's dark eyes.

Yes, Jacob is fast. But so is he.

When Jacob moves to launch himself forward, Sebastian moves too; not to block him, but stepping to the right, turning quickly and reaching out to grip the back of Jacob's neck just as he passes.

“*No.*”

**

Touch.

*Again*.

Like an electric current shooting down his spine. Shutting down Jacob’s nervous system and bypassing his brain. It went straight to his muscles. Without conscious thought. As if reacting to a silent command. As if his will was rendered useless.

*Touch.*

Simple. Warm. Strong.

*Grounding.*

As if Sebastian had found a switch at the back of Jacob’s neck that he hadn’t even known of himself.

The reaction of his useless body so shocking, so immediate and *visceral* that Jacob couldn’t hide the loud, shaky exhale.

This time, he didn’t swat the hand away. Didn’t shove. Didn’t push. Didn’t fight. Instead, Jacob came to a halt on silent command, dumbfounded and compliant; wide eyes on Sebastian. Confused. Questioning. Angry.

No feeling was simple here. Every emotion was complicated. But it hadn’t prepared Jacob for *this*.

That all of his focus zeroed in on Sebastian in this very moment was as agitating as it was baffling; this simple *touch* reaching parts of Jacob’s subconscious words never could. All noise drowned out, all those eyes meaningless, the people in the room mere ghosts; he barely heard Sebastian’s verbal command.

Jacob was all but *allowing* touch, all but submitting like a complacent, subservient pet; and a part of his brain was still trying to process.

**

The reaction was *immediate.*

Sebastian's touch stopped Jacob as quickly as if he'd hit him with an electric shock, and the sudden silence seemed deafening.

Sebastian didn't squeeze; he didn't need to. The gentle pressure, warm and firm, was more than sufficient. And honestly, he wasn't even sure the verbal command had been necessary, judging by the way Jacob was looking at him.

Still. For appearances sake,  he'd use them.

“As I said. My office.”

His tone still even and soft,  he'd turn,  keeping the contact at the base of Jacob's neck, gently guiding him to turn and walk alongside him.

**

A part of Jacob could *feel* the confusion in the canteen. The eyes - perplexed, bemused, horrified or fascinated - following his movements. As he surrendered. As he complied. As he *bowed*.

All of his strength, all of his power… useless and tamed.

It felt painful, and dehumanising.

But he was used to that by now, wasn’t he?

And with every step, Jacob could feel his spirit break. All of his furious bravado, all of his steaming rage and destructive fire… all of it vanished under Sebastian’s touch as if it had never existed.

For a moment, one shining, beautiful moment, Jacob had almost felt free. An imagined freedom caused by murderous lust, perhaps, but he felt his invisible shackles all too heavy now.

With every step, he could feel himself falter and collapse.

A submissive lap dog, stripped of will and dignity, led along by a single hand.

The silence suddenly felt heavier again, but Jacob was glad to at least leave their eyes behind.

**

Sebastian kept the silence as he guided Jacob through the canteen and out to the hallway, pausing only to glare wordlessly at the asshole that had caused the commotion in the first place. He'd remember that face.

He was well aware, too, that Jacob would likely be furious at him for *daring*; it was undoubtedly humiliating to be so controlled with an audience, but in Sebastian's eyes, he had averted a disaster, so he'd deal with the man's anger.

Faulkner’s, too, no doubt. But that, he could handle, as well.

Once they are alone again, in the relative safety of the hallway, Seb's fingers relax and rest just lightly on Jacob's skin; a light reminder to heel without the need to be forceful, walking by his side towards his own office.

**

The silence they shared felt familiar.

Comforting, yet unsettling.

Calming, yet infuriating.

Jacob couldn’t remember how many hallways they had walked in silence. How many meals they had shared in silence. How often they had sparred in silence.

No, feelings were never simple here, in this strange new life; and the gentle touch at the base of his neck felt solid and burning at the same time. His shame burnt red and hot, too.

This little incident was adding insult to injury; as if Faulkner’s dramatic show earlier hadn’t been bad enough. As if humiliation didn’t burn hot enough, as it was. And Sebastian should fucking know that. And maybe, in this moment, Jacob wanted to hate him.

And found he couldn’t.

A part of him knew he should be kicking and screaming, wreaking havoc and destruction in his last moments on this Earth, defending the last bits of himself that could still be recognised as *human*; but instead Jacob just trotted along. Like a docile old dog that was just waiting to be put down, because Faulkner was killing him a little every day, wasn’t he?

This felt unfair – as if fairness existed in his new life. Jacob hadn’t even started this.

**

Yes, the silence was familiar. And,  especially today, perhaps it was necessary, to find some sort of calming center again. Though, truly, Sebastian doubted Jacob was anywhere near finding calm again. That could take years, if ever.

But the illusion, at least, counted for something.

He'd not yet taken Jacob to his office. He'd had no reason to, really, and for a long few moments he considered just leading the man back to his own room, after all. But,  in the interest of holding onto this… strange balance of trust,  Sebastian led him exactly where he'd told him.

He'd release that touch as soon as he opens the door,  closing it behind them. The office would be quiet, the dying light of sunset still filtering in through the windows. The maple furniture is consistent through the room and still has a natural finish, with hand carved details that are half-hidden by the plants scattered throughout. The space is light and clean, if slightly cluttered.

“Have a seat. Are you hungry? I've got some grilled chicken you can have.”

**

The moment Sebastian’s hand was lifted, Jacob felt weightless. Floating in an indifferent space. Without anchor, without anything to hold onto. He felt too light, and too heavy. No simple feelings here, in this strange limbo.

The moment Sebastian’s hand was lifted, a breath escaped his throat, carrying a hoarse, pained noise with it. Somewhere between surprise, relief and disappointment, he felt it hanging between them for a second.

It felt as if a weight was lifted from his neck; but the weight on his shoulders returned at the same time, wearing him down a little more, day by day, feeling gravity’s pull with every fibre of his body.

Sensations that didn’t match. Feelings that didn’t match. And thoughts, too.

This was his strange new reality, as he committed unspeakable crimes and found himself smiling halfway through. As he paved his path to hell with violence, learning mercilessness from the best, his cock rock hard afterwards. As he begged Faulkner for pain and distraction and oblivion, the lines between love and hate dissolved into nothingness.

Sebastian’s office didn’t seem to match, either, Jacob decided as he looked around. It was so different from Faulkner’s, lacking the lavish decadence and ornate antiques.

His eyes cautious, the suspicion clear in his features, he looked around until finally, his gaze was caught by the windows. Faulkner’s windows were always covered by heavy curtains, and it was  the first time he could see *the world* again.

It was strange to think that the Earth had kept spinning, the world kept turning, while his life had ended here, in an all too shallow grave, only to be reborn a monster that didn’t know the colour of the sky anymore.

No, he wasn’t hungry right now, so he shook his head no.

**

Sebastian watched Jacob quietly, silently observing his reactions and the way the man looked around him.

No, he hadn't really expected Jacob to accept the offer for food, but he'd had to offer, to at least make it clear he hadn't intentionally denied the man his dinner. So when Jacob shook his head, Sebastian just nodded, moving towards the windows to wordlessly open the curtains a little wider.

“We’ll take a few minutes in here. As far as anyone's concerned you're being reprimanded. Then… you can go back to your room undisturbed.”

**

His eyes were still caught by the sky; endless and free, but his features pulled into a frown.

For now, the outside world distracted him from the rage and frustration, from the insatiable need to punch a wall or face or worse. That would come back, without a doubt; and it would return with a vengeance, and soon, but for now his mind was occupied with a bird drawing circles in the air.

“I’m not?”

During those past weeks, days had passed without Jacob as much as uttering a single fucking word. Strangely enough, the words he had spoken had always been reserved for Faulkner… and Sebastian. And Jacob felt like he had already spoken too much today, his throat dry and his tongue heavy. But curiosity got the better of him.

A part of him was surprised he wasn’t kicked and beaten senseless right now. Or… worse. A punishment for his blatant disobedience. The penalty for acting up.

“Reprimanded?”

**

Sebastian made a soft sound, not quite a hum, but a positive acknowledgement.

“No, you're not. But if you're asked, you were.”

It was as simple as that. Quite frankly, Sebastian knew this was far from over. Jacob was unlikely to just *forget* this incident, and he was certain that the next time he and that moron crossed paths, there would be blood, regardless of what Sebastian might or might not do to *reprimand him.*

So no, he wasn't about to beat a dead horse.

Instead he sighed and pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes,  offering the carton to Jacob.

**

*Jesus Christ.* The mindfuckery in this place never ceased to amaze Jacob. He wasn’t *surprised* anymore. He was just growing tired of it. Navigating a world of blurred lines, where feelings were never simple and sensations never matched was hard enough. The added mindfuck turned it into a goddamn mine field.

It didn’t make sense, it wasn’t fair, and maybe *that* pulled him back into this room. Looking at Sebastian with cautiousness, he leaned forward to pull out a cigarette from the pack.

“Why?”

That was a good question, wasn’t it?

Why would he lie for one of Faulkner’s men? Why would he protect him, when Jacob felt so unprotected, day in and day out? Why would he even care about what happened to him anymore, when decision had been stripped from his life? At least, these questions would be easy to answer, no matter how little sense they made. The *really* interesting question here was; why would Sebastian betray Faulkner’s wishes so openly in his own office?

Jacob was slowly looking forward to today’s debrief. At least he knew what to expect from it. As strange as it was, there was safety in the familiar. As horrible as the familiar could be. **

He could see the caution and suspicion in Jacob's eyes but it's not enough to make him change the answer. Sebastian had never been one to mince words unless it's a necessity for an assignment, preferring blunt honesty over sugarcoating.

It made things easy, especially now.

He shrugged as he took a drag off the cigarette,  leaning against the window frame rather than sit at the desk chair.

“You don't deserve it. It's that simple.”

He'd eye Jacob for a long time considering.

“Did you *want* to be?”

**

Another huff, humourless and hoarse, and for a long moment, Jacob watched Sebastian.

That was the question, wasn‘t it?

Did he *want* to be?

Was the familiar, no matter how horrible, better than the unexpected?

„I don‘t give a fuck.“

With a frown, Jacob continued watching the smoke, clinging to his own cigarette for support. He wasn‘t even allowed a lighter here, so it was as useless as the choices Sebastian liked to offer. A thing without meaning. A dangling carrot before his eyes, but out of reach until *someone else* would light the fire.

„And no.“

The words surprised even him. But something was nagging at the back of his mind; at the back of his neck, where Sebastian‘s hand had been.

And maybe the sky made him reckless. Maybe one look into freedom made him bold. And maybe, for the blink of an eye, his voice almost sounded like his own again. A glimpse into a life long gone.

„That‘s not what I mean.“

He took a deep breath. It was exhausting to speak in full sentences again. Jacob hadn‘t done that in a while.

„He won‘t like it. Why are you lying to him?“

He huffed again.

„… for *me*?“

**

When he didn't see Jacob reaching for anything to light the cigarette, Seb tossed his lighter at him,  the gesture casual and familiar, but he didn't say a word about it.

For a man that never spoke, Jacob was suddenly talking a *lot*. And he didn't want to discourage that, even if his questions were heavy with suspicion. He took a couple more drags,  thoughtful as he considered the answer.

“He'll only know if you tell him there was no reprimand. And if you do…” He'd shrug,  uncaring. “I'll deal. He'd have liked the alternative much less.”

He'd hum thoughtfully, debating how much truth to openly admit. That, and he wasn't naïve enough to think Jacob would actually care, yet.

“As far as why… we're… similar. I'm doing for you what would have helped me.”

**

Catching the lighter wasn’t the problem.

Jacob did that with ease; muscle memory kicking in, his reflexes sharp.

But once he held it, he noticed the trembling of his fingers.

Something so simple. An object of no significance to anyone else. Something he’d done thousands of times in his life. And yet…

This was… *forbidden*.

This was a clear and obvious transgression of the rules Faulkner had set for him. At least for now.

And there was a part inside him, a part that was ever grown, that was terrified of breaking those rules. The tamed wolf. The lap dog. Thoroughly beaten into submission and scared to bark. Conditioned and tamed.

As he held the cigarette between his lips and lifted the lighter to light it, Jacob prayed the trembling didn’t show. The fear. The submission that had already settled in his marrow.

Holding a lighter was one thing, talking behind Faulkner’s back something *entirely different*. This felt like thin ice, like dancing on a knife’s blade. The lap dog inside him was cowering, his hands still trembling as he put the lighter back. Instead of acting on the impulse to hide it. To use it to burn this whole building down to the ground; and Faulkner with it.

But at times, Faulkner felt like an omnipotent being; a tyrant from old fairytales, ever present and ever knowing. And the idea of *lying* to him felt intimidating. As if he would find out. As if he could read Jacob’s mind. And oh, the punishment for that would be *severe*.

“You’re betraying him.”

Even saying it out loud felt… *horribly wrong*.

**

Once again, Sebastian said nothing as he watched the way Jacob's fingers trembled as he handled the lighter. He felt that, deep in his chest; and he distracted himself by turning to crack open the window.

*You're betraying him.*

Sebastian turned right back around to look at Jacob,  his brow raised.

“No. Not in the slightest.” He'd slip his hands in his pockets, still relaxed as he leans against the window frame. “I'm using my judgment to make a call. If you aren't comfortable telling him you've been reprimanded,  then don't. Or I could actually do so and then you won't be in any sort of… compromised position.”

**

As Jacob listened, he took the first drag from his own cigarette; lungs filling with smoke. One poison at a time, he’d manage to kill himself. Eventually.

His throat felt dry and constricted. From guilt. From shame. From fear.

From talking more than he ever had, since his new life had begun.

“I wonder what he’d say.”

He didn’t.

Jacob knew very well what Faulkner would say. About all of this. The extended *walks* Sebastian took with him. The food. The choices. The lighter and lies and conspiracies. Letting Jacob have a look outside, as unreachable as this world was for him.

Sebastian fucked with each and every of Faulkner’s carefully crafted strategies.

They weren’t new; and Jacob recognised them.

Disorientation. Never letting your prisoner know where they are or what time it was. Sure, there were the meals that structured Jacob’s day, but he had no means of verifying the actual time.

Sleep deprivation. Torture and rape. Repetitive tasks. Punishments and public humiliation.

All made to break a man, and Faulkner had already succeeded.

And Sebastian had handed him a fucking *lighter*. It felt all too symbolic.

“You’re breaking the rules behind his back.”

It would land both of them in *that* room.

**

Slowly, Sebastian's tongue snaked out to wet his lips, pausing before inhaling another lungful of smoke.

Yes,  he absolutely was. And he knew the risks,  too. But for him,  in recent years,  Faulkner - as terrible,  as cruel as he was,  as he had  *always been* - was the lesser of two evils. And Sebastian's choice was to maintain loyalty to him, at least for the time being.

*Let Faulkner find out.*

Instead of saying it,  he hums softly, shrugging. He wasn't afraid of that room, either. Not anymore. Not when it was… expected.

“Yes, I am. But that's not betrayal. Especially not when it still works in his favor.”

**

“If you say so.”

Jacob took an all too nervous drag from his cigarette.

Today, somehow, he’d managed to stumble from one undesirable situation into another. The public display of weakness and neediness Faulkner had enjoyed so much; a humiliation that had cut so deep Jacob would carry it with him for the rest of his life. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had seen his neediness, his weakness, his goddamn fucking dick. There was no hiding anymore. Then that asshole and his big mouth and the insults that had cut almost as deep. The confusing, earth-shattering *touch* that had turned him into a docile pet.

Now… *this*.

Dangerous territory. All of it.

Jacob’s head hurt. His nerves were on fire; and he wasn’t too sure anymore that the trembling of his hands was from fear alone.

In the end, none of it mattered.

In the end, he couldn’t control any of it.

He could only *survive* for as long as he could. Until his heart or liver gave up, until cancer or a bullet would kill him; or Faulkner got to him first.

No, Jacob knew *exactly* what he would say. And he knew *exactly* what his punishment would look like. The worst part was that it meant Faulkner had won. His control so total, his regiment of shame and fear so universal, that a part of Jacob’s mind did the dirty work for him. That Faulkner didn’t even have to be present anymore to enforce his rules. Jacob did that for him now.

This might be a world of terror for Jacob, a world without choices, and Sebastian had just confronted him with a terrible dilemma, but there was a way he wouldn’t have to lie. Because *if* he tried, it would show. And Faulkner would know. And a part of him hated Sebastian for this; for asking for his own punishment. When Jacob hadn’t even been the one to start this. It was one of the few decisions he could make. To save himself. And Sebastian with him.

He sighed deeply; a shaky breath that threatened to shatter his ribcage.

“Fine. Do it.”

**

Sebastian could practically see the cogs turning in Jacob's mind, slowly finishing off his own cigarette as he watched the man in front of him practically crumble into himself.

It wasn't hard to imagine what he was thinking. The kind of conundrum he faced with Sebastian's question; the impossible decision that he'd been given this time that seemed to have no positive result. And he knew,  too, what Jacob was undoubtedly expecting as a *reprimand.*

Both of them had been on both ends of that often enough to know.

But as Sebastian took the last drag off his own cigarette, noting that Jacob had already put his own out expectantly, he shrugged and straightened as the other man stood up. He eyed him for a moment, seeing both his mirror and his opposite.

His hands slipped into his pockets, and while he stood straight, he remained perfectly still.

“Consider this your reprimand, then.  Officially. I don't give a fuck what’s said to you… You are *not* to get into unsanctioned fights outside of the sparring ring. Next time you do,  I'll have no choice but to pull your ass out of it. I'll make a report to Faulkner, and he'll take any repercussions into his own hands. Understand?”

**

With a sigh, Jacob nodded silently.

Like any other day. Stunted and muted. Turned inside out. Stripped off everything that had once made him human: dignity and choice, pride and voice and emotions.

He had to confirm he understood, though, so he did, but Jacob never bothered to talk anymore; unless it was towards Faulkner. This role, he knew, and there was a terrifying familiarity to it, after only a few weeks here, after only a few weeks of Faulkner’s *training*. It was less confusing than choices and secrets. It was simple, and honest. It was all he had now, after only a few goddamn fucking weeks. Sometimes Jacob tried to picture who he would become in a year or two, but he couldn’t, and the thought scared him.

So the silent nod was all he gave as confirmation, before he closed his eyes.

Dogs didn’t talk, anyway.

The time to talk was over, and he waited for the blow.

The blow that *didn’t* come.

The kick that *didn’t* land.

Seconds passed, then moments.

He was still standing, *unharmed*, when by all means, he should be writhing on the floor in agony. When boots should kick into his ribs with force until he heard them crack. When a fist should reshape his fucking face until Jacob’s image in the mirror would match the growing monster inside.

None of this happened; and suddenly, breathing was difficult.

A soft noise, and Jacob opened his eyes again, the confusion so obvious as if he had worded it.

“What? *That’s* it?”

**

Sebastian counted the seconds after Jacob's silent nod, waiting for him to recognize that the reprimand was already over.

The silence was no surprise. Nor was the shift in attitude and demeanor; a shift that Sebastian himself knew all too well, that sudden switch to obedience and submission as those sad dark eyes closed.

No, there was no upcoming blow. Undoubtedly, when Faulkner grilled him about this later, he would ask, and take action himself if he felt it necessary. But Sebastian saw no need for it. The man was practically tearing himself inside out already, and there was no sense in beating a dog that was already broken.

When Seb finally did move, it was to take Jacob's half-finished cigarette from the ashtray, relighting it silently. He looked back at the man to see his eyes open again - eyes that had probably been so warm, once upon a time - and he held out the cigarette again.

“That's it.”

**

Of course he knew this was only half the truth.

A far more serious reprimand would follow, and *soon*. A reprimand that would end in bruises and blood and tears.

Because Faulkner probably already knew. He *always* did. And thankfully, at least like this, at least *technically*, Jacob wouldn’t have to lie to him. He’d given up defending himself a long time ago. It would be useless to point out that he hadn’t even started it.

And Faulkner wouldn’t be as lenient as Sebastian. He wouldn’t be as *confusing*, either. There was comfort in that, too, Jacob thought. To know what would be coming. To know what punishments waited for him. He’d endured them often enough. The pain. The *humiliations* that were even worse than the pain. The loneliness in penance and agony.

Jacob would take Faulkner’s reprimands as he’d take his dick. Without elegance, without struggle. And without dignity, either. He would count the seconds, and minutes, and hours, until it would be over. Yeah, there was comfort in knowing what would come.

When he took the cigarette back from Sebastian, Jacob noticed his hand was shaking again.

Why, he couldn’t tell.

“Why the fuck are you doing all this?”

** He could see Jacob's hand shaking, his eyes flicking downward, but once again he chose not to mention it. He didn't light another cigarette, just setting the lighter down on his desk.

“Because I want to. Do you think I should be like them?”

*I won't, though.*

He’d never be able to. He could stand back, in some cases. He could put his back to a locked door, close his eyes, grit his teeth,  block out the sounds and the smells that brought back memories violent enough to make *him* want to vomit.

But there were things he would not bring himself to do, even under orders. And while he was sure that eventually, that would be his downfall; for now,  his discretion, and his efficiency,  were valuable enough to let such stubborn resistance slide. **

For a long moment, Jacob looked at Sebastian; eyes deep and dark and utterly confused.

This man made as little sense as his actions.

What was even *more* confusing, the more Jacob thought about it, the more he eyed him, was why Faulkner let a man like Sebastian work for him. This high up, on top of it. A man who would make dangerous suggestions behind Faulkner’s back. A man who bent the rules so vigorously, he could as well break them. A man who was willing to lie to Faulkner, even.

A man who, unlike the others, had *not* been there. In that room. During those ten days.

And Jacob couldn’t help but wonder why that was.

Dogs didn’t speak, but maybe there was enough human left in him to tickle his curiosity.

*Do you think I should be like them?*

He huffed at the question, bitter and nervous, and finally took a drag again. His hand was still shaking. From the adrenaline wearing off, from anticipation of what was about to come, from withdrawal or the never-ending terror of still being alive; Jacob couldn’t tell. He never could anymore, these days.

“Does it matter what I think?”

It didn’t. He knew the answer already.”

“Seriously, why’s someone like you here? Why do you serve him?”

**

The huff was all Sebastian needed to know, really. Of course Jacob wasn't going to *answer* that question, but he understood the unspoken well enough.

“It does to me.” He softens the comment with a gesture for Jacob to have a seat again, pulling a chair up beside him rather than across the desk.

*That's one hell of a question…*

Sebastian looked down at his hands, rough and scarred, rubbing his thumb lightly over the seven tally marks tattooed on his left wrist. He pushed away the flashes of memory, the years of pain and regret bubbling up like bile at the back of his throat.

“Don't have anywhere else to go, really.” And oh,  it burned to say that, because he had been *so close,* so goddamn close to having a sense of belonging,  a purpose beyond the hell within these walls, until he'd finally figured out it had all been bullshit. “I grew up here. He found me in one of his orphanages… And I've been his ever since.  Everything I am,  he made me. I owe just about everything to him.”

**

All it took for Jacob to sit again was the gesture; the obedience so ingrained, so thoroughly fucked into him, that he didn’t question it anymore. He went where he was told to go. He did what he was told to do. There was always a price to pay for disobedience. There would be today, too, for that brief taste of power and freedom. And it had felt like it had been fucking worth it.

Now, Jacob wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Why the hell does it matter to you?”

He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs again as he looked at Sebastian.

*I’ve been his ever since.*

The phrasing made his skin crawl, but Jacob nodded instinctively. Just looking at Sebastian, with tears in his eyes, he could see his future. Realisation hit him again, like the fist in his stomach that this man had refused to land. This *was* his future. This was his life now. There was no way out. He was Faulkner’s forever. Body and soul. Skin and bones and fist and dick.

Sometimes, in the never-ending same routine, or balls-deep in one of Faulkner’s little whores, Jacob could almost forget. Now, with Sebastian next to him, the truth was hard to ignore.

This was him now. *Forever.*

And for a moment, the control over his tongue slipped. For a moment, he could feel himself *fall*.

“Then why did he make you the way he made you – and why the fuck does he make me the way he makes me?”

He couldn’t believe he’d said it. Out loud. Into the calm of the room. To another human being. To *one of Faulkner’s men*. But right now, none of it seemed fair. None of it made sense.

**

Oh, he had his own ideas about *that.*

*Because we are his dogs. And like dogs, he uses systems of rewards and punishments that he thinks suit us.*

With a deep sigh, Sebastian shook his head, looking over at the window; that source of peace, the light for the plants he loved so much, a bright promise of freedom and warmth. An illusion, all of it.

None of this was real.

“I could have been you, though.” This time his voice is much quieter, though there's an evenness to his tone that betrays careful control over untapped depths of emotion. “And I don't doubt I would have been… except I got out. When I ended up somewhere worse, he tracked me down. Pulled me out and brought me back. He's smart. He… works with what's left. The methods he uses on you won't work with me. Not anymore.”

He looked back at Jacob, scanning over him, not unkindly. “With you… You'll do things I won't. I'm sure he'd say his new methods are more… effective.”

**

The next drag was nervous. Shaky as his hands were.

Following Sebastian’s gaze, to the window and beyond, to a world of choice and life and freedom, Jacob exhaled. Just as nervous. Just as shaky.

He couldn’t feel his hands. Couldn’t feel his body. Couldn’t feel himself. But he hadn’t felt himself ever since that first night here, hadn’t he?

And yet, he managed to huff again; a noise from deep inside his throat; hoarse and detached and bitter again.

“Yeah. No shit.”

It was hard to picture *somewhere worse*, and maybe Jacob didn’t believe Sebastian, didn’t *want* to believe him. Could *anyone* even be believed here? And still, Sebastian’s words rang true, somewhere deep inside. They left a deep sadness where just an hour ago, only blind rage had been. It had been easier to feel the rage. It had been easier to be blind.

It had been easier to surrender himself to Faulkner and his tactics. To live the life of a glorified dog: the treats, the commands; the punishments and conditioning. Faulkner didn’t need a leash. He didn’t need a whistle. And Jacob knew very well that not everyone around here was granted the same treatment, the same *attention*. At times, it was hard to decide whether that made him feel cursed or… special. Faulkner was a master of blurred lines, after all.

“I already *do* things you don’t.”

And damn, he could swear he heard the *pride* shine through his words. Pride that wasn’t his; or was it?

Jacob wondered what would be left of *him*, once Faulkner was done. There was already so little left of the man he’d once been.

**

A soft sound,  half a hum, was the only reaction to Jacob's derisive response. It was as if the man didn't believe him. Sebastian shouldn't be surprised at that, really, but it still managed to sting, somehow. This was the first time he'd opened up at all about where he'd come from and what had happened to him. Vague as it had been, it was still the truth.

Not that it mattered whether Jacob believed him or not. None of this had really mattered to anyone but Sebastian, and even then, would it really make any difference in the end?

*I already do things you don't.*

The unmistakable undertone of pride in those words made Sebastian queasy, but he only nodded, looking away. He had heard and overheard the kind of things Jacob was willing to do, many times.

“Oh, I know. But that's… the answer to your question, right there. You won't tell him no.”

**

The blow he’d been waiting for; *this was it*.

It didn’t come in form of a fist connecting to his jaw. It didn’t come in the shape of a boot kicking in his ribs. It wasn’t a bruising punch or a hand in his hair that slammed his face against the wall.

It was *this*: simple words, spoken in Sebastian’s well-modulated voice. Even and controlled. Without a hint of accusation. Without a hint of fear. Simply stating the facts. Almost casually revealing the truth. Holding a mirror in which Jacob could finally see his reflection – *what was left of him* – the smug grimace of violence, deformed and detached from the world.

The force of truth kicked the air out of his lungs, even as Jacob clung to the rest of his cigarette. What was left of it.

Sebastian couldn’t even *look* at him; and it left Jacob angry and ashamed. This man, who worked for Faulkner, too. This man, who had certainly committed his own fair share of unspeakable acts. Jacob had noticed the tally marks. He could imagine the rest. It hit hard, that a man like Sebastian had to avert his eyes; that he couldn’t look at the thing Jacob had become

“I won’t tell him no, cause I *can’t* tell him no.”

That, too, was the truth. Both coexisted in the same space, but Jacob’s head hurt just thinking about it. It was true, as well, because choices did not exist anymore in Jacob’s life. Objections and disobedience would lead him back to where he’d started. In *that* room. A room not even Sebastian had set foot in, and maybe that was a blessing. So what would he know about places worse than this? What did he know about what had happened in there? This was hell, and Jacob had signed his soul away to the devil himself.

**

Sebastian nodded again quietly, watching Jacob's hands. Once upon a time, he had thought the same of Faulkner, that he couldn't tell the man no. And even now, he rarely did. The pull of debt that he owed the man was far too strong to deny him most things.

But Faulkner had long ago ceased to be a man that he feared. He was terrible, but predictable, for the most part. And that… made things much easier, in the long run.

*Someday, you might. When you're willing to take the risks.*

But he couldn't dare to go so far as to say that, even to try to encourage Jacob. It could call his loyalty into question and risk exposing him before he was ready to lay his truth in Faulkner's lap.

“I thought that once,  too. But… that's why you and I are different beasts. You'll be the one he prefers in the long run, I'm sure.” **

Jacob swallowed and nodded, his throat too constricted to give a verbal answer.

Sebastian was right, and they both knew it. This new surge of misguided *pride*, swelling in his chest like a tumour, was entirely unwelcome. But it was there, undeniably; spreading in his heart and soul like a parasite, and all he could do was *watch* and let it happen. *No* did not exist in his world, anymore. And cursed and thoroughly distorted as Jacob was, a part of him felt *superior* at the thought; superior and special to be… the preferred one. The chosen one.

He’d been holding onto his cigarette for way too long. It held too much meaning; lit in the tiniest act of rebellion by Jacob himself. Something so forbidden, so dangerous, that it had *almost* felt like hope. Now it was threatening to burn him, like hope itself, so he leaned forward to put it out. The cigarette, and this futile feeling of hope he’d harboured in the strange calm of this room.

It still hurt, in the strangest ways, that Sebastian had averted his eyes; and it stirred Jacob’s fury and his shame. It stirred something else, too, something that was much harder to put into coherent thoughts and words. Because without men *like* Sebastian, Jacob wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t lose pieces of his soul with every day passing. Sebastian wasn’t just obeying. He was *participating*, even if he hadn’t been in that room. Even if he’d brought food and offered pointless choices. Even if he hadn’t beaten Jacob to reprimand him. Sebastian was as much his prison guard as Faulkner’s other men. He helped create the monster Jacob was being turned into. He was as much responsible for this beast he now seemed to despise so much now, whether he wanted to face it or now.

Yet, here Jacob was. Talking to the very man, as if he could be trusted. He tried not to think about it for too long.

“How do you get away with it?”

**

He found himself looking over at Jacob again at the non-answer, watching him closely. He was so young, to carry this much weight in his heart and his voice, but Sebastian was well aware that he looked into a mirror. He watched the ash fall onto the rug from the ignored cigarette, then let his eyes follow the movement as Jacob seemed to remember and put it out.

The silence seemed almost a comfort, somehow. Deep and heavy between them, but not unwelcome. It wasn't thick with danger or expectation.

But fuck, that was a loaded question.

“I… choose my battles. And I'm consistent.” He reached out,  taking the lighter between his fingers again,  just to hold onto something. He didn't light it.

*But it's so much more than that, isn't it?*

Something so precariously balanced between survival and a death wish.

“One of these days, he'll have had enough and it'll be the last time, regardless of how useful I can be.” Sebastian shrugged, meeting his eyes again. “Once I accepted that, it got a whole lot easier to figure out what hills are worth dying on.”

**

It wasn’t an answer, not really, and Jacob couldn’t help but feel silently disappointed. No great mystery here. No solution that would apply to him.

Because he knew very well what would happen if he told Faulkner no, and it was no option.

As it was, he lived his life in a world of pain. A kingdom of humiliation and degradation. But at least he had the faintest grasp of control over it. At least, obedience secured him some sort of stability and the small luxuries he could indulge him. Sometimes, he didn’t fear death anymore, but there were worse fates than death, and Faulkner was well aware of that, too.

His hands felt empty now, without a cigarette to hold, but his eyes could at least follow the lighter in Sebastian’s.

“You have poor judgement if a battle you choose is *me*.”

Because, deep down, Jacob knew that Faulkner was watching. He had to be aware of the walks. Of the containers of food. Of the few words Jacob had exchanged, once so rare and gruff. They didn’t seem all too gruff and rare now, and that surprised even him; and a part of him wondered if he’d miss it, to use his voice again, to feel almost like a human being. Or if it would be easier, in the end, to fall silent and accept his fate and life; to roll over and heel and bark on command only, like a good dog. He didn’t know.

Jacob knew Faulkner was watching, and he knew he wouldn’t approve of any of their interactions; and a horrible thought crept into his mind. Horrible, terrifying and chilling.

*You'll be the one he prefers in the long run, I'm sure.*

* You won't tell him no.*

Once realisation had hit, Jacob’s eyes darted up to Sebastian’s face again.

*And who the fuck do you think will take care of it, once Faulkner will have had enough? Who do you think will do the dirty work?*

And for a long, bone-chilling moment, Jacob could see his future again. Not just in Sebastian’s features. Not just in his eyes. He saw why Faulkner was training him. He saw himself take Sebastian’s place. He was here to replace him. And… eventually kill him.

**

No, it wasn't an answer, not the one Jacob wanted. But telling him that he *was* still punished for disobedience - just as he was rewarded for obedience - would make no difference. Nor would talking about the dissociation when those punishments came. Those were, from what Sebastian gathered, a natural assumption. And in Jacob's case, possibly not even relatable; his trauma too recent,  too fresh to have recovered enough to separate himself from it.

He'd smile softly as he continues to flip the lighter between his fingers, shaking his head. “That's a matter of opinion. You might call it poor judgment, but it's who I… used to be. And, difficult as it may be, risky as it may be, as little of it left as there may be… I will hold onto what little I can.”

*Right up until it's time for you to kill me.*

No, he wasn't certain on that - logistically, Faulkner would be smarter to keep them *both*, but the realization of that possibility seemed to hit Jacob like a ton of bricks, as if the thought hadn't actually occurred to him yet.

He softened his voice again.

“Is it so surprising, Jacob?”

**

“It’s fucking stupid.”

No, it still made no fucking sense whatsoever.

No, it wasn’t a matter of opinion.

If Sebastian decided to make Jacob his little *pet project* and risked his standing in the process, yeah, it was just downright fucking stupid. And stupid didn’t match what he’d seen of Sebastian so far. All confusion aside – about the way his voice broke through Jacob’s barricades, about how Sebastian’s *touch* had flashed through his entire body; about the disturbing fact that he could make Jacob *talk*, as if he weren’t a prisoner and a monster on a short leash – all that confusion aside, Jacob had seen enough of Sebastian. Even through the haze of pain and humiliation and drugs. He’d seen his speed and strength and precision. The way he moved through the crowded canteen and chose his words. How his eyes seemed to analyse new surroundings and situations. Jacob could conclude enough. It had been his job once, in a different life. This man was, by no means, stupid.

Maybe he was simply suicidal.

*Is it so surprising, Jacob?*

It was his turn to avert his eyes now, but he nodded.

The words didn’t need to be spoken to be understood; and they both did understand. Words that were even heavier than the silence that settled. Solid and present and devastating, even without being voiced.

“Yeah.”

**

For a brief moment, Sebastian's quiet laugh broke the silence.

“Yeah, it's probably that, too. But so be it.”

Because the truth was, yeah, it was stupid. Undoubtedly Faulkner would put a stop to this, at some point, probably sooner rather than later. But Jacob's life had been devoid of any and all humanity since he'd come here, and even if it didn't go far, even if it made no true difference in the end, it was important to Sebastian to show *some* kind of hope to a man who reminded him so much of himself.

Even if that meant giving some tiny modicum of comfort to the man destined to eventually kill him.

“You've said it yourself. You see lapses in judgment. You've called my choices stupid. You've questioned my loyalty, even. And I get away with pushing the limits. Within that line of reasoning, it's… the natural outcome.”

**

At the laugh, Jacob flinched.

A sound so unexpected and impossible, so light and warm and *natural*, that it startled him. It wasn’t like Faulkner’s smug, disgusting chuckles. It wasn’t like the boisterous, dirty laughs at the canteen tables. It was… soft. *Likeable*.

Maybe, in a different life, Jacob would have hired this man for the company that wasn’t his own anymore. He was efficient and calm and *capable*, all stupidity aside. Maybe they would have gotten a drink together, or two, if life hadn’t taken a horrible turn.

But it wouldn’t help if he started to *like* Sebastian now. *Especially* now.

Nothing good would come from it.

“Then stop being fucking stupid.”

*… and kill me.*

For a brief moment, that sounded almost like relief. Like salvation. An end to this madness. An end to this mind fuck. An end to Jacob’s pain. To eliminate the rival Faulkner was shaping under Sebastian’s eyes. The rival Sebastian himself helped raise. Not like the others did, no, but Sebastian did partake in the creation of his beast.

But Jacob didn’t say it. Nothing good would come from it, too.

They would both be dead.

**

The reaction to Jacob flinching was immediate. Without thought, without hesitation, Sebastian had reached out again, resting his fingertips on the back of Jacob's neck in a silent apology.

Stupid, yes. That… was probably the right word, after all. But he still wasn't afraid.

Gently,  he'd let his fingers fall, keeping the touch brief. Just a ghost.

“Not that easy, mate.”

If he were anyone else, if he were smarter perhaps, he'd be fighting for his position, fighting to keep Jacob from advancing and taking his place. Fighting to keep this monster of a man from growing into the beast Faulkner wanted, fighting *him*, even. Maybe killing him first, before he became a real threat. Fighting to prove himself to Faulkner and remain in his good graces. Remain the favorite, and survive.

It was exhausting just thinking about it. It was complicated,  too. Because he knew, too, that killing Jacob would be a mercy, in the end. But he had no desire to do so.

And it would likely end in Faulkner's fury, anyway.

Sighing,  he'd stand up slowly, reaching into his fridge for a bottle of water and offering it silently to Jacob.

**

Touch.

Touch that erased every thought, if only for a brief moment. Light and quick and almost not there. An echo of the lingering hand on the back of his neck. The hand that had made Jacob docile and compliant. 10,000 volts shooting through his nervous system, and yet, the touch was featherlight. Barely there.

It was even more confusing than this conversation or Sebastian’s all too stupid decisions.

Once again, it took Jacob’s breath away, as fleeting as it had been, and his eyes searched for Sebastian’s instinctively.

But the moment came and passed; like the touch itself, and Jacob found himself wondering if he had just imagined it. A beautiful, calming hallucination of a broken soul, teetering on the edge of madness.

“The fuck does that mean, *not that easy*?”

It should be, by all means.

Jacob took the water bottle silently, if only because his will to object was gone; the reaction instinctive and conditioned. The trust and obedience of a beaten dog. Every strength he had, every ounce of focus, Jacob needed to speak. Instead of opening the bottle, he just held it, unsure of what to do with it.

**

A part of him was deeply relieved that Jacob hadn't reacted to the touch beyond that questioning look in his eyes. How was he supposed to explain it? Sebastian himself *hated* to be touched, probably just as much as Jacob did; and yet here he was, crossing lines and boundaries as if it were natural.

As if it were *right* to just… touch him.

He cleared his throat and grabbed another water for himself, cracking it open with a sigh.

“Because if I let go of that, I'll become something else. I may not have many choices left,  but I know what I don't wanna be.” He'd eye the bottle in Jacob's hands. “You can go ahead and drink that. I know you'll need it.”

**

The spot on the back of Jacob’s neck felt empty and light and still electrified. It was a relief that Sebastian hadn’t seen the catching of his breath, because there was no way in hell Jacob could have explained it. He had trouble explaining *any* of this. Even to himself.

Three times, Sebastian had touched him. Three times, Jacob had decided to leave him unharmed and unbruised; and the action unsanctioned. Faulkner wouldn’t like this, at all, as much as he disapproved of the opposite, of Jacob damaging his assets. And he had done that plenty. But instead, Faulkner tried to redirect all that wrath now to his enemies and traitors, to disobedient men and business partners who failed to meet Faulkner’s financial demands. And the boys. Boys who were shipped here like cattle, only to be greeted by Jacob, worked up and out of his fucking mind. Boys who would be whores, once Jacob was done with them.

And as he watched Sebastian open his bottle of water, Jacob knew what remained unspoken. This time, he didn’t feel pride. He didn’t feel special. He once again felt like the monster he had become.

He nodded, his eyes dark again.

“You don’t wanna become *me*.”

The words hurt, deep down, and Jacob was amazed anew that there were hidden parts of him left that *could still hurt*. They, too, would soon be lost and gone. Gone like the rest of him. Maybe then, he would stop feeling.

With a sigh, he opened his own bottle and took a mouthful.

Because in the end, Sebastian was right. He would need it, and very soon.

Faulkner’s reprimand would definitely look different.

**

*You don't wanna become me.*

This time, that pride in Jacob's voice wasn't there. There was a darkness in his voice again, an edge that sounded like disappointment. A self-awareness, a consciousness that made it so much worse. Because it meant that Sebastian was right.

There was a man underneath all of that muscle and violence that didn't want this. A man that ached for the life that had been stolen from him, that had been broken, but not yet molded into a *real* monster.

Softly, Sebastian nodded back at him. And if truth be told,  he was pretty certain this one fact was one of the few things that kept him in such high regard,  that kept him alive. The real reason Faulkner kept him on.

“If I let go… I think I'd be even worse than you. Just a matter of who's more stubborn in the end. Me or him.”

**

*Even worse than you*.

That shouldn’t sting the way it did, but Jacob nodded, anyway; sadly and quietly.

Even *worse than you* told him everything he had to know. Everything he already *did* know; that one small word making all the difference.

And if this weren’t bad enough, a part of him felt *challenged*. The part of him that had felt proud. The part of him that had felt special. The part of him that was beginning to look forward to brutality and violence; that could get lost in submission and obedience, too.

He swallowed down the response - *try me* - and sighed.

Maybe he was looking at his future, maybe he had already surpassed Sebastian in gruesome ways. Maybe he was looking into a distorted mirror that showed him what his heart had feared: there was no hope. He was Faulkner’s now, and would be forever. A lap dog and bloodhound. A pet and asset and tool.

He’d shattered Jacob’s heart and soul; and rearranged the myriad of shards and pieces into a gruesome mosaic, glistening and shimmering under Faulkner’s sun. Broken, unrecognisable.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know what he made me into. I know what I’ve become.”

What he was *still* becoming. What he was evolving into.

A creature without remorse, without a soul and a heart, ruled by violence and hatred and basic needs. An bloodhound that was trained to fuck, attack and kill, and to tear everything apart that would come in its way.

As rare as moments like this were, when he could pretend to be human again, when he could actually see the *sky*; Jacob was certain they would soon disappear entirely. And the human in him with them.

**

Another nod, another long and silent look at the man sitting in his office chair.

It was taking everything in him to keep his mouth shut. To keep himself from telling this beautifully dangerous beast of a man that he didn't *have* to give Faulkner every piece of his heart and soul. He would hope the message came across, but he wasn't sure now whether it even registered.

This was a hopeless place. But somehow Sebastian had managed to not only find the existence of *hope*, he had learned to hold onto it. Even now. Even when Sebastian had given up on everything else, there was still this stubborn spark that wouldn't die. That spark that kept his humanity, what little was left of it, alive.

“We all do. But there's still a man in there.”

**

Anger and shame went hand in hand these days.

Anger and shame and hurt.

*We all do*.

It was an unwelcome reminder that Sebastian knew it *all*. Had seen it all. He’d seen Jacob naked and bound, had heard him scream and beg during those first ten nights and days. And hadn’t helped. He’d seen Jacob lose his will to fight, first; then his ability to talk back. He’d watched as Jacob had stopped caring. About himself. About his dignity. About the pain of others.

No, Sebastian had been – and still was – intimately aware of the changes Jacob underwent. A silent, idle witness to his downfall and corruption. Inconsequential choices didn’t stop him from losing his soul. Warm, satisfying food did not stop Faulkner from twisting him into a soulless animal.

Sebastian knew, and so did everyone around here.

Hadn’t they all seen his cock just today; his cock, his brutality and his lack of control over himself and his body? Wasn’t that how he’d ended in Sebastian’s office, in the first place?

It was a reminder that Jacob didn’t need.

“Not for much longer.”

The words spilled without conscious thought, without deliberation. And what was the use in beating around the fucking bush anymore, anyway? He was lost.

It wasn’t as if Sebastian had done *anything* to help.

**

Sebastian lowered his eyes at those words, exhaling slowly in something like resignation.

No, he could effectively do nothing to stop that transformation, as he'd been unable to prevent it until now. Not unless he threw this whole organization on its head, and even then, it was much more likely that he'd just be gunned down.

Faulkner certainly wouldn't tolerate him openly encouraging his chosen few to *rebel* against his special training.

And Sebastian still wanted to live, as ridiculous as that was, after all he'd lived through. There had to be *something* making all of this worth it.

“That's your choice, in the end.”

**

Sebastian averted his eyes, again, and Jacob could *feel* the disappointment radiating from him. The resignation and frustration.

But what was he trying here, anyway? Offset a riot? Trigger some disobedience that would land Jacob right back in that room, his hands tied to his ankles, as Faulkner’s men took turns on him, day in and day out?

Jacob wanted to huff, but he couldn’t even do *that* anymore. Yes, he knew resignation, too.

“I have no choice. And you damn well know it.”

His voice sounded meek and hoarse, all of a sudden.

“I can’t even choose my own fucking *clothes*.”

Fumbling with the water bottle, he watched Sebastian carefully. He knew he should drink. He knew he would need it. He knew what would happen soon.

“What do you think he’ll do when I tell him no?”

**

*I know damn well what he'll do.*

And that was the crux of this. He *knew*. And the idea of convincing someone to fight back anyway, to hold on to that spark of humanity inside them, knowing what those consequences would be, sounded callous and cruel even to him. And it sounded pointless. It didn't make sense, even in his own head.

Why would anyone think it was worth it?

But he'd done it. He'd dared, and he'd stood his ground. And somehow… it had worked. By choosing his battles carefully, yes.  And by bearing the storm that followed.

“You ask as if I don't know. I do.”

**

“Then don’t talk as if you don’t.”

There was no malice in his voice, no aggression or anger. Resignation had taken their place.

Yeah, he was beginning to look forward to the simplicity of obedience again. Faulkner challenged him, too, but never like *this*. Impossible choices were followed by impossible demands, and Jacob was certain that even Sebastian knew.

He *had* no choice. Not if he wanted to avoid a life locked up in that room. Sebastian might be valuable enough to Faulkner that he let his disobedience slide. He might have earned some of Faulkner’s lenience. Jacob, on the other hand, was new. He was… disposable; and Faulkner would use all means necessary on him.

“Then don’t pretend as if I *have* choice.”

Finally, he took the bottle again and downed the rest of the water. Jacob wasn’t allowed a watch, but he could see the sky behind the window change colour. He wasn’t certain what time it was, but he felt as if it *was time*, anyway.

Disorientation. Pain. Humiliation. Tactics as old as time. But recognising them didn’t make them less effective.

“I’d have to go back. And you know it.”

**

*You **always** have a choice.*

But he couldn't say that. Not without clarifying. Not without insisting that he just had to be willing to accept what consequences of that choice. Not without sounding as if he was actively encouraging rebellion.

Or… encouraging suicide. Which, frankly, in Jacob's case, might be more likely.

It was a struggle that would be evident in his face, his eyes soft and troubled as he nods silently.

*I know.*

“You'll survive it. All of this. One way or another.”

**

This time, Jacob couldn’t swallow the huff. It was out in the open, bitter and harsh.

That really was the question, wasn’t it?

There was so little left of him, Jacob wasn’t sure he really *would* survive. Not the man he’d been. Not the person he’d known. His body would, there was no doubt about that, but it would be empty and hollow. Driven by raw instincts and faded memories. Driven by Faulkner’s orders. Inhabited by a the monster he’d become.

*No, I won’t survive it. Not once he’s done.*

But Jacob didn’t say that as he looked out of the window. Who knew when he would see the sky again. He couldn’t imagine he’d be allowed in here often after today. It would remain a strange little fever dream full of hopes and dreams and dangerous ideas. Maybe in a week or two, it wouldn’t feel real anymore.

No, he didn’t say it.

Sebastian’s expression was hard to read as it was.

The sun was setting, and Jacob tried to remember what time of the year it was. He couldn’t.

**

That huff was telling,  just as much as Sebastian's own words.

*One way or another.*

It was clear that Jacob had already resigned himself to becoming a monster, a shell rather than holding onto the man he was. And perhaps it really was too late, and Sebastian's attempts were pointless. It was disheartening. Almost enough to make him want to retreat, to call this whole idea off entirely, tried and failed.

But that wouldn't be the person *he* was.

Softly, he'd speak again, his arms crossed in front of him.

“It’s that time.”

**

It didn’t need an explicit command for Jacob to stand. He knew this. It was the same routine. Every day. He’d learnt to obey, after all.

And maybe he’d struggled at first, but he didn’t now. Not anymore.

With a nod, Jacob rose from the chair moved towards the door. His shoulders slumped, his gaze empty. Yes, a fever dream. He could chalk this whole fucking day up as just that. The jerk-off and the insults. The touch. The lighter. Dangerous ideas and a reprimand that hadn’t been one. Pretending to be still human.

He couldn’t wait to forget about all of it.

Now he could feel the hunger after the skipped meal, but it was too late now. And soon, it wouldn’t matter, anymore. Jacob had other things to worry about now. Faulkner certainly knew. There wouldn’t be treats today. There would be punishment, and Jacob could feel his empty stomach sink.

In front of the door, he waited for Sebastian to follow. And with a glance back over his massive shoulder, he looked at Sebastian.

“Does he fuck you, too?”

 **

For a moment, the Earth stood still, and Sebastian froze in place as if Faulkner had commanded it.

No one had ever asked. No one had ever mentioned it at all. He was sure that some at least *knew*, though it had never been made such a public spectacle as Faulkner had done with Jacob. It had never been quite as… vicious.

That hadn't been necessary. Not when it had started.

And Seb recognized it now, for what it was. He might have been naïve and misled, back then, but he knew now. He understood it for what it really was, despite continuing to… let it happen.

Just another tool. Just another method Faulkner used to his advantage.

He didn't even count it, really.

His jaw tense,  he swallowed and ran his tongue over his teeth, finally nodding briefly, then relaxing again.

*It doesn't matter.*

*It's not rape if you allow it.*

*It doesn't count.*

“Yeah. Since I was fourteen.” **

“Fourteen, huh?”

Jacob swallowed, looking at the floor with a sigh, his shoulders dropping.

*Jesus Christ.*

Nothing was sacred here.

Fourteen was way too fucking young.

He already couldn’t imagine a life spent living within Faulkner’s grasp. The idea so terrifying, so unbelievably dreadful, that it was easier to sacrifice his soul and humanity for it. Jacob didn’t want to imagine how it must have been for a goddamn *kid*. To grow up here. Like this. Under Faulkner. Deformed and twisted, just like him.

And despite everything Jacob had seen. Despite everything he’d done. Despite everything he’d *endured*…

He couldn’t help but feel for Sebastian. Prison guard or not; Faulkner’s man or not, nobody deserved *that*.

“I’m sorry.”

**

The moment between them felt heavy, almost suffocating with everything unsaid.

It was clear from Jacob's reaction, nonverbal as it might be, that he understood. The man hadn't grown up here. It hadn't been his normal. He knew it wasn't… the way things should be.

But it had been all Sebastian had known until he'd been allowed back into the real world again.

*You do what you have to.*

*One way or another.*

“It's alright.”

It wasn't, but really.  But it *was* a baseline. A standard of normal that he'd long ago accepted in lieu of greater cruelties. What else could he say? What else was there?

**

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t alright, *at all*, and Jacob couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. Couldn’t stop himself from picturing the young Sebastian bent over the very same desk he had learnt to hate himself. Jacob had added to a patina made of sweat and tears, of come and desperation that had been building over decades. Invisible, but noticeable. Faulkner kept it meticulously clean, but Jacob could feel the years of pain and degradation whenever he bent over. To know that their tears would mingle on the hardwood now felt… strange.

But he would have time enough to ponder over that image tonight. Somehow, Jacob had a feeling he wouldn’t be allowed to leave anytime soon. Faulkner *would* make him suffer for his transgression. For a fight that hadn’t even unfolded. For a provocation that he hadn’t even started. That didn’t matter here.

It didn’t make it alright.

None of it.

He waited for Sebastian to open the door and guide him back to Faulkner’s office. Where he would lose yet another part of his soul. Where he would lose yet another part of his humanity.

Where the desk stood.

[empireofdogs]

how to treat a skittish dog || PART 1 || familiarisation

Every day was exactly the same.

Jacob woke up tired. Exhausted. With a headache.

He woke up after a night of nightmares, kicking and yelling at thin air.

Breakfast was light.

He didn’t talk.

He was brought to the gym.

He ignored the others there.

He worked out. He sparred.

Lunch was light.

He was tasked with simple tasks and errands that required muscle more than brains or trustworthiness. He was also tasked with orders he hated executing, but Faulkner’s men in the back were watching as he lost a part of his soul with every second passing.

Back to the gym.

Dinner was always too loud and crowded.

More gym, or more tasks he tried not to think of.

Debrief. If he was lucky, good behaviour would earn him a reward.

At least that helped Jacob to fall asleep.

Every day was exactly the same, and he hated every second. Every minute. Every hour.

He’d learnt to hate himself even more.

But the alternative, to go back to *that* room, was out of the question, and he’d decided that a long time ago. At least it felt like it had been that long. It felt like a different life he could hardly remember. Or what had been before.

Three weeks since they’d let him out.

That couldn’t be right. But the calendar on the wall didn’t lie.

Three weeks in this new, strange place. Two weeks since they’d let him eat and be with the others.

But Jacob didn’t talk. He didn’t interact.

And nobody sat next to him anymore, after he’d broken a wrist wordlessly.

So he sat down at the long table, his muscles aching, his body sore. Counting the minutes until his daily debrief. He wasn’t sure anymore if he’d hated it more than he loved it. If he was beginning to look forward to it more than he feared it.

This place was slowly driving him crazy.

And Jacob couldn’t remember when he’d last seen the sun.

***

Four weeks since he'd heard what happened to Jacob. Faulkner hadn't ordered him to participate, thank the gods; otherwise he'd have told the man to fuck himself with a hot fire poker, and would have just ended up in the same boat with Jacob. And Faulkner probably knew that in the first place.

But he'd heard.

And it had… hit him hard.

He'd taken his time, watching Jacob as he'd slowly been allowed into the fold. Too hostile to approach, at first, but it wasn't fear that held Sebastian back. Just caution and self preservation - and yes, sympathy.

Because he knew.

His nightmares persisted, too.

So he'd watched and waited, considered and weighed the options, and he'd finally decided it was the right time when Jacob didn't seem to startle at thin air.

He'd slipped back to his quarters that morning and pulled out a few staples, making a double helping of pad kra pao and packing them up in two containers.

He hadn't said a word as he made his way back to the canteen when he knew Jacob would be there - same time every day for weeks now. Sebastian was more than used to sitting alone already, but he'd walked right up to the table in the corner where Jacob sat, sliding the still-hot container over to him silently as he sat diagonally across from him.

He didn't say a word. Didn't watch and wait to see if he'd open it. He simply sat, opened his own container, and took a bite in silence.

***

Jacob remembered every single face he had seen in *that* room. During those ten days and nights that had felt like an eternity. He remembered them all. Even the ones he hadn’t faced; the ones he’d only seen reflections. But he had made sure to commit them to memory.

They came back at night, in his nightmares.

They came back by day, too.

He’d seen them in men passing him in the hallway or the gym, he’d seen them in guards dragging him back to his room when Jacob couldn’t walk anymore. Or some assholes sitting down too close to him at this very table. They were everywhere.

This one… was not one of them.

He’d sensed the man approaching, but hadn’t looked up. His eyes were watching him from under the hair that fell into his face, warily and with caution. He squared his shoulders; ready to fight, ready to bolt. Whatever would be necessary.

But instead, a container slid over the table; and with a guttural growl, he stopped it with his hand. A shadow of himself as he might be now, Jacob’s reflexes had never been better.

“What?”

It wasn’t friendly. It was hostile.

It was the first thing he’d said today.

**

Deep blue eyes would look back at Jacob, regarding him with a steady calm. Not afraid. Not defensive. And not angry.

Sebastian was unphased by the open hostility. He knew it well, after all. But he'd seen, too, that this had… subsided, at least somewhat, over these weeks.

“Food. Thought you could use something different.”

Seb didn't speak much himself, especially not after Thailand. But he had held onto the soft Leicestershire accent, and it was there as he answered. Completely calm, quiet, and in an even tone.

He didn't ask Jacob's name, and he didn't offer his own.

**

For a long moment, Jacob didn’t move. He just stared back; eyes hard and unyielding, saying all the things his mouth didn’t.

If this was a game or a trap or a joke, he simply couldn’t tell. Maybe he would have, in a different life. Nowadays, he was too tired, and his mind too clouded. The whiskey bottle in his room wouldn’t help. Another gift from Faulkner. Jacob had earned it yesterday, by beating up a man he hadn’t even known. Always guarded, always watched.

The bottle was half empty already.

Jacob took another glimpse at the man at the other side of the table. No, he wasn’t one of the faces in his nightmares. He’d seen him before. They had sparred before. And he’d been one of Jacob’s guards, too, if he remembered correctly. But his memory failed him these days; more often than not.

“I *have* food.”

He poked at the food on his plate – whatever it was supposed to be. The food could differ vastly here, depending on who made it.

**

Sebastian could easily see the questions, the confusion, the hesitation. As much as the mental comparison made him grimace internally, Jacob's eyes looked like that of a street dog, beaten and starved and suspicious of anything that walked on two legs.

He'd seen it dozens of times before. To his surprise, Jacob spoke again. No less hostile, but it was still something. Sebastian's lips hinted at a tiny smile as he tilted his head, half-shrugging as if it didn't matter to him at all.

“Sure you do. But it's shit food.” He'd move his own food around with a spoon, knowing Jacob would be able to smell it even if he didn't open his own container, and took a bite after a moment.

“Eat. Take it back with you. Toss it in the bin. I don't care.”

***

Only a few weeks back, in that different life, when his soul had been still in one piece and his heart and spirit hadn’t been shattered, Jacob might have laughed.

*Why bring food to someone you don’t know and then tell them to toss it in the bin?*

Even through the haze, even through the indifference Jacob had forced upon himself, this didn’t make any sense.

But this one was right.

This *was* shit food.

That, and Jacob didn’t even care anymore if he’d be poisoned. Faulkner poisoned him a little every day. His soul. His heart. His body. At this point, Jacob could very well eat toxic waste and not care. It was all the same. He’d learnt that it was not up to him to make decisions anymore.

Cautiously, he pushed his tray away and dragged the container over the table with one hand until it was in front of him.

“Why?”

**

Sebastian would look at those haunted eyes for another long moment, inwardly relieved that he'd pulled the container closer.

*Progress. Very good.*

“Cause I thought you'd like it.”

And that was true.

Seb had watched. He'd paid attention, these several weeks. Out of the options they were given for food,  he had noticed that Jacob had chosen meats whenever possible, and had a heavy hand with the hot sauce at the table. It was safe to assume that this, at least, might hold some interest to him.

It would at least be different.

Every day, the exact same routine, the exact same time for meals,  the exact same seat in the canteen.

He had to be losing it.

But this might at least… give him something. If only for a little while.

**

Jacob didn’t answer and wouldn’t have known how.

Words didn’t come easy these days, and this was already more than he’d spoken in a week outside of Faulkner’s office.

And in there, it was easy. Maybe the easiest thing in this new life.

*Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Thank you, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.*

Jacob had learnt that quickly. It didn’t require thinking. And it didn’t sound like his own voice anymore, anyway. He could pretend this was someone different.

In just about an hour or two, he would go back there, and he didn’t want to think about it; and for fuck’s sake, he could just give this mystery food a try. Jacob would forget about it in just about an hour or two, anyway. He always did.

Casting another suspicious glance over the table, he opened the container carefully.

And wanted to close it immediately after.

The scent coming from its content was strong, and warm and… *familiar*.

A scent from a different life. From when he had been allowed a choice. When Jacob could have favourites. And this, certainly, had been one of them.

He could feel the tears burning in his eyes, but clenched his jaw shut until he was certain his teeth would shatter. It kept them at bay.

And instead of letting them fall where everyone could see them, he just grabbed his fork and took a first bite.

**

*Don't hold eye contact.*

It didn't surprise him that Jacob didn't answer. The man had been through hell, and Sebastian was a confusing, suspicious stranger,  for certain.

Seb sure as hell wasn't unused to people avoiding him, anyway. That was a given these days.

*Don't push. Just be.*

He'd looked down again,  focusing instead on his own food, now that Jacob had cautiously accepted his offer.

A dog accepting a treat.

He'd take another few bites of his own in silence,  taking his time,  keeping quiet and still. Unthreatening, but unafraid.

*Let him get used to you existing in the same space.*

**

The food was good. Really good. Possibly better than Jacob deserved for all the things he’d done on this day alone. On this day, and all the days before. Ever since Faulkner had given him a modicum of responsibility for *tasks*. Still watched, of course. Still guarded. He always was.

Like now.

He eyed the man in front of him with suspicious, even as he continued to eat; a meal that tasted just like it had smelled. Warming. Satisfying. Familiar.

With every bite, he watched. If only to make sure he wasn’t the one *being* watched. At least not at this table.

Maybe tomorrow, this same man would be walking him to Faulkner’s office or back to his room again. Hell, maybe he’d even do that tonight. Maybe he’d be the one to drag Jacob back to drop him onto the floor of his cell like a bag of potatoes. Maybe he’d be the one Jacob would fight tomorrow. Or he’d be the next one to lock Jacob up again.

None of this made sense. None of these people could be trusted.

**

No,  this wasn't indifferent. Far from it.

Sebastian wouldn't exactly call it friendly, either - he sure as fuck wasn't known for *that* - but it was an attempt at mutual understanding, at least. Words weren't needed so much, here.

He didn't bother with them as Jacob finished, just sitting comfortably in the silence. For him it wasn't anxious, though he could feel the tension rolling off Jacob in waves.

Sebastian knew very well what was coming for the man, too. He caught the glance at the clock, and with a gentle shake of his head, he spoke again.

“It’s me tonight. If you're ready, we can go now. Or wait here until it's time. Your choice.”

It might have been framed as a simple question, but he was very well aware that it was not. Choice didn't exist in Jacob's world, and even the suggestion of choice was likely, more often than not, a trap.

He was very well aware that Jacob was likely to be unable to choose at all. Suspicion and indecision were far more likely than a true answer.

Still, the question was genuine.

And Sebastian intended to make it a habit.

**

*It’s me tonight.*

He looked up, staring at the man in front of him. Every muscle in his sore body felt tense; every nerve firing. Three simple words. But they carried a weight that only Jacob understood. He was beginning to dread his debriefs as much as he was craving them.

In a different life, he might have nodded. He might have shrugged. He might have shown any form of reaction.

But for now, he simply looked down again.

The offer, however, made him lift his gaze again in confusion.

None of the guards had ever announced himself.

None of the guards had brought him food.

None of the guards had been giving Jacob the fraction of choice.

Not that it would make a difference, if he chose one way or another.

In a different life, he might have tried to keep his emotions from displaying so obviously. Here, in this new world, he didn’t bother. He’d learnt it made no difference whatsoever.

“What difference does it make?”

**

He could feel the eyes on him again, so he'd look up, sitting back casually, his posture completely relaxed.

No, it didn't make a difference,  really. And Sebastian had a feeling that it might not even matter for Jacob's comfort level - being in this loud cafeteria versus waiting outside Faulkner’s office; a much quieter option, but probably far more anxious.

He knew,  for himself,  he'd have preferred the quiet.

Away from prying, curious eyes.

Away from the possibility for unplanned violence.

Away from other men, period.

He'd breathe in deeply, taking in Jacob's facial features, half hidden under his hair. He had pretty eyes - drowned in guilt, shame, anger, sorrow, and exhaustion - but pretty.

Sebastian knew better than to comment on it.

“Not a big one. Just… where you'd prefer to wait.”

**

A choice.

Something as simple as that.

Something that, only weeks ago, had felt so natural that he had taken it for granted. Sleeping in after a long night of work. Picking out clothes for himself. Deciding on which coffee shop he wanted to go to on his way to his humble little business. Choosing between eating out or takeaway.

Simple, small choices. Every day.

Now, confronted with the smallest choice, he felt *overwhelmed*.

And Jacob could feel panic rise in his chest. A pressure deep inside that he couldn’t explain. Suddenly, this felt vital and banal at once. Urgent. Desperate. Excruciatingly difficult. Suddenly, this small fucking choice felt like it could be potentially life-changing. Like a chance, like a trap, like a dream, like a nightmare. Suddenly, something as simple and small felt like an impossible task.

He could feel the pressure in his body, muscles tensing under his skin.

“I don’t care,” he pressed out through clenched teeth.

At the end of the day, he would end up in the same room, anyway.

**

Sebastian waited patiently, watching every expression and micro-expression on Jacob's confused face.

He could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he almost buckled in on himself. This huge man seemingly trying to make himself small, unnoticed.

Yes, this was an impossible choice. And Sebastian felt it, too.

He'd tilt his head slightly as he heard the man's voice again through gritted teeth, holding back a smile at what was, once again, a modicum of progress.

“Would you like me to make the choice for you?”

Another choice, but perhaps a clearer, simpler one.

**

Oh, the *irony*.

A part of him could still recognized it. A part of Jacob that wasn’t indifferent. Wasn’t dead yet. Wasn’t tamed and broken and destroyed. The part that was the reason he still had guards, he figured. The part that Faulkner *feared*, but thinking about that was as pointless as thinking about impossible, inconsequential choices.

This was an order in disguise.

The man in charge of him was trying to make Jacob make irrelevant choices. Choices that would all have the same outcome, in the same room, the same way as every day. Bent over that goddamn fucking heavy desk or on his knees. Same difference. By the end of the day, though, he might not feel much anymore. If he was lucky.

So he just shrugged. He didn’t care.

“I don’t give a shit.”

**

The answer was both surprising and not, at the same time.

He had expected only a shrug, really. A glare, perhaps. Or silence, even. Seb knew very well what he was asking.

He hadn't truly expected a *verbal* non-answer.

That did in fact make him smile, and he'd nod quietly in response.

*Slip the lead around his neck and coax him up. Short distances, at first.*

“Alright. Up, then.”

The command is simple,  short, and not unkind in its tone. But it *is* a command,  all the same. He has no doubt that Jacob would move to follow him.

But instead of leading the man straight to Faulkner's office, Seb takes him in the opposite direction,  leisurely walking through the halls of the compound in no particular hurry.

**

Jacob sure where that smile came from, or what purpose it served; and he didn’t bother returning it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last smiled. He wasn’t sure if he still could. So much that he wasn’t sure of these days. The ground beneath his feet had been pulled away. His life as he knew it didn’t exist anymore.

But at least there were rules. And following them kept him out of trouble. Jacob had learnt that early.

There was no objection to the order. Only silent obedience as he put the mass of his body into motion. This, at least, he knew.

This wasn’t as confusing as food and choices and… conversation.

And for a moment, Jacob wondered. 

About choices.

Would he have preferred one option over the other? Was he really that far gone that it hadn’t really mattered, at all? Thinking about it didn’t make a difference, and it hadn’t when the question had been posed. It was inconsequential still, but it made him wonder if he still even had preferences. Or if it was really all the same.

He didn’t have an answer.

It took him a moment to realize that the hallway looked different. And as he trotted along, he lifted his head to observe his surroundings. Wary. Cautious. Afraid.

New environments rarely meant good news.

Not here.

**

*No need to force it.*

Sebastian let him contemplate in silence,  saying not a word through those first few minutes as they made their way into the halls,  away from the cafeteria and the noise.

Away from other people,  too, as much as possible.

Quiet, and without distractions.

*Take it slow. The more comfortable he gets, the more likely he is to heel.*

It wouldn't be a long walk,  for sure. Sebastian would still follow his own orders to the letter, and get Jacob to Faulkner's office on time. But he'd always pushed boundaries to a certain extent,  and no one had told him he had to follow an exact route. He was more than comfortable choosing his own.

No, not a long walk. They wouldn't have a lot of time.

But it was time enough.

“You can relax. I'm still taking you to his office. Just going the scenic route this time.”

**

There it was again, the suspicion gnawing at him.

The *why*.

This didn’t make sense.

He’d seen this guard before. Never had he spoken. Never had he taken the *scenic route*. Only one. The one Jacob knew. The one he had been forced to walk from that very first day they had let him out. Every day. There had to be a reason for this. If only to shake Jacob up, to throw him off a delicate balance that he was struggling to find.

Another mindfuck, maybe; but oh, he was growing so tired of them.

Jacob’s life was shattered, his soul slowly fading, but yes, at least there were rules in place that made navigating this new space easier. This new building. The new schedule. The new tasks and orders. His new self.

Any deviation was, in itself, unsettling. Potentially dangerous. And highly suspicious.

Every step was cautious and measured now. As if walking on thin ice. As if walking on the edge of a fucking razor. And one wrong move, just a hair’s breadth to the wrong side, just one ill-considered breath, and the consequences would be fatal.

The words did nothing to calm Jacob.

Nothing at all.

He *had* to ask; hostile, but obviously terrified.

“Why?”

**

Another surprise.

Still hostile, certainly. That one word practically rang with fear. And Jacob was obviously suspicious to his core.

But he was *speaking.*

Questioning, even.

And that was, to Sebastian,  exceptional.

He kept his voice even and calm as he answered, his posture steady and almost relaxed as they walked, though his eyes flicked constantly to every corner.

“Because it's different. And I choose to *be* different.”

**

A few weeks ago, when Jacob had still seen the sun, when he’d still had a choice and a soul, he might have laughed at that. At the very least, it would have earned his guard a dramatic roll of his eyes. No way in hell he would have left *that* uncommented.

But not now. Not here.

Not when Jacob was aware that every step brought him closer to Faulkner, every breath closer to pain and fear and bliss. Their little detour didn’t change that. He couldn’t decide on whether it made this dreadful walk to his debrief better or worse. It only lengthened the moment of anxiety.

So he chose to fall silent again, counting his steps with his head lowered.

The halls looked all the same, anyway.

**

He had counted on the silence.

Sebastian knew better than to try to lead the man outside, or near the exterior windows. Even if only for a few moments. Though he hoped, in time, that he could.

He knew these walls all looked the same. He had spent more than enough time within them himself, before and after his stint in the Marines.

But in the silence it was a different set of walls he thought of, a very particular window he saw in his mind. The rain had been terrible, but the nights had been less so. The stars had made all the difference,  even through the bars.

Yes, at some point, Sebastian would lead Jacob outside.

But the silence held, as he expected it would, until they had turned and found the familiar hallway, stopping outside Faulkner's office. He'd keep his voice a little lower, now.

“Five minutes to wait. Rather than twenty five. I'll ask the same question, next time.”

**

Every step a step closer to hell. A step closer to doom and revelation. They went hand in hand now.

Jacob kept counting his steps, listening to the hollow echo of their feet.

Now and then, though, he risked a glance at that strange man. Trying to read him. Trying to understand what was going on here. Trying to guess his agenda.

Nobody was ever just… friendly here.

Or whatever this was supposed to be.

He hadn’t seen mercy or pity or lenience in this place. Only the ghastly face of brutality and indifference.

The question wouldn’t make any difference next time, either. It would be just as pointless. Just as inconsequential. Just as impossible.  But he didn’t say that.

Jacob recognised the door even before he came to a halt. Five minutes to wait. Still too early. But it would be better than being late. Faulkner wouldn’t like that.

And before he knocked, before he was let in, he looked back at his guard.

*The food. It was good.*

He wanted to say it. For what reason, Jacob didn’t know. But the words got stuck in his throat the moment the door opened. It was Faulkner himself, surprisingly, smiling his awful, slippery smile.

“I thought I had heard you. You’re early.” A chuckle. “You couldn’t wait to see me, could you?” 

No, the words didn’t come, didn’t make it over his tongue. They, too, were inconsequential, in the end. So after just a glance, he sighed, and turned his face towards Faulkner.

Following him into hell.