《 General warning for nsfwhump and all it entails 》
────────────────────────
+18 | Minors Do Not Interact
MDNI again. Being exposed to this kind of content when you're still developing maturity and sexual notions can be dangerous. I'm nobody's parent and won't police what anyone does, but please don't interact with this blog if you're a minor; I will be uncomfortable with it, and if I find you out, you'll be blocked </3.
The only other DNI here is Do Not Interact if you're rude/disrespectful. Be respectful towards me and others here and you're welcome on this blog.
Content: dehumanization, "it" used as a dehumanizing pronoun, nsfwhump, detailed mentions of sexual assault (victim's testimony), victim blaming, unrealiable narrator, whumper POV (not the abuser), forced reveal, prisoners of war, institutionalized whump, open ending (of sorts), lack of empathy.
{ *Side-Chapter Summary } (Soon)
*Side-Chapter -> Not part of the main story, skippable.
(Curse of Withering's masterpost)
Mayfield could feel, from the moment they sat down to work, that something disgraceful would happen. Maybe it was the way even the sun resolved to hide between the clouds, or how their left knee had locked up in the middle of the hallway, or the way impatient knocks on their office's door sounded like; who they sounded like.
Or maybe every day in this forsaken place was disgraceful, and they shouldn't expect something better.
They supposed it had been long enough since the last time they were called to do a rape kit. Or a "medical check-up" for an "improper handling of unwilling gifteds's" investigation.
The way this wretched place kept coming up with names just to water down cruelty really vexes them.
"It got to the handler taking it out of the work way, then we got nothing," Smith says while guiding them to the interrogation room, footsteps unhelpfully fast. "Get it to stop crying and talk, or to stop wasting our fucking time."
Mayfield fleetly wondered if it had cried over retelling the sexual abuse or due to whatever verbal abuse it was going through while doing that.
"You find it truthful?"
"I will only care enough to find that out if we have an actual case to work with. Otherwise, I'm pinning this as another UG trying to get out of work."
Up until now, Mayfield hasn't found a single case of an UG lying about this to get out of work. Dismissed cases, yes. Closed cases of proven lies? No. It's way too much work, too stressful, and too risky for an UG to lie about something like this. "Hm."
When they step into the small, barren room, Mayfield's knee makes a loud, cracking sound again.
The gifted's head snaps up belatedly, eyes bloodshot, face swollen red with the aftermath of ugly crying. It was a sorry sight.
They slowly sit down on the opposite chair and picked up the folder with a subtle glance to its bruised wrists– it didn't seem new enough to have been a recent struggle against the handcuffs locking it to the table.
"Good morning," they scan the first page, and "11584." Female, according to the file. Huh. Doesn't seem right.
It stays frozen for a few seconds, eyes slowly focusing. "G-Good morning, doctor?" It eyes their identification on the medical coat, but doesn't seem to catch the name. Mayfield doesn't see a request for glasses or any mention of eye problems in the file.
"You can call me Mx. Mayfield." There's quite a lot of written work for only three pages. Three hours, it says, between the gifted reporting to its work supervisor and now. Mayfield records in their mind all information so they can focus on the gifted's reactions when getting the testimony. "It says here you're a girl?"
11584 flinches and shakes its head, dark hair flowing with the moment. The action seems to bring it back in a snap, its voice high and briskly when it says, "I-I'm sorry-"
"It's okay. This is just for your medical information," they don't put any effort in gentling their voice, but the natural calmness of their tone seems to help, if only a little. "You have a vagina." They pause.
"Ye-.... Yes, mx," it chokes out.
With the way its thin shoulders huddle together, Mayfield is pretty sure of their hunch.
"Okay. And are you a girl?" They tilt their head slightly. It doesn't seem one, at least not to the extent an UG is able to control their own appearances and gender presentation.
It eyes them so cautiously Mayfield almost sighs. But eventually they whisper out, "please, no."
Alright, that's checks. "Are you a boy?"
A fearful nodding answer them.
Mayfield doesn't have to witness the interaction behind the one-way mirror to tell the investigators are rolling their eyes at the attempt of making the gifted less uncomfortable. They are all so dead set on the protocols that they, somehow strongly set in the illusion of not being monsters, still need Mayfield to help do the work they can't. It takes a good amount of tenancy– or despair– for an UG to report, and if they want to have a case, they need to have some lenity.
Well. Mayfield supposes that's the issue, in the end. These people don't want to have a case. If it depended on them, there wouldn't be a way for UGs to report sexual abuse at all.
For all their constant disagreements, Mayfield did have to thank Wilson's stubbornness for it being punishable. Mayfield themself thought it was impossible to convince the higher-ups to bother with rape when they allowed torture, murder and slavery. But Wilson does have a talent to make himself be heard no matter what.
If it depended solely on Mayfield, they know they would never have gone as far as he did. They never even bothered to do more than scold young doctors and guards before Wilson had raised a pandemonium about it– before Wilson had brought that pandemonium into Mayfield's whole department and made it their personal and professional problem.
And now they were one of the sole medical workers responsible for rape kits. Oh, the irony.
"Alright. It says here you're 19 years old. Is that correct?"
"I- Ahm... yes, I think so." His fingers fidget with one another, and Mayfield takes notes on the bouncing leg, the nervous lip biting.
"Mhm. Why don't you tell me why are you here today?" They close the file and rest their hands on the table. It's not their work to note anything down here, and they got all they wanted from the pages.
"I- They..." 11584 swallows hard. "I heard- h-handlers aren't supposed to- to... h-have... touch-" his breathing picks up a bit, but Mayfield doesn’t interfere, "n-not supposed to have- uh... mh... have sex. Right? With us."
The tears aren't appearing yet, but the stress is so visually loud it bitters Mayfield's mouth that someone would think the boy was lying. One would have to either be profoundly stupid or purposefully ignorant in order to not see truth in the boy.
"That's right," Mayfield concedes, in that tone they use when a child finally got out a coherent sentence. Which, in this case, is very close to the truth, they suppose.
They can't ask if that's what happened today; a leading question like that can make the whole answer useless. There may be a protocol against sexual abuse by handlers, but the system is still set up for inertia, for letting their peers go in the name of less paperwork and minimum moral reassessment.
Really, fearing moral reassessment in this line of work is an infelicitous trait.
"Tell me what happened, 11584."
"M-My handler... I-... h-he-... I said to- said it to Mr. Smith. Do I have to say-... say it again?" His voice wasn't even fast or panicky, just... broken. Eyes going all over the place as if trying to organize thoughts before speaking, or to try and find a way out. Did they try to get out? Was that the reason for the handcuffs? Or was the escape searching trying to appease his internal conflict?
There was no escape either way. Mayfield wondered if he knew that already.
"... You do, 11584."
His eyes are glossy again, back hunching over his body. After a too long silence instals itself, Mayfield gets ups, slowly for their knee's benefit and to not scare the boy– though, by the flinch, it didn't work– and takes a cup from the water dispenser.
"Take a sip, then tell me." The boy flinches again when Mayfield puts the cup near his hands. They don't comment on it.
Hesitantly, he obeys and sips. More hesitantly, he obeys and tells.
"My handler... he took me out of the- of my work path and... uhm. We entered a- a closet, full of stuff." He pauses, takes some stressed, broken breaths. His face flickers with grimaces before scrunching for real. "It had a table," he says in the quietest, shakiest of voices, like it has a meaning. And Mayfield is sure it does.
Mayfield still doesn't interrupt. Doesn't offer direction that could be used to claim a forged story.
"He-... bend- bent-" as soon as the word express its meaning, the boy shakes and doesn't find the courage to speak up again.
When the silence– the sound of broken breathing– rounds up to a minute, and it doesn't seem like anything else will come up, they allow themselves an irreproachable direction.
"Drink up. If you're done with that cup, I can get you another."
And so he does. And so they do. And so the silence comes back.
"11584," they sigh. "To take an UG out of a handler's custody, we need a reason. To fire a handler, an even bigger one. If something that isn't supposed to happen, happened, then it's better for you to tell us now, when we might find proofs more easily. But you got to give us something to work with, we need the full story." It's a bit of a stretch of what they can safely say to get a testimony, but even a questionable testimony is better than no testimony.
He closes his swollen eyes tighly, and Mayfield focuses on them while his hands drum quietly on the table. "I... I don't think-... I'm sorry, I don't want to- to do this. Please, can I go back to work?"
They sigh. The medical rooms are bad enough for this, an interrogation room? Everything is against the boy's easiness to speak. Since when did Mayfield apply to be an interrogator?
Since they argued in favour of the new protocols, they answer their own mind, because someone who would rape an UG could rape anyone in a more vulnerable position, and that's a safety hazard if they ever saw one.
"We can take you back to your handler," they notice the expected flinch, the barely-caught whimper that can't be faked, "and get you back to work. But then this gets drowned out. And if something wrong happens again, it might not have as much proof as this time." Is this too much of a stretch?
"... does he know? That I-... this- I'm here? Talking- That I told you this?" Somehow, the shaking gets worse. Worse to the point of medical concern. A quiet part of their mind examine the boy as if they could find an injury, something urgent to tend to. But they doubt the reason of the shaking is something they can solve in a check-up.
"... He knows you requested a meeting with a supervisor, he doesn't know why yet.
The "yet" is loud in the silence that follows.
With a tiny voice, 11584 breaks the silence, "will you tell him?"
"No." The chair creaks a little as they lean onto the table. "But if something did happen, I think he'll be able to tell, 11584."
Mayfield holds back a sigh at the shaky quietness. The expectation is a heavy weight, and something is about to give in.
It could backfire tremendously, but it was now or never. They put a wrinkled hand above 11584's cuffed ones and squeezed lightly. Their skin prickle with the unfamiliar comfort gesture. "Give us enough information to do something, boy."
As soon as the last word comes out of their mouth, something in 11584's expression breaks.
"He raped me."
There's a tense moment of silence before 11584's face crumbles once, twice. On the third time, the band-aid ripped out in a painful go. And then the crying begins for real. 11584's cuffs rattle with the force of his growing sobs, and his breathing is so choppy the boy seems increasingly pale with lack of air. The crying is so loud it almost gives them a headache.
They sigh. They stand up to fill the kid's water cup again. Now the job truly begins.
"Alright. Let it all out. We have time," they didn't, there's never enough time, but Mayfield would make do, as always. You don't take this type of testimony as fast as some of their colleagues think or want.
It takes some boring minutes until the sobbing quiets down to sniffling.
Mayfield takes the chance that the boy will answer now. "You said your handler took you to a closet. What did he do there?"
11584 rests his forehead on the table, and after a few seconds pushes himself away from it like it burned.
"... 11584."
"Against the table," he forces out.
"What was against the table?" It doesn't matter that they know, it matters that the camera catches him saying it without leading and that the person writing all this down registers his words.
"He bent me, and- and-" the boy pulls his hands like he wanted to hug himself with them, but stops at the sound of the handcuffs, settling for closing his eyes. "Pushed down my pants." Mayfield holds back a wince at the broken, wretched sound he makes.
He says something else, but Mayfield can only understand "fingers". They can deduce, but it is what it is, the boy needs to say it.
"Breathe, 11584. Drink your water if you need to."
It takes another set of minutes and a wrinkled cup for 11584 to speak again, face down and partially hidden.
"He pushed his fingers. In. With spit," what contorts with a tearful kind of disgust. "He used a condom. When."
Mayfield tries to not sound annoyed at his repetitive pauses, or at the need to endure the prolonging of this talk because apparently that isn't specific enough to the investigators. "When what?"
"Do I have to say more?" 11584's voice tightens again and his shoulders shake. Mayfield thinks they can see his face red. Is the half-hidden wetness tears or sweat? Tears, probably.
They hold back a 'I also wish you didn't have to.'
"We're almost done with the session, then you can get a break, okay?" A break before the exam, which is before another interrogation, probably. Mayfield doesn't really know all the steps done after they finish the exams.
"He used the condom for–... for him– self," the boys clears his throat, "before. Before he fucked me." The last sentence is so quiet Mayfield considers asking him to repeat.
After a soft drum of their fingers on the table, they decide against that. The microphone must have caught it.
"Was it anal or vaginal penetration?"
There's a repressed flinch that ends in the boy curled against his own arms. "... vaginal."
"Did he do anything else?"
Mayfield doesn't get a response from the shaking boy. Well, they suppose that's too vague.
"Where did he dispose of the condom, 11584?"
"I don't know." They can only see the curling and uncurling of his fingers. Mayfield refrains, with effort, from scolding him for the lack of manners.
"Are you sure? This may help you."
"I wasn't- I don't... remember. Much. After. It- I wasn't..."
They interrupt before the fast breathing becomes hyperventilation. "Okay, that's fine. Did he have another type of sexual interaction with you?"
The only answer is a shake of the head.
"Verbally, please."
"... No," he croaks. "N-No, mx."
"Did he leave any marks or bruises during this interaction?"
He nods against his arms. Mayfield waits, but there's nothing.
"11584," they say with a sigh, "raise your head and answer verbally, please."
It takes long enough that someone else would have punished him for it. Oh, well, anyone else would have punished many other things throughout the testimony, anyway. It is not Mayfield's job to teach manner to the prisoners– "unwilling gifteds".
"He did. Mx," the voice sounds forced out, and with the frown, Mayfield can pick up irritation. But the cast down gaze and overall behaviour is respectful enough, so they let it slide.
"Did he use any kind of lubrication?"
11584 shakes his head again before answering as asked, "he said I was wet enough without anything." Mayfield can't tell if the resentment and tightness in his voice is aimed at them or at his handler, but it could be both.
Looking at the quivering chin and held back tears, they find the answer doesn't really matter. Whoever he is angry at, it is justified, they suppose.
"How long did this last? Do you know?"
"No, mx," he does an aborted move to rest his head down.
Yeah, they're tired of this, too. "Okay. Did you use the bathroom or got cleaned up after?"
He closes his eyes as if trying to remember? Or trying not to, they're not sure. "Ahm... not- no. I–... He- He took me to the bathroom, but, ahm, I didn't... I didn't use it."
"He took you straight to the bathroom?"
"Mhm." At the sharp eyebrow raise, they correct, "yes, mx."
"And from the bathroom, where did he took you?"
"Work. Mx."
"Did you change your clothes at all?"
"No, mx."
"Did he say anything to you during all of this?"
The hesitance breaks the sequence of perfectly smooth answers and questions, which is unfortunate, but it's more of an observation than a complaint. "Can we be done?" 11584 whimpers out, tears breaching his eyes silently again.
Mayfield allows for a small comfort and lets pass unnoticed the disrespect of ignoring their question. "Just a little more. That's the last question for now, then you can have a break."
11584 lays his head back down on his arms, but considering the answer, Mayfield is lenient to let it pass, too, "He called me a slut." There's a heavy pause and a shaky breath before he keeps on, "and other... stuff. Like that. Do I have to say it all?"
It was an extremely foul language and Mayfield wrinkles their nose to it. These handlers have such deplorable vocabularies. "... No. Was there anything else that he said to you?"
"Just... stuff like that," his voice breaks, and he sniffles before keeping on, "he said... uhm." The boy pauses again to shift and curl closer to himself. Mayfield doesn't scold it. "He said he was... uhm– waiting. To do it. For a while."
Mayfield's nose wrinkles again. "As in waiting to do it to you, or to someone in general?"
"I don't know," it sounded like a whine, "he just said that."
"Alright. Anything else he said?"
"... I just remember that."
Which isn't much, but it's not like the handler's words would mean much unless he confessed to do the same to someone else.
"That's fine. Is there anything else you would like us to know?"
The boy hesitates before sitting up– well, somewhat sitting up– and stammering, "I... I didn't-... I didn't flirt. I didn't say- did... I didn't do anything. Like. Wrong. I wasn't- I didn't want to. I didn't ask- ask for it- for him. I didn't. And it wasn't- I wasn't doing anything wrong. The other- Mr. Smith asked if I did. I didn't."
... Of course he asked it. Mayfield holds back a sigh. What a despicable course of questions that is. What would it even accomplish? Why would the answers even matter? That isn't a proper punishment and even if the boy asked for it, the handler who did it was still an uncontrollable man. Really. Of all the people to have intercourse with, one chooses a prisoner who "asked for it"? It's not even a matter of morality, it's simply irresponsible and foul to have intimacy with someone vulnerable and beneath you in a power hierarchy, who can't safely deny it, for no other reason other than desire. Of all things. Desire. Like a brainless beast.
Mayfield could never understand how people allow themselves to be blinded with desire or hatred or emotions in general.
They sigh before saying, "I see." Standing up makes their knee crack loudly again, they really need to look into it one day. "You did well, we're done talking for now. Someone will be retrieving you soon for the physical examination. Take a break for now."
"A– Sorry, a what?" The boy looks at them for the first time in... hm, quite a long time. He seems paler.
Was it better to explain now or later? Mayfield ponders on it before deciding it's best to not scare the boy yet. "I'll explain it when we're there. For now, rest."
When all that answers them is a fearful frown, they turn and leave.
———
During the whole actual check-up, Mayfield was purely clinical. Their hands didn't stray, but didn't offer comfort. Their words didn't degrade, but didn't soothe. The equipment was all clean and properly introduced and used, but they didn't bother warming it up. They did the bare minimum their vows asked for, and yet it was more than any of their colleagues would have done. They knew it was cruel, and they slept soundly at night anyway.
Mayfield saw the shaking when they told the boy to undress fully in order to take pictures of his marked body. Saw the crying when he had to pee in a cup in front of them. Saw the flinches when examining internally on a handcuffed boy. And they slept soundly at night anyway.
They saw the fear and brokenness when the boy was strapped down to a hospital bed in a small private room. They knew it would take days for them to be allowed out of there. They still told him to behave before they left him alone, because he was no longer their problem. And they slept soundly at night anyway.
———
Kris lost the ability to sleep soundly about it, and about so many others, only a few months later, and they regretted not being kinder during all of it.
Not because of a sudden spark of empathy; Mayfield would always do what needs to be done and what gets the best results.
But because, indeed, parenthood– what a weird, superficial word– makes you look at the world and think, "what if it was my child?"
It is still purely egotistical and clinical, they suppose. Mayfield is a monster, and they're not half as bothered by it as they should.
Still, Kris stays awake at night. Wondering, questioning, as if they were still in med school and overanalysing everything about themselves and the world in an attempt to discover all the answers one could reach. It drove them to psychosis on their third year, and it felt like it would again.
Impersonal, as if they were a distant observant to their life. No emotions caught up to them, but the remorseless curiosity did. It always did.
What if it was my child?
Why didn't it matter when it was someone else's?
-
-
-
(Curse of Withering) NSFW Special Chapter's taglist: @amandagn394 @zozgreenery @borderline-bunch @floral-comet-whump @mushiboble
Send and ask or comment on this linked post to he added to one of the taglists, or to switch taglists! :D
This chapter has a special taglist because the main seasons of Curse of Withering aren't supposed to have explicit nsfw, so I only tagged who asked to be tagged in this!
Whumpee breaking down and just begging whumper to love them. Whumpee who would be willing to forgive years of abuse, but whumper doesn't want forgiveness, whumper doesn't love whumpee, they simply love who whumpee could be.
Whumper who craves connection, intimacy, and love. But all the 'love' they've experienced in their life has been tied to abuse, violation, and manipulation.
When they found Whumpee, they were so excited. Now they can 'love' someone too!
thoughts on whumper pressing down on whumpee and breathing in their ear "how can you pretend not to love this with those sweet noises you're making?" but the sweet noises are very obviously whumpee crying out and whimpering in pain as whumper takes their broken body way too hard and way too fast?
cheers
Whumpee couldn't breathe.
It wasn't just the weight of Whumper crashing down on them again and again, or the pain radiating from between their legs that seemed to seize up their entire body.
No. Even worse was the humiliation, hot and choking, from the sounds. Whumper's groans and grunts. The sound of skin slapping against skin, too fast, too rough. And the noises somehow, impossibly, coming from Whumpee's own mouth, torn from their throat like an act of violence in itself.
"No -- ah -- please -- I - I can't --"
"Ahhh." Whumper leaned down, and their voice in Whumpee's ear was like another form of suffocation. "How can you pretend not to love this with those sweet noises you're making?"
"PLEASE" Whumpee's voice came out as wail, desperate and uncontrolled. "No -- you're too -- god, please....."
Their voice broke into sobs, breath quickening and stuttering in time with Whumper's brutal thrusts.
Whumper just chuckled, not easing up whatsoever. "That's it. Just like that. Let's see how loud you can get."
Creepy Intimate Whumper who got rejected by Whumpee. They hurt and use Whumpee, all the while reminding them that this wouldn't have happened if they hadn't rejected Whumper. Like -
"We could have been so happy, but you broke my heart." said in-between cracks from the whip
"Oh it hurts? Well you should have said yes when I asked, instead of rejecting me like a bitch. Bitches don't deserve gentle."
"You're so pretty baby," as they kiss over their duck taped mouth, "I would have given you the world."
CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, implied dubcon, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so if you’ve made it this far you know what you’re in for
————
Alex hates weddings. He hates any large social gathering, really; but the few weddings he had been obligated to attend in the past were especially painful to sit through. Usually the thought of not showing up at all would cause him to feel bad, but sitting in the hotel room with his brother and his friends he starts to question what led him to come along in the first place.
There are two other important things that Alex doesn’t like, those being Vegas and his brother Eric. The more he thinks about it, the more absurd it seems to him that when told Eric was getting married and having a bachelor’s party in Vegas he actually accepted the invitation.
It was him, his brother, and his brother’s two close friends Jackson and Gage (both of which Alex finds obnoxious but can get along with fine enough).
This doesn’t have to suck.
Alex has reminded himself of that several times by now. It isn’t supposed to suck, at least. It’s supposed to be fun, and hopefully a good chance to actually spend time with his younger brother in a way he hasn’t much since they were kids.
This doesn’t have to suck.
If you think it enough times, he figures, it’ll come true.
Alex doesn’t drink much but he decided at the start that if his brother’s idea of a great time is getting hammered and gambling then he would try to enjoy it with him. And the first two nights were actually pretty enjoyable.
But now, as he stands unable to look away from the man kneeling on the carpet in the corner of the room, he no longer knows what to make of the situation.
“No yeah I do remember,” Gage says after a moment of sitting with his hand on his forehead. “I entered us all in, this was one of the top prizes I think.”
Gage had paid for each of the group to enter the raffle being held by the hotel’s casino the night before. Alex had gone back to the room to sleep shortly after that and missed the rest.
“It’s one of the ones they rent out. Didn’t know you swung that way.” Jackson jabs from the other side of the room. The conversation has been back and forth like this since Alex woke to find that Gage is now in possession of a pet he has no idea what to do with. For a few moments he didn’t know what to think, but that problem didn’t last long.
Who is this pet? Why did Gage even accept the prize? Why is he still kneeling? Does Gage own this guy now?
“Why did you even accept it?” Eric asks before Alex gets a chance to.
“I was drunk.” Gage replies, an excuse he uses far too often.
The pet kneeling on the carpet flinches as Gage stands. He doesn’t seem to notice as he groans and rubs his temples.
“It’s probably worth a good amount of money. My uncle had one I think..” Jackson says as he looks it over.
“…so you actually own him?” Alex pushes out before anything else, his tone slightly more flat than he had planned. Alex doesn’t know much about pets; what he does know is that the thought of ‘owning’ another person leaves a bad taste in his mouth regardless of whether they signed up for it or not. Then again they did sign up for it…
The idea never sat right with him but he never really looked too much into it. He’s always assumed that some people just want that life. Seeing the man in front of him now though just feels… off.
“For now.” He responds with a sigh.
“One of the hooker ones too,” Jackson adds from the corner.
“I’m gonna have to find out about giving it back or something while we’re here. I doubt I’ll be able to get it on the plane tomorrow anyways, they need their own tickets.”
Alex could swear the pet’s breathing speeds up when Gage says that. The look on its face has been neutral this whole time; almost to a suspicious degree. Everything about this just feels very wrong.
“What’s his name?” Alex asks. Gage shrugs, searching something on his phone.
“They don’t come with names,” Jackson says. “You get to name them when you get ‘em.”
That makes him sick to his stomach. This whole situation is weird. This guy can’t be happy like this; he hasn’t moved or said a word the whole time. Is nobody else even a little put off? He looks to his brother, who is staring at his phone apathetically. Is it just the hangover? Alex barely pays attention as the others talk about getting food.
“Are you… just gonna leave him here?” He asks after the others discuss plans.
“Yeah,” Gage responds. “I think later I’ll call and ask about returning it or something.”
“I can go down and ask the desk and ask about it while you guys go out.” Alex offers. “I was thinking of staying back to relax for a while anyways, I have a bad headache.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah man, I got you.”
Alex doesn’t like the thought of leaving him alone in here, and the fact that the others don’t mind it at all makes him want to go out right now even less. Plus, the part about the headache is true.
“Appreciate it.”
The group gets ready to leave as he returns to his connected room to think for a moment. None of this sits right with him. The way they talk about him… it doesn’t feel right. He decides to talk with him.
————
The guys don’t return for a few hours, but when they do Alex takes Gage aside to talk.
“About the pet,” he says. “I’ll buy him off you.”
————
[Hey that’s the name of the show! Sorry for the wait, this one was hard to write and I’ve been busy with life stuff. I’ve rewritten it a few times cause I can’t decide how exactly to set it all up but I decided to just go with what I have now, hope yall like it!]
Tommy remembered the first time Caius had kissed him. He was strung up, naked and bloody, bound to a cross for Caius’s cane. His limbs sagged limp in his bindings, in too much pain to speak. When Caius approached him and lifted his head to look at him, Tommy saw fire in his eyes, and he thought he was going to die.
There was something ferocious in his expression, an intensity so urgent it frightened him. Suddenly Caius was close, too close, pressing his forehead to Tommy’s and boring holes in his skull with the look in those grey eyes. Then lips pressed against his, and he was so surprised he gasped. Caius used the opportunity to lick into his mouth, lingering there as Tommy’s brain raced to try to catch up and respond. Cauis pressed his mouth over his once more, hard, hungry, and Tommy could feel his desire, intruding in on his thoughts like a knife between the eyes.
Caius wanted to devour him.
Just as suddenly as it happened, it ended, and Caius pulled away. Tommy gaped, gasping, like Caius had stolen his breath away. His whole body ached and stung, and it overwhelmed the rest of his senses.
“Good boy Tommy, good boy,” Caius reassured him quietly, his hands trailing manicured nails down Tommy’s chest to rest on his hips, thumbing the shallow divots there.
“You’ll understand someday. I’ll teach you.” Those hands strayed lower, and Caius took his limp cock in his hand and stroked it gently.
“No,” Tommy whispered, and with his free hand, Caius stroked the hair out of his face.
“The pain doesn’t have to lessen the pleasure. I’m going to teach you both. Try to enjoy it,” he murmured, and looked down at Tommy’s penis in his hand.
“I know I will.”
-
Tommy sat in his room, feeling insignificant. Caius hadn’t visited him in three days. The only sign he was still alive was delivered in the form of meals through Tommy’s dumbwaiter. Once in the morning and once in the evening, with nothing else to break the monotony.
He killed time in all the ways he knew how. Mostly thinking, imagining a different life outside his cell. He made up a tattoo design competition show to compete in and drew for a while, orating his talking head segments to Bunny as he imagined them, and defended his artwork to an invisible row of judges. He spoke only in whispers, muttering bits and pieces under his breath to his stuffed animal. Then he paced around his room for a while, talking with an imaginary interviewer about his imaginary experience on the imaginary show. He made up an arch nemesis competitor that tried to sabotage him, until he got a bit upset with his imaginary disagreements and abandoned the idea.
He checked his bathroom to see if it was dirty. Nope, spotless. He cleaned it anyways, making a face at the smell of the vinegar solution he was allowed to use. No chemicals, of course, in case he tried drinking them for an easy way out.
He imagined, and paced, and made his bed, and unmade it again. He tried to make a little fort with his pillow and blanket, but he didn’t have enough bedding to make much of anything with. He laid down and stared at the ceiling for a while, and then laid the opposite way just to change it up. He picked at the threads coming loose in the corner of his blanket, and when he successfully pulled three strings out, he made a tiny braid. Drew for a while, tried to invent the ultimate paper airplane. Watched television, but nothing good was on, so he settled for a vacuum infomercial.
His heart sank when he heard the dumbwaiter activate again. While the food and drugs it brought were welcome, it confirmed he would not see Caius today. Again.
Caius wasn’t exactly the best company, but it was all Tommy could get, and he found himself missing his handler, just to talk with another human being again. If he was being punished, he couldn’t think of what for, no matter how he racked his brain. He missed having his hair brushed and hearing about the outside world. He was overdue for his time outside, and he was going stir-crazy without it. He couldn’t see anything through the basement’s glass brick, but he saw the tantalizing glow of sunlight beyond it.
Everyone else gets to go outside, and I’m stuck in here forever.
It was a difficult thought to sit with, and one he’d had many times before. If there was a cure for it, he didn’t know. Instead, he felt overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all, and how he could want something so bad he could taste it, yet still be denied.
He sat in front of the TV and turned it up as loud as he could to drown out the bad thoughts, numbing his brain until the meds kicked in, and zoned out.
~
Caius came slowly down the stairs, feeling a little nervous, a little high. Today would be a momentous occasion, one he’d been putting off for five whole years. Part of him wanted to keep it going, keep Tommy’s innocence forever, but another part of him said that it was time. He’d had his fun. Now he wanted it to be real, and the gravity of it was not lost on him. The idea was exciting, and his body thrummed with energy, his heart pounding. Down the stairs, into the dollhouse. This time, he was playing for keeps.
He hesitated at the door, savoring the anticipation. He’d let Tommy stew in his room for a few days, ignoring him while he let his loneliness grow ripe and sweet. He would not want to turn Caius away tonight.
The thick door muffled the sounds of the television inside, but it was blaring when he opened the door, finding Tommy cross-legged on the floor. He looked tired, like he’d been nodding off, but he turned his face to Caius when he entered.
“Caius?” He croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. The only light came from the television, a neon blue reflected in Tommy’s pale face, giving him an ethereal glow. Caius memorized the moment before flicking on the lights, making Tommy flinch and hide his face in his hands with a groan.
“Don’t you know it’s not good for your eyes to sit close to the television?” He had to raise his voice to cut through the noise, and Tommy scrambled forwards to turn the volume down. “Sorry!”
The boy was excited to see him, and it brought a smile to his lips. Tommy shuffled onto his knees and stood, a little shaky on his legs before stabilizing. Caius had made sure he wasn’t on anything too strong tonight – just the right level of high to make him more docile. Caius was careful that he was just the right level of high to do this the right way.
“Are-are you here for a visit? For a little bit?” Tommy tried to keep his desperation from his voice, but Caius knew him too well. He remembered then, the first time Tommy had actually asked him to stay - begged him, even, and the way it made his heart seize in his chest. So pathetic. So adorable. How could he say no?
Caius looked around the room, chewing his lip like he was thinking about it before finally answering, “I suppose I could stay a few minutes.” He did not miss how Tommy’s shoulders slumped in relief. He sat on the edge of Tommy’s bed and patted the mattress beside him. “How about you come sit here with me?”
Tommy dutifully joined him, his legs dangling over the edge as he sat half-turned towards his handler.
“How was your day? What-what have you been up to? Anything fun?” He asked eagerly, and Caius chuckled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I suppose it’s been a while since we caught up. Well, a while for us.” Tommy was receptive to his touch, snuggling closer with a rare eagerness. He always became more appreciative of Caius after an isolation punishment, needy for his attention after going without.
“Well,” he started, rubbing Tommy’s shoulder. “I went to the opening of a new art gallery in town, but it wasn’t what I thought it would be. The venue was much smaller than what I was expecting, and was more than a bit overdressed for the occasion.”
“Oh no! What did you do?”
“Loosened my tie and lost the cufflinks. Then I was just well dressed enough to make other people feel bad about themselves.” He chuckled, and Tommy giggled, too.
“Did you buy any art?”
“No, it was amateur hour in there. But I suppose there were a few pieces that were alright.” Caius took his phone out and scrolled through his pictures, hugging Tommy close to his side as he leaned over eagerly to watch. He paused momentarily on a selfie, and Tommy pointed to it. He was wearing a blue suit, the jacket open over a white button-up with a black tie.
“You look good there! How were the other people dressed?”
“Business casual at best. Some were even wearing shorts.”
Tommy gasped and put a hand over his mouth as if scandalized, breaking into a big grin when he lowered it again. A thought occurred to him then, and his eyes widened.
“Oh! I um, I have a bunch of new art, can I show you?”
“Sure.”
Tommy sorted through a loose stack on his bookshelf, pulling the best few out to bring back to Caius. He held them out shyly, waiting for him to take them before crawling back onto the bed with him. Caius tilted the first page to hold it up to the light, squinting at the crayon drawings.
“What is it, a swan?”
“A heron,” Tommy offered, slightly deflated.
“Oh yes, I see it now. Hmm…good use of shading here in the wing. And I like the subversion of expectations with having a green bird and purple cattails.”
“It’s a green heron!”
“It certainly is.”
Tommy opened his mouth to tell him that was the name of the species, but caught himself and held his tongue. It was okay to let Caius think he was a ditz. Advantageous, even. But it still didn’t feel good to let his best friend/arch nemesis think he was stupid. Well, more stupid.
Caius had some critiques for all of the pieces, but Tommy was just glad to share them with someone.
They talked for a while. Mostly Caius, telling Tommy about his days, his nights, the weather, the guys. Tommy was hungry for attention and paid it in turn, asking follow-up questions and prompting for details. He didn’t have much of anything to offer for his own whereabouts the last few days, but he told Caius about the vacuum cleaner he saw in an ad.
“They said it’s cordless. How is that possible?”
“Well, you probably have to charge it, like anything else.”
“Oh…well…maybe next time you’re um, looking for a new vacuum.”
Caius chuckled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
When there was a lull in the conversation, Caius cleared his throat. “You know uh, when I was at that art gallery, I was approached by a photographer who asked me to model for her.”
Tommy’s eyes went wide. “Oh wow! Are you going to do it?”
Caius made a noncommittal noise. “See, the thing is, she wants me to model…nude.”
Tommy hid his smile behind his hand. “She asked you for nudes?!”
“She said it was purely for her artistic vision.”
“Yeah, sure,” and they both laughed. Caius nudged him.
“You’ve posed nude. How does it feel?”
Tommy’s smile faded and he had to look away, rubbing his arm self-consciously. “That’s…different, I think.”
Caius frowned for effect. “I don’t think so, so…how is it?”
Tommy chewed on his thumbnail. Caius grabbed his elbow and forced his arm down to stop him.
“Well?”
“It’s…humiliating,” Tommy murmured. He couldn’t look at Caius. “Everyone else is dressed. You just feel…” he grasped for words, letting out a small sigh when he failed to gather them. “Ashamed,” he concluded.
“Oh, little one,” Caius said, voice sympathetic. He turned to Tommy and took his shoulders in his broad hands, pushing him back to lay him on the bed. One hand held him down while the other caught the hem of his shirt, pulling it up almost to his neck to expose his belly to him.
“What do you have to be ashamed of?”
He splayed his hands over Tommy’s chest, using his thumbs to rub and flick at the small pink nipples on his chest. Tommy looked up at him, flushed and wide-eyed, his pupils dilated with fear and helpless arousal. Caius liked playing with him, teasing him until he was squirming under his hands and there was a little tent in his pants.
“You’re so sweet like this… maybe I should have her photograph you,” Caius murmured, Tommy shook his head, making him chuckle. “Don’t be so bashful.”
He tugged on Tommy, positioning him on the bed and pulling his butt up into his lap. He massaged his hips while he rolled his own up, rubbing against his ass with a soft, contented sigh. Tommy started to look uncomfortable, his eyes darting around as if looking for a distraction. When Caius ground against him, his face went red.
“What–what are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Caius asked easily, leaning over to press kisses up Tommy’s throat. He started to struggle, weakly, testing the bonds of Caius’s pin on him.
“W-wait, I’ll– let me get–get on my, on my knees,” he asked, but his voice was squeaky and nervous. He would rather do that than whatever this was.
“That’s not what I want from you right now.”
“Please, please, I can make you feel good….” Tommy hesitated when Caius said it at the same time as he did. What was that?
“I’ll suck it, please Caius, please let me, please?” He tried to roll off of him, intending to get to his knees, but Caius’s hands became shackles around his wrists, pinning him in place. He caged Tommy in with his body, pressing and rutting against him. Cruel teeth found his shoulder and Tommy cried out, writhing beneath as he chewed, and it felt like he was rending his flesh between his jaws. Tommy suddenly remembered Sarge in his lap, bent over him, ravaging him with bites. He’d forgotten it, tried to let it slip from his mind, but now it came back so suddenly and so fresh that he froze. He panted and keened softly in pain as Caius bit and kissed and licked him, feeling a bit like a chew toy in a lion’s enclosure. Soft golden strands fell across his face as Caius looked back up at him, leaning in to kiss him.
Something is wrong. This is different.
There was one last line Caius never crossed, and he was getting dangerously close. Tommy’s throat was closing, and he gasped for air as soon as Caius let up on his unresponsive lips. His voice came out in a terrified whisper.
“Please, Caius, don’t open that door…” They said it at the same time again, and Tommy stared at Caius, feeling like the butt of a joke he wasn’t understanding yet. His stomach was an anxious knot inside of him.
“How do you…”
Caius looked in his eyes, and he felt pinned like a butterfly beneath his stormy stare. He had a small smile on his face, an attempt at sympathy, but he was barely holding back laughter.
“...know what you’re about to say before you say it?” Caius finished. Tommy couldn’t answer, barely managing a stiff nod.
“Because…” Caius withdrew a hand to stroke Tommy’s hair out of his face, tugging a lock behind his ear. His voice absolutely oozed pity. “Oh, angel…you say the same things every time.”
something about the sound of a belt buckle being undone aggressively makes whumpee flinch every time. they never know what it means but they cower all the same and whumper finds that just so beautiful.
