content: pet whump, alcohol, uhh.. floor licking? :)
Sonny was made to stand in the corner in case anybody needed him, which mostly just meant he was occasionally refilling drinks and setting out snacks— including the charcuterie board, which Ms. Han would surely be pleased to know disappeared quickly.
He kept catching Manuel’s quick glances, and Parsa openly stared at him half the time, but he politely pretended not to notice.
It was mostly boring, and his feet started to ache within an hour. He kept himself entertained by listening to their conversation and observing their card game. From his angle he could only see Klaus and Manuel’s hands, but whenever he rounded the table to attend to Parsa and Mr. Han he took a peek at their cards as well.
At one point Manuel motioned for him. Sonny came to his side, expecting to be asked for something, but instead he tilted his cards so Sonny could see them better.
“¿Qué me sugieres?” he asked. “Estoy en un pedo.”
He was asking for advice. Unlike the others, he hadn’t put any cards down yet, which meant he was in trouble. Sonny glanced around the table. Mr. Han was watching the exchange curiously. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Would they get angry at him if he gave suggestions?
“¿No quieres ayudarme?” Manuel put on a hurt expression. You don’t want to help me?
Sonny leaned closer to him, whispering Spanish in his ear. He pointed at the seven of hearts in his hand. “Use this in your run and go for a different set. You could try threes.” He pointed to a different card held under Manuel’s left thumb. “Use that.”
Sonny startled as Klaus slammed his open hand on the table, making his glass jump and his cards shift. “Hey, hey! Quit cheating! I know that little asshole has been looking at my hand.”
“He’s not talking about you.”
“It’s still cheating."
“I don’t think Manuel could get anywhere close to winning even if he had cards hidden up his sleeve,” Parsa said. “Really, it’s just evening the playing field.”
“You wouldn’t being saying that if there was money on the line,” Klaus said to Parsa.
“Sure. But there’s no money on the line.”
“Dave!” Klaus turned to Mr. Han, now. “Tell your pet he can’t help Manny.”
Manuel and Sonny looked to Mr. Han, who looked to Parsa, who shrugged. “Not my pet,” he said.
“Fine,” said Mr. Han. “Don’t help him.”
Sonny retreated to his corner, embarrassed to have been in the middle of that situation. Manuel shot him an apologetic look. Sonny pressed his lips together in an imitation of a smile.
Manuel didn’t win the round (Parsa did) but with Sonny’s advice, he was at least able to get some cards on the table. Another hour later, with one round left to go, Klaus was in last place and acting irritable. Manuel was in third, but he just seemed happy not to be losing the hardest. He called on Sonny for another drink, his third of the night. “I need to celebrate this,” he said.
“Don’t celebrate too hard,” Parsa warned. “Klaus might jump on you.”
Sonny left to mix a rum and coke, and when he reentered the dining room Klaus eyed the drink in his hand. “Are you even old enough to be handling alcohol?” he asked. Sonny had been handling it all night, but apparently he thought now was a good time to bring it up.
“He’s not allowed to drink it,” Mr. Han said.
“Like he doesn’t sneak into the liquor cabinet at night.” Klaus squinted at him. “I bet he had a swig of rum just now.”
Sonny prickled at the accusation, feeling the blood rise to his face. “I didn’t. I don’t.”
“Ooh!” Klaus held up his free hand in mock surrender. “Don’t get too defensive, now.”
“Stop it, Klaus,” Mr. Han said sharply.
Manuel jumped in. “Yeah, do you really want a repeat of what happened with Parsa’s pet?”
Klaus barked a laugh, but something in his expression shifted and he quickly sobered. “God, no.” He turned to Parsa, who seemed annoyed at the shift in topic. “No offense, but I really hate your pet.”
“Do we really need to bring this up again?”
“He’s fucking scary, man.”
“I dealt with him already, so you can drop it. It’s over with.”
“Unless by ‘dealt with’ you mean you took him out back and shot him, I don’t think it’s over with.”
“Would you pay me to replace him?” Parsa asked.
“Uh. Hell no.”
Sonny shifted nervously on his feet. He had no idea what they were talking about but just the idea of getting ‘taken out back and shot’ made his stomach turn.
“You antagonize too much,” Manuel said.
Klaus threw his hands up in the air, nearly losing grip of his cards. Sonny noticed Parsa’s eyes dart to them as Klaus practically flashed his hand to everybody at the table. “It was a joke, man, a joke! Can nobody take a joke anymore?”
“All your jokes are sick and twisted,” said Manuel. He gestured for Sonny. “Get that over here.”
Sonny tried to skirt around Klaus’ chair, not wanting to get too close.
A leg stuck out into his path.
He couldn’t react until it was too late. Sonny’s made contact with Klaus’ leg, tripping, and like seeing it all in slow motion he watched the drink in his hand splatter all over the front of Manuel’s creme button-up shirt. The glass hit the floor with a sharp crack and rolled under the table. The slice of lime slid under the chair. Sonny landed hard on his hands and knees.
Silence. A pit in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. He couldn’t even look up to see the damage he’d done; he just wanted to sink into the floor and die. He was all too aware of his position by both Klaus and Manuel’s feet— even without shoes, a kick would hurt.
He shifted back on his knees and pressed his forehead to the hardwood, the deepest kneel he could manage. He pressed his palms flat on the ground, vulnerable. He felt himself start to shake.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, breathing hard against the wood. “I-I’m so sorry. Sir.”
“Lick it up,” someone said.
Without thinking, head clouded with panic, he lifted enough to see the puddle. He tilted forward, dipped his head to press his tongue to it.
“For Christ’s sake! Don’t do that, Sonny. God. That’s disgusting.” Then, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sonny froze in place as the order shot through him. His face burned, the taste bitter in his mouth. His heart pounded so loud he worried everybody in the room might be able to hear it.
“I’m really sorry about this, Manuel.”
More voices. Sonny’s mind was still in a blur. He stayed on the floor, feeling like he was stuck to it. He heard the scrape of a chair— Manuel sliding back, his feet moving. Sonny braced himself.
“Hey,” Manuel’s voice. “Levántate. Come help me.”
Sonny craned his neck. He didn’t look as far as Manuel’s face, only far enough to see the evidence of his mistake on his wet shirt.
“—stain remover under the sink,” Mr. Han was saying. “You can borrow one of my old shirts.”
“Thanks, Dave. Get up, Sonny.”
He just barely processed the command and scrambled to his feet. He shouldn’t have had to make Manuel ask twice. Fuck-ups upon fuck-ups.
Manuel went to exit the room and Sonny automatically fell in step behind him, casting a glance at his master. Mr. Han’s lips were pressed tight and he was pinching the bridge of his nose. Sonny nearly dropped to his knees again right then and there at his master’s disappointment, but stopped himself. He doubted it would be appreciated.
He followed Manuel up the stairs on shaky legs. At the same time he reached the top step, Ms. Han emerged from the master bedroom and she jerked in surprise to see them both. She recovered quickly, her eyes immediately going to the stain on Manuel’s shirt. “What happened?”
“I spilled on myself,” Manuel said. “David said I could use the bathroom up here.” Sonny’s head spun.
Her eyes narrowed. “I see.” She pushed past Sonny and went downstairs.
He tried to follow Manuel into the bathroom, but Manuel stopped short in the doorway. “Would you go get me a shirt?”
Sonny blinked. “Yes. Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.” He turned and entered the master bedroom where Mr. Han kept his clothes. As soon as he crossed through the doorway he lowered to the floor, like his body finally felt it was safe enough to collapse. He took a few seconds to try and catch his breath, staring at the fibers of the carpet between his fingers.
He crawled around the foot of the bed, where Mr. Han once joked he should sleep. He pulled out the bottom drawer of his master’s dresser. He wasn’t sure what to pick. Most of the T-shirts would definitely be too small, so he carded through them like folders in a filing cabinet, checking the tags for a bigger size. He eventually landed on one that was bigger than the others.
Taking a few more deep breaths for good measure, Sonny felt like he had collected himself enough to return to Manuel— or at least enough that he wouldn’t pass out.
He could hear the faucet running before he even went in. Manuel’s bare back was facing him as he held his shirt under the stream of water. He noticed Sonny’s entrance and turned to him. Sonny politely averted his eyes, feeling like he shouldn’t be looking. He presented the T-shirt, not trusting himself to speak. The enclosed space of the bathroom made it hard to breathe. The white noise of the faucet gave it all a foggy quality.
Tonight wasn’t his first time meeting Manuel, but he didn’t know him all that well. Sonny thought he had a mild demeanor, but up until now he had never really seen him angry. Sonny wished his master hadn’t sent him up here alone. He took consolation in the fact that the door was wide open behind him.
“Thanks,” Manuel said. He didn’t sound angry. In fact, he seemed calm. He took the shirt from Sonny’s hands, not even brushing his fingertips. He held it up and it unfurled like a scroll. His lip quirked. “Did you choose this shirt on purpose?”
“I… chose it for its size, sir.”
“I think it fits.”
———
Sonny and Manuel returned downstairs 5 minutes later, Manuel sporting a slightly-too-tight T-shirt with BOWLING DAD stamped on it in large letters. Sonny saw Mr. Han’s eye catch on the design, but he didn’t comment.
Sonny had heard them talking before, but they’d quieted as soon as he showed up. He had caught the last bit from Parsa’s mouth. “You’re too soft on him,”
The puddle of rum and coke and half-melted ice was still on the floor. A small trail of liquid had crept near the glass still lying under the table. Sonny didn’t need to be told to clean it up. He crouched to grab the glass and the dropped slice of lime, feeling the eyes on his back, and carried them out.
“You think so?” He heard his master’s voice as he left the room, continuing the conversation. “What do you suggest?”
The voices were harder to hear from the kitchen, but audible if he strained his ears. Sonny turned the glass over in his hand, its facets catching the soft light. The rim was chipped, sprouting a thin curving crack. He would have to find the shard on the floor, make sure nobody stepped on it.
“Are you even gonna discipline him?”
“How would you discipline yours?”
A beat of silence. “I don’t know. I would make sure it wouldn’t happen again.”
“It wasn’t even his fault.”
“He should know to be more careful.”
Sonny threw the lime in the trash, then gently placed the glass inside the bin so it wouldn’t shatter.
“I would make him clean it with his mouth,” Klaus said unprompted.
“Uh, yeah, we know that, you sick fuck. Did he actually lick the floor? I didn’t see,” said Manuel.
“Speaking of, I really don’t appreciate you telling him to do that,” Mr. Han said.
“I didn’t think he was actually gonna do it,” said Klaus.
Sonny’s tongue was sour. He left the kitchen.
“Poor kid.”
“Poor kid? He’s—“
As Sonny passed through the living room he suddenly noticed Ms. Han sitting quietly in one of the plush armchairs. He stopped short under her judgmental gaze. She raised a sculpted brow, said, “He ‘spilled on himself?’”
Sonny looked at his feet. “I don’t know why he said that,” he whispered.
this is before sonny came into mr. oz's hands. a whole lotta backstory.
content: BBU/pet whump, kneeling on rice (that's right another rice related punishment), non consensual touching (not sexual)
A couple of ice cubes hit the edge of the tray and bounced to the floor, scattering across the tile. “Damn it,” he muttered.
Sonny could feel the exact moment his mistress directed her sharp gaze at him, almost like a sixth sense. “Clean that up,” she snapped. “And watch your mouth. Honestly. How hard is it not to drop everything?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” came his automatic reply. He picked the ice up with his bare hands, feeling the cold wet shock on his fingertips. He tossed them into the sink and swiped a paper towel over the floor.
As he straightened back to standing, Ms. Han looked over her shoulder. “Did you wipe the floor? I don’t want wet socks.”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
She went back to ignoring him and continued arranging her charcuterie board, which Sonny much preferred. She seemed to revel in criticizing him, and her bite was even worse than her bark.
Her slaps may sting, but they didn’t bother him much. They weren’t even close to what he endured in training. Her true punishments were deceptively harmless and usually humiliating. Last week she made him kneel on uncooked grains of rice. He couldn’t even remember what he’d done to deserve it.
He had been confused when she made him change into shorts, and upon returning downstairs he was only confused further by the pile of rice on the living room floor, starkly white against the glossy brown finish. She ordered him to kneel on it. Forty-five minutes. He thought it was stupid at first, but he realized what he was in for as soon as he set all of his weight onto his knees. It hurt like hell, and what made it worse was when she had him hold his arms straight out in front of him and placed a heavy dictionary on them. It wasn’t even a minute before his arms started aching.
She stayed in the room most of the time to keep an eye on him. She put on a record and busied herself with her latest embroidery project while Sonny suffered in the corner. He tried distracting himself with the scratchy tunes from the record player, but they weren’t much help. It was agony.
At one point she left to do something else and Sonny took the opportunity to lower his arms— carefully, so the dictionary wouldn’t hit the floor with a thump that would surely give him away. It was a welcome reprieve, but it only made it harder to raise them up again when he heard her approaching footsteps.
Eventually she took pity on him, only because his arms had started to tremble so violently that the book might fall off. She put it back on the shelf and let his arms hang at his sides. They were sore from wrist to shoulder. Most of his attention went to the pain of his knees, which by that point felt like two burning open wounds. Sweat prickled all down his neck.
His master came home not long before the forty-five minutes was up. When he saw Sonny kneeling there in the corner all he said was, “What did you do this time?”
Sonny remembered how his face burned. He had almost expected him to put a stop it, to tell his wife she was wrong for doing this to him, but he said no such thing. He stayed there for as long as Ms. Han wanted him to. He was embarrassed his master even saw him like that, with his red face and rice-dimpled knees. He tried so hard to please him, and most of the time he thought he succeeded. Not with Ms. Han, though. She was frustrating. She was impossible to please.
Sonny pulled himself out of the memory, emptying the rest of the ice cubes into the tray. He refilled the mold with water and carefully carried it to the freezer, not letting a single drop spill over the sides. Right as he closed the freezer, his master wandered into the kitchen.
“How’s it going?”
“What do you think of my spread?” asked Ms. Han.
Mr. Han peered over her shoulder at the arrangement of cheeses and meats. “Looks good,” he said. Sonny doubted he had much of an opinion, but the answer seemed to satisfy her.
“Have you vacuumed the carpet yet?” he asked Sonny.
“I was just about to,” he said. “I did the ice cubes already.”
“Great. Thanks, son,” he gave Sonny a firm pat on the back as Ms. Han sighed heavily. “He’s not your son,” she said. It seemed like they were always rehashing this.
“I know that. It’s a term of endearment,” Mr. Han said. “I don’t know why you have such a problem with it.”
“Because I swear you treat him better than you treat your actual children.”
He seemed to contemplate this. “He doesn’t disappoint me as often as they do.”
Ms. Han sighed again and Sonny unsubtly coughed and wiped at his mouth, trying to hide his smile. He hadn’t yet met any of their three adult children, but his master had told him plenty of things about them.
Ms. Han whipped her head around. “I can hear you laughing.”
The grin slid off his face. “Sorry, ma’am.”
———
His master and his friend Manuel were in the backyard admiring the new grill Mr. Han bought a few days ago. Mr. Han left Sonny with instructions to open the door for his two other friends who should be arriving shortly. “And for God’s sake,” his mistress had added, “Don’t let Klaus track mud inside the house.”
He had just finished vacuuming the living room carpet and was busy winding up the cord when there were a few rattling bangs at the door, like someone was slamming their entire fist against it. Sonny poked his head into the foyer. Through the slim frosted glass windows on either side of the door he could see the hazy silhouette of someone outside. They seemed to see him, too, or at least a blob of color that was him, because it looked like the silhouette waved.
He opened the door, revealing the man on the doorstep. The first thing Sonny noticed was the large cowboy hat on his head. The man seemed a little taken aback to see him, dark eyebrows raised above his pale eyes. “Well, look who it is! You’re the new boy.” His nose was sharp and crooked, and he had a pale scar on his lip extending into his short brown beard, a mark where hair didn’t grow.
“Yessir, that’s me.” Sonny opened the door wider and stepped to the side. The man took this as an invitation to come in, stepping on the mat. Sonny eyed the streaks of mud left by his boots. This must be Klaus. “You can leave your shoes by the door, sir,” he said.
Klaus looked down at his boots. “Oh, yeah. They both got pissed at me last time.” He removed his hat and hung it on a row of hooks, then stepped out of his boots and kicked them to the side. Sonny resisted cringing at the scuff left on the wall.
“Is Manny here already? I thought I saw his truck.”
“Yes, sir. He’s in the back with Mr. Han. I can take you to them, if you’d like.”
“Nah, that’s alright.” He padded past Sonny in the direction of the living room. Sonny followed him.
“Would you like something to drink, sir?”
“I could go for a beer.”
Sonny went to retrieve one from the kitchen. Ms. Han was absent, and her charcuterie board was sitting in the fridge covered by a loose sheet of plastic wrap. When he returned to the living room, Klaus was reclined in one of the armchairs and had his feet up on the ottoman. His sock had a hole in it, revealing a small circle of white skin on the ball of his foot.
Sonny tried to hand him the beer, but Klaus didn’t extend his arm to meet him. It remained relaxed on the arm of the chair. Sonny had to step around the ottoman to press it into his waiting hand.
As Sonny stepped backwards, Klaus suddenly jerked forward and his other hand shot out, pinching Sonny’s soft side. Sonny jumped away, nearly stumbling over his own feet. His hand flew to cradle underneath his ribs where Klaus pinched him. It was still cold from the can of beer, cold enough to feel through his thin shirt.
Klaus was laughing. Sonny stared at his flashing white teeth. It reminded him of one of the handlers who liked to put his hands on him. He always found his startled reactions hilarious. Sonny could never stop his eyes from going wide. He still felt the phantom press of fingers.
“I’m just messin’ with ya,” Klaus said between laughs. “Don’t be mad at me.”
Sonny only backed away further, closer to the vacuum that was still sitting abandoned in the middle of the room. He needed to finish with the cord, then he could take it with him and leave.
Klaus seemed unvexed by his lack of response and pulled up the tab on his beer, cracking it open. He took his first sip, peering at Sonny over the can with his blue eyes.
Sonny crouched and grabbed the cord, trying to conceal his shaking hand.
“So,” Klaus said. “Do you have a name?”
“Mr. Han calls me Sonny,” he said without looking up. It wasn’t exactly his name. It was more like a nickname that stuck. Mr. Han took so long trying to decide what to name him that he never really ended up getting named at all.
“Sunny? Like sunshine?”
“No sir,” Sonny said. “Like…” Like someone’s kid? “Spelled with an O.”
“Ahhh… empty nest syndrome.” A few months ago, before Sonny arrived, Mr. Han’s youngest child left for her first year at college all the way in California. Mr. Han had mentioned this offhand, then regarded Sonny strangely. “You’re probably about the same age,” is what hesaid. Sonny had been thinking the same thing. He imagined what it would be like if he was the one going to California instead. He tried picturing what it would be like to stand on the beach and see the Pacific Ocean with his own two eyes.
“So, what are you supposed to be? Like, a butler or something?”
“I’m a domestic companion trained to perform various household tasks.”
“Damn. Okay. Fancy.” Sonny finished looping the cord on the vacuum and heard Klaus take another sip of his drink. “I haven’t introduced myself yet,” he said. “I’m Klaus.”
Sonny finally looked at him. He was holding his hand out like he expected Sonny to get up and shake it. Sonny made no move to do that. “C’mon,” Klaus said. “I promise I won’t pinch ya again.” He winked.
Knowing it was incredibly rude to refuse a handshake, and that it was a punishable offense, Sonny resigned himself and rose to his feet. Just as he was about to cross the room, Mr. Han and Manuel entered. Klaus dropped his hand.
“Hey,” Mr. Han greeted. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Your pet opened the door for me.”
Sonny caught Manuel’s eyes bounce between them. “Are you being nice?” he asked.
Klaus shot him an exaggerated smile, showing off all of his weirdly white teeth. “Me and Sonny are getting along great. Ain’t that right, Sonny?”
An automatic, “Yes, sir.” Not really.
“Cute name, by the way,” Klaus said.
Manuel huffed and Mr. Han cast a sidelong glance at Sonny.Sonny hunched into himself a little, feeling like he shouldn’t have told Klaus. But what else could he have said?
“It’s a nickname,” said Mr. Han.
“Uh-huh.”
Three crisp knocks sounded through the house. All four of them perked up. “That must be Parsa,” Mr. Han said. To Sonny, “Would you get the door?”
Sonny dipped his head in a bow and obliged, heading to the foyer. He was grateful to escape the room, though he still needed to put that damn vacuum away.
The sun had fully set since he let Klaus in, but the porch light was on. He could see Parsa’s dark silhouette through the window. He opened the door.
The guy had to be at least six feet tall, if not taller, meaning Sonny had to tilt his head up to look him in the face. His deep-set eyes were in shadow, but Sonny could see them give him a once-over, bottom to top. He suppressed the shiver that wanted to wash over him.
“Hello,” Parsa said. He looked over Sonny’s shoulder in the direction of the living room. The muffled voices of the others floated through. “Am I late?”
“No, sir. Mr. Klaus just arrived a few minutes ago.” Sonny stepped aside so Parsa could come in and shut the door behind him. Parsa slipped his shoes off without needing to be asked, neatly placing them beside Klaus’ mud-caked boots. He made no move to go further into the house. He just stood and watched Sonny, who was feeling more awkward by the second.
“The rest of them are in the living room,” he said.
“Hold on. I want to talk to you.” Oh, Jesus. “So you’re Dave’s new pet?”
“Yessir.”
“How much did he pay for you?”
“Uh.” That wasn’t a question he was expecting. “I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry. You could ask him.”
He rolled his eyes. “Obviously I could ask him if I wanted to. What company do you come from? Are you from that W.R.U. place?”
“No, sir.” And thank God for that. Sonny had known a few transfers from there and the consensus seemed to be that their training was even worse than it was in the Barn, which Sonny had a hard time even imagining. That, and one of the W.R.U. guys he knew had a serious superiority complex. So fuck that guy. “I’m a product of W-Barn.”
Parsa’s head bobbed in a nod. “What’re you trained for?”
“I’m a domestic companion trained to perform various household tasks.”
“I see.” Parsa stared at him impassively for a few uncomfortable seconds. “You can call me Mr. Osman. Or Mr. Oz, for short. That’s what my own boy calls me.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Osman it is. Sonny didn’t want to associate in any way with belonging to him.
