CW: exercise whump, BBU so the general for those (pet whumpee, collar mention, human trafficking, dehumanization) implied past noncon, vomiting/emeto, electrocution
Brief/vague disordered eating, (Just general bad attitude about the relationship between exercise and food, not by choice)
“You guys have been a great audience! Goodnight everyone!” Mark pumped his arms up, saying goodbye to the screaming crowd one last time before he jogged offstage. The wings were filled with movement as the crew rushed around him. One tech was waiting for him, well, waiting for the mic pack. Mark unclipped it from his back and handed it over.
“Great job, dude,” the tech ventured as he took the mic. Mark smiled at him. It was a blinding white smile that filled his whole face, even his eyes.
The cameras could always tell if the smile didn’t reach your eyes.
“Thanks, what’s your name?” The tech faltered, a little starstruck, but trying his best to hide it.
“Jimmy.” Mark nodded and grabbed his water. Stage lights were hot, and he was sweating hard.
“Thanks, Jimmy,” he corrected himself automatically. Manners and personal touches were the best way to keep up his reputation. People paid attention to the tabloids, but people also paid attention to the twitters of the stage crew. “Tech was perfect tonight. Please tell the rest of the crew ‘thanks’ from me if I don’t get the chance.” Jimmy nodded, looking like there was something else he wanted to ask.
“Hey man, I’m sure you’re sick of this, but my niece would kill me if I met you and didn’t at least get a selfie.” Mark smiled again and put out his hand.
“Sure. What’s your niece’s name?” Jimmy handed his phone over, and Mark slid over the camera quickly.
“Uh, Megan.” Mark nodded, grabbed Jimmy around the shoulder and held the camera up and out for a good angle.
“Hey Megan! I’m just here hanging with your Uncle Jimmy. Next time I come to town, tag along backstage. I’d love to see you in person! Stay positive! Bye Megan!” He added a wink and ended the short video. Videos were easy; say the name, say the connection, hint at meeting in the future, give a positive affirmation, say the name again in closing. Jimmy smiled wide and took the phone back reverently.
“Oh, she’s gonna flip when she sees this. Thanks! I know I already said it, but tonight really was a great show, man.”
Mark smiled again, reaching his eyes a little less. It hadn’t been a good show.
He missed a cue.
Mark gave a lazy salute and started to walk back to his trailer. The trailer he really didn’t want to go back to. He ducked through the crew and arena staff running around, weaving through them until he was at the backdoor. He pushed through and felt the cool air on his flushed skin.
He walked much slower outside. The back lot was empty, save his trailer, so he didn’t need to worry about people for right now. He didn’t have to worry about cameras, or press, or fans, or staff, or his Manager, or his image. For just a moment, he could stop and look up at the sky.
He knew there were stars there, but he couldn’t see them. There was too much light in the city, too many thin, grey clouds in the sky. Even without the stars, the cool breeze was heavenly, even if it would only last a few moments.
If he was any other artist, finishing a show would be exciting, a time to celebrate. A time to sit with his friends or family and decompress after the adrenalin of the lights and the screaming fans. If he was any other artist, his trailer would be a comfortable space for him. A space where he could relax and rest.
If he was any other artist, he could pause under the moon just to look at it.
But he wasn’t any other artist; he was Mark Davies, and he was too well trained to disobey.
The trailer door opened with a squeak and the floor dipped every so slightly as he stepped in. His eyes scanned the room and hallway quickly, letting out a shaky breath. He was alone. Maybe his Manager was busy somewhere else. Maybe he didn’t even catch the show. Maybe he was just feeling generous.
Mark rubbed the back of his neck. He was glad Sir wasn’t here, but also a little sad. Sir would always take his collar off before a show, and put it back on after. It had been kind of hard at first, but it was better now.
Collar off, he was Mark Davies; platinum artist and performer. He knew how to charm people, to entertain, to perform, and how to keep everything marketable and acceptable to the widest general audience. He knew how to smile and laugh and wink his way through anything. Which ways to angle himself to the paparazzi, which times to pause for a longer fan interaction, which interviewers he could distract with a bite of his lip and the tilt of his head.
Collar on, he was just another pet. Waiting silently by his Sir’s side, following his orders when he gave them. Behaving. Going to the people Sir told him to go to. He knew how to keep close and not get in the way, how to keep his eyes down and keep quiet. He knew how to be a good pet, and he liked it.
He liked the kind words and soft pats of his head. He liked it when Sir wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pulling him close to show him off to his friends. He liked it when they were home and he could just sit by his Sir’s chair and watch tv. He liked being a pet, it was calm and simple.
Being Mark Davies was exhausting, and he was ready to go to sleep. He wanted his collar and to curl up with his Sir. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but it was enough to just be close to him. He could only really sleep with another body in the bed, and he really wanted to sleep tonight.
The trailer dipped slightly again, and Mark turned around. His Manager was alone, so he let the smile fade from his face, eyes drifting down submissively.
“You missed a cue.”
Mark swallowed, but he didn’t look up. He had tried, he really had, but it was his third month on the road. The tour was exhausting; eyes on him all the time. It was hours and hours everyday without his collar, and it was starting to get to him. His head hurt almost all the time, and it felt like the skin on his neck crawled. He had asked if he could wear a choker, just to feel a little better, but Sir had shot it down. Said it didn’t fit with the image the stylist created.
Said it was too reminiscent of pets.
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
Douglass Archer huffed. “Yeah, you should be. Should be sorry, especially with the combination of that and your little fiasco with the interview yesterday. Keep making stupid mistakes like that and people are going to start digging deeper into your past. Do you want them to come and take you away from me?”
Mark’s heart beat faster, heat rushing to his cheeks. He had said he was sorry for forgetting the lines Sir gave him. The interviewer had this symbol on his necklace, it made Mark’s head hurt to look at, and he felt like he had recognized it. He had lost his train of thought and gotten the dates of his next release wrong. He had tried to fix it, and the interviewer didn’t even seem to notice. But Sir had.
“No, Sir.” He didn’t want to be taken away. He really didn’t. Sir wasn’t mean to him, and he let him sing and perform. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but that was okay. He was for Sir, not for his training. He was fine. Besides, Sir gave him to other people sometimes. And sometimes it wasn’t so bad.
“Well then, you need to stop making these stupid mistakes. Shirt off and change out of those jeans,” Douglass ordered, locking the trailer door.
“Yes, Sir.” Mark turned to the side of the trailer and pulled a pair of navy running shorts from the luggage. He slipped off the jeans his stylist had set out for the show and put the shorts on. He pulled off the leather jacket and white t-shirt, hanging the jacket up and putting the sweat-soaked shirt in the laundry. When he came back to his Manager, Douglass was standing next to the treadmill with a thin black belt with little boxes hanging off it in his hand.
“Position 15.”
It felt like Mark’s body was moving automatically, feet planting in the laminate floor, arms raising above his head. Douglass secured the belt with the heartrate monitor around his chest, the prongs of the shock box digging into the skin on his back.
Tears were welling in Mark’s eyes. He was so tired, he just wanted to sleep tonight. He was tired, he wouldn’t be able to run and then it would hurt. He didn’t want to hurt, he wanted to sleep. His Sir tightened the band and pushed him up on the treadmill. He whimpered softly as he shifted on the rubber track.
“Oh hush. You’ll be fine. Besides, summer is coming up and we’ve got a couple brands that want to do some photoshoots. Two birds, one stone.” He started it at the third level, but Mark knew he would raise it later. He let Mark run for a few moments before he set the base heartrate with a small remote. Any heartrate lower than that would activate the shock box.
For the first few minutes, it was fine. Sir had set up a fitness plan for Mark, including a personal trainer when they were home, so he was fine to run for a few minutes. Or he would have been, if he hadn’t been touring for three months and just gave a two-hour concert.
A minute passed and Sir reached over and ticked the speed up.
Mark changed his pace, determined. However, his determination had already been undermined by his worn-out body. Too soon, his legs began to ache, and his heart was raging in his throat. Soon, every movement made his stomach roll. He popped his feet up to the plastic sides of the treadmill, trying to catch his breath. His head was down, watching the rubber belt fly underneath him at a concerning rate.
“If you throw up, you won’t get anything else tonight.” Douglass was barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone on the couch across the small room.
“Yes… Sir…” Mark panted. He knew that. He knew, but it was impossible. Sir always made him run so hard that he threw up every time.
He only stops when you vomit. He wants you to.
Mark pushed the thoughts out of his head and pressed his sweaty hair out of his face. No, no that wasn’t right. He hated throwing up because Sir was so thoughtful to keep him on a strict meal plan. He was so thoughtful to keep him healthy and in shape. He was thoughtful and Mark was grateful. He had to be grateful.
He had to start running again. If he let his heartrate get too low, it would hurt. It would hurt, and he would hurt, and Sir would just make him get back on. Maybe if he just pushed through Sir would let him stop, just tonight. Maybe. Mark took a last breath and started again.
It was even shorter this time, stopping about a minute after he started. Sweat was dripping off his brow, itching on his nose and lips. His legs burned and his chest felt tight. His stomach - no he couldn’t think about that. Not now. He closed his eyes and held onto the bar as he felt his balance wane.
Closing his eyes was a bad idea. Just the thought of sleep clung onto him strongly, too strongly. He focused on his breathing, on calming the fire raging in his chest, trying to make the room stop swaying. Finally, he got a proper breath, letting it out slowly.
Then his back lit up. Electricity stabbed through his muscles, convulsing and locking them tight. He let out a cry as his legs gave out from under him. His shoulder hit the belt of the treadmill hard, but he was only there for a moment before it flung him into the cabinet behind him.
He hit it with his back and his head. His vision blurred and the room tilted even farther. Mark’s neck went weak, and his temple dropped to the ground. There was a sharp pain in his side, and vaguely he guessed he must have hit one of the cabinet’s handles. His back was already starting to feel sore from the shock, muscles screaming at him in despair. His chest heaved, trying desperately to make up for pain of the shock and the exercise.
Douglass grabbed his shoulder roughly, turning him on his stomach. Mark groaned at the movement but went pliant.
“Idiot. That’s gonna bruise. Thankfully it’s just on your back.” He pressed down on the red mark, a perfect imprint of the handle, and Mark cried out.
“S-sor-rry, Sir-r” he mumbled, fighting his own mouth to make the sounds.
“Sorry isn’t good enough kid. What even was that? I spend all this money on a personal trainer, and you can’t go ten minutes?” He crouched down next to Mark’s head before he hit the button on the remote. Pain shot through his back again, stabbing under his sin. Mark cried out, back arching. He kept crying even when jolt stopped. He curled in on himself, arms tucked into his chest.
“I-I’m-m-m so-r-rry, Sir. P-l-lease, I’ll, I’ll do be-e-etter,” he stuttered. His breath came in short gasps, never enough oxygen to stop his fully body shakes.
“Yeah, you will. Get up.” Mark wanted to, he really did, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. All he could do was curl tighter and cry. Douglass rolled his eyes and grabbed Mark’s forearm, hauling him up and back to the treadmill. It was still running at the same speed, so he turned if off and pulled Mark onto it.
Mark kept his arms tucked into his chest, tears streaming down his face, not daring to look any higher than Sir’s belt.
“Do I have to tie you to the bar? Hmm?”
Mark shook his head desperately. He didn’t want to be dragged against the belt as it moved under him. Sir wouldn’t like the marks it left either, and he just wanted his Sir to be happy. He tried to make him happy, every day, but he could never do enough. He had to be perfect, he knew that Sir had paid a lot of money for him to be perfect, but he couldn’t do it. Not all the time, every day.
“Good. Go.” Douglass turned the machine on again, and Mark let it move him for a moment before he started walking. Sir was being kind, he put it on a lower setting this time around. Even after Mark had messed up and damaged himself, Sir was still being kind. Mark wanted to do better, to make Sir happy, to be good, but he couldn’t. But he had to try.
Douglass turned the speed up again until Mark was running and stood back. Less than a minute later, Mark nearly dove off the side, making it to the small trash time in time before he threw up. Internally, Douglass was impressed. He had made if farther than he though he would, especially tonight. Still not far enough, but the progress was clear. He would let his trainer know.
Mark lifted his head from the trashcan and rolled over onto his back, ignoring the pressure it put one the box and how it dug into this ribs. He had tried, and he had failed. Again. Like he always did. His mouth felt acidic and bitter, nose stuffy, tears running down his temples. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes. Whether Sir liked it or not, Mark was going to pass out any minute.
Douglass crouched next to him and loosened the band around his chest. He took it in one hand and grabbed a blanket. He balled it up and threw it at Mark where he lay on the ground, landing on and around his face.
“If you can get up, clean yourself up before you go to sleep. We’re rolling out at 6:00 am tomorrow morning, and I expect you to be ready.” He turned off the lamp in the hallway and left, locking the door behind him.
Mark wanted to sob, to curl up in a ball and never come out, but he was too tired, too sore, too miserable to even move. He reached up slowly and pulled the fabric off his face. His fingers curled around the blanket, but that was as far as he got. He was too hot and sweaty to put it over himself, but he would still grab onto it. It was all the comfort he was going to get tonight.
No collar, no body to lay with, no bed. Just the cold floor and his overwhelming sense of failure. Even then, he was asleep in minutes.
P~eace and eternal life is the promise we have from our father
A~bove Jehovah; he never lies about what he proposes; we can
R~ely on his word the bible; some have tried to change it
A~nd alter the true meanings of the holy scriptures;
D~o not fall into temptation; this world only offers their own
I~deas of true peace; but we as Jehovah’s Witnesses know that
S~atan is quite astute & trying very hard to get as many of us to
E~radicate our beliefs and the trust we have in Jehovah and his kingdom!
~Jesus Christ~
J~ust imagine living without Jehovah’s law; in a world soon to be
E~xtinct and defunct; we as his people will never be able to
S~urvive if we do not abide to bible principle; it’s not
U~nusual to be treated as if we are different, weird, or even
S~elf assuming & they might even consider us a religious cult.
C~an we live without Jah’s direction? No, we are being counseled
H~ere & being prepared to live in the new world; we can
R~est assured;Jehovah’s purposes will never change; the END is
I~mminent and no man can defy what our creator has planned;
S~stay focused on his promises and never drift away from the
T~ruth…our only salvation….is Jehovah through his son Jesus!
