(Okay so second piece for Kiḷi right after he met Thumla! You guys are lucky I’m trying to maintain some sort of chronological order. Comment if you want to be tagged☺️)
Tw: burns, implied past abuse, conditioning, manhandling
Tag list: @firewheeesky @rizzamacka-whump @myst-in-the-mirror @crimson-wrld @mammonsemptycreditcard @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @scared-and-crying @ohlookthelittlegirlwrites
“Good evening, Sir,” Kiḷi murmurs, edging into the office. It’s the center room of Sir’s manor, where he usually takes his clients to.
Sir lowers his newspaper to look at him. Glasses perch on his nose and gray streaks through his hair, but for a man of forty, people say he ages well. A cigarette hums between his lips, painting an orange glow on the startlingly pale patches on his otherwise dark skin. The white skin on his face spans from his left ear, dipping close to his eye but never touching it. A few more on his neck too. “Hello.”
The smell in the air… it’s not the usual sweet scent that Kiḷi has grown to seek out. It presses into his eyelids by its novelty, raising loud alarms in his head. Did he forget a meeting? Kiḷi was to attend all of them; Sir says it’s a show of strength, but he isn’t sure how strong he looks to others when his heart hammers away at the slightest mistake.
Sir must have read Kiḷi’s thoughts. “A friend stopped by, if you’re curious.” He folds his newspaper to put it aside on the couch. “Did you see a friend recently?”
The chance meeting had been yesterday and though Kiḷi hadn’t expected Sir to be oblivious, when he wasn’t confronted yesterday, he allowed himself a shred of hope. “Pia and I went out to the bar, Sir. With some of her friends too.”
“No one else in particular?”
Kiḷi takes a deep breath, letting the lie sit in his mouth for a moment. He hates lying because Sir hates liars. His dark gaze sends a shiver down Kiḷi’s spine; he could call it fear, shame, or both. “I didn’t, Sir.”
Sir’s thick eyebrows lift, the only indication of surprise before he taps his cane with on the ground next to his foot. “Come here.”
“Sir, I didn’t—“
“I said, come. here.”
Sometimes he thinks his mind is gaping open, like he’d somehow fallen to the floor and shattered his skull for Sir to scan the contents of his brain. Like a crow picking at a ripe mango. His legs move forward, then knees bend and kiss the ground. Kiḷi doesn’t remember doing it. He does it because he knows Sir doesn’t like what he sees at the moment. And that hurts more than any punch ever would.
“I’ve taught you not to lie,” Sir says, switching the cigarette to his other hand and away from Kiḷi. The cane is laid on the couch carelessly, the wooden staff threatening in its silence. “It’s very disheartening that you want to hurt me with these lies. Have I not given you enough?”
Kiḷi shakes his head. “No, Sir. I don’t want to hurt you. You have to believe me. I would never do that.”
Sir curls a hand around Kiḷi’s jaw and yanks his face into his lap. He shushes the recoil with a thumb caressing his cheek. Kiḷi settles in the awkward position, knees crowding into Sir’s leather shoe and chest leaning on his thigh. The touches on his face continue for a minute, skimming back and forth along his jaw. If Sir stretches his index finger and waits for Kiḷi’s pulse, it would be racing, the tamarind smell of tobacco and gentleness throwing him off. He closes his eyes, avoiding the reflection of himself in Sir’s glasses. “My little Kiḷi.”
The nickname takes his identity away, kneading out the horrifying lumps of grisly till it’s something worth looking at. That’s why he’d grown to accept it from Sir, because then at least he’ll be shown the way to be good. Without Sir, Kiḷi would be himself, down to every loathsome lie and thought. He’d be a monster.
“I wouldn’t have hurt your friend if you told me the truth.”
Kiḷi looks up, hands clenching in his lap. “Don’t—she didn’t—“ he cuts of his stammering when the grip on his chin tightens. Sir will punish him if he comes clean now, but he will rip his jaw off if he continues the feeble charade. It’s been years, and Kiḷi still can’t predict Sir’s moods. “Are you going to… bring her back?”
“Do you want me to?” he asks, taking a cigarette and holding it low. Kiḷi doesn’t miss the order.
Grabbing a lighter from his back pocket, he mumbles, “No. I… I don’t know, Sir. Whatever you think is best.” Kiḷi holds the flame over the small stick’s glow and brightens it.
“I had high hopes for that one,” he muses, knuckles dancing on the side of Kiḷi’s neck. “But it’s just not possible. Taking that one back is not logical. A bad investment, in fact. Do you understand, you stupid boy?”
“Ye-yes, Sir. Thanks to you,” he adds, hoping it’ll soothe out the earlier lie that’s left a bad taste in his mouth. Thumla’s screams in this very office are now screaming at Kiḷi for betraying her so easily. She’d always been the stronger one. Him? Sir broke him like a twig and put him back together better. Dreading the answer, he asks anyway. Better if he’s allowed to carry out whatever that will befall Thumla. A small mercy. “S-so, what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing today. I know you must be as sad as I am.” He draws in a long inhale with the help of the tobacco. Stares into the plume of smoke afterwards. “Oh, the ways you children grapple with my heart.”
Kiḷi whines, craning his head to nuzzle into Sir’s palm. He’d rather feel fear than this hollowness. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He can be good for Sir. He’s trying. “Sir, I’m sorry.” It doesn’t gain attention from him. “Please, Sir. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to.” His heart beats frantically and his chest heaves against Sir’s thigh, begging for a morsel of mercy. “She’s my friend, and I didn’t know any better—“
“No, I have taught you better,” Sir snaps, silencing Kiḷi instantly. Yet, like a gunshot in a mob, Kiḷi’s thoughts are frantic, tripping over themselves to apologize because he is so sorry. So so sorry. Sir continues. “I’ve told you good people don’t lie.”
“Y-yes, Sir. You have. I’m sorry.”
“Open your mouth,” he says, letting the apology dissolve in the grey smoke. There’s a glint in his eye, unforgiving. His tone is clipped, like he couldn’t bear to talk to Kiḷi for one more minute.
“Please, Sir. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to.”
“I believe you. You didn’t mean to,” he mimicks. He shoots Kiḷi a razor glare as he slips a thumb into Kiḷi’s mouth, daring him to bite. “It’s in your nature. I’ve been trying to teach you, but the filthy habit seems to have its hooks in you.”
Kiḷi shakes his head, then halts when Sir digs his nails into his cheeks. He knows he’s made a mistake, but he’s not a liar. He can change, he can be good. “No, Sir.” The words wobble and tremble by the single finger in his mouth. “No, no, no. You taught me better. Please. Sir, please. Give me another chance. I ca-can do better.”
“It’s too late.” He maneuvers Kiḷi’s mouth to open up, ignoring the shudder that rips through him like an earthquake. “You should have told me yesterday. I don’t know what to make of this insolence. You will wear your trackers again by tonight.”
“But—“
“Don’t push it. I’m too tired to pick up my belt, but I might change my mind. Open your mouth wider.”
A shaky nod, shallow breaths. A hand creeps onto the couch to hold himself steady, while his other digs its fingers into his own thigh. Kiḷi would apologize again except he knows the drill. Hesitantly, he puts his tongue out, revealing the burns at the back, like sewed-in buttons.
Sir doesn’t waste time pressing the tobacco into his mouth. He doesn’t break his gaze as Kiḷi screams, open-mouthed. He tries to escape, but the hand that held his jaw slipped behind his head. Held him prisoner as the stick end charrs. Churns ash in his mouth. Crying doesn’t help. It clogs his nose. Breathing with his mouth feels like drinking in lava instead of air.
Kiḷi doesn’t want to tug at Sir’s wrist, in case it leaves a trail of new burns. He pleads with his eyes. Please. Please. Please. He thought he was being silent, but when his own tongue jerked, he realized he’d tried to screech words.
Sir lets go. Kiḷi reels back, hands rush to his mouth but clasp over his lips helplessly. Violent sobs attack his body as he kneels on the floor. The agony— the agony just wouldn’t stop.
His head is slammed into the stone ground. A heel drives his face in, almost breaking his nose. He cries out, crumbling into himself further.
“If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to my dogs. Am I clear?”
Kiḷi snivels, shaking under Sir’s weight. The foot drills into him harder and Sir beats him with the cane. A shriek tears out of Kiḷi’s throat, tongue flopping uselessly in his mouth.
“Answer me!”
“Sirrrr,” he moans, lower back on fire from the single strike. “Sorr-sorree,” he gurgles the words the best he could. More tears wet the floor. “‘M sorree.”
The weight on his head lifts, letting him scramble to sit back on his ankles with wide eyes. He won’t make the mistake of lying on the floor again. Pressing his lips together to stop from weeping out loud, Kiḷi waits. He’d taken the punishment. He won’t lie again. He stares up at Sir, heart straining for something.
“What?”
Kiḷi flinches at his impatience, then shakes his head. He wipes his face while fresh tears make tracks the moment he dropped his hands. Such a fucking crybaby. Disgusting, small and full of lies. It’s crystal clear what Sir sees when he looks at him. “Sorry— so-sorry, S-s-sir.”
The broad face of Sir’s looks scarily still. “You disappointed me. Get out of my sight.”
The searing pain on his tongue drags him out of the room. If not for that, he would have stayed and begged because he knows what his heart strains for. It lies in the creases of Sir’s palm, the dimple in his smile and the love when he calls Kiḷi “son.”
((^^; I'm actually pretty proud of this -- even though it’s...very rough, but, I’ve never animated much movement before so. And yes I was lazy on the hands but this took me like 3 days and there are mistakes))
