CW: pet whump, BBU, creepy/intimate whumper, branding, deliberately underfed whumpee
***
“Come here, sweet boy.”
Hermes flinches at the sound of Levi’s voice, echoing down the hall from the kitchen. He unfurls himself from his split, from his place stretching in the dance studio, looking out the window at the snow falling to the ground, powdering the mountains. This is the only time, the only place when he’s safe. He doesn’t want to leave. But he has to, he has to come when called. Hermes stands up, and his shawl practically falls off his too-thin shoulders. He wouldn’t dare complain.
Last time he did, Levi pinned it to his skin with a thumb tack.
He’s cold, in nothing but a shawl and capri leggings. Maybe Levi will turn on the fire when they sit on the couch, Hermes in his lap. Or he’ll actually feel warmth when tucked in Levi’s arms in bed tonight.
Hermes’s bare feet are soundless on the floor as he walks to the kitchen. Levi is standing over the stove; he doesn’t even look up when Hermes walks in.
Hermes clears his through. “Yes, Levi?”
“Take your shirt off and lay facedown on the table. I’ll be over in a minute.”
A shudder runs through Hermes. He looks out the kitchen window at the snow piling up on Levi’s rusted mailbox and wants to touch it until his hands are raw from the cold. He thinks he’d like that cold, much more than the cold that comes from inside him.
When he takes off his shawl, goosebumps erupt all over his sun-starved skin, making his nipple piercings painful and overly sensitive.
He climbs onto the study oak table and lies down, spreading each limb to a corner like Levi normally wants him. But Levi normally likes the boy face up. Something is wrong, very wrong.
Levi keeps his promise. He’s over in no more than a minute, one hand on Hermes’s back, the other tying each wrist and ankle to a table leg. Hermes whimpers, the sound partially muffled by the wood.
“Calm down, little god. This is for your own good.” Levi always sounds so calm, even when he’s beating Hermes down. Hermes hates it. He misses the way Handler Dennison’s voice would change its pitch with strong emotion. “Turn your head for me. I want you to see.”
Hermes obeys, he always obeys. His silver eyes flash with confusion when a metal seal is presented to him. On it, glowing red, is the Rod of Asclepius, the twin snakes and staff Hermes has come to recognize from the books Levi makes him read. “What’s that?” Hermes asks.
“It’s for you, baby boy. Hold still. I wouldn’t want the design to be ruined.”
Starling clarity rushes over Hermes as he realizes what that design is for, why the metal was glowing strangely. No amount of begging would change his fate. It’s against his training. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be Levi’s. He wants to be Handler Dennison’s. He doesn’t want this.
Hermes squeezes his eyes shut. Why couldn’t he have been one of the pets made to clean houses or mix drinks for their owners? Why is he a Romantic? Why does he have to hurt so prettily?
“Take deep breaths. And stay fucking still.”
Deep breaths won’t save him. Nothing will ever save him, he’ll always be here.
Searing pain erupts from a spot between his shoulder blades, and Hermes screams. He screams so loud he fears his jaw and vocal chords may break and shatter under the pressure, screams so loud his brain might come apart.
He doesn’t move.
He won’t disobey.
Somewhere, beyond the haze of pain, Levi is talking to him, but Hermes can’t hear over the splitting pain, over the final shreds of his dignity being laid to waste. Pets don’t get dignity.
He’d do well to remember that.
At some point Levi stops, rubs an ointment across the brand and rubs Hermes’s tears away, brings the boy to the living room and lays him down on the couch. Hermes doesn’t care. The brand is burning but his bones are cold.
From between the pet’s shoulder’s, the Rod of Asclepius stands out. The symbol of healing on a dying pet.
