Work Text:
It happens in flashes.
Moments when everything is so very still inside the windowless room he's being kept in, barren of anything that would alight his senses. The sound of his own breathing starts to warp into something sinister, every exhale becoming shakier than the last. His brain, though unhelpful, sending constant reminders that there is only him, these four walls, and the door with no handle. Not a single sound from the outside pierces through, but something on the other side waits.
Alone in the dark the veil is so thin between this reality and the next. Sleep never comes for him. He stares out into the void long enough that his eyes play tricks on him. One blink that plunges him into his own self made darkness sends chills down his fucked up spine.
It's then, when he's at his weakest babbling pathetically to himself as to have something to cling to, that the stench of charred rotten flesh fills his nostrils. The taste of ash and sand clogs his mouth; he chokes and gasps around nothing but a memory, withering on the ground like the worm he has been reduced to. His arms are bound across his stomach through one continuous stiff fabric, so when he thrashes he can't help but connect his skull to the hard concrete. He sees static.
His chest feels like it's going to burst, like they've filled him with something that is lurching to get out. He blinks and sees the open night sky filled with clouds of billowing smoke, he shifts his weight around and feels every bone in his body creak before disintegrating back into the dust covered dirt, he cries out for a man made savior and receives no answer but the sounds of a crackling fire and the wind. Something crumbles all around him. He blinks and he's back in the room: cold, rung out, and profoundly empty.
At his lowest they come for him.
A cacophony of laughter.
It plays on a loop like music in his ears, that same high pitch HAHAHAHAHA on repeat again and again and again. There is a ten second delay between the beginning and end of each playback, and for that sliver of time his ears ring with the shrill sounds of smiling happy faces he can't see.
A sickly pale man on a monitor repeating words to him, while his eyes are being forced open so that he doesn't miss a single frame. In his mouth, a cylindrical rubber object gags him. It consistently hits the back of his throat when on instinct, he tries to swallows the spit that gathers before leaking down his chin.
The cheap leather vinyl chair he's strapped to sticks to the exposed areas of his clammy skin. When he can't take it anymore, when his eyelids try their hardest to shut, and the lack of autonomy over his own body has him begin to vibrate in his seat. It's like this is no longer being done to him, but someone else, something they are molding him to be. He can hear the squeaking noises from each sharp movement he makes. He shakes like a dog and wonders if the people watching him are the ones that are laughing.
Aren't we having fun? The gentleman asks, Aren't we having fun? Aren't we having fun? I like playing with you, I like playing with you! Do you like my toys? Do you like playing with me? Do you like playing with me? You like playing with me. Aren't my friends entertaining? My friends like playing with you.
A flash, he still can't blink. A white face takes up the whole screen and his blood red mouth stretches into a comically large grin. A metallic scent fills the air, it makes him salivate more. His senses overwhelmed.
He can't look down, only at the screen that presses closer to his face. The pressure of something against his cock has him choking around the object in his throat. In an instant, as if he’s been trained to, he relaxes his jaw to suckle on it, enjoying the way it weighs heavily on his tongue. His own moans vibrating through his chest. The arousal was already there before that delightful crush, the restraints working to keep his hips from bucking up into it. His reward for being a good weapon.
Do you like that? That ghostly face repeats over and over in a low voice as the pressure moves up and down and up and down. So light-headed from everything that's happening to him, from the lust that overtakes him; the roar in his ear, and the question that repeats until it reduces him to a fine point. The wave of his second rewarded orgasm hits him full force. The pressure is gone. Aren't we having fun? Did you like that?
I like it, he thinks, and the gentleman nods in understanding.
Clapping and cheering. Silence. Another room where he is the object.
There is blood everywhere. It stains his hands, gets in his eyes, underneath his fingernails, splatters across his face, coats the inside of his mouth, soaks the standard issued black t-shirt he has been required to wear. He heaves himself up, brings the dagger down again, stares into the eyes of this bearded man that aren't lifeless but they should be. How is he still alive? Why is he still alive? He stabs him again and again and again.
There is something hard pressed between his ass. There is an audience to his right that goads him on. Blood lust. He lifts his hand high, watches that point of impact as it impales him. The faint sound of laughter buzzes in the back of his mind, joy explodes out of him in even waves. He smiles. The pills they made him swallow feel like they are lodged inside his throat, the powered coating tastes bitter. He saviors the phantom feeling of having something shoved down there.
His own glazed over cornea is peering down at him. Just beyond that there is a screen of that familiar waxen face staring at the both of them in sick satisfaction. It's mouthing something.
Yes, he's having fun. He isn't ashamed to say this feels good, that the feeling of something sharp in his grip piercing thick skin, so taunt at first when he firsts pushes the blade down, but gives way just as easily at the faintest of pressure and sinks in deep. He moves his body to get a better angle, fucks the dagger down over and over into his stomach. Something rips than bursts and ribbons flop out like confetti string. It's not enough.
He bends and bites, uses his teeth to tear and slurps up the warmth. His cock is hard again. His friend still isn't dead, but he's pleading. He sits back down. The hardness under his ass is still there. He rocks down into it. His friend thrusts his hips up as much as he can while restrained. Blood pours out of out his mouth, his stomach is open, his insides spilling out. He sticks the dagger into his chest and uses his hands to pull some of the squishy bits out. He lifts and drops himself back down mouth open to catch the spray of blood that gushes out. That's not normal. He feels ashamed.
If he keeps moving like this they'll both get their reward, so he keeps it up. His pants get tighter, the suspenders rub against his nipples. He doesn't stop himself from moaning around a mouth full of metal. His friend is panting, eyes rolled back into his skull like he's dead but he's not. He's crying, then he's smiling, and thrusting. He picks up the dagger and jabs it into his rib chipping it on the bone. Somehow his friends hands are freed from the restrains and they wrestle over the weapon. It gets turned on him, scraps his cheek. The sting reanimates him and he gains the upper hand. He doesn't really have power, someone else does. They promised him a reward. He wants his reward. He moves his hips quicker because the song is almost over. They don't have much time. He's so tired that when it happens, that sick delicious overwhelming feeling that steals his breath away and warms his whole body, he doesn't feel relief other than knowing that it's done.
He collapses.
They throw a sheet over their bodies. Fin.
A flash and he's back in the dark room. His eyes don't adjust in time, but the weight of something both wonderful and horrific sits at the bottom of his stomach. He's filled to the brim of his friends skin, fine black hair, meat, and blood. It's stuck between his molars and incisors. His mouth sticky and crusted over. Rubble falls around him.