heroeswork | Walk, come with me now, I'm gonna take you down

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Walk, come with me now, I'm gonna take you down

It wasn't often that Billy let those he'd trap walk free. He'd play with them until they were all used up, then dispose of them. Or they were unable to pass his little tests. More than a few just swallowed a handful of pills rather than face what he'd do to them. But Mike was different. Special. So Billy got curious. After he'd played with him for long enough, he still wasn't used up. And he hadn't stuffed the pills into his mouth. So now came the rarest test of all.

He'd made plenty of promises of keeping Mike well stocked in his vices, and for so much cheaper than Kelly ever could do for him. But sitting in his usual perch in that dive bar, he wasn't shocked, but mildly surprised when just a few days later Mike walked in. He'd expected at least a month to pass before he'd see the boy again. A token effort of resistance.

Billy could have done the deal then and there, but he couldn't resist toying with the man. So he followed the same processes as before. Getting him out to the truck. Driving far, far from the bar. Only this time when they stopped it wasn't the side of the road or an old warehouse. It was a house that had seen better days. The place Billy currently called home.

He led Mike inside without a word. Tossed his coat over an old arm chair. Went into the kitchen to grab a drink. All without a word. Just waiting to see what Mike was really after. He couldn't have gone through his stash already, could he?

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Liam continues to admire his own work. His fingers trace over seams and buckles, reveling in how secure the whole thing is. It had been quite some time since he'd had someone co-operative enough to make this work. It hadn't fit anyone else quite so well, but on Mike it fit like a glove. Like it was meant for him and him alone. He needed a moment to collect himself, because as he inspected the complete piece he found himself wanting more and more to shove Mike's face into the floor and have his way with him. But that would ruin his plans.

"Now..." Liam said, his voice more breath than anything. To punctuate the single word, he dropped his hand to Mike's lap and ever so lightly dragged his fingers down the man's shaft. "...you get on the bed and show me that ass of yours. Because your lesson has only just begun."

He's about to protest. About to being the operative word, because he's horny despite all of the things that's happening to him, despite the constraint and confines of the jacket, despite Liam's cruel words and the fact that he's just starting to come down from the oxy. All of that changes the moment Liam touches his dick, talking only in that breathy town, and Mike finds himself with his lips parted, breathing heavily and unable to hide it.

"What's the lesson, sir?" he asks, and his mind goes to the multitude of ways Liam had taught him in the warehouse. He's a little shaky, mostly from being unable to use his arms, but he struggles upwards to cross over to the bed.

At least it's a bed, he reasons. Not the cold floor. He gets on the bed, unsure, and casts a look that says as much to Liam before shifting so he's slightly bent over. It's not quite presenting his ass, but he's not exactly sure what Liam is going for.

Liam didn't answer. His lips pressed into a thin line and he let out a harsh sigh, forced through his nose. The sort of sound he made when Mike was being more difficult than he had the words to express. A sudden shift to a gear that should have made everything grid to a halt, but not for Liam. And he did it again, even more exasperated, when Mike seemed so very lost on the bed.

Liam followed, stepping up behind him and slamming his hand against the man's shoulder. Gripping it tight, he pushed him face-first onto the bed.

"The lesson," he said, his voice tense, "Is that you need to do as your told. You need to use your head." He pressed harder, knowing full well how difficult it would be to breathe with his face pressed to the sheets. "That you need to listen, Mikey."

That name again, and Mike visibly scowls. It's a knee-jerk reaction, and he knows that sigh, too. He's not trying to be difficult--that's the frustrating part. He's not trying to be a pain in the ass, but it happens anyway.

Not once does it occur to him that Liam's to blame. It's always his own fault.

He's pushed, suddenly, face first into the bed and his first thought is not that it's wrong but that at least it's a little better than cold concrete, which happened before. He tries to gasp, tries to breathe and the moment he can't he starts tugging, sharply, at the fabric. Trying to free his arms. It feels like he's dislocating his shoulder with every twist, but he needs up and he needs to breathe properly.

His protests are incomprehensible, yelling into the the bed as his head is held.

Liam lets Mike squirm and struggle for a few moments, just watching him. Letting it all sink in a little bit. Just enough for true concern and fear to settle in, to let Mike feel just how trapped he was. With most other methods Liam had used to bind Mike's arms, any that didn't involve him being strapped to a piece of furniture tended to leave at least a little slack. Some means of trashing about. Or at least fingers were left free or wrists could be twisted in cuffs. But not this way. Mike was truly trapped, now.

Just when Mike's breath started to get especially desperate and ragged did Liam grab a handful of the man's hair to drag his head back. Not enough to make him sit up, but enough to allow him to breathe.

"You see, Mikey, you gave my pills to a man of the law. Who's to say he didn't tuck a few into his pocket to be tested. Traced back to me. To my source. Just think of all that could happen if they found me while I was out of the house...and you...." He rubbed a hand over Mike's exposed backside, gripping it roughly. "...stuck here. Like this. How would you get out?" He raised his hand and smacked it hard across one cheek. "Hm, Mikey? What would you do if your idiocy got me arrested?"

He's allowed to breathe and he realizes with faint horror just how fucked he was--not in the sexual sense, though he's sure that's coming--but with Liam.

He willingly put the coat on, that's the part that's just hitting Mike, and he's gasping for breath, face red and flushed, and his ragged breathing only increases as he gasps for air. He's done it by himself. Liam has convinced him to do this and now he has more control than ever. It's not some test, it's not some lovey-dovey weird thing from their equally weird relationship. It's real. Liam has been disappointed in him the entire day.

What's stopping him from just disposing of him?

All of these thoughts are buried in a flash as Mike's ass is grabbed and Liam talks--Liam talking is the most dangerous thing that can happen--and he doesn't even realize it's the name 'Mikey' instead of Mike. The words are confirming what he's previously figured out.

"I'm sorry," he confesses, and there's an edge to his voice as his ass is slapped. His hips move forward, as if eager, but he winces with the pain and barely suppresses a yelp. "I'm sorry, I--fuck--please don't hurt me."

Those words had a nearly magical effect on Liam. That's why he did what he did. That specific edge in Mike's voice. It wasn't just fear, it wasn't just desperation. It was something else, something unique. It took more than merely threatening a person's life. It was convincing them at a fundamental level that they would die. Usually, it was something he could achieve in a very narrow window. Once it passed there was no getting it back. He'd used it up with Mike long ago. But here it was again, and it nearly caught him off guard.

Then there were those words. Four little words that usually marked the start of an attack, found here in the sweet spot. It had a profound effect on Liam, sending a shiver up his spine. It was all he could to do not moan out loud. He let out a slow, controlled breath making it sound like his irritated sigh.

"Oh, I'm going to do a lot more than hurt you. The thing about these lessons, especially for a dim-witted junkie like yourself, is that they have to hurt a lot for them to truly sink in. The sort of pain that you're going to fee for days after, every time you so much as try to sit down. That is assuming I think you're capable of retaining it at all. You did put everything in jeopardy, Mikey."

There was that sigh again, and Mike doesn't whimper but he does close his eyes, fully expecting something to happen with that. All it takes is that sharp inhale of breath, and now that reality is setting in on Mike again, he knows the signs.

'Assuming you're capable of retaining it at all.'

"I can--I can, I can," He's not sure how many times he can say that, his chest heaving. He's calm from nearly suffocating, but now it's something else: this situation.

"I understand. I understand the situation, I know--I know, I'm sorry, just don't hurt me. Don't kill me I'll do so much better, I'll do so much fucking better alright?"

"You say you understand and yet...you know I have to hurt you. It's the only way you learn. Isn't it?" His hand found the faint red mark he'd left on Mike's ass, running his palm over it. "You can't just be told. You make it so I have to hurt you."

To mark his words, he struck that cheek again, as hard as he could. "You leave me no other choice."

His words continued to carry that slightly exasperated tone. As if he were tired of teaching these lessons. But the way Mike panicked made him want to do so much more than simply hit him. That's where the weariness came from, it was all from holding himself back. His reward for waiting would be fucking Mike in that straight jacket, feeling the heat of those abused cheeks on his thighs. Striped and raw from blow after blow. He tucked his lip between his teeth and bit down hard, keeping himself from letting out any sound that would betray his thoughts.

He's hit and hit hard, and he barely bites back the yelp. It turns into a ragged gasp as his hips move forward and his whole body lurches, and he finds he can't even make a fist with his hand to deal with the pain.

He's had worse. Especially under the hands of Liam,but this is different.This isn't breaking him in or getting him used to something--this is actual punishment and the looming feeling that he's upset Liam for the very last time.

Mike came here, willingly, thinking there was a chance it was going to work out. He was so very, very wrong.

"I'm sorry," He repeats, but the words seem hollow as he tries, without avail, to square his shoulders in the jacket. "You don't have to hurt me, I'll be good--I'll be better than good!"

"I gave you a chance for that, Mikey. More than enough. I wasn't going to let you go, but I thought maybe...you'd do okay. And you come back laying this mess at my feet. Simple promises aren't going to cut it. What you need is--"

Liam raised his hand to strike again. But just as his hand started to swing down, he stopped. He let go of Mike's hair. He lowered his arm. "No. You need something....more. Something that will leave an impression." He wasn't speaking metaphorically.

Without giving any sort of command, Liam let go of Mike and moved away from the bed. He'd left plenty of marks on Mike before. Bruises, welts, rope burns. The sorts of things that would leave all manner of scars. But he'd never done this. There was just something satisfying about a proper, solid ass whooping. "It's just a question of which way to go..." he muttered to himself, hand on his chin, as he inspected the closet. Taking his sweet time.

Mike has scars--not as many as you would think, because Liam had always been relatively careful, but some. His back and legs, mostly, asides from the stab wound and gunshot wound that started his entire descent into Oxy addiction. It's mostly bruises and rope burns and accidental scars. Not this time, he would think, except he's not taking it literally. He doesn't want to think beyond the surface of what Liam is saying, because he's terrified of what he'll find.

He doesn't move, because he's scared but not stupid, though he takes deeper breaths than usual as he cranes his neck. It's agony to wait.

"What are you doing, sir?" It's cautious, notably so, and there's still a slight waver to his tone. He's going to wind up dead by the end of this, he knows that now.

Liam sorted through his various implements, trying to decide which one to use. Testing their heft, their swing, tapping them against his hand. Really, it was all to make Mike wait. But as he was testing the flex of a riding crop, Mike spoke. He froze, the crop bowed in both hands, and slowly swiveled his head to look at Mike.

He crossed the room in a few angry strides, his footfalls loud on the warn carpet. His hands slammed against the back of Mike's head, using a fistful of the junkie's hair to smash his face into the sheets. "Did I give you permission to speak?!" he hissed, as if his anger were too much to contain. "Did I give you permission to QUESTION ME?!"

Mike's fear is palpable in the air as the other slowly moves. Liam runs with a cold rage, he realizes, followed by an explosive outburst. He had seen it only a few times, but his heart is already hammering in his chest. He opens his mouth to protest, tries to sit up, but as he does Liam has crossed the floor and grabbed his hair.

Liam's rage washes over him like a tidal wave, but Mike can't react other than muffled screaming into the pillow as he fights as hard as he can to keep the other from suffocating him. He can barely breathe, but the panicking isn't helping that. Not with Liam's words loud in his ears despite his own noises.

All he can do is thrash and yell, though after a few moments it turns into whimpering. He's not sure he has the energy for this, not now, not with a limited supply of oxy in his blood and his adrenaline constantly spiking.

Liam just held Mike's head there, his own breathing rough and ragged from his burst of anger. Or at least what seemed like anger. The truth was this was just another tool. The same as his anger had always been. Strategically applied reactions to keep Mike scared, to keep him on his toes. It was rooted in some truth, he was irritated about the whole marshal business, but he'd been at this too long to be worried. No, if he'd ever been truly angry with Mike, the junkie wouldn't be breathing anymore.

After several long moments did Liam yank Mike's face up from the bed by his hair. "You're going to learn to mind your tongue," he growled in the other's ear. "Or I'll mind it for you. And you really don't want that."

He kept his grip on Mike's hair as he straightened up. He didn't give Mike a chance to respond or catch his breath for any longer than it took to utter those words. Because as he stood up, he brought the crop down as hard as he could across Mike's exposed ass. It fell just short of leaving a welt because of the angle, but it was a good start.

He's dragged up from the strange limbo of being pushed into the sheets, and as he does so he feels his own arm yank and pull at the straight jacket for some semblance of control. It only spurs the pain shooting up in his shoulder, but that's the least of his worries.

Liam's angry. Liam's upset, it's the hot rage that Mike detests, and he just barely whimpers before Liam strikes him with a crop. It's hard and stinging and the force of Liam's weight behind the blow physically pushes his hips forward. His body would go, too, but the other's hand in his hair stops that.

As his whole body jerks, Mike isn't shy about yelling--mostly in surprise, but his voice bounces off the wall and he can't quite form coherent words. Not with the strange tingling pain on his ass, not with Liam's anger still looming over him. Instead, he visibly shudders, breath ragged.

Liam waited for a moment, slowly dragging the tip of the crop over the bright red mark it left behind. He could do so much better than that. Perhaps he'd go in layers. Make it really hurt before Mike was done. By the time the tip reached the opposite end of its path, Liam realized his little captive hadn't answered. He was about to scold, forcefully, marked by a sharp intake of breath, when he realized he hadn't phrased it as a question.

It wouldn't teach a proper lesson if he wasn't consistent.

He pulled hard on the grip he had of Mike's hair, forcing his head back further. He leaned closer, drawing in a deep breath. He could practically feel the waves of terror rolling off of the junkie. Still so capable of such raw emotions. And here he'd come to assume that people who numbed themselves so completely remained dead on the inside. But Mike was a special case in so many ways.

"Do I make myself clear?" He hissed in Mike's ear, teeth clenched hard. He sounded angry as ever.

He's trying. He's trying so hard to calm himself down, to make sure he can go to some sort of blank space in his head like he does when Liam gets too rough or he's had too much. It's not working, though. Every time he tries, he hears Liam's voice hissing in his head. If he goes, he can't be present for things like rules. It's a catch-22 and something Mike is not shy about being scared of.

He's terrified of Liam. He always will be, even if there's some part of him that thinks it's love.

"Yes, sir," He manages, his voice soft and weak from being caught off guard. "Clear, sir," He adds, and it's louder than the first yes.

Answer with sir. Always answer with sir and he'll be alright.

"Good." He shoved Mike's head forward, but it was just to forcefully let go of the junkie's hair rather than push him back against the sheets. He almost wished for Mike to screw up, to give him an excuse. Even in the warehouse, they never delved too deep into the extremes. Mike never needed anything worse than that spider gag and spreader bar. Nothing exotic. Even now, he doubted Mike would ever go far enough for Liam to have an excuse for what he had in mind. He only ever got to pull out those toys if he made the excuse himself.

His fingers dragged down Mike's neck and over his back. "To prove you understand, you're going to count. Each strike you're going to say 'one , sir. two, sir.' until I say you're done. And if you stop..." He let out a dark chuckle. "Well, you don't really want to find out."

He stepped back, standing straight. He didn't ask if Mike understood. Didn't give him a chance to answer. Instead, he just brought the crop down, harder than the first blow now that he had the right angle. Hard enough to raise a welt, but not enough to draw blood. He paused. Waiting. Listening.

His hair is finally let go but he can still feel his scalp burning. It's nothing compared to what's happening, though. He knows it. He can feel it in the air, he can practically taste it--Liam is like a storm, and there's no true way to pacify him.

Those fingers down his back, down his neck--they feel nice, and in a strange way, that's scarier than the other's words. But he's keeping up, he's focusing on the words, staying in the moment. He's not sure how many he can take. He's not looking forward to it, but Mike can't mess up--if he does, he's going to wind up in a state even worse than this straight jacket and a riding crop.

He's about to say yes when the crop hits his ass with full force. His yell is more of a surprised whine, his whole body snapping forward. He can feel it lingering, the dull, thudding pain, and he tries to focus on anything but how the sound was still ringing in his ears.

Liam is pausing things. Mike's brain scrambles to keep up.

"One, sir," he breathes, shakey and uneven. Wants to say so much more, wants to tell him to stop. The words die in his throat.

Liam waits for a few heartbeats after Mike speaks, leaving an opening, a chance to say more. But the junkie doesn't say anything more than the two words he'd been given. Impressive. Even in such a situation, he expected the other to just keep running his mouth. He was starting to worry that nothing but a physical gag could keep Mike from saying more than he should, but so far, he'd been proven wrong.

"So, you CAN learn," Liam said as he ran his hand over the mark he'd left. Red and raised, hot beneath his fingers. "Keep it up and you just might get a reward this time..." His hand dipped, sliding down between Mike's legs, teasing over that tender expanse of skin. So close to where they could do so much more, meeting more urgent needs. But instead he just teased.

He moans. It's greedy and he feels like a whore, but Mike is obsessed with those soft touches on stinging skin and, more importantly, Liam's hand dipping between his leg.

This is what he wants. He feels like it's what he deserves. He can be good--he can count. He can count and keep his mouth shut. He bites down at his lip, craning his neck to look at the other. He's not stupid enough to say anything, not now, but his face is red and his breathing is ragged from the fear ebbing into something else, slowly turning into a cavalcade of mixed emotions. Lust, pain, and hope are now tinting that fear, though with Mike, hope doesn't seem to mix well at all with him in these situations.

A promise of a reward.

He takes a deep breath, nodding, and visibly tries to force himself to calm down. It doesn't work very well.

Liam's hand shifted, moving back up over one cheek, kneading at it gently. He let out a soft, contemplative sound as he ran his thumb over the welt. He could keep going with the crop, but there was so much more he could be doing. While the slow approach was sometimes good, as it had been at the warehouse, now was not the time to slowly wear away at Mike's defenses. He wanted the junkie as completely undone as possible in as short of time as possible. They were getting there, but he needed to make it clear just how much he was the one in control here.

"I think..." he said finally, dragging the tip of the crop over the other end of the red mark. "...we need something different." He stepped away and went to the closet again. It didn't take long for him to decide, making a soft pleased sort of hand as he extracted it. He doubted Mike would be ready for something as brutal as a whip, and some of the ones Liam had would do far more damage than they needed here today.

"I hope you've not lost count," was all he said as he got back into position. He doubted Mike could forget that there'd only been one strike so far, but there was no telling with junkies. He took his time ensuring he got just the right angle before bringing the cane down hard across Mike's ass. A strike meant for true pain, nothing held back.

No. No, they don't need something different, unless it's Liam's hand on his dick--he opens his mouth to protest, actually only lets himself say half a syllable before he cuts himself off and bows his head and readies himself for what ever Liam is dong.

He can't stand this, waiting. Anticipating--bracing himself for things that may not even come. He wants Liam, either his mouth on his cock or fucking him, but he wants Liam, not Liam's demented version of punishment.

He shakes his head, however briefly, as the other hopes he hasn't lost count. Maybe if they had gotten further, maybe if he was higher than he was now instead of slowly coming down, yes, but he knows. It's one. It's only one.

His entire body jerks as Liam brings the bamboo cane down, hard, and it leaves him with a stinging sensation so difficult to pinpoint his toes curl, and it's not from pleasure. Nor is the strangled sound he gives, supposed to be a moan but changes sharply into a yell. It's a legitimate yell, not a whimper or a yelp--his ass clenches, his fingers move into fists, and he jerks his arms in response to the pain. They go nowhere, closed and it makes his entire straight jacket extremely uncomfortable.

"Two," He speaks, and it's a growl as he tries to catch his breath. His teeth are gritted. "Sir."

"There we go," Liam said, sounding incredibly pleased with himself. Once again, his hand ran over the mark he'd left, savoring Mike's reaction. The way he'd jerked and growled and the way his toes curled. He drew in a deep breath, slowly replaying it in his mind. They would do it again and and again, but nothing would quite capture everything about that first strike. The shock and surprise it caused, the way everything clenched afterward.

He could keep going without hesitation, sure. But the lesson would not be properly cemented if it was nothing but relentless pain. That was a lesson he enjoyed teaching, but it was something that needed to be saved for when Mike truly fucked up. But there would be no straight jacket involved, and they would not be in a bedroom. So that firm hand moved down between Mike's legs, delivering what he'd teased at earlier. It wasn't just a teasing touch, either. It was a good, proper stroke of the man's cock. And another. But two was all he got before he pulled his hand back to deliver another strike. And pausing just long enough for Mike to speak, another right behind it.

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