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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"No sir," He manages to get out once he's shoved near the foot of it. He still has fight and resilience, but he knows not to try to escape. One of the very many dichotomies he's learned under Liam's tutelage.

He's breathing and trying to keep it steady, an in and out that tries to calm himself. It's not working because he's eyeing that cage.

Liam's watching, though. Liam's probably fucking watching him and counting on him to mess up. It sends a shot of panic to him and he forces his gaze onto the bed, licking already swollen lips. He won't try anything stupid. He's past that.

After a moment of consideration, Liam slowly released his grip on the belt. He left it still cinched around Mike's neck, perhaps a reminder to behave. A necessary one since the door remained wide open. A test of Mike's will to stay. A test of his loyalty. Any man, especially a junkie, merely playing at being loyal to such a sadistic man would bolt at the first possible opening. And here it was. Liam moved away from Mike, his back turned. Nothing held the junkie there, no chains this time.

Liam ran his fingers over the cage as he passed it. It was a very serious affair, a box made entirely of iron. From the door hung a large pad lock. He lingered, briefly, looking down through the bars on the top, the faintest smile on his lips. Eventually Mike would fuck up and require such treatment. Perhaps he already had. Wandering far and finding new conquests without permission. Maybe if--when--he was able to get Tim back here, Mike could watch his new boyfriend being bound and violated from this particular vantage point. Perhaps even spend the night there.

Turning that idea over he moved over to the closet and tugged open the door. Inside hung a wide array of items, mostly of harsh black leather. The door itself held a rack full of all manner of straps, arranged in so many different ways. He flicked through the items hanging on the bar, some of them too strict to use just yet, to select one that stood out a bit from the rest. Rather than black leather it was white canvas. A jacket that practically bristled with brown leather straps.

He turned to Mike, inspecting the garment and his captive. "I think this is about your size..." He remarked, lifting one of the long sleeves.

The cinched belt, even though it's not tight, is enough to keep him excited and alert. He's not going to move, and the thought doesn't even cross his mind.

This is what it comes down to. He's a worthless junkie, Liam has made sure that's embedded into his brain. He shifts, nervous, and finds himself licking his lips apprehensively as Liam and his narrow hips move to the closet. He's never really been up here, or if he was he was so out of it he can't remember. That isn't exactly unheard of.

Straps and he swears he sees a whip or something there, and the only time he takes his eyes off of the closet is to look, worried, at the cage. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like anything here.

He almost--almost--wishes he was in the basement.

His gaze snaps back when the other speaks, and the confusion on his face is evident.

"Is that a straightjacket?"

As Liam moved away from the closet, he left it standing wide open, leaving a full view of everything on display inside. Whips, crops, canes, paddles. A whole array of striking implements. Blindfolds, gags, hoods. Several varieties of harnesses. There were leather shops with smaller selections that what was contained in that closet.

"It is," Liam said, flicking an imaginary bit of dust off the canvas. "And it's yours until I decide otherwise." He looked up at Mike, his face unreadable beyond it's sternness.

When he spoke again it was a single word, but it carried with it incredible amounts of authority. Stern and severe. The sort of tone that expected to be obeyed. He simply said, "strip."

He's apprehensive about it. Apprehensive and he doesn't like it and it shows on his face, clear as ever, but his eyes meet Liam's and he realizes he doesn't have time to worry about any of this. It's an order with such a tone that Mike knows he can't disobey.

He doesn't want to end up fucking dead, after all. He shoves his tank top over his head hastily, and it's not from excitement--it's fear, if he's being honest. Fear is a powerful motivator when it's Liam wielding it. Shoes and socks go next, and then his pants and, with only a quick glance at the other, his boxers.

It wasn't exactly a secret that he's hard, though he should have probably paused and wondered why a situation like this would ever get him turned on. Liam showed him what was actually sexy compared to what he thought was, anyway. He owes Liam a lot.

"How lo--" He immediately cuts himself off. Liam doesn't want questions. Liam just wanted him to strip, and so he does and awaits instructions.

Liam watches, silent and cold. His sharp gaze follows Mike's movements, as if he were evaluating the entire performance. So far he was getting rather high marks for showing just how afraid he was, and how eager he was to obey. He'd learned well that disobedience could lead to bad places. The sort of place he was already headed, and not making it worse.

Or so Liam thought.

An eyebrow lifted as Mike started to speak. "How long?" He asked, cruel and mocking. He crossed the remaining distance in just a few strides, seizing Mike by the hair. "You should already know the answer to that: as long as it takes for you to learn your lesson. As long as it takes for me to be satisfied. I would have thought by now that you'd learned to not ask me such things."

No. No, no no, he cut himself off. It didn't count, right? It couldn't count. He'd been good, he'd stripped and obeyed and he didn't falter once.

And yet, Liam has a particularly good grip on his hair and Mike doesn't bother to hide the wince of pain, though he doesn't cry out.

...When did this whole thing start to feel good? He was scared. Frightened of Liam, always had been, but his senses were crosswired. Part of him, deep down, thought this entire thing was hot. He's terrified that Liam is going to kill him and dump his corpse into a ditch, but he looks up and licks his lips, throat suddenly dry.

"Sorry, sir," He apologizes right away, because there's something about looking up at the other that makes him feel small.

For the moment, Liam sets aside the jacket. He lowers one knee to the floor, back still straight, still somewhat above Mike even if they're on the same level. It was more in his attitude than his actual position. He dragged Mike's head back further, watching him with a frigid, stern air.

"I'm starting to get the feeling you enjoy this," he said, bordering on mocking. On the emphasized word, he dragged his fingers over Mike's cock. "That deep down you do it intentionally. Because maybe you're just a sick little pervert who likes to be smacked around but is too afraid to ask for it." Then something seemed to click into place, and he tilted his head slightly, eyebrows rising. "Or have you done something you've not told me about. Something that demands punishment beyond speaking or acting out of turn. Hm?"

That stern look makes him wince more than the hair, visibly flinching when his head is pulled back, still looking at Liam. He's almost afraid to drop his gaze, thinking the moment he does Liam will strike.

Did he enjoy it? Mike thinks there's some part of him that's learned to, because those hands are on his cock and he visibly shudders, shivering with anticipation and flip flopping on his own opinion on the very same subject.

He is. He's a pervert, a junkie, he's everything Liam told him. He always was, it just took Liam to suggest it a number of times for him to realize it. Was this no different? Liam seemed to be getting Mike to say something, to maybe even guide him again, but Liam doesn't know. He honestly doesn't know how to answer.

He stares at Liam, not quite defiant but not so confused--he's conflicted, and it shows on his face. He realizes it, now, he might even be doing this entire thing on purpose, speaking out of turn and making a scene.

Edited 2016-03-11 09:07 (UTC)

When the silence stretched and Mike didn't answer, Liam started to look more and more irritated. That irritation started to coalesce into full anger. All at once, he let go of Mike's hair, his hand pulled back to strike him across the face. But as his hand came closer, it slowed. Instead of a slap, he just gently patted Mike on the cheek.

"That's what I thought." The pat grew a little more aggressive, before gripping the lower half of Mike's face. "You know the rules, like answering a direct question promptly. Yet you ignore them. I should have seen it sooner, really. The usual punishments have been rewards for you all along."

His fingers wrapped around Mike's cock, stroking him firmly. Calling immediate attention to how aroused the man was. "Haven't they."

He scrunches his face up, preparing himself for the slap--readying himself for the sting of Billy's rings across his cheek--and he's left, instead, with a pat. Gentle, soft.

His eyes open, confused, but the aggressiveness comes and Mike's breathing picks up, pulse rising, looking lost and almost desperately into Liam's eyes.

He moves to speak. Opens his mouth, but then Liam strokes his throbbing cock with a firmness and a precision that causes Mike to moan, leaning forward and into the other's touch.

"I don't know, sir," He breathes, finally. "Not at first not--not the warehouse." But now? Now he swears everything and anything Liam does turns him on. He's long since associated Liam's work with sex.

So. Mike was still aware that there was a divide. That he hadn't always been so eager. With work, he could blur that line. Make the man doubt his own memory. That was the game now. When he'd started this, he just wanted to have a little fun. Make a rival's customer cry. Break him down until there was nothing left. But then things started to change when Mike was harder to break than a junkie aught to be. When he proved himself malleable. Now it was a test for how far Liam could push that. What were the limits of this very special plaything?

"Oh, don't be so sure of that. You'd just...not been aware of it then." His fingers continued to stroke. Firm and steady. As if he'd forgotten the intent here and just wanted Mike to get off quickly. "It's not an easy thing to accept about yourself, now is it?"

It's hard to concentrate when Liam is jerking him off, and it's killing him that he isn't using his own hands. They're currently balled into fists, knuckles pressed into the palm of his hands, as Billy jerks his hand up and down in a steady rhythm, Mike brings his hips up, breathing hard through his nose before responding, eyes slipping shut.

"I don't, sir--accept it, I'm not..." A deep breath. He feels like he's going to build up too much, almost, with how his mind is starting and stopping and how that hand is downright magical.

"I'm not like this, but with you, I---yeah--I'm always hard." He's trying to tell himself out loud that it's just Liam that makes him some sort of fucked up freak, but he's far too distracted with both the pain and the fear, both underneath the cotton fog in his mind courtesy of the oxy.

"You're different, sir."

Liam shifted his hand, fingers curling around the back of Mike's neck, strong as a vice. His other hand was relentless as he stroked. Watching how it slowly unraveled Mike. Broke him down. All the while exploring that clear boundary. Everything before the breaking point and everything after.

It seemed he'd already blurred the breaking point itself, with Mike having identified his current state with the warehouse itself. Sure, the gradual wearing down was part of it, but it was that breaking point that defined it. That was the line Mike wasn't seeing. The warehouse itself created a broader, easier to identify border. The point at which their lives intersected.

"The only thing different about me is that I'm the only one to ever give you what you always wanted." His hand shifted as he spoke, slowing down, paying better attention to the sweet spots. He let out a soft laugh as if the whole idea he was about to propose was preposterous. "I can't make you like these things."

The hand on the back of his neck grounds him, strangely, and Liam continues to stroke his cock with such skill that he moans in between his words, leaning his head down to star at said hand doing it's work. He's beginning to sweat, now.

"I wasn't gay before you," He tries to point out. "I had no interest in men and--and now you're here. It's you, it's always you. I don't want to get hurt but you--" A shattered breath and he shakes his head.

"I want to come," He murmurs. Something about the proximity of the other, he guesses, and Mike slips his eyes closed. It had been a while since he'd been like this, and they've barely gotten started. Maybe Liam will just take pity on him. Maybe he can sort through his fucked up feelings or just grab some more oxy and forget.

When Mike states what he wants, Liam pulls his hand away. It isn't an obvious refusal, but more a coincidence that he decided right then to remove his hand and slide it up over Mike's torso. Fingers wandering and exploring the man's chest. He did so enjoy it when the junkie begged for it. He'd come so far from denying it so firmly.

"That's not how it works," he said with a small laugh. "Sexual preference can't be taught like that, Mikey. Besides, if it were just me, you wouldn't be asking me about your little marshal and his boyfriend, now would you."

His hand moved from the back of Mike's neck to pat his cheek, condescending and firm. "You've still got so much to learn."

Every touch Liam instills to him, every movement along his chest and Mike is staring at the ground, trying not to flinch or show much of anything, but it's difficult--immensely difficult--when there's a hand missing on your cock. He's not stupid enough to try to kiss him again, not after, but he wants to. Oh, he wants to.

He's doing his best to ignore it--the verbal punches Liam's throwing. 'Mikey' gets his usual annoyed look, though it's cut down significantly because he's trying to do the mental math. It's exhausting.

"You taught me what to do," Mike explains, leaning up, straightening him shoulders while he's still on his knees. Confident in his words. "You taught me."

"All I did was show you what you'd been denying yourself." A lie, but few things were truth when they passed through Liam's lips. He did doubt that his interest in this marshal was some strange gay-by-stockholm-syndrome situation. Repressed bisexuality was far too common in this society obsessed with hyper masculinity. He could go one quite a bit about it given the chance, but he doubted his audience would appreciate it.

"Speaking of which..." He dragged both hands away, reaching for the jacket he'd set aside. "Let's get you into this, shall we? Show you a few things you've not yet seen." There was nothing kind in the smile that flit across his face. He had things in mind that he'd not yet subjected Mike to before. Well, at least not quite in this way.

He backs up and off, almost immediately--wary. Not because of Liam and trust, but that he doesn't like what he's saying in the least. He'd been denying himself, maybe, but it's more complicated than that. There's still some tiny, tiny spark--the same gut instinct that helps him still pull strings when he's high--that knows Liam's bullshitting him. Who knows Liam's always bullshitting him.

"I don't really want to," he mumbles, but it's not defiant of accusatory: it's simple fact, and he eyes it uncomfortably. He has no doubt that he needs to let Liam do his thing and he'll learn to love this, too, but his gaze flicks over at Liam, hopeful anyway. It takes barely a second before he reaches up to take the jacket.

It'll never work, he's stuck whether he wants it or not.

Liam's expression changes in an instant at those words. That teasing, cruel smile dropped into something just shy of irritation. Mike didn't want to. He'd just need to change that. He was prepared to force the point when the other started reaching for the jacket, which Liam moved out of reach.

"Nuh-uh, this isn't something you can do yourself. All you need to do is be...co-operative." He adjusted the canvas in his hands, holding it gathered and open, the way one might do when helping someone on with a regular coat. Only this one went the wrong way around and didn't have openings at the ends of it's incredibly long sleeves.

It's degrading. It's flat out degrading, literally being helped into his own personal torture device. He hates it already.

He supposes that he no longer has a say in what's degrading and what isn't, either, and his hands move, slowly and cautiously, into the straight jacket. It's not something he's looking forward to, and it shows on his face, even if his cock is still hard.

He wants to have some control of his self, and he'd been so good about his hands this time--Mike's amping himself up for the worst, so much so he's already half-wincing as he goes through everything that happened in the warehouse. How he still has scars from some of the things.

"Why do you always make it so I can't fight back?" He asks, and there's genuine curiosity.

The question earned a sharp but brief look from Liam. Mike's tone alone saved him from immediate repercussions. The answer really should have been obvious, but that meant Mike realizing the truth of his situation. Ensuring that he couldn't fight back, even before putting up a proper resistance was both demeaning and demoralizing. Take a way any means of fighting back and the subject gives up much sooner. There's also the general state of mind it conjures. A reinforcement of all he'd already taught Mike.

But saying any of that meant revealing his true intentions. And he couldn't have that, now could he.

"It's not about fighting back, Mikey." His tone was calm and softly condescending. Like speaking to a child. And as he spoke, he started to settle the jacket properly on Mike. Tugging and adjusting the canvas. It fit snugly, not the blousy, loose fit of a real straight jacket. This wasn't made for humane treatment. "It's merely a reminder to behave. You could not mind your own hinds, so they must be minded for you."

He left Mike's arms loose for now, the sleeves long and trailing, as he moved around the back to start fastening the thing shut. It was a complicated arrangement of laces and buckles, which he navigated with ease. The canvas hugged to Mike's body. It was already clear that there would be little room for movement once the process was done. But for now, Liam took his time fastening the back.

Mike looks uncomfortable, but a few shifts and it's a little easier for him. A little. It's not something he's used to or cares About, but it would do.

He looks up, taking a moment to breathe in, and looks up at Liam, uncomfortable and visibly so.

He can do this. He can.

"And after this, we're--we're okay? No more?"

Mike couldn't see Liam's face as he started buckling the series of straps at the back, but anything even resembling warmth faded from his face. It wasn't the hard, cold look that so often came with his irritation. This was flat, devoid most things that made people human. A glimpse at his actual core. It went well beyond mere unfeeling.

There would always be more. Especially with Mike. There was never an end to be found. Never a point at which Mike behaved well enough to be exempt from punishment. There would always be new rules, new obstacles, new pits for Mike to fall into. It was never about the lessons or Mike learning to behave. It was about the control. And he would always find new ways to show that he was always the one in control.

"Oh, don't talk like that, Mike." His voice belied some of what had shown on his face. His tone sounded almost mechanical. "There will always be something new to learn about yourself." Some of that subtle mocking at least started to come back into his voice as he cinched the second highest buckle closed. The top most was around the collar, which would wait until the very end. "Unless you're thinking of giving up your habits, or getting them from someone else. You're not thinking of leaving me, are you, Mikey?"

He sounded genuinely sad, like someone who was worried about losing someone they cared about but understood why. But really, it was a test. Lose-lose for Mike, however. Confirm he'd come back, and it gave Liam open license to do as he wished. Say he'd leave, and Liam would prove why no one got away from him. Either way, this would be a lot of fun. As he said it, he started threading one of Mike's arms through the strap on the front of the jacket.

He's seen it in movies so he at least sort of knows what's going on. He's not expecting it to be as tight or as snug as it is, but it fits him oddly and he isn't sure if Liam is doing it on purpose or not.

Probably on purpose.

That voice gets to him, and so does the way he swears Liam's breath seems to tickle the back of his neck has him on edge already. He shifts his shoulders, pulling his arms over and to examine them and the type of sleeves--or lack thereof--it is. His stomach twists in knots.

He glances over, craning his neck around afterwards and listening to the other.

Mike. He's clinging on to the fact that the word 'mike' was said, not 'mikey.' It's a slow start but it's something. His lips twist up, but it's not out of amusement. Liam's right. Liam's stuff is the best on the market, and he wouldn't give up his habit. He can't, it hurt too much, caused too much pain.

He'll learn it. Like Liam's been teaching him what it really means to do this sort of stuff, to really belong. Liam's taught him how to love. It's that simple--he loves Liam. He'll never say that out loud, not to him or anyone, but he does. He just wishes part of loving someone wasn't physically hurting, or driving himself to the point of exhaustion, or going through withdrawal.

That's why he decides to answer earnestly.

"I can't leave you, even if I wanted to, Liam." His voice is strangely resigned, like he's thought this through. "You'll find me, and if this doesn't happen something even worse will."

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