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Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, as if it matters when he can’t see anyways. It’s more to hold the tears back, but after a moment they start to seep out anyways, because he can’t stop his hips from rolling forward into the touch.
John coos happily at him. “That’s it. Just like that.” He unzips his pants and presses his cock against Malcolm’s ass, and Malcolm shrieks.
“Oh, no...that’s for later...not yet...not now...that’s a reward you don’t deserve yet, little one.”
***
As soon as John had spoken those words Malcolm had determined that he’d do whatever he had to to ensure that he never deserved that particular reward.
But he didn’t think he’d have to hold on so long. He didn’t think that John would be just as skilled at breaking him down mentally as he was physically. It had barely been a week, as far as he could tell, and he was tired . So fucking tired. It’s all he can think of as he lays on the floor, head cradled in John’s lap, body shaking…
John hadn’t given him his clothes back, but he had given him a blanket. A thin barrier of protection against the cold cement floor and the chill damp air of the basement. When he was in the basement, he was chained to the floor by his wrists. But he wasn’t always kept there. John took him out occasionally, like a pet.
John would bring him outside--he let him take his blanket except for on one occasion, when the sun was particularly bright and warm and the chances that he’d get hypothermia were low.
He’d bring him outside and force him to walk around the cabin several times, until Malcolm couldn’t feel his feet from the cold and he was stumbling, shivering so badly he could barely stay upright. Then John would bring him inside and force him into the shower, he’d spray him down and soap him up, running his hands over every inch of Malcolm’s body each time. He’d let Malcolm relieve himself, too, let him use the toilet rather than the bucket he’d left for him in the basement. He hadn’t given Malcolm any solid food since bringing him to the cabin, and barely enough water and protein shakes to keep him functioning, so his need for the bathroom was… lessened. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the small luxury of using an actual toilet when it was afforded to him.
A couple of times, John had ended up in the shower with him, naked and hard. He still hadn’t taken Malcolm, not like that, but his intentions and desires were clear. It was as if he was punishing himself, or testing his own resolve, determined to bring Bright to his lowest point before he indulged himself in that final act of possession. Malcolm wasn’t sure if John saw Malcolm as the one who was unworthy or himself, but he did his best to resist the man at every turn.
He couldn’t always. Those times when John had joined him in the shower, he’d brought Malcolm off, just as he had that first day. Showers were one of the few, if not the only, comforts Malcolm was given and as his cold and tired body had warmed under the luxurious spray of water he hadn’t been able to fight the physical reactions to what his body perceived as even more good feelings, as pleasure.
He didn’t want it, would never want it, he knew, but he’d quickly learned to accept it, to allow it. Fighting against John was futile--he was weak, spent most of his time in chains, had received multiple beatings since John had taken him for his insolence and refusal to bend to John’s will. Even when John brought him outside, his hands were still chained and he was exposed to the elements, even with his flimsy blanket. He didn’t know where he was or how far from civilization the cabin was located. Help could be a short walk down the hill, or hours away on foot, and Malcolm wouldn’t survive hours.
And, unless he killed John, the man would just come after him, anyways, and Malcolm shuddered to think of what would happen to him then. So, he held onto the hope that his team would find him, and he gave in.
He still cried, each time John touched him, got him hard, forced him to come and turned him into a quivering mess in the other man’s arms. He begged him to stop, told him no, that he didn’t want it.
But he didn’t try to stave off the inevitable. He didn’t try to fight it, mentally. He just… let it happen. Let his body react, feel, respond. The faster it happened, the faster that John left him alone.
After five days… a week?--too long, and yet not long enough for him to feel this awful--John had become the most important part of his existence. He controlled everything: When Malcolm slept, when he woke, when and what and how much sustenance he was given, whether he was allowed to be warm or left naked and shivering in the cold, when he could move and when he had to stay in the same place, chained to the floor or hanging from the ceiling for hours .
He talked to Malcolm, too. About his father, about the things that his father had done, that Malcolm hadn’t been able to stop. He tells him about their camping trip, that Malcolm had stabbed someone under his father’s watchful gaze and guiding hands. That Malcolm had stabbed John, too, because his father had wanted him dead. Malcolm doesn’t believe any of it.
John isn’t as polished or suave as Martin is, as Malcolm is, but he’s just as manipulating and deceiving, twisting truths together with half-lies and creating a reality that Malcolm doesn’t trust but can’t question because he doesn’t remember, not really, and what he does remember increasingly begins to mirror what John is telling him. He doesn't know if John is planting false memories in his mind, or if his words are bringing Malcolm’s true memories to the forefront. So he denies them all, refuses to accept what John says or what he sees in his dreams when he’s allowed to sleep fitfully.
John never lets him sleep for long, and yet he always seems perfectly rested. It takes Malcolm two or three days to realize that the times when John chains him to the ceiling--leaves him mostly hanging, feet barely touching the floor, always blindfolded--that the other man sleeps. It’s the only time Malcolm’s left alone long enough, and John knows that he’s in misery the entire time, unable to sleep or find a more comfortable position. Malcolm is left desperately waiting for John to return, reduced to sobbing with relief when he does.
Every time it's the same. When John finally returns to the basement he says nothing. Sometimes Malcolm hears him coming down the stairs and into the basement, but sometimes John’s presence takes him by surprise. He thinks that John must watch him before bringing him down. He never speaks first, always touches, always somewhere that Malcolm doesn’t want him touching--low on his belly, the inside of his thighs, his nipples or ass. He murmurs his appreciation, runs the tips of his fingers over Malcolm’s skin until he’s a desperate, sobbing mess, until he begs John to stop, to let him down.
After he cuts him free he settles Malcolm’s upper body in his lap, massages his sore shoulders, drops tender kisses onto his head and cheeks and even mouth and Malcolm is too weak and sore and grateful to be down to fight it. It’s in those moments that John tells him how good he is, John’s good boy, how pretty he is and how John can’t wait to make him his. Tells him how much he loves it when he cries, when he begs.
This time starts the same as all the rest. Malcolm hears John come into the basement and he starts to beg immediately.
“J-john, please. Please, it hurts . Please let me down now.”
His shoulders feel as if they are on fire, each day--night?--adding to the stress and the strain with not nearly enough time in between for them to recover. And he’s cold. The basement isn’t warm by any means and it’s never been frigid, only uncomfortably cool, but this time Malcolm can’t stop shivering and it’s put even more strain on his abused muscles.
He gets no response and he starts to cry; silent, desperate tears that fall freely down his cheeks.
John swipes a thumb across his face, startling him, wiping the tears away before cupping the back of his head and pulling him in for a kiss.
He doesn’t kiss him back, but he doesn’t fight it. When John passes his tongue over his lips he presses them together, but a sharp pull on his hair makes him gasp and gives John the access he needs, licking into his mouth.
Malcolm whines, a wordless plea for mercy. Finally John relents, breaking the kiss and freeing the chain that connects Malcolm’s wrists from the hook where it rests. He lowers Malcolm gently--he only dropped him once, when he was angry, in the beginning. When Malcolm would still scream and fight, before he began to whimper and cry and plead like he does now.
John settles Malcolm’s naked body on the floor and covers him with his blanket and begins to massage the abused muscles in his shoulders. Malcolm continues to shake and weep, a whispered ‘thank you’ escaping his lips before he can stop himself. John pauses in his ministrations and Malcolm glances up, afraid that he’d somehow angered the man. But John is looking down at him with a strangely gratified gleam in his eye, a look bordering obsession that Malcolm has become all too familiar with by now. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles before returning to his task.
John quickly grows bored with simply massaging his shoulders and soon his hands begin to drift, sliding down over Malcolm’s arms, across his chest and down over his ribs. Malcolm is still shivering from the cold and the constant stress his body has been under and it masks the shudder that goes through him every time John touches him like this, like John owns him, owns his body.
He doesn’t know how it happens, his mind is….gone… he’s drifting somewhere else, unaware of what his body is doing, an escape mechanism from the pain and discomfort. John’s getting hard, the bulge noticeable through his pants and Malcolm can feel him growing against his cheek. He turns his head, mindlessly, curious or confused, he doesn’t know. Turns his head so that his mouth rests over the bulge and John freezes, his hands resting on either side of Malcolm’s ribcage.
“My, my, little Malcolm, what’s this?” he whispers, and Malcolm doesn’t know what to do, he feels like a deer trapped in headlights, looking up at John with wide, frightened eyes, afraid to move.
John settles one hand over Malcolm’s throat and cups his chin in his fingers with one hand and starts to rub himself through his pants with the other, groaning softly at the touch.
“Malcolm, Malcolm . You want to please me, I know you do. I know it scares you to admit it. So, here’s the deal, little Malcolm,” he murmurs, then starts to work at his fly, pulling his hard cock free from the confines of his pants. “Give in, little Malcolm. Mm, yes. Give me what I want, what you want. If you do that, I promise I’ll reward you. I won’t string you up, ever again.”
Malcolm’s eyes grow even wider, and he flicks his gaze over to John’s cock.
“I just want your mouth, little Malcolm. That’s all for now. Just, let me..” John continues to say quietly, and he takes himself in hand, rubs the head of his cock over Malcolm’s lips.
Malcolm shudders, and this time it’s obvious, but he doesn’t turn away. He couldn’t if he wanted too, with John’s fingers still gripping onto his chin. But he knows, somehow, that John is telling the truth, that if he gives the man what he wants, submits to him willingly, then John will reward him for it.
And he can’t— he can’t — bear to spend much more time strung up, hanging from his wrists, shoulders taking the brunt of his weight, naked and exposed. It's a small price to pay, really. It's just a blow job, he just has to bring John off and then he’ll be spared from the ordeal of being strung up again.
He looks back up at John, meeting his eyes and nods, the motion nearly imperceptible, then, slowly, deliberately, nuzzles against John’s cock, flicking his tongue out to lick a stripe across the head.
John moans loudly, head falling back, and his fingers dig into Malcolm’s jaw painfully. Malcolm whines softly, turning his head back and forth in an attempt to loosen John’s grip.
John relents and lets go, strokes Malcolm’s cheek and moves his hand till it’s resting on the crown of his head, fingers caressing his scalp in a gentle, almost kind movement that Malcolm has to fight the urge to lean into.
“You promise,” he whispers, desperate for the reassurance. “You promise that if I do this, you won’t leave me hanging from the ceiling again? You swear, to God?” The last bit is a stretch, a gamble. It could set John off, but Malcolm needs to know.
John’s fingers tighten in his hair and for a moment he fears he’s pushed too far, but they relax a moment later and John nods.
“I promise, little Malcolm. Swear to God. Now, give me what I want. What we both want.”
Malcolm wants to scream, to gag already, and he hasn’t even begun. But he pushes those thoughts down and sets to work.
He doesn’t tease or try to draw it out. He swallows down as much of John’s cock as he can, wraps a fist around the base and moves it in tandem with his mouth. He makes it wet and sloppy because it makes it easier, better, because it will bring John off faster. Malcolm isn’t a stranger to sucking cock, and John isn’t so large that swallowing him down is a struggle. John seems content to leave Malcolm to his work. He groans, strokes Malcolm’s head and back, but doesn’t try to control Malcolm’s movements, keeps his hips still rather than fucking up into his mouth.
It surprises Malcolm. He’d expected much more aggression from John, expected that the need to control and dominate would quickly win out, but John seems to be too lost in his own ecstasy to think about anything else. Malcolm can feel John growing tense beneath him, senses that he’s close and redoubles his efforts, sucking and licking, tightening his grip just so and quickening his pace. It's only a matter of moments before John cries out and starts to come. Malcolm swallows it dutifully, continues to work him through his orgasm, then cleans him off with soft kitten licks till John is hissing in discomfort at the over-stimulation and pulls him off, practically tossing him to the floor.
Malcolm lays still for a moment, catching his breath, mind racing as he thinks through what he’s just done. He can’t process it, can’t even begin to consider the implications. John lets out a satisfied groan and stands slowly, tucks himself back in and stretches before looking down at Malcolm. He bends over and grabs hold of the chain between Malcolm’s wrists and uses it to pull Malcolm to where the lock and ring are set into the floor. Malcolm barely manages to get to his knees and shuffle along in time to keep from being physically dragged across the concrete.
John locks him in, then drops to a crouch in front of Malcolm, reaching out to run a hand through his hair once more, tender, almost loving, as it had been earlier. Malcolm shudders and fights the urge to shrink away from his touch, knowing that John would not react well to such a response.
“God, little Malcolm. What a treasure you are. I knew I could make you mine, I knew you’d understand, someday. This is all I want from you, Malcolm. You, coming to me willingly. Submitting to me. Serving me.”
Malcolm shakes his head, pushing himself up so he can look John in the eyes.
“That’s not what this is,” he insists, voice full of venom and disgust. “It was a trade, a bargain, nothing more. I know what you want from me, what you want to turn me into, and I won’t do it. I won’t kill for you. I won’t kill for myself.”
There’s a flash of anger in John’s eyes as Malcolm’s words but he clamps down on it, hides it behind a sickeningly sweet smile as he pats Malcolm’s head like a child.
“Oh Malcolm. That’s alright. I’m a patient man. You’ve given me so much today, I can wait a little longer for the rest.”
With that he stands, and leaves.
John is true to his word. He doesn’t hang Malcolm from the hook in the ceiling again after that, he let’s Malcolm sleep— as well as he can. But he also expects more from Malcolm, now. It becomes clear that their exchange of favors hadn’t been a one time deal and Malcolm finds himself on his knees before the man, servicing him diligently as a thank you after each chance he’s given to sleep.
He realizes quickly that giving in had been a mistake. He’d set in motion something that he was now powerless to stop. He hadn’t sated any of John’s desires with his small act of submission, he’d only made them stronger. John is more insistent than ever and touches him constantly. He lets Malcolm upstairs during the day, only to make him kneel on the ground besides John’s chair, and he keeps them there for hours, hands shackled behind his back.
When Malcolm is good, when he stays upright, when he listens to John’s lectures about his mission and the sin of his victims and responds appropriately, he’s rewarded with gentle touches to his head and face and praise from John about what a good boy he is, how close he is to being ready.
When he’s bad, when he drifts off, slumping in place or leaning against the chair, when he lets his disgust at John’s rhetoric or the horrible details he shares about his killings, then he’s punished. John likes to slap him, knock him over, then drag him upright by his hair.
One time, he actually falls asleep for a few moments.
John steps out of the room, and he’s just so tired, and it's warm in the main room of the cabin, the carpet is soft and the chair is, too, and he’s asleep before he’s even fully resting against the cushions. He’s forcefully dragged from his slumber by John’s hand in his hair, lifting him to his feet and tossing him over the arm of one of the chairs. John beats him with a belt, raining blows down on his ass and thighs, occasionally striking higher and hitting Malcolm’s hands and arms where they’re still bound behind him, screaming in fury about how lazy Malcolm is, how disobedient and ungrateful.
Malcolm’s too shocked by the sudden violence of the beating to even respond at first, crying out weakly until he finally finds his voice.
“John, I’m sorry! Please stop, please . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he pleads. “Please, please, please…” he repeats with each blow, tears streaming down his face.
The beating doesn’t last long but it leaves Malcolm a sobbing, shaking mess, gasping from the pain radiating from his back. John hauls him to his feet and drags him to the basement stairs and for a moment Malcolm fears that he’s going to throw him down, but he doesn’t. He drags him viciously and Malcolm does stumble at the bottom, misses two steps and falls to a heap on the floor. John leaves him there, turning and going right back up the stairs, slamming the door shut.
Malcolm manages to push himself over to his blanket, and while he’s not able to wrap himself in it he can at least lay on top of it, a small barrier between his battered body and the cold hard floor.
He doesn’t know how long John leaves him there.
John doesn’t say anything when he comes down the stairs next, just frees one of Malcolm’s wrists from its shackle so he can bind them in front of him once more. Malcolm can’t contain the hiss of pain that escapes him as his aching arms are forced to move again after being held behind him for so long.
John still says nothing, but once Malcolm’s wrists are secured again he rubs the ache from his shoulders, like he used to. Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat at the surprising show of kindness. For the second time since John has taken him he finds himself saying thank you to his captor, the relief from the pain overwhelming every other rational thought.
“Oh, Malcolm. Little Malcolm. You made me so angry. You were doing so well, being so good and then you defied me. You were so close, so close and I was so mad,” John speaks finally, muttering in disjointed sentences and Malcolm isn't sure what he’s talking about but he doesn’t dare interrupt.
“We’ll try again. It’s okay now, you’ve learned, right? You have to listen to me. To give your body over to me, I’ll take care of you if you do,” John continues and suddenly things start to make more sense.
John wants his complete submission, body and mind. He doesn’t want Malcolm to do anything unless he allows it. He doesn’t want to force Malcolm’s compliance but he does demand it and is slowly but surely breaking down Malcolm’s defenses, his own sense of control over his body. It’s only a matter of time before he gets what he wants. And once his body goes, his mind is sure to follow.
“Come on, it's time to go outside. You need to walk,” John tells him. It’s not a request or a suggestion, it's a command and Malcolm obeys because he doesn’t have any other choice.
He grips tightly to his blanket, one small act of defiance, silently willing John not to take it from him. John doesn’t even acknowledge it and Malcolm wraps it tightly around his own shoulders as they walk upstairs.
There’s snow on the ground. Malcolm stumbles, stopping before stepping down off the porch and looking down at the solid layer white that covers everything. He turns to John, eyes wide in shock and fear.
“John, there’s--I can’t. There’s snow, I don’t have any shoes.”
John scowls and shoves him forcefully off the porch.
“Walk, Malcolm. You need your exercise, fresh air.”
Malcolm begins to walk, setting a brisk pace in an attempt to keep his body temperature up, to keep the blood flowing. He doesn’t even make it around the cabin twice before he’s stumbling and swaying so badly that he can barely stay upright. He nearly falls, barely catching himself against a tree.
“Why are you stopping? You’re not even close to being done!” John exclaims.
“J-john. Please. P-please don’t make me stay out here. P-please l-let me go inside. I c-can exercise inside. I’ll still b-be good. Just… inside. P-please,” Malcolm begs, teeth chattering so badly that he can barely get the words out.
John lashes out, grasping hold of the blanket and yanking Malcolm away from the tree, shaking him violently as he yells, “you haven’t learned anything! You’re lazy and weak! Disobedient!”
He yanks hard enough to pull the blanket free from around Malcolm’s body, sending him falling to the ground at the same time.
Malcolm cries out in shock at the cold, mind racing as he struggles to think of a way to appease John, to make him see that Malcolm physically can’t continue like this without risking serious consequences. Even if he doesn’t get frostbite or hypothermia, he’s too thin, too malnourished and weak. If he gets sick it could kill him.
He pushes himself weakly up to his hands and knees, shuffles forward till he’s in front of John. He grabs hold of John’s pant leg, pulling himself up until he can rest his head against the man’s hip, pressing his body against the other man’s, looking for warmth however he can get it.
“John, I’m s-sorry. I’m s-so sorry. Please, p-please believe me. It’s t-too cold. That’s all… it’s just t-too cold. I want to obey, b-but I can’t,” he sobs out, his whole body shaking as he begs John to understand.
He doesn’t dare look up, keeps his head bowed, subservient, subdued, let’s John hear him sob.
Something he does seems to be working. John relents, pats Malcolm’s head gently and then drapes the blanket back over his shoulders.
“You are sorry, aren’t you? You want to please me, but you’re not strong enough, are you? Not yet,” John murmurs as he continues to run his fingers through Malcolm’s hair.
Malcolm shakes his head. “No, no I’m not, I’m not strong,” he whispers.
It’s a concession he’s willing to make, because it’s mostly true. His mind is still his own, but right now his body is too weak to try to resist John.
John cups a hand around the back of his neck and pulls his face into his groin, rubs against him once and Malcolm shudders, a wave of fear coursing through him as he realizes what John will demand from him in return for this leniency, this concession to Malcolm’s weakness. But he doesn’t fight, doesn’t try to pull away. He can’t, he needs John to let him go inside. He sobs as John rolls his hips once more, and can feel the evidence of arousal growing there already.
“John, p-please. I-inside,” he begs.
John wraps a hand around his bicep and halls him to his feet. He shoves Malcolm forward, pushing him along roughly.
“Oh Malcolm, you’re ready now, aren’t you? Little Malcolm, so eager to please,” John keeps saying behind him and Malcolm nearly gags and the sickeningly sweet tone in John’s voice, the anticipation .
He’s not sure what he was expecting to happen next, but being led--dragged, really--back into the basement is a surprise. He can’t feel his feet and John has to practically carry him down. When John leads him to stand beneath the hook in the ceiling and begins to raise his hands up, Malcolm nearly panics. He shrinks away, tries to pull the chain free from John’s grip.
“No, John, you swore!” he exclaims.
John yanks him forward, easily overpowering his weak attempts to fight against him.
“Malcolm, none of that now, no. Don’t fight me. You’re ready, I know you are. You’ve come so far. You couldn’t please me outside, but you can now, and you want to, right? You said you wanted to obey me?”
Malcolm doesn’t know how to respond, he stands still, breathing hard as his mind races and realization sets in. When John lifts his arms once more and slips the chain over the hook he doesn’t fight it.
“You promised,” he whispers brokenly.
“Oh, Malcolm,” John soothes, cupping his face, the act sickeningly tender. He rests his forehead against Malcolm’s for a moment and repeats Malcolm’s name again. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you here, and I won’t. I won’t leave you ever again. I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to make you mine, now, and I’ll never let you go.”
“Oh god,” Malcolm sobs out.
“Mmm, not quite, little Malcolm. I’m just his messenger. But I can bring you closer to him, I will.”
John circles around behind him then and Malcolm tenses. His mind flashes back to the very first time John had had him like this. This time at least he isn’t blindfolded. It’s a small consolation.
He should be used to John’s hands on his body by now, but the touches still make him flinch. John runs his fingers lightly over the welts on his ass and thighs before grabbing hold of Malcolm’s hips and pulling him flush against his body. Malcolm cries out as John’s clothes rub against the still sore welts but John silences him, slips two fingers into his mouth.
“Suck, little Malcolm. I know you know how,” he murmurs.
Malcolm complies, closing his eyes and wetting John’s fingers obediently.
John let’s his other hand roam over Malcolm’s body, cupping him and pulling at his cock once before trailing his fingers up Malcolm’s stomach and to his chest. He plucks at a nipple, works the nub to hardness before moving to the other.
Malcolm whines around the fingers in his mouth, shakes his head as John plays with him. He hates that he’s responding, hates that John has conditioned him so well in such a short period of time. He’s getting hard already and John has barely touched him.
“Oh, little Malcolm,” John sighs, resting his head on Malcolm’s shoulder to look down his body, taking in his response. “You really are ready for me, aren’t you? You want this, too. Just like you’ve wanted everything else. Wanted to please me, still want to, don’t you?” he coos into Malcolm’s ear.
Malcolm shakes his head, tears falling freely down his cheeks but he doesn’t stop suckling on John’s fingers, wetting them.
“It’s alright, Malcolm. I’ll take care of you. You’re being so good.”
John forces his fingers further back into Malcolm’s mouth, groaning in appreciation when Malcolm jerks against him, gagging. “You’re going to feel so good, aren’t you, little Malcolm?” he asks, voice low and gravely, filled with lust.
Finally he pulls his fingers free and Malcolm sucks in a ragged breath, sagging back against John.
“You’re so pretty when you cry, Malcolm. God, the noises you make when I touch you.” He returns his fingers to Malcolm’s nipples, uses both hands to tease them to hardness again, circling the nubs, pinching and twisting, drawing gasps and whines from Malcolm with increasing frequency as his touch sends sparks of sensation straight to Malcolm’s cock. He whines, shaking his head where it rests against John’s shoulder.
“No, no, no,” he whispers, pleading, voice ragged.
John grinds himself into Malcolm’s ass, rubbing himself there for several long moments, still touching and teasing, playing with Malcolm’s body freely.
“I’ve waited so long for this, Malcolm. So long for you to give yourself over to me, and you’re doing so well. I haven't even touched you there yet, not really, and you’re already leaking for me,” John coos and Malcolm chokes on a sob, realizes that John’s right, that he’s not only so hard it hurts but that he’s leaking pre-come from the tip of his cock and he hates himself for it.
“Please John, just…” he begins, but he cuts himself off, snaps his mouth shut before he can say anymore.
It’s too late, though. He’s already said too much.
“Oh Malcolm, what was that? Are you begging for it now? Huh? Are you so eager for me?” he crows, exuberant in the face of Malcolm’s desperation.
He doesn’t, he doesn’t want it at all, he just wants it to be over . He wants John to stop teasing him, wants him to fuck him already, to be done with it.
It does the trick, though. John stops teasing him and steps away, and Malcolm knows he’s stripping down, can hear the rustle of fabric and clinking of his belt as he steps out of his pants. John steps back in and he’s fully naked. He grips hard to Malcolm’s hips and rubs his cock against Malcolm’s ass, slips it between his thighs and thrusts once, twice, moaning loudly as he does.
“Waited so long for this, little Malcolm. So long. You’re perfect, so perfect. All marked up already, too. You're nearly mine,” he gasps out.
He pulls back again and presses the tip of his cock against Malcolm’s entrance and Malcolm tenses, shrieking in panic.
“No, John, wait!” he cries out, twisting violently away. “You can’t… not like this. You’ll hurt me, John.”
“I don’t care,” John hisses out, grabbing hold of him once more and jerking him back into place.
“Oh god, no. Fuck, John, please. Please you have to… I can’t take you like this. You’ll fucking break me John, please.”
John doesn’t listen, starts to line himself up again and Malcolm can’t quite bite back the cry that escapes his lips when he starts to push in.
“John I swear, I swear I’ll make it worth your while, just stop,” he begs desperately, one more time.
John pauses, pulls back. “What do you mean?”
“If you… prepare me, slick me up at least, I can… I’ll… you can take me again. I’ll give you whatever you want, I won’t fight it… however you want me,” Malcolm gasps out.
He can’t believe the words coming from his own mouth, the promises he’s making, the way he’s offering himself, willingly, to John. But he’ll do almost anything if it means that John won’t rape him like this, dry and not stretched at all. He knows that John won’t stop, even if he's torn and bleeding, and he’ll likely take him that way again and again, and he can’t let that happen.
John groans, low and long and Malcolm can feel the vibrations of it against his back.
“Oh, Malcolm. Mmm , the things you do to me. Hearing you beg like that, offering yourself to me… I can barely wait… I want you so badly.”
Malcolm sobs, head dropping forward in defeat and his body begins to shake in anticipation.
“Shh, shh, little Malcolm. None of that. You’re right, you’re right, I shouldn’t, there’s no need for that. You’ve been so good, and I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”
John brings his fingers back to Malcolm’s lips and he sucks them in willingly, eagerly, runs his tongue over them, get’s them as wet as he can. Spit is a poor substitute for lube, but it’s better than nothing.
John moves quickly, clearly impatient. Once he deems his fingers to be wet enough he slips them down between Malcolm’s cheeks and presses the tip of his index finger in. It burns still, he’s going too fast and they're not wet enough, but Malcolm wills himself to relax and it helps. John opens him up mechanically, slips the second finger in and starts to scissor them almost immediately, drawing a cry from Malcolm’s lips that he ignores.
“Wetter, please. John, fuck, it hurts,” Malcolm pleads.
John thrusts his fingers back into Malcolm’s mouth and he nearly gags around them but he doesn’t dare pull away, wets them once more as best he can.
By the time John decides he’s done Malcolm is fairly confident that he won’t do any serious damage. Much to Malcolm’s relief John spits into his own hand when he’s ready to slick himself up.
“No more stalling, Malcolm. You’re ready for me now, and I’m not waiting any longer,” John whispers into his ear.
He wraps one arm around the front of Malcolm’s body, grabbing hold of his hip, forearm across his belly keeping him firmly in place as he lines himself up and starts to push in.
Malcolm forces himself to breathe slowly and stay relaxed, focuses all his energy on not fighting against the slow, painful slide of John’s cock in his ass. He’s surprised and disgustingly grateful that John goes slowly. He pushes in in one long stroke, but leaves time for Malcolm to adjust as he does.
John moans loudly when he finally bottoms out, dropping his head against the base of Malcolm’s neck.
“Oh, Malcolm , little Malcolm, you feel so good,” John tells him.
He starts to move, then, pulling out nearly all the way then pushing back in quickly. Malcolm cries out, it still hurts and it’s a struggle not to fight against John, even though he knows that will only hurt him more. John’s grip on his hips is strong and he moves Malcolm how he wants him, pulls him and pushes him, uses his body as he pleases. Malcolm loses track of time, of himself, as John fucks him.
The pain fades eventually and then John shifts, holds Malcolm’s hips at a slightly different angle and his next stroke draws a shocked gasp from Malcolm, this one from the sudden surge of pleasure that courses through him as John manages to slam into his prostate.
“Oh, yes, there you are, little Malcolm. Does that feel good?” John moans.
“Fuck you,” Malcolm manages to gasp out, but the effect is lost when John hits just the right spot again, drawing another ragged cry from him.
“Now, now, Malcolm, don’t be like that. You’re enjoying yourself, I can tell. Oh .. yes… I’m close, little Malcolm. Will you come with me?”
John mouths along Malcolm’s neck, pressing kisses to his hair and sucking marks into the sensitive skin along his neck. Malcolm twists his head away, groaning, his cock hardening again, body responding once more to John’s ministrations.
John pushes in all the way then pauses. He presses his whole body along the length of Malcolm’s back, wraps one hand around Malcolm’s neck and tilts his head back against his shoulder, holding just tight enough that it’s a struggle for Malcolm to breath. He brings his other hand down to grasp Malcolm’s cock, fists it in a too tight grip that draws a broken cry from Malcolm. He let’s up, barely, and starts to move once more, continues to fuck into Malcolm with quick, shallow thrusts, matching the pace with his hand around Malcolm’s cock.
“Come for me, little Malcolm. Show me how good you are, how much you want to be mine,” he murmurs into Malcolm’s ear.
Malcolm chokes, his desperate sobs catching in his constricted throat. Tears start to form in his eyes once more as he struggles to draw in a breath. Despite everything he can feel himself getting close and he gives in, like he has so many times before, gives himself over to John’s touch, John’s control. He comes a moment later, moaning brokenly as he does.
John snarls out a curse, hips stuttering, the hand that was on Malcolm’s cock going to his hip as he chases his release. He sinks his teeth into the muscle of Malcolm’s shoulder, closing his lips around the skin and sucking, groaning loudly as he comes, burying himself as deep into Malcolm’s ass as he can as he spills out his release.
John releases his hold on Malcolm and he can finally breathe properly again, sucking in heaving lungfuls of air. His whole body begins to quiver as the reality of everything that had happened starts to overwhelm him.
“Malcolm, Malcolm, my Malcolm… none of that now, no, don’t cry,” John soothes.
He brushes away a tear, then tucks a finger under Malcolm’s chin, presses his thumb there and tilts his head to the side, drawing him into a tender kiss that only makes Malcolm cry harder.
John lets him down and removes the shackles from around his wrists, then lifts him up, bridal style, carries him upstairs to the shower. He cleans them both off, touching Malcolm constantly except for when he quickly soaps himself up and rinses. It's too much, and Malcolm feels himself shutting down. John’s hands on him, all over him, never leaving him, his lips pressing kisses to Malcolm’s face and shoulders shut his mind down more and more with each passing moment.. He feels owned, possessed, like his body is no longer his own. It’s how John has wanted him all along.
The other man guides him from the shower, pats him dry, leads him into a bedroom and lays him down, arranging him how he wants under the covers. He fastens a shackle around one ankle, but leaves him free otherwise.
Malcolm drifts… John comes to him, again, and again. He loses track of time, of frequency. John holds Malcolm to his word, takes him how he wants him. He brings grease from the kitchen, a small mercy.
Malcolm comes again, the first time. Another time, John takes him hard and fast, pounding into him with no care to Malcolm’s pleasure. The next time he’s tender, holding Malcolm from behind and rocking gently into him, and he makes Malcolm cry as he spills into John’s hand, a final surrender.
It can’t be more than 36 hours since John brought him back inside, since he raped him the first time. There are heavy curtains over the window that block out most of the light, but Malcolm can tell when the sun goes down, when morning comes once more. He sleeps, fitfully, between sessions of fucking. John never stays. Malcolm would strangle him in a heartbeat if he did, and they both know it.
The team finds him on the bed, naked and bruised. Gil gets there first, takes one look at Malcolm and throws out a hand, stopping Dani and JT from rounding the corner or entering the room. He tells them to secure the rest of the building, make sure that Watkins is contained and secured in the back of a squad car. Tells them to find clothes, a key.
He approaches slowly, speaks quietly, covers Malcolm in a blanket before sinking to the bed beside him.
It takes Malcolm a few long moments to focus on his face, to realize he’s really there, and then he starts to cry. Gil pulls him into his arms, holding him close as he sobs.
He’s safe now, free from John, but the struggle has just begun.