#Mr. Torley

[peachy-panic]

Was there ever a time mr torley tried to make Jaime feel…good?

TW NONCON TALK BELOW THE CUT

He for sure tried to make Jaime feel (physically) good, only because he saw early on how that made him feel extremely (emotionally) not good.

I don’t believe I’ve written that out explicitly, but I did write a pretty detailed lead-up to something like that happening HERE.

[dyercoproperty]

Thank you Mrs Torley. #review #facebook #propertyinvestment (at Dyer & Co Property) https://www.instagram.com/p/BqFfmoJlQbW/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=kxruam399gb9

[torley]

The Disney mashup I wanna see: Mr. Toad's Mania for Mater.

via Torley http://ift.tt/PXUxUe

[peachy-panic]

Lonely

Hi everyone, I'm alive! Have some Torley Era Jaime content.

This kind goes along with a (much happier) future piece I'm hoping to finish writing and post soon, so stay tuned for some better vibes. For now:

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, hunger, the sadness of stray cats (no animals were harmed in the making), brief suicidal ideations, gun mention, implied noncon

Restless. That is how Jaime thinks of the long weekdays in the Torley house, when the boys are at school and his Keeper is at work, and Jaime is left on his own until they return home to demand his attention. 

It is not that he is without work; Mr. Torley holds high expectations for his home, and Jaime strives to meet them all, even if it means double, triple, cleaning over a room he’s already scrubbed bare or taking all of the glassware out of the cabinets just to polish and arrange them again. But there are days when he finds himself with idle hands, in the time between completing his chores and his keeper’s return. That’s when anxiety creeps in. He knows it’s a conditioned thought, but it’s in him too deep to ignore. He can’t rest, can’t be useless, can’t be found being lazy when Mr. Torley comes home. 

It gets lonely, though, these pockets of restlessness. He is so fucking. lonely.

Sometimes he wishes that he had permission to go out on errands—collecting groceries, making returns, dropping off suits at the dry cleaner—just so that he can have a reason to talk to another person. He was trained to believe that many domestic contracts allow for that kind of thing, but Mr. Torley has made it clear that Jaime’s place is in the house. In the month that he has been here, he has never once been allowed to step foot outside, and he knows better than to ask. 

He is usually good at avoiding temptation, but on one Friday morning, Jaime is caught off guard.

He is cleaning the sliding glass doors at the back of the house when he catches a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Jaime flinches, startled, but when he looks into the backyard, he finds that the source of the motion was a fluffy, white cat, now tucked halfway behind a thick tree root, peeking up at Jaime with obvious apprehension. Through the thick glass, he can make out a muffled meow.

It must be the same cat Kade saw last night. Jaime hadn’t seen it himself, but he overheard the argument between him and his father from the next room. 

“Dad, we should keep her!”

“It probably already has a home, Kade.”

“No it doesn’t,” he shot back. “Look, she doesn’t have a collar.”

Ubidden, Jaime’s hand rose to the metal band at his own throat. Funny, he thought, how a collar is the mark of a safe home to some. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s our responsibility.”

��Daddy,” Jaime recognized the edge of frustrated tears slipping into Kade’s voice. “What if she’s hungry?”

“She’s fine.”

“Can I give her some water at least?”

“Kadence.” Even from the next room, Jaime couldn’t help but flinch at the impatient tone in his Keeper’s voice. “You will not give this cat anything, do you understand me? You feed it once and it will keep coming back. That’s the last thing I need to deal with.”

“But Dad—”

“I said, do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

Without really thinking about it, Jaime stuffs the washrag into his back pocket and crouches down, putting himself closer to eye level. The cat perks his head up in response, fixing him with a steadier stare. 

“Hi,” Jaime mouths, lifting one hand to wiggle his fingers in a half-wave. The cat puts a hesitant paw forward, and Jaime smiles. “Hello, there.”

Another soft meow, and then it pulls its paw back. 

“Don’t go,” he whispers, struck by the sudden, urgent fear that it will dart away and leave him alone. All at once, it is Jaime’s greatest wish to keep this small animal in his sights, if only for a little while. If only to feel just a little less alone for a few minutes. It's desperate and sad, but it's true.

Jaime’s eyes flick up to the latch on the sliding door, just above his head. It would only be for a moment. Just a moment, just long enough to see if the cat will come closer. He won’t be breaking any rules—not really. 

When he looks back to the cat, he sees that it has moved several paces closer, and it’s all the push he needs. Slowly, Jaime reaches up and flips the lock open. The sound is enough to freeze the small animal in place, but it doesn’t retreat. Still, he slows his movements even further as he wraps his fingers around the handle and pulls it to the side. The burst of clean, fresh air on his face is the best thing he’s felt in months. 

The noise of the door startles the cat into motion again, but when Jaime stretches out his arm, his palm open, it bounds toward him instead of away. It slows its approach as it gets within a couple feet of him, stretching out its tiny, pink nose to sniff at his hand. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, keeping himself still and steady. When the tip of its nose makes contact with Jaime’s finger, the cat only jumps back for half a second before it twists its neck, pushing its tiny head into Jaime’s outstretched palm. 

A sound bubbles out of Jaime’s mouth, and it takes longer than it should to recognize it as his own laugh. Carefully, desperate not to scare it off, he scratches between the small animal’s ears and elicits a soft, vibrating pur. 

“Hi,” he says again through another burst of delighted laughter. “Hi, sweet girl.”

He’s not sure if he’s right about that guess, but it feels better than referring to it like an object. He decides to trust Kade’s intuition on this one. She meows up at him, and he chooses to take that as approval enough.

“Are you lost?” Jaime asks, noticing without conscious thought that his voice has risen to a pitch he only ever uses for Kade’s bedtime stories. “Do you have a home around here?”

He knows the answer before he asks it, though. The edges of her white fur are caked with mud and grime, and he can feel her spine a little too prominently through her skin. 

Jaime remembers well what that kind of hunger feels like. A dangerous thought begins to take shape. 

He glances at the clock in the hallway. He still has a couple of hours before he expects Mr. Torley home. That should be plenty to sneak something out. Even if it’s just some water. Jaime can clean it up and put everything away before his Keeper comes home. He never needs to know. 

He flinches as the thought lands. These are the kinds of things he’s not supposed to think about anymore. 

But Mr. Torley does plenty he isn’t supposed to do, doesn’t he?

He hesitates, just for a moment, before he stands, knees cracking. 

“Will you stay here for a minute?” he asks, scratching under her neck when she raises her head. “If I go to get you something to eat?”

She scuttles back a few steps at the sudden movement but doesn’t run away. He will have to hope for the best. 

In the kitchen, he goes straight for the plastic bowl in the cabinet that is designated for Jaime at mealtimes. He used to think about the fork scratches in the bottom when he first arrived at the house, wondering how many boys before him had eaten from the same bowl. He would never use any of Mr. Torley’s good dishes, but this serves him perfectly well as he fills it halfway with water from the tap. 

Food is another matter. Jaime has never had a cat before, but he knows the basics. Normally, he would expect to find a can of tuna or two stashed away in the back of someone’s pantry, but Mr. Torley isn’t the pantry staple kind of person. He likes his food fresh and expensive and expertly prepared, and—

Salmon. In the refrigerator, there is a small strip of leftover salmon filet from two nights ago. Mr. Torley never eats leftovers, and the boys hardly touched their fish to begin with. Jaime might have allowed himself to it before he would be expected to throw it away, but this is a far better use. No one will notice it's gone. No one will miss it.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Jaime carries out the bowl of water and the strip of salmon on a paper towel, relieved to find the cat waiting for him in the same spot. 

“Here you go,” he says, setting the offering on the cold cement patio. Her hunger becomes more apparent as she dives headfirst for the small piece of fish, tearing away large bites at a time. Jaime feels a pang of guilt that he doesn’t have more to offer her. 

She purrs as she eats, poking her head up every few seconds to glance at Jaime—either to check that he is still there, or to make sure he’s not coming close enough to snatch away her food. He sinks into a crouch a couple feet away, happy to watch her filling her belly for the night. In the back of his mind, somewhere well into dangerous territory, he starts to think of ways he might be able to sneak her food in the future. Maybe, if he’s smart about it and he plans his meals right, he will be able to save back small portions of whatever meat they have for dinner. Even if Jaime needs to slim down his own portion, it’s not a big deal to save a little bit for her the next day. Maybe if he only keeps her fed during the daytime, Mr. Torley won’t ever see her when he’s home. 

He is pulled from his planning when the cat suddenly stops eating and goes rigid. There are still a few bites left on the napkin, but she has turned her attention toward the side gate, her little ears twitching at something unseen. 

It takes Jaime another second, and then he hears it, too: the low, almost silent electric hum of Mr. Torley’s car in the driveway. 

He’s home early. Hours early. 

Fear ices him over, but Jaime has no time to freeze. He has less than a minute before Mr. Torley will make his way around to the front door.

It breaks his heart to have to pull the last bits of salmon away before she can eat them, but he hurriedly bunches the napkin into a fist, trying to pick up the tiny shreds that have fallen on the patio with shaky fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the cat, who has started meowing in objection. “I’m so sorry. You need to go now. You should go.”

He curses under his breath as he spills a bit of the water bowl, but that’s easily explainable enough, he supposes, if he’s asked about it, he just—

He has one foot through the patio doorway when the sound of the gate latch stops him cold. Mr. Torley never comes through the back gate. Why is he coming through the back gate?

“Stop,” Mr. Torley says simply, low and cold. Not a shout, but a single, flat syllable that raises the hair on the back of his neck. Jaime nearly drops the bowl of water with the lurch of dread that curls in his stomach. In his periphery, he sees a ball of white fur retreat across the yard and disappear. 

He knows that, no matter what happens now, the last thing he should do is keep his Keeper waiting, so Jaime pulls in a shuddering breath and turns to face him. 

“Put it down,” Mr. Torley says, “And come here.”

Of all the things he could have said, that unexpected directive inspires a spike of fear. Regardless, Jaime places the water bowl and the wadded napkin on the ground at his feet and makes his gallows march across the yard. 

He stops a couple of feet away, keeping his eyes trained on Mr. Torley’s expensive shoes. Helpless words race through his mind, scrambling to arrange themselves into a coherent explanation, an apology, anything that might soften the blow of his inevitable punishment. 

But his Keeper doesn’t ask for an explanation or an apology. He simply raises a hand to the gate latch—making Jaime flinch—and pulls it open once more. 

“Get in the car,” he says. 

Jaime’s eyes rise to meet his, confusion and alarm ringing through his skull. “Sir?”

Mr. Torley doesn’t move toward him, doesn’t raise his voice. He simply repeats, a beat slower this time, “Get. In. The car.”

On trembling, boneless legs, Jaime walks through the gate. He hasn’t been this far outside in nearly a month, but the terror and the strangeness of the moment takes away any joy he might have derived from the fresh air and sunlight. 

Mr. Torley’s car sits in the driveway, sleek black and still humming quietly. Jaime has never ridden inside, and he hesitates a moment before reaching for the back door handle. It’s locked, much like his throat when he tries to vocalize it. Instead, he stands silent and unwillingly disobedient with his fingers clutching the handle, waiting. Mr. Torley takes his time latching the gate and walking to the driver’s side. He gets in, closes the door, and fastens his seatbelt, all before Jaime hears the quiet click of his lock being undone. He scrambles into the backseat and barely closes the door behind him when the car lurches into motion. 

Jaime flattens himself against the leather seat back as they glide faster than what he’s sure is legal down the road. He doesn’t fasten his own seatbelt, too afraid in this heightened unknown to make a single move without explicit permission. His fists curl into the soft material of his pants, and he only realizes then that his feet are still bare. 

Where are they going? Where is he taking him? Why isn’t Mr. Torley saying anything? The quiet feels like a threat of its own, but Jaime doesn’t dare be the one to break it. Should he? Would an apology gain him any ground? What is expected of him here: his silence or his contrition?

The lump in his throat makes the decision for him, blocking any hope of words along with the ability to draw a full breath. 

That is, until, the car jets past a familiar sign on the highway, and cold acid releases into his bloodstream.

“Sir?” The words come out less than a whisper, and are met with more stony silence. Jaime grasps for another pull of oxygen and sits up further in his seat. “Mr. Torley?”

Nothing. 

Jaime’s heartbeat pounds in his fingertips, his temples, his throat, his chest. It could be a coincidence. Wherever they are heading could just be in the same direction. The sign doesn’t have to mean anything. 

And then they pass another sign, in bold, harsh, undeniable lettering: EXIT -  WRU PITTSBURG. The car glides smoothly onto the ramp, and the dam holding back Jaime’s panic bursts wide open. 

“Please,” Jaime whispers in horror as the first corner of the concrete hell comes into view. “Mr. Torley, please. Please.”

Nothing. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Jaime babbles, tears blurring the massive wall of false windows that seems to stretch a mile long. He is suddenly struck by the irrational fear that Handler Smith can see him already, that he already knows Jaime is here, is being returned, is being surrendered for early termination. 

“Let me catch you back here early from a contract, even once,” Handler Smith had whispered to him a week before he was assigned. “Let me find out you’ve embarrassed me by forgetting your manners, and I promise you, you’ll wish you would have slit your wrists before ever showing up in my training room again.”

Wildly, he pictures the razor sitting out on Mr. Torley’s bathroom counter and thinks, He was right. I should have.

“Please don’t do this,” Jaime cries, tears falling openly now. In a desperate corner of his mind, he wonders if it will help. Jaime so rarely grants him the opportunity to see his tears, and he knows just how much he enjoys them. In any case, he can’t stop them now. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, please, I won’t do it again.”

The car slams to an abrupt stop, hard enough for Jaime to jerk forward, jamming his wrist as he catches himself from slamming his face into the seat in front of him. They are stopped short of the entry booth for incoming cars, veered to the side of the road. Mr. Torley spins around to face him, making Jaime shrink back. 

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, eyes hard and resolute.

“F-for—”

“For getting caught?”

Jaime presses his lips together to stop them from quivering. Mr. Torley reaches into his pocket—and Jaime has the wild, hysterical vision of him pulling out a gun and dumping his body on WRU grounds. But he only pulls out his phone, flipping the screen around to show Jaime a camera feed of the back door at the house. 

“I have an alert set,” Mr. Torley says, “To monitor all exits of the house. Imagine my surprise when I was on my way home for an early weekend, and received a notification of my backdoor opening, unauthorized.” 

“I wasn’t trying to get out,” Jaime rushes to assure him, shaking his head. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to run.”

“No?”

“No. I promise.”

“What, then?”

How much will his honesty buy him now? Is it worth anything when Mr. Torley has clearly already seen, already knows? It’s better, at least, than a lie, and it’s all he has at his disposal.

“The cat,” he whispers pathetically. “She seemed… hungry. I fed her the leftovers that would have been thrown out. I gave her water. I’m sorry.”

“And you did so thinking you wouldn’t be caught?”

The affirmation feels like slipping a noose over his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’ll have you say it.”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“And you did so after hearing me explicitly forbid it to my own children?”

He swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Torley inclines his head toward the building ahead of them. “What do you think the people behind those doors would have to say about such abject deceit and disobedience from someone they sent out on a paid contract?”

Jaime pinches his eyes shut, shaking his head. 

“Answer me.”

“I…” Jaime begins, his voice pinching. “I would be disciplined.”

“What kind of discipline do you think this warrants?”

Behind his eyelids, he sees the lash of a thick leather cord, a shock clip locked to his throat, a tub of ice cold water. 

“I don’t know,” Jaime whispers. 

“You don’t know,” he echoes.

Jaime shakes his head, and he can feel Mr. Torley’s stare burning through him. 

Then, as abruptly as they had arrived, Mr. Torley faces forward in his seat and turns the gear shift. Jaime opens his eyes as the car rolls into motion once more, making a U-turn away from the facility. 

“Well,” Mr. Torley says once they’re back on the highway. “You’ve got thirty minutes to think of a better answer.”

Jaime spends the rest of the night, and the rest of the long weekend that follows, atoning.

On Monday morning, he sees the cat again. When she catches a glimpse of Jaime cleaning in the next room over, hunched on his hands and knees, she raises one tiny paw and scratches against the glass. He forces himself to look away. And when her hungry meows come muffled through the glass panel, he scrubs harder, bending his head closer to the floor so that the scritch scritch scritch of bristles on the hardwood almost manages to drown out the noise. 

After that, she gives up on coming back at all. 

***

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[peachy-panic]

Do You Have Bad Dreams, Too?

A Jaime drabble that popped into my head last night and wouldn’t let me go. Takes place during the Torley contract.

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, abandonment issues, nightmares, vague reference to noncon

Jaime is awoken by the faint sounds of crying. He sits up immediately, some instinct inside him thrumming with worry, and he knows, somehow: Kade.

He is moving before he has to think about it. When his hand reaches the doorknob, he hesitates, listening for signs of movement from his Keeper. There are none—not that Jaime expected any. He doesn’t wait long—only a couple seconds—before pushing open the door to his room and moving silently across the house.

He raps lightly on Kade’s bedroom door, but the sound gets lost behind another cry.

“Make him shut up!” Steven shouts from across the hall. Jaime tenses, afraid the added sound will wake their father.

“I’ll take care of him,” Jaime murmurs back, then pushes open Kade’s door.

Even in the dark, he can see that he is upright in the bed. Jaime pads to his side, tapping the moon-shaped lamp on the nightstand. Their eyes only have a second to adjust to the light, to meet in a moment of recognition, before Kade launches himself into Jaime’s chest.  

Slowly, Jaime brings his arms up to cover his small back. “You’re okay,” he whispers, rubbing circles over his Spider-Man nightshirt. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

In the distant part of his mind he keeps locked behind an attic door, he hears the faintest murmur of a woman’s voice, overlaying his words with her own. He can almost feel her hand on his back.

He blinks hard, sealing himself in the present..

“I had a bad dream,” Kade whimpers into his shoulder. His tiny fists are shaking where they’re tangled in Jaime’s t-shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says earnestly. He hates seeing Kade upset. He squeezes him a little tighter. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His head shakes against him, contradicted by Kade immediately launching into an explanation. “I had a dream you went away,” he sobs. “Like Zero did.”

Jaime breathes in for five seconds and holds, letting it out slowly.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” he says, a little weakly. “I’m right here.” For a couple more months, anyway.

He doesn’t tell Kade that one day his bad dream will come true. If not at the end of this contract, then the next one. He has felt the beginnings of a shift in the way Mr. Torley looks at him. Treats him. He doesn’t think he will renew the contract at the end of his six months.

Learning about Zero, the boy who haunted these halls and warmed John Torley’s bed before him, has only solidified Jaime’s belief that his Keeper doesn’t hold interest in the same target for long.

“Sev?” Kade pulls back after a minute.

Jaime pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, Kade?”

He sniffles, swiping the back of his sleeve across his nose. Jaime reaches for a tissue on instinct, but he freezes momentarily when Kade asks, “Do you ever have bad dreams?”

It’s suddenly difficult to swallow the lump in his throat. He plucks a tissue from the box and presses it into Kade’s palm.

“Sometimes,” he whispers, then hastens to change the subject. “What would help you get back to sleep?”

Kade shrugs helplessly, big eyes looking up at Jaime like he holds all the answers. The only eyes that see Jaime as a person anymore, and Jaime is helpless in the face of his distress.

“What helps you get back to sleep?” Kade asks in return. “When you have bad dreams?”

Nothing, a cold voice whispers from somewhere inside him.

Exhaustion, whispers another.

“I could stay with you,” Jaime offers, exhaustion nipping at the edges of his consciousness. “Just until you fall asleep.”

The look on Kade’s face tells him it was the right thing to say.

It doesn’t take long. After a few minutes of companionable silence—Kade curled under his blankets and Jaime cross-legged on the carpet beside the bed—the boy’s breathing begins to level out. Jaime allows himself exactly one minute, counted out slowly behind his eyelids, to rest his head against the mattress. Then he forces himself upright, takes one last look at the sleeping child, then turns off the lamp.

“Sev?” His small voice catches him—still half asleep—just as Jaime reaches the doorway.

“Kade?”

“I don’t want you to go like Zero,” he says. “Are you going to leave, too?”

Shielded by the darkness, Jaime lets some of the pain reach his expression. He closes his eyes, squeezing his fingers around the cool doorknob. He does not cry, and he does not speak any of the words trapped in his chest:

I don’t have a choice.

I’ll miss you when I’m gone.

I’m so glad you’re nothing like your father.

I hope you’ll remember me. You might be the only person who ever will.

“It was just a bad dream,” he whispers back. “Goodnight, Kade.”

**

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[peachy-panic]

Cracks in the Glass

Back with the chronological Do No Harm storyline. Takes place the morning after this chapter. 

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, PTSD, sleep deprivation, implied past noncon, implied past mouth whump, fearing caretaker is new whumper, nightmares, flashbacks, overuse of the words “I’m sorry,” and That One Trope. You know the one. 

Morning rolls in like the tide. It starts with a golden bar of light on the carpet beneath the window, slowly inching toward him like waves licking up the shore, washing the last remnants of night out to sea. In under an hour, every dark, gray shadow in the room has been baptized in sunlight. Jaime is awake for every second of it.  

He watches the rise of a new day with a distant sort of dread. Exhaustion pins him in place, dragging his eyelids down, then up in a slow blink. From the corner of his bed, curled up tight on top of the covers that don’t feel like his to burrow under, he counts down the minutes until he needs to move.

The arrival of dawn is as much a relief as it is a burden; at least his fight against sleep is over for now. It means he survived the night without any of his nightmares coming to fruition.  

Though, as his memory is sure to remind him, Mr. Torley didn’t touch him on the first night either.  

Casting the thought as far away as he can, Jaime pinches his eyes shut one more time, trying to produce some moisture against the dry fatigue. Then, scraping the bottom of the well for energy, he forces himself to sit up.  

It is the morning of his second day under Dr. Tate’s contract, and Jaime has made himself a promise: He will do well here.

He has been given a rare opportunity here. Even after the kind of night he’s had, he can recognize that as objective truth. Jaime has survived worse on less sleep, and in all the time he has known Sebastian, he has done nothing to earn the warped fantasies Jaime’s mind insists on projecting onto him. He knows that. Still, the prospect of looking him in the eye today, of sharing space with him when he can still feel the tactile pseudo-memory of a body weight on top of him, constricts around his ribcage like a boa.

One good thing about staying up all night: He doesn’t have to worry about oversleeping. If nothing else, he can start this day by getting something right.

He doesn’t let himself think too much about the clothes he selects from the closet. Dr. Tate—

Sebastian made it clear it’s up to Jaime what he wears, but it’s been a long time since Jaime had a choice that isn’t an illusion. In the end, he picks a plain black sweatshirt and matching pants.

His fingers hover over a drawer of socks, reaching and then wilting. The soles of his feet still remember the chill of Mr. Torley’s hardwood floors, never allowed a barrier of warmth between them. Jaime presses his toes into the soft fibers of the carpet beneath him, grounding himself in the present.

This isn’t Mr. Torley’s house. These aren’t Mr. Torley’s rules.

He thinks of the bulleted list tacked to the fridge in the next room over. “Rule” number seven: The clothes in the closet belong to you. Wear what makes you comfortable. Sebastian wouldn’t have given him socks if he didn’t want him to wear them. Reluctantly, he opens the drawer and plucks out the first pair he sees.

There is a persistent unease that clings to him as he hovers around the kitchen, one he hasn’t felt in a long time. No matter how hard he tries to separate himself from the past, memories of his first contract intrude in everything he does. The first week of a contract is the hardest. There is so much uncertainty, so many opportunities to mess up.  

It’s a narrow line they are taught to walk in Domestic training: moving through a Keeper’s house with enough assertion to fulfill your duties without assistance, but never feeling so comfortable as to lay claim on any part of it.

It is the place you will spend your days. In some cases, it is the only place you see for the entire length of the contract. It is the place where you sleep, where you bathe, where you eat when you’re allowed and fuck when you’re told. But you must never, ever mistake it for your home.

Mentally, Jaime shuffles back through the tour of the house Sebastian gave him yesterday like a deck of flashcards, remembering mugs are in the cabinet above the sink, sugar is to the left of the microwave—

As if his brain is operating three large strides behind his body, Jaime’s thoughts slam into him with the force of a freight train: He doesn’t know how Sebastian likes his coffee. He doesn’t know what he prefers to eat for breakfast. Jaime neglected to ask.

Anxiety thrums in the tips of his fingers. Jaime made himself a promise less than an hour ago to do better, to be better, and he has set himself up to fail already. Pressing his palms into the cool surface of the countertop, Jaime closes his eyes and tries to think, but it’s hard when he is so tired. He is so, so tired. He tries to ignore how good it would feel to keep them closed for another couple of seconds, minutes, hours.

Do something, his instincts scream at him. The idea of being empty handed when his Keeper walks into the room, armed with nothing but an apology and a useless promise to be better, is not an option.

Forcing his eyes open, Jaime imparts a false calm over his body, making his limbs move with calculated detachment as he gathers what he needs: A mug, some coffee grounds, sugar. He remembers, with a fleeting breeze of relief, the way Sebastian had offered milk and sugar in tiny shot glasses on the side. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best he can do for now.  

Tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow will be better.

He will do well here.

-- -- --

Sebastian stops short in the doorway, one fist raised to cover a silent yawn.

Jaime is already in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his back to him. The smell of fresh coffee wafts through the kitchen, prodding at his groggy brain. He couldn’t have managed more than a few restless hours of sleep, and the promise of caffeine is a siren song calling to him.

He doesn’t seem to hear his entrance right away. Selfishly, Sebastian takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he is bundled in warm, clean clothes in his kitchen, as safe as he has ever been in the time Sebastian has known him. Absently, he notices Jaime has chosen the warmest pair of sweats from his closet. He makes a mental note to turn the heat up a few ticks tonight.

After a few moments, Sebastian clears his throat. “Good morning,” he says.

It’s not so much a flinch that happens, but the very controlled suppression of one. Jaime’s shoulders draw up toward his ears and his body goes very still. It’s just a second or two before he carefully smooths out his posture and turns to face him.

“Good morning, Dr. Tate.”

“Sebastian.” The correction slips out before he can stop it, regret hot on its tails.

“Sebastian,” he echoes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He smiles. “I know it will take some getting used to. It's fine if you just call me whatever makes you comfortable for now. Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes,” Jaime says automatically. “Thank you.”

Yeah, he should have seen that coming.

Sebastian moves slowly across the kitchen to lean against the counter island. “You made coffee,” he observes as casually as he can.

The last thing he expects is another apology, but Jaime’s mouth twitches downward. He turns around to retrieve a full mug from the counter behind him, and when he holds it out to Sebastian, his eyes are lowered. It occurs to him then that Jaime hasn’t really looked him in the eye since he entered.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says again. “I realized this morning I never asked how you take it. If… If you tell me what you like, I will have it ready tomorrow morning.”

Suddenly Sebastian is wide awake, and it has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the cold, slick nausea sliding down his belly.

Fuck.

He lets out a long, slow breath. Because fuck. He is doing the worst fucking job at managing this.

“Jaime,” he says carefully, taking the mug from his hands. He sets it aside and turns his full attention back to him. “I’m sorry if I didn’t make this explicit to you yesterday. But I really, really don’t expect you to cater to me like this. That was never my intention.”

“I don’t mind doing it,” Jaime says too quickly.

“I’m sure that’s true.” He feels out every word slowly. “But you know that’s not the reason I purchased your contract, right? This isn’t what I brought you here to do.”

Despite his best efforts, somewhere, somehow, Sebastian must have stepped on a conversational landmine. Jaime goes very still. He drops his gaze along with his fidgeting hands.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to.” It’s nearly a whisper.

“Jaime, I…” He stops.

Behind Jaime, he spots two shot glasses on the countertop; one filled with milk, the other with sugar. Just like Sebastian prepared for him the day before when he wasn’t sure how Jaime liked his coffee. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Without thinking, Sebastian reaches past him to grab one of them. Jaime flinches so hard he stumbles into the lip of the counter. He manages to catch himself, but not without knocking his hand haphazardly behind him. It happens quickly; in a split second, the floor around them is covered in crystalline fragments of sugar and glass.

What happens next is so unexpected that Sebastian’s brain blips out entirely. For a full three seconds, he can do nothing but stare as Jaime drops into a kneel amidst the rubble, glass crunching like sand beneath his knees.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking at when Jaime tilts his head slightly upward, closing his eyes tight, but his stomach drops out as he watches his lips part—too slow and deliberate to be anything but intentional—into an open mouth.

-- -- --

Open your mouth.

Mr. Torley’s voice looms above him, as sharp and vivid as the glass digging into his knees.

His heart is racing out of his chest, his fingers slick with perspiration and sliding where they lock together behind his back. Jaime’s fear is the most palpable thing in the room. All he can think—over and over like a mantra echoing off the inside of his skull—is please don’t let it be the glass.

“Jaime,” he hears distantly. The voice comes from somewhere far away and wrong and dangerous, because he isn’t Jaime here. Can’t be Jaime here.

Endless seconds pass, but he keeps his mouth open. Waiting. Maybe the anticipation is part of the game. If it is, it’s working. He doesn’t dare close his mouth because don’t you trust me? Don’t you trust me? Close your eyes, open your mouth, close your eyes, open your mouth, open your mouth, open your—

“Jaime.”

It’s closer this time. Inches away, but he still can’t open his eyes.

Ceramic is thicker, Mr. Torley reminds him. Unlike glass… One wrong slip of the tongue and you’ll be swallowing blood.

Hold still.

Hold still.

Hold still.

Jaime waits and he waits and he waits for the smooth side of the glass on his tongue. Waits for the fingers on his chin, pressing his mouth shut. Waits for the moment it will be over and he will be called to the bedroom.

I’m sorry, he wants to plead. But the words don’t make sense with his jaw locked open.

The sudden touch makes him flinch. He tries not to, knows he will only hurt himself more if he moves, but he can’t help it.

The touch isn’t to his chin this time, though. Instead, warm skin flattens against both of his cheeks.

“Jaime, please open your eyes.”

And…

And suddenly he doesn’t want to. Dread of an entirely different kind trickles over him as clarity moves in, slow and forbidding.

Because that isn’t Mr. Torley’s voice, and this isn’t Mr. Torley’s kitchen, and those definitely aren’t Mr. Torley’s palms cradling his face between them. He can feel his own skin flushing with heat under Sebastian’s touch and he absolutely cannot open his eyes to face him now.

What has he done.

“Please?” Sebastian’s says. The pad of his thumb brushes back and forth over Jaime’s cheekbone, so softly he doesn’t know if Sebastian is even conscious of it.

When he finally manages to press his lips together, his tongue is dry and sticky in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“No, no. You don’t have to be sorry,” Sebastian says. “Just open your eyes for a second. Please, look at me.”

His body responds to the direct command before his mind does, and suddenly he finds himself staring into a familiar pair of green eyes. They’re so close to him now. He doesn’t think he has ever been this close to Sebastian except… 

He blinks to a flashbulb memory of bloodied clothes and a towel around his waist and strong arms holding him up on a locker room floor.

Sebastian. It’s just Sebastian. He helped him then, and he is helping him now. He has not hurt him. He will not hurt him.

“Can you see where you are?” Sebastian asks.

Jaime looks around him and nods, and then again with more confidence.  

“Good. Okay. You’re okay.” Jaime feels his small exhale of relief against his skin. “Come on. Let’s… Let’s get you out of the mess, okay?”

The mess.

The mess Jaime made.

The moment he shifts his weight to try and stand, his teeth snap together against the flare of pain that shoots up his leg. He doesn’t need to look down to know he’s bleeding.

“Easy,” Sebastian says. He holds out his arms and Jaime grabs onto them without thinking, pulling himself unsteadily onto his feet. Another piece of glass digs into his foot when he steps down. Sebastian must pick up on his suppressed reaction, because he quickly ushers Jaime to the side. “Come on. This way.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Jaime tells him feebly as he limps alongside him, toward the living room. “I can clean it up.”

“Don’t worry about that right now.” Sebastian deposits him onto the couch as gently as he can. “Can I help lift your leg?”

Jaime nods, weak and boneless as his socked foot is hoisted onto the coffee table. He chokes back a bubble of absurd laughter at how Mr. Torley would react to Jaime putting his feet on the furniture.

“May I?” He feels a tug at his ankle and looks down to see Sebastian’s finger hooked into his sock. Jaime nods again. The fabric catches on the way down, causing Jaime to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed.

“Shit, Jaime.”

His eyes shift back to Sebastian, who is eyeing the bottom of his foot with a grimace.

“One second, okay? I’m going to grab the kit from the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Much to Jaime’s horror, the moment he is left alone in the living room, his eyes start to burn. He blinks quickly, willing them to stay back, but the onslaught is too sudden to stop. Hot tears of humiliation roll down his cheeks. Sebastian walks in just as he is scrubbing the back of his arm across his face but doesn’t mention it.

“You’ve got a couple of cuts on your foot,” he says instead. “I think there might still be a piece of glass in one of them.”

As he settles down on the coffee table beside his leg, Jaime recognizes the change in his tone. It’s the same voice he used to hear in the clinic sometimes; smart and serious and gentle.

Sebastian unzips the first aid kit and pulls out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and a pair of tweezers. Jaime, tucking his hands just out of view, curls his fingers tightly in the throw blanket beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says, pausing before he touches him again. “I really need to clean this out. I…” He pauses, a small muscle working at the of his jaw. “This isn’t going to feel good, but I promise I’ll work quickly. Is that okay?”

For a second, Jaime can only stare back at him numbly.

“I need to clean it,” Sebastian repeats when he doesn’t respond, “but I won’t touch you again unless you tell me it’s okay.”

Jaime’s fists curl tighter into the blanket. After a moment, he forces his mouth to move.

“It’s okay.”

-- -- --

Nothing could have prepared Sebastian for having to perform another painful procedure on a terrified Jaime. He definitely hadn’t banked on the possibility that it would happen on the morning of their first full day together, on the tail of an obvious episode of PTSD.

There were too many similarities to the first time Sebastian hurt him. That day in the operating room haunts Sebastian’s dreams, and this procedure brought every memory rushing back to the surface.  

Every time Jaime held his breath or suppressed a flinch, Sebastian felt the pain shoot through his own body. He tried to keep his voice low and steady, talking him through every step. For whatever that is worth. Not much, he assumes.

Even when he finishes wrapping his foot, the worst isn’t over

“We should probably check your knees,” he says quietly. “If it would make you more comfortable, we could—”

Before he can even finish making the offer, Jaime stands robotically from the couch, gingerly putting weight on his bandaged foot, and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. He pushes them down his hips and steps out of them in a fluid, practiced motion.

Sebastian blinks, caught off guard by the sight of pale thighs in his eye line. Quickly, he shifts his eyes to Jaime’s face, only to see his is back to avoiding Sebastian’s gaze.

“Okay.” Sebastian clears his throat.

The moment Jaime sits again, Sebastian does his best to discreetly toss the throw blanket over his lap, giving him the option to cover himself.

“These don’t look too deep.” He is overly conscious of Jaime’s eyes tracking his hands as they work over him, gently wiping the blood from the scrapes. “I think your pants kept the glass from getting into the skin, at least.”

Jaime gives a jerky nod.

Sebastian lets a couple of minutes pass in silence, centering his focus on the task at hand and listening for the subtle changes in Jaime’s breathing.

He tries not to think about the way Jaime’s muscles jump every few seconds under his touch. Tries not to think about all the ways this could have gone worse—a world in which the cuts were deep enough to require stitches. The only thing worse than Sebastian having to administer the sutures himself would be taking him to a WRU-approved clinic to watch someone else do it.

When he can’t ignore it anymore, Sebastian clears his throat and tries to inject some degree of confidence into his tone.

“Jaime,” he says. “Do you want to talk about what happened in there?”

The recoil isn’t quite physical, but Sebastian can feel it anyway.

“I’m not upset with you.” Sebastian assures him quickly. “Not even a little. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Or. You know. Did I…? I mean, was there something I did? To trigger that?”

His answering swallow is thick enough that Sebastian can track the movement of his Adam's apple.

“No, sir.” He slams his eyes shut. “Sebastian. I’m sorry. I know it’s Sebastian. I will get it right.”

He thinks he might be sick if he has to hear another apology directed his way. Sebastian takes a slow, deep breath. “Hey. Okay. Maybe… We don’t need to talk about this right now.”

He waits until Jaime opens his eyes again, meeting his gaze. And for the first time, Sebastian sees his exhaustion in plain sight and hates himself for missing it. The rims of his eyes are red, and below that, the skin is sunken and gray. He pushes down the swell of guilt and makes a decision.

“Why don’t you go back to bed for a little bit?” he suggests, trying to inject enough encouragement without making it a command. “You look like you haven’t slept much. I can’t say I blame you. It’s been a pretty intense week, yeah?”

Jaime keeps his eyes leveled just below his chin. Sebastian sighs.

“Listen. I can take care of the kitchen. You just try and get some rest, okay?”

For a few seconds, the only indication that he heard him is the familiar battle of apprehension in his features. Finally, he nods—a forced, mechanical movement that echoes in the way he pulls himself to his feet.

“Do you need help?” Sebastian hovers at his side without touching. He hands his folded sweatpants back to him. “Do you need… anything?”

He pauses, only for a moment. Sebastian has never seen a smile laced with so much fear.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

He watches him limp down the hallway, unable to look away long after the door clicks shut behind him.

-- -- --

Whiskey has never been his favorite, but it happened to be the first bottle his eyes landed on. Sebastian watches the amber liquid coat the sides of the glass as he tilts it between his fingers. He feels it should be noted in his favor that he at least waited until the clock said PM before pouring it.

The phone against his ear rings once, twice, a third time, and he has a sudden heart-sinking fear that it will go to voicemail. But halfway through the fourth ring, he picks up.

“Hello?”

“I’m fucking everything up.” The words tumble out of him as soon as he opens his mouth. “He’s miserable and I don’t think he’s sleeping and I did something today, I don’t even know what, and he had this… this… I don’t…”

“Tate.” Ezra’s voice, quiet and firm in the way that he uniquely seems to have mastered, cuts him off. “Take a breath. And start over.”

Sebastian follows the orders as best he can, sneaking in a quick swig of his drink in between.

“Ezra, I really need your help.”

-- -- --

Past glass incident from the flashback here. 

Jaime’s mention of blood and a towel and a locker room here. 

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort 

[peachy-panic]

Could we ever have a little something of Jaime dealing with his mental state after his first time with Mr. Torley?

You absolutely can.

SIX MONTHS TO GO

This takes place pretty directly after this chapter (my first Do No Harm chapter ever posted!)

WARNINGS: This is one of my darkest, I think—be careful. Explicit aftermath of noncon, suicidal thoughts, BBU/systematic slavery, dehumanization.

Chapter under the cut:

Jaime lives and dies inside his own contained eternity before Mr. Torley’s movements finally still. 

When he rolls off of him—a graceless, callous departure that jostles Jaime’s lifeless form on the mattress—the air in the room feels colder than it did before. His instinct is to curl up against the chill of exposure, but he can’t make his muscles work. Would it even be allowed? 

You must always make yourself available, the mantra surfaces, but it’s faint and distant, like an echo across a dark lake. 

Jaime is not here. He cannot be here.

“I’m going to shower,” his Keeper says, pulling at his awareness. The bed springs groan under his shifting weight. Jaime flinches when a hand comes down on his thigh. “You can use the guest bathroom to wash up.”

The dismissal is cold. Even now, even after that, the tone sets off alarm bells. Appease. Obey. 

He forces himself to move, to sit up. It hurts. It hurts worse than expected, in ways he didn’t know his body was capable of hurting. Some flash of that pain must show on the surface, because Mr. Torley narrows his attention on him again.

“It won’t always hurt, just so you know,” he says, pulling on his robe. “Not like this. The first time is always the toughest.”

Jaime nods, dazed. 

Those words. The amusement. The sound of his voice. The mere fact that the man who has raped him is speaking to him at all feels like his skin is being filleted from his muscle. He wants to scream; the urge is so sudden and strong it takes him by surprise. He bites down on his cheek until copper warms his tongue.

He cannot make a sound.

Instinctively, Jaime wraps his arms over his naked stomach and curls forward, trying to cover as much of himself as possible. His keeper smiles at him, like they’re in on the same joke. 

“I was in a bit of a hurry, I’ll admit,” he says. “I’m not used to having to wait three days. But we have until Monday, now, before the boys get back. We can take our time.”

Jaime focuses all his concentration on a spot on the wall and tries very, very hard not to let the tears fall. When he is sure he has enough of a grip on his composure, he stands from the bed and plucks his discarded pants from a heap on the carpet. 

He has only stepped into the first leg when Mr. Torley chuckles. “Don’t bother,” he says, and it’s clearly not a suggestion. “You’re just going to take them off again. No point in being shy now.”

Grateful to be facing the opposite direction, Jaime squeezes his eyes shut. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. 

“Yes, sir.” He forces himself to pick up the pants instead. He clutches them tightly to his chest as he collects his shirt and turns for the doorway. There is a moment of hesitation. Even in his haste to put as much distance between himself and his Keeper, he waits for a proper dismissal. 

“Go.” Mr. Torley nods toward the door. “Clean yourself up, but come back here after. You will sleep in my bed on the weekends unless otherwise stated. Understood?”

There is no way to prepare himself for the inevitability of knowing that it will happen again. Likely soon. Likely often. 

Please don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. 

“Yes, sir.”

Six months. The reminder rings through his skull like a cracked bell as he makes his way, naked, through the hallway and the den. Six months under this contract. Six months of weekends in this man’s bed.

Jaime suddenly remembers hearing stories. Overheard whispered accounts of Companions who took their lives while under contract. For the first time, he has a clear view of that outlook, and the sudden clarity stuns him. 

Panic rocks into him, knocking the air from his lungs. His body goes from an empty husk to a live wire of adrenaline and fear in a heartbeat. He cannot fathom, cannot even allow himself to think about another hand on his skin, and the promise—the threat—of six more months. Of… of—

His mind retreats back to those very first days in the facility; when his entire world was narrowed to a single, locked room. His entire existence compressed into a series of unbearable moments he had to endure. He remembers the numbness that followed the fear like an old friend.  He knows now that he is capable of withstanding more than he thought possible. 

(But what if he doesn’t want to withstand this?)

Jaime blinks and opens his eyes to the pristine, white tile of the guest room shower. He doesn’t remember turning on the light or stepping over the lip of the tub. Warm water cascades over his face and down his chest, and he doesn’t remember turning the handle. It’s like his body is operating two steps ahead of him. He decided to accept it as a mercy. 

When he blinks again, blood is swirling in the water circling the drain, turning it a sickly pale pink. He can feel the slow, warm trickle down the back of his leg. He has to swallow through wave after wave of nausea, fighting to keep from puking up bile. 

Six months.

A jolt of pain shoots through him when he slides down the wet, tile wall. He has to shift onto his knees instead.

Six months. 

“It won’t always hurt.”

He knows it isn’t true. He knows the physical ache he feels now is not the pain that will follow him. 

Jaime spends an incalculable amount of time shaking apart on the shower floor before his training tugs at him. His Keeper told him to return to the bedroom. He doesn’t have time to unravel now. He has six more months to go, and a lifetime after that. 

--

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort @termsnconditions-apply @cyborg0109 @whumplr-reader

[peachy-panic]

Home Sweet Home

Jaime’s first day under Sebastian’s contract. Part of Do No Harm. 

< PREVIOUS

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-adjacent, fearing caretaker as new whumper trope, implied past child abuse/foster system life, implied past noncon, alcohol mentions

Synthetic fur tickles Jaime’s nose as he presses into Roger’s neck. It’s scratchy against his skin where last night’s tears dried. Standing there with his arms around a stuffed tiger that takes up half his body height probably makes him look like a little kid, but he already feels like one, so he doesn’t bother letting go. He squeezes tighter when the front door swings open.

“Hello there, sweetheart,” a woman says, leaning down so she’s closer to eye level. Her perfume doesn’t smell anything like his mom’s, and he hates it immediately. “You must be Jaime.”

He tucks himself a little closer to the social worker’s side, but it doesn’t stop the woman from reaching out and burying a hand in his hair. One of her many rings gets caught on his hair when she pulls it out, but Jaime presses his mouth against Roger’s fur to keep from crying out.

__

A trash bag full of his belongings hangs at his side. It’s lighter than it was last time, but Jaime’s chest feels a lot heavier. It’s just him now. Roger isn’t here to squeeze when the man in the doorway smiles down at him, and he tells himself it doesn't matter, because he’s twelve now. It shouldn’t matter.

“Jaime, this is Mr. Anderson. Say hello.”

The house smells like cigarettes and peppermint. There is a stain on the carpet next to where Jaime leaves his shoes. The floorboards creak when he is led up the stairs to his bedroom. He looks at Mr. Anderson’s hands while the social worker is talking. There are no sharp nails or silver rings on his fingers. Maybe that’s a good thing.

__

Another trash bag. Another social worker. Another porch.

A new set of strangers– a couple this time.

The Welfords have a real son. Jaime thinks about how he used to be somebody’s real son once. Now he doesn’t feel real at all sometimes; certainly not when the other boy doesn’t even look up from his screen when he is introduced.

Mrs. Welford tells Jaime he will get to have his own room in their house. The bed is small, but at least it’s not a bunk bed. Jaime doesn’t understand the four empty drill holes in the wall by the bedroom door, but he will soon.  

He wonders, months later, if the social worker saw them, too.

__

He spends the day before his sixteenth birthday stuffing his clothes and books inside another trash bag and being shuttled off to a new home. Someone found out about the locks on Jaime’s bedroom door. He doesn’t know who. He didn’t tell anyone.

Two boys dart out through the door as soon as it swings open, laughing and shoving at each other. Jaime flinches, but they just tear off through the front yard with their football, leaving Jaime and the social worker blinking after them.

A woman with light-gray hair in a braid steps into the doorway after them. “Sorry about them,” she says, wiping her fingers on the dish towel thrown over her shoulder. She holds out a hand. “Hi Jaime. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Sherry.”

She waits for Jaime to reach out before she touches him.

__

The front entrance of Mr. Torley’s house is a long stretch of black tile. He can see his reflection when he looks down at his feet.

“I understand it is my prerogative to assign you a name while you’re under my care. Until we know you’ll be a good fit here, I see no reason for that. We will stick with your identification number until then.”

He looks over his shoulder at Jaime when he’s done hanging up his coat and finds him already kneeling on the tile, hands folded behind him. Jaime watches his Keeper’s reflection in the tile. A smile spreads across the lower half of his face.

“Good boy,” he says.

The relief is almost enough to drown out the swell of dread. It’s his first contract, and Jaime wants to do a good job. If he can keep this man happy, maybe Jaime can have a good six months here.

__

Dr. Tate’s house is both everything and nothing like Jaime imagined it would be. It’s a split-level structure that sits back from the road, half the siding done in artificial stone, the other half in a dark blue. It looks new. Nice, Jaime supposes. He never really knows what to expect from a new house, but it never stops him from wondering. This time, he has had eight long days to wonder.

Things moved quickly after Dr. Tate pulled him aside on Monday morning.

“I wanted to take our time with this conversation,” he had started, tense and apologetic in the relative privacy of his office, “but the circumstances have changed.”

The change in circumstance, Jaime would come to find out, was that someone else was vying for Jaime’s contract. Someone else. A second prospective, because the first was––

“I submitted the preliminary application last week and got approved first thing this morning. All that’s left to do is make an official bid on a contract.”

On Jaime’s contract.

The conversation had knocked him off balance, blown through him with the sheer unexpectedness of the proposal. And it was never really a proposal, was it? Dr. Tate expressed an interest in obtaining Jaime’s contract, and Jaime’s opinion on the matter should be irrelevant. Was, is, irrelevant. But Dr. Tate wanted an answer from him anyway.

“I need you to understand, before we take this a single step further, that you can tell me no right now, and I’ll drop the whole thing. I won’t ever bring it up again.”

Jaime remembers wondering if he was making a joke. Because certainly Dr. Tate understood that Jaime could not do that, could not tell him no, regardless of the circumstances, and especially not when he had positioned himself to be Jaime’s potential Keeper.

He remembers the cold flash of realization. Betrayal, he remembers thinking. He almost didn’t recognize the feeling at first. Betrayal is for people who make the mistake of trusting in the first place. You can’t be betrayed by someone you’ve only ever expected the worst from.

He remembers wondering, in that moment, when he stopped expecting the worst from Dr. Tate.

Feeling separated from his body, Jaime remembers telling him yes.

The very same day, he was pulled from his service in the clinic and escorted to the training wing to begin his mandatory retraining sessions. Handler Smith was waiting with a smile and the shock clip in hand.

Dr. Tate fought them on it––something Jaime only knows because he overheard Handler Smith’s snide remarks. And while “a prospective Keeper’s requests are taken into consideration for mandatory prep conditioning,” his objection apparently wasn’t enough for them to forgo the process altogether.

A full week is standard protocol, and the time Jaime spent in his cell between lessons gave Jaime plenty of time to dwell on the jarring turn of events, and on everything that awaited him in the coming six months.

“Well. This is it.” Dr. Tate’s keys jingle against the door as he pushes it open. “Home sweet home.”

Jaime holds his ground on the porch, watching carefully, waiting for a cue to follow. Dr. Tate watches him back, looking altogether unfamiliar to Jaime in a loose-fitting sweater in jeans. Even the glasses on the bridge of his nose are different from the ones he wears in the clinic. It’s jarring, all of it. But Jaime thinks the disconnect in familiarity has little to do with his looks.

Finally, Dr. Tate gestures for him to step inside. “Please, come in.”

Jaime does.

He hesitates inside the small entry hall, thinking about the cool press of Mr. Torley’s tile under his knees. He can’t imagine a world in which Dr. Tate would want that of him, but up until eight days ago, Jaime couldn’t have imagined a world in which Dr. Tate would sign a contract that designates Jaime as his property. But here they are.

Muscle memory folds Jaime’s hands behind his back, keeps his chin tucked toward his chest and his eyes on the floor. He holds position as the door clicks shut, fully attuned to the sound of Dr. Tate’s footsteps on the wood floor––wood, not tile. Not Mr. Torley’s house, but no less unpredictable than his was on the first day.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think to bring you a coat,” Dr. Tate is saying, seemingly obvious to Jaime’s internal panic. “I didn’t… Well, I should have known they wouldn’t give you one.” He slips his shoes off inside the door, and Jaime is desperately grateful at the silent cue that he won’t have to ask for. It’s best to avoid speaking unprompted right at the beginning. “But I have the heat cranked up in here,” Dr. Tate continues. “So you should warm up fast. Just, you know, let me know if it’s too much.”

“Yes, sir.”

The idle chatter goes silent in an instant. Jaime can’t help but flinch back when Dr. Tate rounds on him. He swallows. Did he do something wrong already?

“Oh,” Dr. Tate says softly. “Hey. You don’t need to––I mean, I would prefer it if you didn’t go back to calling me that. Definitely not while you’re… while you’re here.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says immediately. “Dr. Tate.”

He hesitates, watching Jaime carefully. “Actually,” he says slowly, “would you be comfortable calling me Sebastian? I know you didn’t feel like you could when we were in the facility, but I… Well, there’s really no need for that formality here.”

Sebastian. The name rolls around inside Jaime’s head, stretching over his tongue. He nods.

“Yes, Sebastian.”

He doesn’t look all that pleased with Jaime’s response, but he plasters a smile over his discomfort anyway. “Good. Okay. And…” He hesitates, eyeing Jaime in that scrutinizing way again. “Jaime is still okay? Can I still call you that?”

Jaime bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. Inside the walls of the clinic, his name had been a precious flame held between the two of them; a secret that was all theirs. Jaime’s first small taste of rebellion. But a week under Handler Smith’s thumb is fresh in his psyche, and his very first days at the facility feel closer than ever. Jaime’s name was the first thing they ripped away from him then. The first rule he had to repeat over and over.

My legal name is among the rights I have willingly forfeited as a show of my dedication to service. My designation is Domestic. My service identification is 110750.

‘750.

On your knees, ‘750.

They can call you Seven, for short.

Sev, will you read me a story?

That’s beautiful, baby. Open wide.

Tate. Huh, I like it.

Relax, baby. I’m going to take care of you.

Baby.

Gorgeous.

Seven.

Poor thing.

“Jaime?”

His head snaps up at the sound of his name in Dr. Ta––Sebastian’s soft voice. His eyes have shifted from caution to concern.

Day one, and Jaime is falling to pieces.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says, not unaware that he’s already had to make two apologies since walking through the door.

“Don’t be.” The crease between his brows deepens. “I know this is… It’s a lot, all at once. I’m not expecting a perfect performance from either of us, here. Believe me.”

Jaime doesn’t know what to do with that, and he is acutely aware that he has left a direct question from his Keeper unanswered. He presses down the panic and forces his mouth to open. “Jaime is fine,” he says, then adds quickly, “Thank you.”

Sebastian’s attempt at a smile is a little shakier this time. “Um. You’re welcome. Let’s––” He pauses, clearing his throat. “Here, I’ll give you the tour, and then I’ll give you some space to yourself for a while. Just… We’ll do this one step at a time, okay?”

Jaime nods, attempts a smile back at him, and falls in line behind his quiet steps. He can’t quite flatten the nausea as he tries to take in the space that will contain him for the next six months.

Another strange house, a new set of rules, is all par for the course. Jaime has been doing this routine for half of his life now. This should be no different.

But it’s hard to think clearly when every second of this feels like a dream; one he hasn’t been able to wake up from since the moment Sebastian pulled him into his office a week ago. It’s even harder when Sebastian is looking at him like this, wearing the same kind smile and honest eyes that Jaime knows by heart, but suddenly the warmth of them is eclipsed entirely by fear. By the knowledge that Jaime has trusted kind men before, and it has never once worked out in his favor.

One step at a time, Sebastian told him.

Jaime has no other choice.

* * *

Sebastian stands with his back against the lip of the counter, his eyes focused straight ahead and pointedly not at the bottle of vodka on top of the fridge.

It’s been an hour since he left Jaime alone in his room with the vague instruction to “get settled in,” and there hasn’t been a peep from him since. Not so much as a rustle of movement to give him some sign of life from the other side of the closed door. He thinks about the silent, careful way he watches these people move in the clinic, and it occurs to him for the first time that it might be something deliberately trained into him.

He’s not even sure what “settling in” entails for someone who arrived on his doorstep with only the clothes on his back to his name, but Sebastian assumed–and hopes he isn’t wrong for assuming–that they could both use a little bit of space to decompress. The drive home from the facility and every minute since they walked through the door had been… intense. Nerves were high on both ends, and Jaime looks like he got just as little, if not less, sleep as Sebastian last night. And Sebastian is sinking every ounce of energy he has into quashing his frustration. Not at Jaime, never at Jaime. But at the structural weakness of the delicate trust they had spent months building between them.

In the clinic, it had started to feel like something solid, earned. But up against the pressure of their new environment, it’s a house of cards. And Sebastian fears that they might have to start rebuilding from the bottom up.

Once again, he resents the circumstances that forced his hand in moving too quickly into this contract. If only he’d had more time to make Jaime understand his intentions. If only he’d found a way to get ahead of the fear that had him bowing his head and folding his hands behind his back and calling him…

Sebastian’s eyes move back to the vodka.

No.

Nope. It’s not even noon, and he’s… He is fine. He is in control, because he has to be. He forces a deep breath in, then out.

Coffee, maybe? That feels like a good move. That’s something people do when they bring a guest into their house, right? Not that guest is really the right word for what Jaime is here. Coffee is also something you do when you slept a maximum of three hours the night before.

Okay. Good. This is good. They’re going to bond over their mutual need for caffeine and it’s going to be fine. Everything! Is going to be! Fine!

Sebastian crosses the kitchen and turns on the coffee maker.

The task, having something to do with his hands, instantly soothes his nerves. A laugh bubbles out of him as he remembers the first piece of advice Ezra offered him last night on the phone: Let him feel useful where he can. Give him a purpose without making it a demand. Well, it seems he might be onto something.

While the machine does its thing, Sebastian crosses to the refrigerator and stares at the handwritten list pinned with a magnet. He squints at it. Somehow, in the daylight, it only looks more pathetic.

It was Ezra’s idea, though: make a list of rules, because he’s going to expect them and likely crave them at first, and put them in writing where Jaime will always have access to look. Don’t make him guess, don’t add the pressure of having to memorize everything all at once. Lay the expectations out clearly so that he doesn’t feel like he’s being set up to fail. Let him know, in no uncertain terms, that there will be no punishment for failure to comply, but don’t expect him to believe it.

Sebastian is grateful beyond words for the guidance. He never would have thought to do this on his own. Every instinct in his body wants to sit Jaime down and tell him that there are no rules, there are no expectations, and that while he is under Seabstian’s roof, he is as good as free.

But that’s not true. It isn’t that simple. The system that stole Jaime’s freedom is much larger than any one man, and his enslavement is more than any one man can lift away from him. Sebastian would do him no favors by pretending otherwise.

The sound of sputtering from the coffee machine brings him back to himself. Sebastian lets out a long breath and grabs the list from off the fridge. He allows himself a few self-conscious seconds to scan over the page before he crosses into the living room and places it on the coffee table.

He pours two mugs of fresh coffee, stares at them, then grabs two shot glasses from the cabinet. He fills one with milk and the other with sugar and brings all four to the living room.

When he has sufficiently burned through all of his stalling techniques, he turns toward the bedroom hallway and takes a deep breath.

--

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @van-whumpS @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm

[peachy-panic]

Does jaime like women?

Jaime, at his inception in my head, was bi. I think after getting to know him more, he doesn’t fit neatly into a label.

I think Jaime has the capacity to develop feelings for someone regardless of gender, but sexual attraction isn’t a big part of him in general… until he has a bond with someone, in which case things are different. We saw that with his college roommate, and we’ll see it again in the future.

I do think there have been vague crushes in the past on girls, and he can appreciate a woman’s beauty for sure.

(He thinks Mrs. Torley was one of the prettiest people he ever met)

[peachy-panic]

🗝 Jaime, if you had to choose who gets your next contract, between Mr. Torley, Bryan, Dr. Greer, Dr. Tate, or someone random, who would you choose?

Every single one of those possibilities comes with its own unique set of fears and reasons for not wanting to go that route. Jaime takes a minute to weigh them against each other, then says, “Dr. Tate.” He hesitates, then nods, affirming his own answer. “Whatever happened, I know, at least, he wouldn’t be cruel to me. I don’t think he’s capable of it.”

[peachy-panic]

Will we ever see more from the ex-Mrs Torley? I find her fascinating

:)

[peachy-panic]

Oops I caved and made Jaime, too.

Mr. Torley, canonically, loves to let him wear his shirt on Sunday mornings. It’s super nice and charitable of him :)

(Picrew here)

[peachy-panic]

jaime, what are the best-case and worst-case scenarios to you right now?

"Best case?" he repeats, searching your expression for signs of a trap. "Best case would be the entire abolishment of the system and getting to live something close to a normal life, but that's a pipe dream. I guess... I guess the next best thing would be getting contracted out to someone who genuinely has no desire to see me in pain, and then to have them like me enough to keep me around longterm.

"You hear about that sometimes. People getting their contracts renewed for years at a time and kind of just... acclimating to as decent a life as you can get in this position. It gives me a little bit of hope that not everyone is as bad as the couple of Keepers I've served under." He laughs, but it's a bitter sound. "Kind of reminds me of being in foster care again. Everyone silently competing for the good homes and hoping to find their forever family."

He pauses, his expression darkening.

"Worst case? Sometimes it felt like I was already there when I lived with Mr. Torley, but I think I always knew, logically, that it could be much worse somewhere else. And that is a terrifying thought. I guess worst case would be the inverse of everything I said before: someone buying my contract longterm and then using it to make my life hell.

"Handler Smith used to make comments about how he should buy my contract someday." A shiver rolls through him. "Yeah, I think... I think maybe that would be the worst case scenario."

[peachy-panic]

Fears/phobias for Jaime!

this ask thing!

Fears?

Handler Smith used to make offhand comments during his initial training about how he might like to purchase Jaime's contract. How much fun they could have outside the walls (and rules) of the facility.

Jaime can't imagine many worse alternatives than that one. He doesn't know how he would ever find the strength, or the will, to survive that.

Beyond that, he fears being kept by anyone more outwardly violent than Mr. Torley or Bryan were. Being trapped in a contract where he is beaten and assaulted every day. And the idea that a Keeper might go too far with him one day, knowing the consequences of snuffing out his life would be minimal.

Phobias?

Large bodies of water, or really anything deep enough to drown in.

Also, centipedes. His first group home was infested with them. Too many fucking legs.

[peachy-panic]

9 and 21 for Jaime please 😍

From this ask thing!

Discussion of noncon & parental death below the cut:

9. Humiliating memories

His training was full of humiliating moments, as is to be expected in the process of breaking someone's humanity down, but the most visceral memories of humiliation come from the time he spent in Mr. Torley's bedroom.

Which was entirely Torley's intention, and exactly what he was into. He didn't usually prefer to physically hurt Jaime in bed. Instead, he derived great joy from turning Jaime's own body against him and eliciting reactions that he knew were not only involuntary, but actively loathed.

Jaime still carries a lot of embarrassment and shame surrounding those moments.

Sometimes I think about writing one of these instances but then I get nervous

21. Turning points in their life

There have been a few turning points in Jaime's life that have altered his path significantly. I think, in order, they would be:

His parents dying & leaving him to state custody

A college recruiter coming to his high school soccer game and getting him a full ride & a ticket out

Uh, ya know, getting taken by WRU

Meeting Sebastian Tate... though he doesn't know what a turning point that is yet :)

[peachy-panic]

“Look at me.”

Hi there. I’m new here, but also very much not, which is to say you’ve probably seen me pop up a few dozen (hundred) times in your notifications with likes and comments and the occasional ask when I’m feeling brave, sliding under the radar from the safety of my obscure fandom-turned-main account.

POINT IS, I’m no stranger to the wonderful works of this community, and CERTAINLY no stranger to whump appreciation, even if I haven’t always had a word for it. And because I’ve been so inspired by all the talented writers here, I’ve decided to finally cut loose and throw my own work into the ring, and the whole @whumpmasinjuly thing seemed like an opportune time to pop up.

I’ve aggressively lurked on so many of your pages in the last year so I’m sure I’m leaving someone out, but I did want to tag a few of the writers who have really motivated me to start this page just by reading their writing:

@ashintheairlikesnow @orchidscript @deluxewhump @whump-tr0pes @evermetnotforgotten @card-games-and-pain

And if you’ve made it this far into the post, we’ve arrived at the actual content. This snippet is from a project I started writing before I knew about the existence of the BBU, but I’ve slowly started molding it into something that fits more-or-less within the bounds of that collective universe. Some things may take slightly different turns to the rules established there, but it’s the same general concept.

Without further ado.

PROMPT: “Look at me.”

WARNINGS: General BBU-esque warnings, human trafficking, slavery, non-con (fade-to-black ish but the lead up is… Not Great). Let me know if I missed anything!

He knows something is off right away when Mr. Torley calls to him from the end of the long hallway on the other side of the house. 

When the children are home, Jaime is confined to the main common areas: the living room that spills into the large open-concept kitchen, the guest bathroom, the laundry room (where he has already spent most of his time working), the boys’ toy room (where he has only gone to clean up after them), and of course, the small room he has been given to sleep in, which he is sure once served as some sort of storage area. 

At the mouth of the living room is a corridor that leads to Mr. Torley’s study, and across from that, his bedroom. So he is told. Jaime was given instructions never to go into that wing of the house unless explicitly invited. He has been in his new home assignment for three days now and has never once been asked to cross those bounds. 

Until now. 

Carefully, Jaime places the mug he had been diligently scrubbing in the basin of the sink and shuts off the tap. He looks around for the hand towel and, remembering he had thrown it in with the last load of laundry, dries his hands on his t-shirt instead.

There’s a shift in the air, something thick and weighty and terrible as he steps into the opening of the hallway, but he doesn’t allow himself a moment to hesitate. He pads near-silently forward, toward the only open door, all the way at the end. 

In the threshold between the hall and the master bedroom, Jaime’s toes brush against where pristine hardwood meets soft carpet. It feels good against his bare feet after days of standing on an unforgiving surface without the allowance of shoes or socks, but not nearly good enough to settle the uneasiness building in the pit of his stomach. Mr. Torley sits on the edge of the bed, a long, deep-colored robe covering most of his body, save for the deep strip of exposed skin down his chest where a few patches of thick, dark hair peek through. Jaime forces his eyes up to his.

“You called for me, Sir?” His voice low and steady, even as his eyes draw unwittingly to the lamp on the bedside table, which has been dimmed to an orange glow that makes the room feel small and suffocatingly warm. 

“Come here,” his Keeper beckons, and Jaime’s muscles operate by the hand of some unseen force, pushing him forward. He only makes it half a step in before Mr. Torley raises a hand, gesturing to where the light of the hallway spills in around his silhouette. “Close the door behind you.”

Jaime’s limbs feel very heavy all of a sudden, but he moves anyway, a phantom sting buzzing beneath his skin at even the briefest thought of hesitation. Never make your Keeper wait. Never let your Keeper ask twice. 

The hallway is plain and sterile, much like the rest of the Torley house, but Jaime stares longingly out at it as he pulls the door shut, wishing he were out there instead.

When the door clicks shut, he can feel a pair of eyes rake down his back like cold fingertips. It raises the hair on the back of his neck, his skin breaking out in an unpleasant chill, but he forces perfect neutrality into his expression before he turns around. He zeroes in on the sensation of soft carpet under his soles instead of the prickling dread under his skin as he makes his way toward the bed, coming to a stop a couple feet away.

Mr. Torley chuckles under his breath, a low, amused sound that Jaime is already getting used to hearing. He seems to reserve it for Jaime alone and it always serves to make him feel like there is some sort of private joke he’s not been let in on. Or, more accurately, that he is the joke, and he can’t quite stifle the lingering sense of shame that comes with that. 

“I said, come here.” It’s a direct order, but paired with a hint of amusement and something darker swimming behind his eyes. He rubs a hand invitingly, pointedly, over the comforter next to him and Jaime swallows back a lump in his throat that feels a lot like bile.

He isn’t stupid. Despite everything that’s been told to him, he’s not. But in that moment he wishes maybe he was, and then ignorance could be bliss for just a few more seconds. He knows where this is headed, and he knows that it’s wrong. It is against the policies, against the rules, he knows it is, but he isn’t surprised, either. It hadn’t taken long at the training facility to discover that the system on paper looks a whole lot different than the system in practice. 

“‘We uphold a zero-tolerance policy for the sexual exploitation and abuse of Domestic workers,’” a cruel, mocking voice recites in his head, alongside the memory of a leather-gloved thumb sliding between his lips, his wide, tearful eyes glued to the tiny, black remote in his handler’s fist. 

The skin beneath his collar burns at the memory, and he raises his fingers absently to touch there, half expecting to feel the heavy weight of the electric clip attached. He doesn’t, of course, and the only electricity he feels now is of a different nature, coming off his Keeper in waves as he waits, a bit more impatiently with every second, for Jaime to sit. 

So he does. 

Mr. Torley crowds his space immediately, and his instinctive response to pull away is smothered by a heavy arm draping over his shoulders and a droning voice inside his head. You must make yourself available at all times. You may not refuse any order or request that does not directly interfere with the wellbeing of another person. Jaime allows himself to wonder, for the briefest moment, if his wellbeing counts for anything. He knows it doesn’t. They had just spent the past three months teaching him, in every way imaginable, that he was not, in fact, a person at all.

All the offhand remarks from the trainers, the lewd sneers, the heavy-lidded glances and roaming hands… they had all painted him a picture of what to expect. He had just tricked himself into thinking that maybe, hopefully, if there ever really was a god in this universe that loved him like he was sure he once believed, that he was wrong. In the three days since he had stepped foot into his newest post, Jaime had managed to convince himself that maybe, possibly, he had gotten one of the good ones. 

Mr. Torley is all too happy to shatter the illusion as his finger and thumb find Jaime’s earlobe, rubbing it between them and then ghosting down the side of his neck. 

“Take off your shirt,” he whispers.

Jaime’s blood runs cold. 

You may not refuse any order or request. He can’t conceal the trembling in his fingers as they curl around the hem of his standard-issue grey t-shirt. You may not refuse any order or request. The warm ambience of the room feels startlingly cold against his naked torso as he pulls the fabric over his head, letting it fall in a soft whisper onto the carpet. You may not refuse any order or request. His arm is back around his shoulders instantly, hot and cold assaulting his skin all at once and he feels so exposed and he doesn’t want to be here he doesn’t want to do this. 

Mr. Torley places a heavy palm against his chest, running it slowly downward, and Jaime can picture what it looks like without even looking; calloused pads scraping over soft skin, all thick fingers and subtly unkempt nails, the beginnings of age spots and wrinkles and small dustings of black hair across the knuckles. He thinks his keeper must be able to feel the way his heart is pounding through his ribs, and he feels a surge of embarrassment that he was sure the training should have beaten out of him.

It’s because you weren’t trained for this, the panicked voice in the back of his head screams as the hand trails lower, grazing the thin patch of hair below his navel. This isn’t supposed to happen. This is against policy. You weren’t made for this. His skin feels static in every place Mr. Torley’s fingers brush, and he wishes he could dissolve under them.

“You’re shaking, baby.” Jaime winces at the unexpected term of endearment. So far, it has only been boy, curt and abrasive when thrown in his direction, usually followed by a direct order. “Have you never had a man touch you like this?”

His mind supplies a horror show of memories, flashes of images behind closed eyelids -  leather-gloved hands and concrete rooms of the training facility - and he realizes he doesn’t know how to answer that. He wants to cry. Can’t cry. Isn’t allowed to cry. Then there are fingers on his chin, on his jaw, softer than any of his touches have ever been; soft like the word baby on his lips, soft like the half-lidded eyes that he is forced to meet. 

“I asked you a question.”

“I haven’t. Sir.” His voice shakes, barely a whisper. 

It is mostly true, probably in the way Mr. Torley really meant it, and unfortunately seems to be exactly the answer he was looking for. Dread splits Jaime in two. One part, the part of him that’s hazy and pliant and good tells him he has done a good job, that he has pleased his Keeper, he has said the right thing. His keeper’s needs are his needs, if his Keeper is happy, he is happy. 

The other part just keeps screaming. And screaming. And screaming.

He doesn’t want this.

It doesn’t matter what he wants, he’s not supposed to have wants.

But this isn’t allowed.

His Keeper is happy.

Please, please stop touching me.

He can’t say no, no is forbidden to him.

Please don’t make me do this.

His keeper is smiling.

“You’re very lucky,” Mr. Torley says, dragging the thumb that was holding his jaw over he’s lower lip. “They could have given you to any one of your bidders, and trust me… there are some messed up people out there who invest in the services of Domestic Companions. But I can be good to you.”

Somehow, he doesn’t feel very lucky at all.

“Yes, sir,” he says, a bit breathless as fingers trace up and down his spine. His own fingers curl into the bedsheets on the opposite side of his thigh where Mr. Torley can’t see the outward signals of his distress, though from the naked delight in his eyes as he watches him, he doesn’t think he minds. 

There are lips on his before he can even process what is happening, and he feels his whole body go rigid in his Keeper’s hold. He’s never been kissed before and the cold wetness against his mouth is nothing like the movies make it out to be. It’s hard to wrap his head around the overwhelming sensation, but the one thing he knows for sure, immediately, is that he hates it. 

He hates his first kiss unlike anything he’s hated before. Terror and humiliation seize him in equal stride as he realizes he doesn’t really know what to do. He is frozen, for a moment, his own pulse beating wildly in his ears as slimy lips move against his own. When Mr. Torley cups a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to lean into the kiss, his mouth opens instinctively, submitting to the insistence of the movement, and this seems to be exactly what he was looking for. A low, throaty hum vibrates against his mouth and Jaime clamps his eyes shut tight. He feels like he might die. For a moment, he kind of wishes he would.

He doesn’t register the pressure of the hand against his chest until his back is already pressed into the duvet. Mr. Torley sits up then, breaking the kiss, then stands. Jaime doesn’t look at him - he can’t bring himself to - but he can feel his eyes on him anyway. Thick fingers hook into the elastic of the thin, gray pants he had been given three days prior, and his breathing goes flat. Please don’t please don’t please don’t, his brain lights up with panic, every nerve ending in his body on high alert. But he doesn’t move, other than to close his trembling fingers around the material on either side of him, curling the soft fibers of the duvet into his fists. He wants to close his eyes, but he can feel them burning, then swimming with moisture, and he knows if he clamps his eyelids shut, the tears will spill over and he doesn’t want to cry in front of Mr. Torley.

Instead, he stares up at the ceiling fan, focusing on the long, thin blades of wood instead of the feeling of cool air against his lower half as the material is pulled away from him. He hears the rustle of cloth as his pants join the discarded shirt on the carpet at his feet, and then another sound of the same, this time heavier, but he doesn’t dare look away from the grey clump of dust dangling from one of the fan blades above him.

Worse than the chill of the exposure is the heat that follows in the form of skin on skin, an immovable weight settling over his body. His throat jerks in another attempt at a sob, a plea that can’t let free. He swallows it down and tells himself that if he just keeps staring at that one spot of dust, he isn’t really here, that his keeper is not on top of him, that this isn’t about to happen to him. 

But he is. It is. There’s no stopping it now. There never was.

“Look at me.” 

For the first time, he allows his eyes to slip shut in a quiet moment of defeat - just a singular moment of hesitation before he follows the command. He feels the moisture slipping out at the corners but he can’t do anything to stop them even if his hands weren’t being slowly pressed above his head and into the mattress. When he opens his eyes, he looks up into the cold expression hovering over him, fully eclipsing the spot of his previous focus. It’s just him now. It’s all him, every one of his senses besieged by the one person whose life he is supposed to center himself around now. In that context, perhaps this should feel exactly right. 

Somehow, it doesn’t. Not at all.