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“You fucking rat. I told you before what would happen if you bit me, didn’t I?”
“No! No! I’m sorry!” Ren cries, dragging his knees against the concrete, clinging to Strade as he stomps towards the counter. He grunts as he kicks him off, his boot making contact with his stomach, forcing Ren to let go. He doubles over, clinging to himself now as his body processes the pain and the promise of more. He didn’t mean to; he swears. It was an accident. Strade got him worked up, reminding him of his only purpose now that he belongs to him—pressing all the right buttons to get his blood hot beneath his skin. His ears pinned themselves to the side of his head the moment he tasted blood, releasing his hand just as fast as he clamped down on it. Still, it was enough to enrage Strade, forcing him to stop the gouging of flesh for something Ren deserves more.
“Dummer fuchs.” He huffs, angrily throwing open a drawer and then another to find the right tool. Ren’s bleary eyes close tight as he pulls a set of pliers from it, testing the grip in his hand. “I won’t- I won’t do it again!” He promises through rapid breaths. His claws dig into the concrete, trying to find something—anything to ground him, let him focus, allow him to think of something to appease him—but he already knows it’s too late.
Strade begins approaching with the pliers, giving Ren’s heart reason to beat even faster—something he felt was impossible just a few moments ago. He tries to pull his body back, pushing and kicking to put distance between himself and Strade, but it’s no use. The man roughly grabs his ankle, yanking his light body back towards him. He pins him down with one knee on his calf, already causing him pain with the weight of him nearly crushing it.
“The more you struggle, the more teeth you’ll leave without. Do you understand?”
Ren nods, barely able to meet the dark look in his eyes. The adrenaline pumping through him—an instinct that serves no purpose when running isn’t an option—is a double-edged sword. He feels like he can’t breathe, and his fingers scraping the concrete have completely lost feeling.
The hand not holding the pliers comes up to grip his chin roughly—calloused fingers and filthy nails digging into the soft skin, practically bruising his gums already. His thumb adjusts to pull open one side of his mouth, but it’s not enough. “Open.” He gives his instruction. Ren knows he doesn’t have a choice, parting his lips further as he pants against the finger invading his mouth.
Strade adjusts the pliers in his grip, opening the jaw as he lifts it and finds its place in his mouth. It latches firmly against one of his bottom canines just before he can feel Strade start to pull, making sure it has a good grip. Ren shuts his eyes tight, preparing for the pain like he always does, but it doesn’t compare to the slashing or puncture of the meat of his thighs. The mouth is unfortunately far more sensitive, as he finds out when Strade yanks . A claw breaks against the concrete as he screams, attempting to jerk away from Strade, but the grip on his jaw only becomes firmer while blood starts to fill his maw, pooling from the gaping hole. The tears streaming from his eyes make it hard to see the prize Strade holds up, still in the clasp of the pliers. The tooth that had been so deeply planted in his mouth is now free from where it should have stayed, dripping blood down to his bare thigh.
“Ah, that’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He turns it around, looking at the flesh still attached to the clean section where it had been rooted. He releases the grip on Ren’s jaw to slip it into his pocket before his bruising touch returns, holding him still for the next. “That wasn’t so bad, fuchs. Only three more.”
The pliers return, as does the unspoken instruction to open his mouth. He can’t help the trembling in his jaw, making it difficult to hold them open. It goes against every instinct—man and beast—to allow him to do it again, but he tries. Strade’s fingers pry further at his bottom lip, leading the mix of saliva and blood to begin dripping down his chin.
Again, he tests the grip on the tooth before he yanks. Another shriek is earned from Ren as yet another piece of him goes missing. It was even worse than the first one, he’s sure. His breathing can’t catch up as the sobs take control of his lungs. “Pleash! I’m shorry!” He begs again, his mouth utterly filled with blood he can’t swallow down. Strade’s release of him as he pockets the second tooth allows him to put his head down, letting everything spill out onto the concrete beneath him. The taste of his own blood is making him dizzy—nauseous, even. He can already feel his stomach start to curdle with the flavor on his tongue and the heavy mix of intense anxiety.
His plea goes unanswered; instead, he’s met with more scolding. “Stay still, or I’ll take out two at a time.”
Strade’s hand pulls his head back up, forcing him to look at the man. His eyes aren’t as harsh as they were, maybe soothed by the pain he’s causing. Still, the bloodied instrument returns as Strade focuses more on pulling up his top lip—two fat fingers jamming beneath it. The canines that are presently rooted on top are bigger, probably sitting even deeper in his skull than the bottom ones are—no, were . It’s going to hurt even more. He can feel the burn of stomach acid trying to make its way up his throat. Strade would surely pull even more if he puked on him, so he swallows it down with his mouth still held open as the pliers tighten down on his tooth.
His reaction is delayed; he sees the tooth in front of him before the blinding pain overtakes him. He pulls himself back out of Strade's grip to hold his face and
weep
. Again, he tries to allow the fluids to release from his mouth, held open anyway as he sobs and starts to pull at his hair to take control of some of the pain he’s feeling. “Shtop! Pleash! No more!”
“Well, we can’t just leave one in there, can we?
This time, instead of holding his jaw, he wrenches Ren’s head back by his hair, forcing him to swallow down the blood filling his mouth to keep from choking on it. Ren searches for something else to grab, his hands rooting themselves in the slack of Strade’s pants and holding on tight—his eyes scrunched together just as much as he bares his teeth for him.
He can’t seem to breathe as the jaws of the pliers close around the final canine. He chokes on another sob just before he pulls, this time insidiously slow, just to see what it would take to wiggle it loose. Ren tries to curse against the metal, but it’s completely illegible. “Full it!” He screams, kicking with his free leg. Strade hums, smiling down at him as he yanks at the tooth and his hair alike. His claws tear at the fabric clasped between them as he screams again, too blinded by the sensation to recognize anything else his body is doing.
With his head pulled back, he’s forced to swallow down more blood, startling an immediate response from his stomach. He counts himself lucky that Strade forces him down to the concrete by his hair when he does. He tries to curl in on himself as the mix of blood and his meager breakfast spew from his throat onto the floor, but the weight trapping him barely lets him turn his shoulders to the side. The stomach acid burns against the open wounds in his mouth, drawing more pitiful, broken sobs from him between the seizing that controls his body while he wretches.
Strade’s weight comes off of him, but he doesn’t move further away, not wanting to miss the show Ren is putting on for him until the seizing stops, and all he can hear is Ren’s labored breathing between softer hiccups as he cries.
Ren tries to soothe the throbbing with his tongue, but it only causes him to wince. As the violent nausea subsides, he finally looks up at the foreboding body standing above him. He’s just playing with the teeth in his hand, not even paying mind to the body on the floor. His eyes meet Ren’s after a moment, giving him the look he hates the most—forced pity. He cocks his head as he pulls his lips tight, holding one of his teeth between his fingers.
“Oh, poor little fuchs. If only those big ears on your head were any good for listening, you’d still have these.”