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tyler’s finishing up the second row of stitches in josh’s back when he passes out.
it’s not surprising; it always happens. he always passes out by the time tyler’s just finishing up his second or third row of stitches. not surprising, just annoying. you’d think he’d have a higher pain tolerance, at this point, but he’s still just as weak as ever.
sure, he’s progressed some since tyler first brought him home; he has better stamina to work with, more adrenaline to burn through, but he just can’t take his stitches.
maybe it has something to do with how tyler had been fucking him raw and whipping him within an inch of his godforsaken life just five minutes before. maybe, but tyler isn’t entertaining the idea for even more than a second. josh is weak, and he needs tyler to survive. tyler’s the only thing holding him together. without him, josh isn’t anything.
even with him, josh isn’t anything. josh is just a toy.
tyler can always get new toys. he can find new toys and he can break them and he can fix them as he pleases. if he bends josh too far, snaps his pathetic neck when he talks back one too many times or chokes him too hard on accident, he can be replaced.
it doesn’t matter that josh has been his favorite toy up to date. there’s other toys out there that are indefinitely better than some bitchy, disrespectful cockslut. it’d just be such a pain in the ass to go and pick out a new one, especially since he’s more preoccupied with other important business. he still has to clean up after their most recent guest, after all.
there’s not a toy in the world that has josh’s teeth, however. they’re the most perfect pair he’s ever seen. he’s debated taking them all out and adding them to his treasured collection, but josh needs them. they look so pretty, all straight and perfect and glinting in the light, when his lips are stretched around tyler’s cock and he’s smiling. so eager to please.
there’s not a toy in the world that has his hair, the perfect shade of brown and the perfect length to yank at when tyler fists a hand through it and thrusts his cock deep into his throat. it’s almost unbearable how good it looks when it’s matted with blood, chocolate brown streaked with strands of bright crimson.
no toy quite has his cheekbones, sharp as blades, the perfect shade of flushed pink when tyler has a fist around his throat and he’s gasping for air that won’t come; they’re so gorgeous when they’re striped with pearl streaks of tyler’s come, cherry lips parted as he begs for more. he’s always wanting more, more, more, he’s so desperate for any kind of attention that tyler will pay him.
nothing can replicate how earth-shatteringly flawless his moaning sounds when tyler fucks him senseless, how pretty his blood looks like when it bubbles to the surface and stains his lily-pale skin.
he’s impeccable. replaceable, sure, just as everything in this fucking world is, but tyler would have such a difficult time finding a creature that’s just as perfect as him.
he’s so pale, so tiny, composed entirely of sharp edges and angular features; ribcage, hipbones, jaw line, cheekbones, shoulder blades, all sharp enough to cut glass. he’s nothing more than a fragile skeleton wrapped in bruised, scarred skin, and it’s just the way tyler likes him. joshie doesn’t get to eat unless tyler says so; he has a figure to maintain. and oh, boy, is he lucky if he gets to eat more than once every two or three days right now.
his toy needs to be kept in pristine condition. he’s no good without his razor-edged features; he’s no longer pretty without the dark shadows underneath his eyes, the gaps between his ribs where tyler fits his fingers when he fucks him from behind, the prominence of his shoulder blades every time he shifts ever so slightly.
but even his toy has needs, too, no matter how much tyler wants to deny him it. he has to be able to keep up; tyler doesn’t want to replace him just yet, hasn’t had his fill or the extent of his fun. he’ll bleed him dry, starve him until he’s too exhausted to get out of bed to even piss, and then they’ll break.
tyler’s more gentle with him, feeds him more often, lets him stay in bed, jerks him off nice and slow under the covers to make him feel like maybe, he’s special. that maybe, that most recent lashing he got is the last one (it never is, and he’s fucking foolish for ever thinking that there will be an end in sight).
the breaks are the most excruciating week-long periods of tyler’s life. they’re edging up on one of them right now as he’s stitching up the lashes on josh’s back; he’s trying to get as much out of him as he possibly can before he has to give it up for the next few weeks. he does more hunting, brings home more playmates for his own sick enjoyment, and josh gets to watch, relax, stay out of the target zone.
another row of stitches, a quick tug; tyler ties up the last one, cuts the suture, and sits back on his heels. done.
he surveys his work with an air of finality. he can’t wait until the break is over and he can rip his skin apart again. but for now, he has to heal, and tyler has to clean.