Work Text:
it wasn’t the first time tyler had near killed him, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
when josh wakes up, every limb in his body is on fire.
not physically on fire, no, but he sure fucking wishes he was. it’d be so much better than this, so much easier to deal with. he lets out an agonized groan as his body gradually wakes up and realizes that every bit of him is in pain; a few tears trickle past his closed eyelids and he shakily moans. he feels the new additions of stitches in the skin of his back pull when he shudders, and it only intensifies the pain; they criss-cross at random intervals, no definitive pattern and certainly no expertise behind tyler’s handiwork.
who said his toy had to look perfect when he was done fixing him?
he wants to go back to sleep and he never wants to wake up. the only thought that comforts him is the fact that they’re edging up on their break for sure. the last few days before they rolled into the week span of freedom were always the worst. it’s when tyler grew most desperate to beat the shit out of him, grew most desperate to see how far he could push him before he had to give it all up for an unidentified period of time.
he shifts his hips, rolls them against the mattress; the pressure on his cock is sudden and intensely angering. he’s still wearing a fucking cock ring, and he’s most definitely not allowed to touch himself unless tyler’s feeling particularly generous (he never is). the edge of an orgasm is still creeping around the pit of his stomach, in coiled heaps, waiting to be unleashed.
josh feels his stomach roll in irate waves that challenge the pain in his back. how he hates tyler. how he hates every bone in his body, the blood running through his veins, every joint of muscle and every inner working of his skeleton; he hates, he hates, he hates. he wants to rip his fucking heart out.
he hates the fact that he loves him and he’ll never get loved back. it’s the only reason he hasn’t left. that, and because tyler will most definitely dismember him while he’s still awake if he dares try something so foolish.
he’d tried, once, when tyler was sleeping.
the scar across his abdomen gives a phantom ache at the memory.
being split open isn’t fun.
he didn’t know he could scream that loud. tyler had made it a point to carry the axe around with him for a week straight, just to make sure josh knew who he belonged to.
he just hopes they have enough pain medication in the cabinet to get him through the next couple of weeks. tyler’s not going to be nice when he takes the stitches out, this time around (as if he ever was); he shudders, again, an involuntary movement, giving a weak gasp of protest as his skin tightens and the sutures pull achingly taut.
the shuffle of footsteps padding across hardwood flooring echoes distantly in josh’s ears; fucking tyler. something solid clinks against glass and josh wants to scream in frustration. he also wants to cry, but that gets him nowhere, especially when tyler’s in such a mood.
him and his fucking teeth.
he rolls his head around to look at tyler so he can see that he’s awake, ignoring the ache in his spine; it’s better that he sees he’s awake, rather than try to play it off. the consequences are grisly, and he probably wouldn’t survive them this time around, not with how much blood he’s lost. he hasn’t eaten in two days, and combined with the blood loss and pain, blackness is beginning to seep into the edges of his blurry, swimming vision.
“oh, you’re awake,” tyler chirps as he presses the door open with his free hand; another jar, with pearly teeth jammed inside. canines, molars, incisors, bicuspids, even fucking wisdoms if their guests still have them rooted into their jaws. pretty little rosie’s teeth, all shined up and perfectly presentable for tyler’s own sick enjoyment. what does he even do with them?
never mind. he doesn’t fucking want to know.
tyler sets rosie’s teeth on the drawer and flicks on the light switch. “i’ll grab the meds. get up and strip the sheets, dollface.”
josh hates him.
hates him, hates him, hates him. he doesn’t think he’ll be able to move within the next three days.
but he really doesn’t want to find out what happens if he doesn’t behave so soon after a punishment. he’s a good little toy, he is, so he bites back a scream and wrestles himself up into a sitting position.
“good boy,” tyler chimes, and josh jerks his head up in surprise at the suddenness of his voice; some of his stitches begin bleeding as he reopens them, leaking down his back in vibrant streams. he half-wants to lick it all up but knows that the infection his mouth will give him could potentially do more harm than good.
even if the thought of him utterly helpless and at his disposal, even more so than he is right now, makes tyler’s cock twitch with interest. they can try that later. it’s time for his doll to heal.
“oh, joshie, look what you did,” he sighs, ignores the pained tears rolling down his sunken, shadowed cheeks. “can’t even take care of your stitches properly.”
josh hiccups, hurries to wipe away his tears. he’s on fire, again, and it’s doubled in intensity; his voice is wracked with pain as he murmurs, “i’m sorry.”
“stop crying.” tyler’s voice lacks any emotion as he pads across the floor; he holds his hand out below josh’s chin, carrying five oval-shaped white pills. “take this and quit your bitching. what do you want to eat?”
his stomach rolls at the mention of food; he knows that he’ll eat too much, at tyler’s request, and end up throwing it all back up. it’s going to be hell on his back and even more of his stitches are going to be reopened. “whatever you wanna make,” he responds, knows it’s the right thing to say because he won’t get what he wants no matter how nicely he asks or prettily he bats his eyelashes; he cups the pills in his hand and tips his head back, dry swallows all five at once.
tyler curls a hand through his matted, sweaty hair, scratches his sharp nails against his scalp. “see? it’s easier if you just do what you’re told,” he vocalizes, tugs on josh’s curls. “let’s make you food and get you in the shower.”
“okay.” tyler’s frame disappears from in front of josh, footsteps falling softly against the carpet before retreating down the hallway. josh suppresses a sob, presses his shaking thumbs underneath his eyes and wipes away his tears.
this is where he belongs. he’s tyler’s toy. he doesn’t have to think for himself. he’s overcome with yet another wave of hatred as he tugs himself to his feet amidst sharp, shaking gasps of pain; he sees the teeth in the jar on the drawer and he hates tyler so, so fucking much.
he hates that he puts him through so fucking much and won’t love him back. he sucks in a deep breath, approaches the drawer, curls a hand around the jar and inspects his reflection in the glass.
his sad, hollow-eyed, bloodied reflection. tyler hadn’t even bothered to clean him up. his stitches are going to get infected.
he picks up the jar and he throws it as hard as he can against the opposite wall with a furious scream; he’s still screaming by the time tyler rushes into the room, wide-eyed and livid.
he’s enraged. his anger rolls off of him in waves and he’s shouting at josh, but josh doesn’t hear him over his own screaming.
“you’re going to regret this, you fucking cunt,” is the only thing he manages to hear.
and oh, god, he does.