Chapter Text
"Archer! Front of the line!"
"Daryl! No. Stop! Hey! Get your hands off him!"
"Front of the line or I start with the kid, your choice."
"Daryl, we'll think of something, don't-"
The bonds chafed around his wrists, too tight and scratchy. He was tied to the chair where they'd left him, trussed up like a god damned pig for slaughter. His indignity crowned by a thick metal chain that was attached to a beam that spanned clear across the length of the warehouse floor.
His good eye slitted as a slick of drool soaked through the corner of the gag. Reminding him of the moment they'd wrestled him into the room, roughing him up a bit as they pushed him into the chair and yanked his arms behind his back. The woman, Mary, the same one who'd welcomed them with open arms, had been there, waiting.
He'd snapped at her when she'd come at him with the gag, earning himself a cuff to the head and a vice grip by three of her cronies as she tied it, humming quietly to herself as a group of hangers-on talked in whispers near the door.
He tried not to think about why the room stank of stale sweat and fresh blood. Or why the metal ring looked like someone had taken a hack-saw to it. It had still been light out when they'd wrestled him off the train-car, and after they'd left him alone he'd had more than enough time to stare at it - to catalog the pitted edges and discolorations. There was only one thing that could have caused that. Someone had thrown themselves as far as the metal chain allowed again and again, notching the heavy metal in their desperation.
The slash across his eyebrow burned, an ill-regular staccato rhythm that off-set the throb of his shiner. He could still feel the ghost of her hand across his nape. Hell, it was all but burned into the back of his brain. He was familiar with cruelty, with how someone could wound worse with an insincere touch than a punch to the gut. And that woman had it down to a god damned science.
"Shame, you're a pretty one," she'd remarked, stepping back to view her handy work, gesturing to the douche on his left as he finished the knots and loops around his ankles.
"I don't like waste, you understand," she continued, fingers flighty and fretful as they picked at her gauzy sweater. "We're careful of that around here, respectful. We know where we come from, what we're taking from. But we all made the decision; we have that right you know, to survive."
"We gave you your choice, more than once. And you denied us. All of you. What you see here is called the consequences of your actions," she drawled, looking like she wanted to step forward again but didn't quite dare. He leaned back, as far back as his bindings would allow, just in case.
"We'll come for you at dawn, we prefer our meat fresh. Best to start early, we got a lot of mouths to feed," she remarked, patting the crony to his right on a large, hulking shoulder, motioning for the others to start heading out as she fixed him with an assessing look. Like she was figuring out which side of him she wanted to skin first.
He couldn't do anything but glare, but judging by the blood-shot whites of her eyes and the nervous tick on her right side, she wasn't one for second chances.
When the door slammed closed and the echoes finally finished chasing each other through the still, it wasn't long before he was forced to admit to himself that this just wasn't what he'd pictured for his first time.
He shifted, testing the give of the ropes, fingers scrabbling across the frayed ends, looking for an opening, something – anything to give him an advantage. Because at this point he figured it was pretty safe to say he was on his own. Rick and the others were still stuffed up in that damned train car. It was up to him to get himself out of this mess.
The ropes lashed around his waist itched, burning through the layers of his clothes. And just like he knew it would, his dick perked up, firming slightly between the cradle of his thighs as the ropes pulled at the exposed skin. He sighed, resigned.
Christ, he was messed up.
He figured it was pretty safe to say he could blame Merle for this one. After all, it had been his faded old pornos he'd stumbled across under one of the floorboards in the shed a few weeks after Merle left home for good. He'd been on the right side of eighteen, wet-behind the ears and jonesing for something he wasn't quite sure he even needed, popping boners in the middle of the grocery store or halfway through makin' breakfast like they were going out of style.
The teenage years were a bitch like that.
He'd been too naive to realize the separation between the roles – the subtle differences between who was tied up and who was calling the shots. All he knew was that looking at those pictures, at page after page of writhing girls with flyaway curls grimacing around ball-gags – vulnerable yet safe - caused something in the back of his brain to just – click.
Something basic and animal had perked up its head, stretched itself out and purred.
He'd come harder than he ever had right there on the floor of that shed, breathing in the smell of wood rot and summer heat as he spilled all over his fist. Dirty briefs shoved down to his knees, pants half off in his desperation – young and shameless to a fault.
If he was being straight, finding those old rags had been less of a coming of age experience, and more of a god damned revelation.
He tipped his head back, eyes to the ceiling, counting the shadowed corners as he followed the high-beams and rusting metal. The smell of burnt-out engine grease was still strong. This must have been where they'd fixed the broken equipment, back when the trains had still been running.
He tried to make a fist, to twist the rope across the inside of his palm so he could have something to hold onto but the cheap nylon didn't move an inch. His dick twitched, a warm persistent throb between his legs as it hardened against his thigh.
If he was being honest with himself, when he set aside the feelings of anger and fear, the uncertainty and the grade-A case of butt hurt still brewing in the back of his mind, it was actually grounding. Impossible as it seemed, the weight of the ropes seemed to center him in a way that bordered on not making a lick of sense, yet, at the same time, making all the sense in the world.
He thought he'd had his chance once, lucking into it when he stopped for a drink at some podunk, back country bar. He'd been on his way to Augusta, some errand for his dick-hole of a boss when he'd seen her, dirty blonde, leather-clad and perfect leaning up against the wall by the broken juke-box. She'd followed him to a booth, he'd bought her a drink and they'd hit it off.
Her hands had been in his hair, kneading and pulling as he'd inched down the corners of her jeans, pulling roughly at the sweat-soaked fabric to get to the prize inside. It was only when the fingers had dug in – twisting and sharp that he realized she was saying something.
"-wanna try something a little kinky?"
He'd given her the side-eye in the near dark, looking up from the trail of love-bites he'd been leaving – spanning from belly button to navel – to see her reach into her purse and pull out a pair of cuffs. They'd been plain police metal, highlighted by the siren red of her nails and he swore his heart had dropped right into the pit of his stomach.
The girl had watched him with a sly, hopeful little look until he nodded, throat dry.
He'd been so hard it'd been damn near painful.
He hadn't realized how bad he'd wanted it until she'd sat up against the headboard and held out her hands, eyes bright and excited, and he realized it was her who wanted to get tied up and that she had no intention of returning the favor.
It wasn't until he was looming up on top of her, yanking her hands up over her head and fastening them to the headboard, trying his best to give her what she wanted, that he realized the whole thing was a hell of a lot of trust leveled on someone she didn't even fucking know.
He got off pretending he was in her place. Trying to make sense of the disappointment and confusion that rose up in the place of pleasure and satisfaction when she murmured sleepily, cuddling close like she needed the reassurance when he'd finally gotten over himself and fished the key out of the bottom of her god damned purse.
He'd simmered in the echoes of his dissatisfaction. Trying not to let it show as she fell asleep and he watched the marks, red and angry from where she'd pulled on the cuffs, gradually fade from her skin. The jealousy had been choking – enough to make him slip out of bed and take off before the sun made tracks across the sky.
He'd made a point of stopping to go through her pockets, fishing out the piece of napkin she'd written his number down on before they'd decided to take the party to the shitty motel just down the road. She was a nice girl, pretty and a good lay when it came down to it, but after everything was said and done, he didn't see much point of ever seeing her again.
He never went to that bar again.
He'd spent the next few years just clean avoiding it – years filled with bad porn and regret, trying to convince himself that he didn't want it – that he didn't need it. That it would never work out anyway and that he was kidding himself if, in a moment of weakness, he even so much as entertained the notion.
It'd gotten to the point that even when he figured he had the opportunity, taking some sweet, seemingly like-minded thing for a rough and tumble, he'd never asked. He'd given them what they wanted if they asked for it, but he never did any asking. He never admitted that he'd like nothing better than to turn a cheek and give it up, to feel the raspy burn of fresh nylon sliding across his skin, testing the give of the knots as they locked him down - fastening him in place before they even so much as leaned in for a kiss.
If someone ever asked, he wouldn't have been able to tell them why he wanted it. By all rights, considering the way he'd grown up, he knew he probably shouldn't have. Hell, he was sure he probably had a few screws loose for even thinking it. But that didn't change the fact that he did – more than anything.
It just wasn't something you grew out of, he supposed. Some things, for better or worse, just stuck with you. He'd never bothered to suss out the how's or why's. It'd just been this thirty some year itch he hadn't been able to shake.
He tried to make himself feel better by likening it to something that would always be good boner material. To something he'd spend the rest of his life wanting to try, but ultimately was too gun shy to put theory into practice. As the years passed he figured it was kinda like having a threesome.
Everything was well and good if you were the third – the flyer – the one with nothing to lose. But it turned out to be a whole lot less fun when you were the one who suddenly realized that sharing was not their style. Finding themselves stuck watching their woman go down on another dude and hating every minute of it – especially when she comes harder than she ever has in her entire life and you had absolutely shit all to do with it.
He might have had some experience with being the one on the first bit. He sure as hell remembered how it'd felt making for the front door, yanking on his pants just before the shit hit the fan and both them started screeching at one another.
Apparently he got in the habit of lying to himself over the years as well.
And with good reason. Finding something like that out about yourself was a hell of a thing, especially where he grew up. Rural Georgia wasn't exactly known for being understanding of other folk's predilections. At least not outside of the confines of their own bedrooms. So, like he said, he'd stayed quiet – mute. Figuring it wasn't worth the trouble. And even if it was, he'd never be able to find anyone worthwhile to do it with – someone he trusted – someone he was sure wouldn't have him regretting it come morning.
Because apparently there were some things in the world that were actually worth taking a chance on.
Point was, he'd never figured he'd end up actually getting what he wanted.
Well, the irony gods were sure laughing at him now.