The Hands That Feed You
Motte (Gwappo)
Summary:
Flug enjoys teeth and claws on his skin, just not when he didn't ask for them.
Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)
Work Text:
They say hindsight is 20/20, but looking back on his life, Flug can't pinpoint where it started. There had been touching from the very beginning: strong hands yanking him by the arms, grabbing him by the shoulders, occasionally wrapping around his throat. He could count all the times they'd touched him gently on one hand, but the point still stands.
With regular touching came regular wound licking, spending many a night rubbing ointment into his bruised skin and stitching the occasional gash. If nothing else, it had taught him how to handle a needle and thread quite aptly.
There must have been a point, however, Flug tries to remember, where the way Black Hat laid hands on him had shifted. It's almost seamless, the transition so fluid that whenever he's sure he's found the turning point, an older memory pops up that makes him reconsider.
A hand on his shoulder with a light movement of thumb across the back of Flug's neck, a seemingly accidental bump of hands, the professional distance between them slowly disappearing. They're small, insignificant things, but coming from Black Hat they're almost obscene.
Weeks later, Flug's train of thought comes to a crashing halt, almost dropping the vial in his hand as an unbidden thought surfaces, making him wonder whether it was supposed to be a come-on. It's beyond ridiculous, but the thought keeps him up all night weighing the odds of flirtation against friendliness. There's no other significant changes; no looks, no smiles, no better treatment.
The next evening, crawling into bed with a fresh bruise on his arm for being out of it all day, Flug comes to the conclusion that he's finally losing his mind.
It's five days later when Black Hat comes to see Flug in his lab, the clock about to strike midnight. Flug stifles a yawn before he turns to meet his boss, an explanation for his lack of progress already forming on his tongue.
Black Hat, however, stops him with a mere raise of his hand. "A simples yes or no question, Flug," he says, voice low. "Have you started working on the prototype yet?"
Flug gulps, sweat on his forehead making for a familiar uncomfortable sensation as the paperbag sticks to his skin. "No," he says, then quickly adds, "sir."
The corner of Black Hat's mouth twitches in a snarl as he approaches Flug at a pace that sends him scrambling backwards, tripping over his own feet as he bumps into his worktable with a yelp. Flug lifts his arms to try and shield his head, having learned by now that it's easiest to simply roll with the punches, but Black Hat grips his forearms hard and forces them back down again.
"You're a disgrace," he says, face an inch from Flug's own, who turns his head away and squeezes his eyes shut. "Why do you insult me like this, Flug?"
The pain is unexpected and shocking, sharp edges digging into the juncture of Flug's neck and shoulder, and the screaming and scrambling just happens, hands trying to writhe free to try and push Black Hat off. They both know he is no match for the strong hands holding him steady, and the fangs dig in deeper with every move of Flug's scrawny muscles, the scream drifting off into a whimper so pathetic even to his own ears, tears hot in the corners of his eyes.
Black Hat shakes his head like an animal, tears at the flesh as he clamps down harder, the pain becoming nearly unbearable. It shoots through Flug's body like lightning, down his neck and chest and straight to his dick, leaving him a terrified mess as he lets out a squeak and then a moan that's so loud and humiliating it sets his face aflame.
