Chapter Text
Roy woke up. Groggy eyes blinked confusion at the dimly lit ceiling. His head pounded, and he licked his tongue across the palate of his mouth to try and muster up some saliva to relieve the parched dryness of his throat. Awareness crawled in slowly, an awareness of terror that was too muted for him to really feel right now. The last thing he remembered…he remembered, ‘I don’t want to die’; he remembered…
“Convince me you’re worth keeping.”
Roy shuddered, eyes too dry to cry. Everything hurt too much for him to be dead. The bed underneath him was soft, warm—too small, too, one hand hanging slightly off the side. This wasn’t…this wasn’t there, was it? This was…where was he? He swallowed. Swallowing hurt, set off a sharp ache in his neck. One hand dragged up, fingers running lightly against his neck. Bandages, thick, covering a large swath of skin.
Right.
The river. The knife.
Slowly, he pulled his arms underneath him, hoisting himself up an inch at a time – heedless of the sharp ache in his ribcage – until he collapsed, half leaning against the headboard. The blanket fell down, low over otherwise naked, bruised hips, but he barely noticed. There wasn’t much in the room: the bed, the side table, the medical equipment—oh. For him. But this wasn’t a hospital.
Roy blinked lethargically. His head lolled – that hurt (everything hurt, but distantly, not the sharply immediate shock of pain he was used to waking up to) – eyes catching on—
Bracing himself on a shaking arm, he managed to get himself up until he was sitting this time. His eyes stayed where they were, glued to his abdomen. Down to the side, just above his groin, where he’d “always be able to see it; wouldn’t want you to forget who owns you”. He stared blankly. Thick, circular lines branded into his skin in a design he still couldn’t make out. The scar wasn’t new; could probably be considered old now, depending on…
He raised his free hand shakily to the mark, prodding against it like it would hurt. Like it would disappear. It did neither. Roy slumped back down against the headboard, a small sigh – all he could manage with his throat trying to scream at him – breaking free. They’d changed their minds then. That had to be it; they’d decided not to…to…he was worth keeping after all.
Gratitude thrummed dully in his chest.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside of…it was a thick curtain pulled across the doorway, not a door. Low voices passed back and forth, growing closer in the same tread. He slipped down lower, didn’t bother to try and pull the blanket back up to cover him as familiar resignation pushed itself to the front of his mind. He was hurt; maybe they’d be nicer this time. It was the most he could hope for.
It was more than he deserved.
The curtain pulled back. The guy in the doorway, that wasn’t—he was large, no one Roy had seen before, but he honestly thought he’d seen everyone. His eyes drifted away, drifted behind his shoulder to—
“Roy?!” Ollie pushed himself in front of the man in the doorway, rushing over to the bed. “My god, are you okay? No, of course—I’m so sorry. Shit. I didn’t even know…” He paused. Recollected himself. “I got your call,” he finished lamely.
Roy stared blankly back at him through thin strands of hair hanging low in front of his face. Why was Ollie here? Ollie couldn’t be here. If Ollie was here, then this wasn’t—? Oh.
He opened his mouth, tongue working to push out a word, but nothing came out. He tried again. Ollie cast a glance back over his shoulder – back at the guy still in the doorway, hovering with his arms folded across his chest.
“You’re breathing on your own now, but it’s gonna take a couple weeks for your voice, I think,” he said.
Roy blinked slowly at him, the words taking too long to filter through the haze. He tilted his chin in the closest thing to a nod he could manage, letting his eyes slide right back over to Ollie. He’d called? That didn’t…the memory of the little girl cut through his mind. Oh. Right.
It was nice that Ollie had actually come.
Ollie’s eyes were wide, shining with unshed tears as he took the seat next to the bed. “You remember what happened?” he asked.
Roy swallowed. Winced. Lolled his head and jerked his chin up in another half nod.
“Okay,” Ollie said. “Good, that’s…” His voice didn’t sound like he meant that good, especially as he trailed off, eyes suddenly pinned on…Anger flashed through blue eyes, an easily recognizable low rage that made him want to back down; to cower away before...Roy dragged a hand up to cover the brand. Ollie’s fingers were gentle as they grasped his wrist, tugging his hand away. Roy let him move it, didn’t know how to put up a fight even if he’d wanted to. Roy already knew he looked a sight – bandaged and bruised, broken, too, probably; there wasn’t a spot on him that didn’t hurt – but somehow, that was the worst.
Horrified eyes looked back at Roy’s face. “They…” Ollie trailed off, too upset to say more than that. Roy shrugged a shoulder weakly, dull stare reflected right back at him. It didn’t really matter anymore. He’d already cried over it – cried during, screamed as they’d held him down and seared hot metal to his skin – but at least then…at least there’d been some worth to it then. Some worth to him. Now…
That was a lie. They’d tried to give him some manner of worth, but Roy hadn’t had it in the first place. It didn’t matter. Roy closed his eyes, slumping lower in the bed. He’d lost his worth in Ollie’s eyes years ago. He’d lost his worth in Jason’s, too. What did it matter that they’d finally realised and dropped him, too?
Ollie closed his eyes, tilting his head away. When he reopened them, they glistened, though Roy couldn’t quite figure out why. A hand landed on his shoulder, solid and soft, but Roy couldn’t hold back the flinch as Ollie touched him, even as he wanted to lean into it. It was nice. He wanted something nice for at least a little bit. Even if he knew it wouldn’t last. Especially since he knew it wouldn’t last. He stared at Ollie’s lips, moving fast, and—
Oh. He was talking. Roy tried to focus but could only manage to zone in and out, catching snippets at a time. There was an itch sitting underneath his skin, irritating deep inside his bone.
“—m sorry…shit. We’re gonna get you…care of, okay…call Dinah…take you home…as long as you need—”
Roy shook his head weakly, lifting his unsteady hand off the bed. Ollie caught it, cupped it between his own. He stopped talking. Working his mouth didn’t make it any easier for Roy to get words out. His tongue was heavy. Dry. He needed…
Even if he could ask for water, there was no reason for Ollie to bring it—no.
No, that wasn’t…that wasn’t right. Ollie would give him water.
But Ollie would also be disgusted, wouldn’t be here if he knew…if he knew that Roy…the drugs they’d given him, he wanted…he’d asked for them. He still needed—
Roy could have this just for now. It wouldn’t last. It never did. But for now, Ollie was here for him.
It was the strange man – the big man – who stepped over then, seemingly reading Roy’s mind as he asked, “Thirsty?” A bowl of ice chips appeared in his hand when Roy nodded – or maybe he’d already been holding it. He glanced between father and son then handed the bowl to Ollie. “Not too many,” he cautioned before stepping through the doorway. The schlick of the curtain drawing back across echoed through the silence that sat between them now.
Ollie wasn’t looking at Roy anymore – couldn’t look at him, probably. His gaze was pinned on his hands and the bowl within them. They were steady. They were always steady; Ollie’s hands never shook, even though right now he looked like they should be. He scooped one out.
Roy graciously accepted, almost ready to cry over the relief against his parched tongue.
A sudden loud shriek ripped through the room from the hall. By the time Roy recognized the sound as a child – the child from earlier – loudly exclaiming, “Yaya!” he was already half frozen, the blood under his skin suddenly ice in his veins. His breath went shallow: weak, shuddering things that made it feel like he wasn’t breathing in at all. A hand touched his arm.
“Roy?” he heard. Ollie. He didn’t respond. “Roy?” repeated again.
Roy couldn’t respond.
+++
Forehead pressed into icy concrete, grasping for that small chill of relief. Everything was…hot, too hot, fire dancing across his nerves. Roy panted weakly. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to get control of himself. He needed to…needed to stop. Think. Figure out a way…a way to…
A weak moan broke free in time with the full body shudder that wracked through him. Think. He needed to…on his knees, that’s where he was. Arms...behind his back, tied together wrist to elbow, that was going to make it hard to…to…hard to…free himself, that’s what he…fuck. He couldn’t…everything felt too much; overwhelming, under his skin, racing up and down his body, pooling in his…his hips shifted again, gyrating back and forth as if that would offer him any relief. Offer his cock – hanging heavy between his legs, aching for…for – any relief. Fingers touched his neck, stripes of ice against overheated skin. Roy leaned into the touch with a sharp gasp, words to say…to say…something eluding him. The only sound he managed was a pathetic mewl.
“Poor baby,” someone cooed mockingly above him. “Starting to feel it now, I see. Might've given you too much, though; I wanted you more aware for this.” The voice was familiar, was…oh. Before. He could remember there’d been…he’d been tied down. Angry? A setup. It’d been a fucking setup he’d walked into, and then he’d been tied down, and then that voice, terrifying with the threat of drugs—
Roy remembered the word he’d been looking for. He worked his jaw, tongue leaden and fighting against him as he choked out a breathy, “P-please.” Dragging his head up to look was impossible; too much weight, and strength was a dream outside his grasp.
Thighs bracketed his head. The fingers on his neck moved to ruffle at his hair. Roy shifted, head lolling more than moving, burying into one leg imploringly. The hand in his hair gripped, pulled up, deposited him back down with his nose dragging against…against…Roy whimpered, either fear or desperation. His lips pressed into the thick fabric, mouthing weakly at the cock buried underneath. He was yanked back, scalp screaming at him as he yelped, straining against the grip holding him back.
Laughter. Someone was…Roy didn’t care. Roy couldn’t care. The only thing he could care about: “I…I n-need,” but his voice died, turned into, “nnn,” into another strangled moan as he lost the thought and the energy to keep speaking. He wasn’t panting so much as taking deep, gasping breaths, struggling to pull enough air into his lungs because they felt too tight, his skin felt too tight, his balls felt too tight.
“You should see yourself; you debase yourself so nicely. Should’ve recorded this. I’ll remember to next time.”
A hand rested on the base of spine, just above his ass, cool and relief against his blazing hot skin. His head was released, then, and it dropped down, collapsing back onto the groin beneath his face. He was held there, hard to breathe, until he got his jaw moving again, widening, tongue lapping—
Something pressed between his ass cheeks – fingers, tracing along his crack, rubbing over his hole, threatening – yes – to force their way inside. He shifted into them, whining, needing more, needing something – anything, a leg, a shoe, the fucking floor – to rut against, to…to…his legs were still spread and he was still on his knees and the closest anything was to touching his cock were the fingers still prodding at his ass.
“I’d give it to you but,” a pause, and fingers trailed down, past his perineum, to cup at his balls. Roy pulled in a sharp breath, the moan caught in his chest as they continued, “I take it personally when people try to kill me.”
Pain exploded through his balls. Roy shrieked, twisting around to escape the tight grip crushing him, sobbing desperately against the leg under his cheek. He was begging—might’ve been begging—wanted to beg—couldn’t remember how to get words out over the bile crawling up his throat. Choking, whimpering, shaking, sobbing; agony that made him want to curl up, except he still couldn’t move, couldn’t—words floated above his head, but they were hard to make sense of.
“—admittedly did a shit job of it, but you left me with a question. What do I do with you?”
Roy didn’t care—couldn’t care, eyes squeezed shut, teeth grit as he burrowed his sopping red face into the only touch of comfort available. His shoulders heaved with the force of his crying, everything in him screaming for it to stop.
“I could fuck you right now, and you’d beg for it as I tore you up inside.”
He nodded. Didn’t know why he was nodding—what he was responding to, but it seemed like the right answer. The punch slammed into his cheek, knocking his head away, sending his whole body crashing hard to the ground. His cock, still hard despite the pulsing ache radiating through his whole groin, touched cool concrete, and all Roy could do was moan. He shifted his hips – still the most he could bring himself to move – rutting against the floor like a…a…
“Needy bitch.” A hard-toed boot caught him in the side. Something in his rib cage shifted painfully, but Roy barely noticed.
Soft pleading, a quiet, “pl-pl-pl,” all he could manage as he continued rubbing himself off against the ground. Another kick sent him flying, back slamming into the wall. Roy struggled to—he needed to—he was yanked up by his hair again, forced to meet cold dark eyes brimming with cruelty. Beneath the heat and incessant need, something like terror slid into him, a barbed wire wrapped around his heart. Roy shuddered, still panting.
“Killing you would’ve been such a waste. I’ve got a much better use for you.” A pause, and then a promise Roy didn’t have the mind to grasp onto: “You’re gonna regret coming for me, hero.”
Roy’s head cracked against the concrete as he was thrown back to the floor. His moan was more pain than want this time. Hands on his hips rearranged him, pulled him back onto his knees like he’d started, leaking cock screaming between his legs, throbbing forehead resting against a thankfully soft thigh. Fingers pressed against his hole once more, teasing him, and Roy whined. He tried to push back onto them – get them inside him – only to be met with another sharp slap.
“I already told you no. But I’ll give you…”
Roy was past the conscious realm of thought; past the idea of apologizing even as all of him wanted to pull away and curl up. Something that wasn’t a hand – huge and solid and slick – pressed against him instead, pushing and pushing and pushing until Roy was whimpering with pain as it breached him. Barely past his rim, too big, he wanted it gone – wanted it all the way inside him. His unintelligible pleading, half a word if that, grew more frantic.
He shifted his hips, pushed back, cried, tried again, and again, and again, unable to stop despite the pain; it wasn’t enough, wasn’t…
“This was a great idea. I can’t wait to make you like this without the drugs—"