Chapter Text
The door to the room opens, a jaunty hum floats through, and a teal-suited silhouette floats in, smiling wide and white, so hard that it hurts Dirk's cheeks in in facsimile of sympathy.
Or maybe that's just what this morning's left him with. He aches, from tips to toes, but the pain is the closest thing he has to a constant companion. The Crockers flit in and out- Jade, once, to talk shop, and she nearly had him; Jane, frequently, her touch cold and clinical and her tiaratop gleaming as she heals him; Jake, more frequently, and seeing him is a knife twisting into his chest metaphorically and a gunshot wound often literally; and John, most of all, smiling like the world is right as he wields the tools of his fucked up trade. Never Betty, and he tries not to dwell on why that is, only the relief that comes.
When he sees her, he'll know that it's over. It might even be a relief.
The sight of John Crocker is absolutely not a relief, he tells himself, though the sight of Jane often is, since it means a cessation of pain, even though there's a horror to his skin knitting together, bones resetting, damage erased with scars only sometimes left, if Jake or John ask her nicely to keep them. Jake often does. John wants a clean canvas.
Ugh.
He steels himself as Crocker draws closer, and closer, enough to touch. He's tied up, as he has been since morning, strapped into this chair and wrists secured tight enough to cut off circulation to his hands. Enough wriggling and he's loosened them, the ropes dark brown now where they touch his skin. But he can feel his fingers, he can move them now. He suspects he'll soon wish that he couldn't.
"Dirk!" John exclaims, his eyes creased at the corners. He sounds manic; he always does. "There's my favorite little toy. Still holding out, huh." He tuts, faux generously. "You really are here making it so much harder for yourself, you know. Not that I don't have fun, but you definitely don't have to make me do this."
That's a crock of bullshit if Dirk's ever heard out, and he rasps out a breath that's a kissing cousin to a laugh.
He knows he doesn't have to put up with this. He knows he could give in. Say yes. Build whatever they tell him to, maybe get himself a new suit to go with his fancy red shock collar. He might even see the light of day again, if he's good.
But where's the fun in that?
At least like this, he's in some semblance of control. He's still himself.
"Not feeling chatty today, huh," Crocker observes. "Normally you have so much to say! No one took your tongue out, right?"
Before Dirk can prove him wrong, John's suddenly uncomfortably close, his fingers digging into Dirk's jaw, forcing his mouth open. His breathing stops, his heart stops, when the pads of John's fingers brush against his tongue. He tastes of vanilla. Dirk prepares to gag, vomit, do whatever it takes, but- no pills are forced down, no tabs of anything. Not John's style, but he can't be too careful.
"Nope, still here," he announces. "Phew! Jane can't regrow that, even if you'd probably be less insufferable if you shut the fuck up. You know. As a treat."
Rude. And Dirk is still the brand of impulsive that landed him here to begin with. So, he bites down. Hard. His teeth catch fingers, dig in until blood, sticky and sweet, leaks onto his tongue.
John just laughs. Squeezes his jaw harder, harder, until he thinks the bone will splinter- a bolt of fear, where'll that leave him, where the fuck will that leave him-, until he lets go.
And then agony starbursts across his face, radiating from his cheek outwards, sending his head whipping back painfully.
Until John catches it with one hand.
The pain fades to a throb, imminent.
He wheezes out a breath. Fucking ouch. Worth it, though. His eyes sting and water; his face hasn't had more than a cut or two today. He's pretty sure John's ring cut his temple. Blood oozes hotly down his cheek.
"Aw," John coos, his tone sickly saccharine, fingers curled so tight in Dirk's hair that it makes his eyes sting. It's a new pain, acute compared to the dull background noise of all the rest. "Does that hurt?"
Dirk grits his teeth and finally answers.
"Do you want your answer on a scale of one to ten? Its prominence compared to the rest? What metric are we using?" his voice is hoarse; he hasn't had water yet today. He's fuckin' thirsty. He's most certainly not going to say that.
"There you are," John beams. "I knew you had it in you, quiet so does not suit you, dude."
Quiet suits him fine, Dirk wants to protest, but that wouldn't be a good argument. It suits him fine now, when it hurts to talk and when he tries (the operative word is tries) not to make things actively worse for himself. He does not often succeed- not with John, at least. Jake, it's easier. That guy doesn't listen at all, even when he does, and insults have gotten him nowhere but a slew of antiquarian words that Dirk suspects even someone from the fucking 1920's would be hard-pressed to understand.
But John likes to watch Dirk talk himself into trouble. And then scream himself out of it, more often than not.
Dirk's too goddamn tired for the foreplay, right now.
"You might want to get a move on," Dirk says, already bracing himself. Mentally speaking. Physically, he's learned it's a lot worse when he tenses up. Just because he can be healed- has been healed- doesn't make it better. Just because they want him to work for them doesn't mean he'll keep being worth the effort. "I'm already fuckin' exhausted, Jake dropped by earlier today."
Euphemistically speaking, anyway. Jake Crocker is as batshit as the rest of them, even if he's the most likely to burst into tears at any given moment. Dirk would feel bad for it, if it weren't a sham.
John's face closes off, briefly.
"Hm," he says. Neutral, noncommittal, which is suspicious as all hell.
"What," Dirk asks, layering on the sarcasm. He'll pay for it, he's sure of that, but- he has to know how far he can push. Each of them, all of them. He thinks he knows where that line is, but he has to be absolutely sure. Because this, from John, is a new reaction. And it might even be something he can use. "Don't tell me y'all set up a rota and he's skipping days. It's not a shock, of course, he seems like a fucking slacker, but he's been here often enough that it's difficult to fathom what's even being skipped. And I doubt I'm a valid excuse to get out of real work."
"'Course not," John says, patronizing. He's snapped out of whatever that was quickly, but Dirk won't relax yet. Especially not with how close together they are. Dirk can make out the pink tinge to his mouth, artificial like he's just been sucking on cherry candies. It's on his breath, too, cloying and artificial. "You're maybe a hobby a best. A chore, if you're Janey, but she's almost as boring as you are with all that business garbage."
"That's what it takes to be Heiress," Dirk counters. Implying that John doesn't have it- but they both know that. And he suspects that's the way John likes it; he doesn't seem the type to want the extra responsibility for more than ethically dubious business practices that comes with it.
"Sure does," Crocker answers, brightly vacant. "Gosh and golly, though," he continues, eerily similar to his brother. "Here I was going to have some real fun with you, but Jake went and got here first. He's so selfish like that, you wouldn't believe. But, I guess that's alright."
Is it? Dirk narrows his eyes slightly. It almost sounds like Crocker's going to let him be for today, but that can't be right.
John takes his shades off, tosses them aside casually. The lenses are already scratched to hell now, no doubt this'll add to it. Crocker has threatened to break them on multiple occasions, but Dirk isn't sure that he will.
Dirk looks at him anyway. He knows how this goes. John wants him to watch, and wallow in his own helplessness. Dirk supposes he's just grateful this Crocker never bothers with a blindfold; that makes it all the worse.
John's still smiling, leaning in close enough that Dirk can see how wide his pupils are blown, can catch himself, pathetic and bleeding and bruised, in the reflection of John's glasses.
He manages to keep his mouth shut this time. It ends up not mattering.
"Looks like I'm just going to have to find another way to break you," John says, all too cheerfully. "Can't be having that guy beat me out in originality or anything! His idea of torture is like, watching the company sponsored Avatar remake! Bluh, it is the worst. They couldn't even get Nic Cage in for it."
That's far from what Jake's been doing to him. A movie? They'd tried those at first, all the company orientation materials, with a matching headband that did sweet fuck all other than give him migraines.
He suspects that's why he's ended up here. In the deep shit, as it were.
He suspects that's why he's still breathing. They want to know why, but only after they break him.
Control. Control, Dirk reminds himself. His eyes still flit to the cleavers against the wall. He's too aware of where his hands sit, flat against the arms of the chair he's tied to. Two fingers are already mangled on his left hand; he'll be sitting with them overnight, he thinks. Jane, he's gathered, is fucking busy.
John tracks his gaze, and laughs, of course. He yanks Dirk's hair again, forcing him to look forward. To look at John, floating easily midair.
"Not yet," he says, his voice a low threat. "I still think you'll cave, you know. You'll give up just like everyone else, quit clinging to those dumb ideals already! There's no point. You can't last forever, Dirk, don't you feel yourself slipping already?"
Yes. He does. How fuckin' quickly all this bullshit became normal. How quickly he accepted it, stopped thinking of them all as Crocker- and it's not all to differentiate between them. It's half-assed and fucking pathetic, and it won't work. He's relying on nothing but their goodwill, as much as it stings to admit; Dirk's tried not to think about it, how he probably would cave when they started chopping pieces off, but the knowledge is there. He's contented himself himself being grateful it hasn't happened yet.
He's not like his Bro, or Lalonde, defiant to the last, heroic to the bones. Whatever became of them.
Dirk won't be a martyr. He's not a good enough person for that. He'll just be another corpse in the corporate machine.
But.
He's a spiteful asshole, and he might be slipping, but he hasn't fallen yet. Yet.
He bares his teeth at John in a rough approximation of a smile.
"If I didn't know better, I might start to think you didn't like doing this," he says. John laughs like glass splintering.
He flicks an imaginary tear away from the corner of his right eye, mirth shaking his shoulders.
"Oh, Dirk," he sighs, soft and wistful. "You're just so funny, for a guy with a huge stick up his ass! I could get you saying that about Jake, he definitely sucks at it, but it's the best part of my day. Really helps me let loose. Now you just stay real still for me, m'kay?"
Dirk is not sure he has any options; squirming won't get him anywhere, and John's still close enough, hand in his hair, that it won't matter which way he goes.
He keeps his breathing slow, even. As best he can manage, while he braces himself for the worst.
This time, when the touch comes, it's hideously gentle. A soft splayed palm against his cheek, catching at the dried, flaking blood there.
What the fuck.
He opens his mouth, and gets nowhere with that. John's hand presses firmly against it, clamps his nose shut too, between his thumb and index. His heart beats faster.
That part, at least, isn't expected. Dirk forces himself to calm down immediately. He can still breathe through his mouth a little, and he will, while he still can.
"Shh," John whispers. "None of that, now. No squirming, I told you. You're going to be good."
Lips press to his neck and he shudders, his stomach roiling. This isn't-
Well.
It's better than he's gotten before. It's not ideal, it's not what he wants, but it's as good as he's going to fucking get.
"Crocker," he says, his voice cracking, muffled against the palm of John's hand. Precious oxygen spent on a name. It's the thirst. When he doesn't get a response, he tries again, "John. What- what the fuck is this."
Because it's not right. It's the best he'll get, but it's wrong. The tenderness is so false it makes his skin crawl, it makes his stomach and chest twist. He'd dry heave, if he wasn't i complete control of his reactions.
And John stops, which is somehow even worse. That's not supposed to happen, not even when Dirk begs for the pain to end on his worst (weakest) days; it stops when John decides it stops, that's all it is.
He doesn't say anything, but his breath fans hot against Dirk's skin.
He answers, maybe, something that Dirk feels more than he hears.
And he pulls away.
"Breaking you, of course," he says, grinning so hard he dimples. "Except I'm trying something new this time."
His pupils are blown wide, and John finally lets go of Dirk's mouth. Air rushes in, he manages not to gulp it down desperately.
He almost misses the sound of fabric rustling, until the line of John's arm draws him down to exactly what he's doing.
Dirk doesn't have time to register it before John's moving upwards, suspended midair, his dick very much pressed against Dirk's mouth.
"Open up, Dirky," Crocker almost sings. His pants are down to his knees, and Dirk's surprised to see that he's not soft. Not hard, sure, but- getting there.
That's new.
Maybe there's not enough blood to really get him going, though.
He considers the merits of resistance and finds them to be pretty fuckin' piss poor. Nonexistent, even, but he has to stick to his principles. He keeps his mouth clamped firmly shut.
Crocker smiles wider, his eyes shining dangerously bright.
"You're just so cute when you try to be defiant," he says, amused. "Like it's even doing anything! We both know that you don't want to hurt anymore. You're tired of it, aren't you? But it's okay, Dirk. If you're good, it won't hurt."
There's something softer to his voice, weary. Like he's said this before, so much that it's lost its meaning. Like he's heard it before, and is repeating it by rote memorization. John's face twists, briefly. The second, then.
And. Dirk- isn't afraid. Maybe he should be. Maybe he should be kicking and screaming and fighting, or shutting down in horror, but he isn't.
It's John, and this is the only touch close to gentle that he's had in so long, and-
He wants it. He does want to be good. He wants it to stop hurting, just for a second. Just for a minute, with someone else in the room.
That's the worst part.
He opens his mouth.
"Good boy," John purrs, and Dirk barely holds back a shudder.
John pushes in; Dirk's mouth stretches around his half-hard cock, his tongue up against the underside, his teeth as out of the way as he can manage. John's thick, he tastes like skin, and a little like salt, and the smell of him, sweat and sugar and cologne worn off after a long day is familiar, at this point. He's never been this intimately acquainted with it, though.
Dirk almost chokes, when the head presses against the back of his throat, and then further in, but his gag reflex was lacking to begin with, and he manages a strangled cough.
John's breathing heavily above him, and when Dirk hazards a glance up, his face is flushed, his eyes dark. White teeth sink into his lower lip; it's the closest to undone that Dirk has ever seen him.
His jaw is starting to ache already, even as John eases out, back in, shallow thrusts as he uses Dirk's mouth to get himself hard. Dirk can feel it, his dick filling up properly in his mouth, straining his jaw further, pushing deeper into his throat each time.
"Go- hff, go on," John tells him, only a small strain in his voice. "Suck. Properly. I know you know how to."
Dirk does. He doesn't know how John knows that about him- sure, Crocker knows plenty invasive details, shit no doubt dug up after Dirk was taken, but some of the more intimate ones, from when he was a kid, Dirk can't say. He'd rather not think about the how, just the why.
This is easier in comparison, even if he doesn't like the thought of John finding some dude he hooked up with, either.
"Dirk," John snaps, an edge to his name. "You're not listening. God, you just get lost in that dumb brain of yours."
Not entirely wrong either, but that's obvious from plain observation.
Dirk does what he's told. His fingers press into the arm of the chair, aching to touch, but he fuckin' does it. John keeps moving, surprisingly slow, like he's savoring it, and Dirk takes his time in turn. Gets his tongue along the sides, lets his cheeks hollow each time he sucks, keeps his jaw relaxed, his throat open for John to fuck into. And he's rewarded with low groans, throaty and unrestrained, the most genuine thing he's heard since he woke up here with a broken arm and a blinding headache.
It's- almost normal. He could laugh at that. He would, if there weren't a dick in his mouth.
He's hard, too. He finds that less amusing.
It's not urgent, it just is, a physical reaction that's more a pressure against his pants. Something that he doesn't need to worry about. He's being good, he's doing as he's told, and John likes it, even as Dirk hopes John won't notice how much he likes it.
But Crocker is otherwise occupied, curled over him, fingers fisted in his hair, blunt nails dragging against his scalp.
His thrusts get rougher, until Dirk is straining to breathe, and he starts talking, telling Dirk what a good cocksucker he is, how surprised he is at the compliance. How easy he is. Words that send shame burning right down to arousal at their core, as tears prick at the corners of Dirk's eyes from the rough treatment. It's still close to normal, it's still how he likes it- how he used to, on his worst days, when he needed this to ground him and knock him right out of his gourd. It doesn't matter that it's not on his own terms; it's fucking pathetic, fucking ironic, how hard he is at his utter lack of control here. It's real, not like the others. Dirk's not in charge.
He moans at the thought.
That's enough.
John comes down his throat with a shudder and a bitten off shout, the only restraint he's ever shown. Dirk's scalp burns where he's been holding on tight to his hair, his eyes are still watering, stinging with salt.
He swallows it all down, nearly choking over the bitter taste, the sheer volume, his throat fucked worse than raw. His head feels dizzy, filled with cotton, quiet satisfaction beneath the white noise.
When John pulls away, he feels bizarrely empty, even as he gulps down air and takes the second he's given to catch his breath, before it disappears again. And it does, once John's eyes fix on him, and as much as his lungs try, he can't get a single thing in.
He's too used to this to panic, really, and he's too fucking horny for it to ping as bad. It helps shut his brain off entirely, even when it kicks the paranoia into high gear, even as he knows it's nothing but another weapon, one more knife to stick right into his chest. His body will flip its shit, but this is the only oblivion he'll get. The only peace. It's- a win-win, even. Crocker gets his fear, Dirk gets off on the adrenaline.
It's different, though. Because John's gotten more than just fear, and Dirk's never started off hard when this happens.
"God, you're a slut," he sighs out. Not fond, even to Dirk's sluggish brain, arousal and danger misfiring and crossing wires.
John's touching him.
Not kindly, not fucking gentle, that's not who he is. But a full-handed squeeze to his cock where it presses against his jeans, fucking soaking into his boxers, a thumb digging into the head through two layers of fabric. And Dirk has no idea what to do with that.
"Fuck," John whispers. Another squeeze, and Dirk shudders. His lungs start to burn, but it makes it feel better. Makes it all more intense; he's aware of his body like never before, the hand on his dick, the helpless heaving of his chest. He hates it- he should hate it. He's always been at Crocker's mercy, but not like this. Never like this.
"It's so much better when you can't talk," he thinks John says, but Dirk can't focus. He needs to breathe, needs air, his lungs are on fire and nothing he does draws more in, he's going to fucking pass out, his heart pounding, only vague noise audible against the pressure in his chest and nose and the rush of blood in his ears and the hand on his dick, ceaseless now, there's nothing he can do, he needs it, he needs-
The air rushes back in and he moans.
John might say something else, too. But Dirk's checked the fuck out, as his oxygen dwindles again. This time it's enough to just gasp in shallow breaths, like he's on top of a mountain, the drop off gradual until he's not breathing at all but he can't tell if it's because John keeps driving it out of him (metaphorically) with each rough grind of his palm, or because there's sweet fuck all to breathe.
Time dilates, stretching out on a string.
Desperation, the thud of his heart, the pulse he can feel in his dick. A strain in his hips as he tries to chase more. His mouth open, no noise. No air.
Bliss, his lungs filling and expanding, so precious his eyes nearly roll back in his head.
Again, and again, and again.
John only touches him in one place. He wants more. He needs it.
His jaw still aches and he can't breathe, and when he arches desperately into the palm pressed meanly against his dick, every single muscle screams in protest from wounds remembered and real. And he doesn't stop, because it's good. It's really fucking good, and if Crocker were to quit touching him now, that really would break him.
It's not a nice touch, but it doesn't make his skin crawl like John's hand on his face earlier, like John's mouth on his neck.
It's not gentle, but it's easy.
And he hasn't been touched like this in so, so long. He remembers the ghost of John's palm on his cheek, a mouth on his neck, and he shudders in arousal and disgust.
Dirk doesn't last, but it's not like he was expecting to. It doesn't feel like pleasure, when he finally comes, it feels like another blow, impact to his solar plexus, the breath knocked right out of him, as if it was there to begin with. His body tenses, arches, his vision goes black at the edges from the intensity as oxygen rushes in at the perfect minute, and the euphoria takes him, drowns out the world and softens its edges.
His eyes are closed; he doesn't remember shutting them.
Awareness filters in. He hears the wet rasp of his breathing, obnoxiously loud. He feels sweat pinpricked and cooling on his skin, the uncomfortable jut of the chair against his neck. His throat hurts. His hand hurts.
He feels like he's floating, and he doesn't trust it.
So still panting, flushed and sticky all over, he straightens up and meets John Crocker's gaze unflinchingly. Dirk's never met a challenge he wouldn't let swallow him whole, and this- this whole thing, proves that there's no exceptions.
John looks at him, the mess in his pants, on his face. Dirk bears it easily enough; there's a particular fuckin' shame to this, roaring down around his ears, but Dirk isn't going to be the one to bend first. Crocker's blue eyes are flat rather than twinkling at his shame. There's something strange in his expression, but Dirk is too exhausted to parse it.
He lets out a breath through a hoarse throat. And John closes his eyes, just for a second. It's enough. It's a hollow victory, as the last of the afterglow slips away and he's all too aware of every point of pain on his body. He's strained- something, everything, just now. He doubts it's worth it.
A new way, indeed. Jesus fucking Christ. He hopes John keeps this one to himself, but Dirk doesn't have a history of being particularly lucky that way.
He never once forgot where he was, and he tries to tell himself that's the important part. But it makes it worse. If he could lie to himself, pretend it was someone else, that would be better. Easier. His breathing comes faster.
His throat aches worse now. Even if he had anything to say, he doubts it would come out coherent.
And Crocker isn't offering anything, no taunts about how pathetic Dirk is, no promises of future torment to get Dirk's mind going- John figured out early on that Dirk would psych himself out and do half the work for him, Dirk's been working on not doing that. There's just nothing but the sound of his breathing, shallow and rapid. He doesn't look like a man who just got off, who came very close to achieving his goal. Who probably could, if he did this often enough.
Dirk knows what his glaring fucking weakness is, after all. And pain isn't the worst of it.
He doesn't know where the line is, anymore. He doesn't know what the fuck anything is.
John doesn't say a word as he floats lower, not touching the floor, never, and bends to fiddle at the ropes. Dirk lets his head loll back again, clenches his jaw, and stares vacantly up at the ceiling. There's no bliss in getting off, it was purely physical, the snap of tension and the slow seepage of shame, rot in the foundation. His pants are fuckin' gross. He wants a shower. He wants water. He wants to be at home, with his Bro, talking shit over movies with the entire fucking Crocker clan nothing but bad dream background noise.
He's not going to get any of those. Dave is- he doesn't know where, not even after so long. He doesn't know what state he's in. He doesn't know how John knows all those things about him; he doesn't want to think about Crocker finding his Bro and telling him this. How easily Dirk gave in, how he didn't even fight it. How he wanted it.
And Dave might think it's a lie, but it wouldn't be.
John knows that much. He knows what real defiance looks like on Dirk; he's tried to beat it out of him often enough.
He starts counting. 1. 8. 27. 64. He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut.
It's fine. It's fine. He has to last. They won't kill him, not yet, he just has to suck it up. If it's just this- if it's more like this. He can handle it. He's had so much worse.
The pressure around his wrists vanishes.
125. 216. 343, 512, 729, 1000- no, it's too easy. He can't think about this. He needs something else, anything else.
Dirk slowly lifts his hands, rubbing at the marks circling them. Rough, where the rope cut into his skin, over old scars, new scars.
1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13- still too easy. He'll deal with this after Crocker goes. When he's alone, even if that makes something in his chest cave in.
He breathes in, out. Because he can. Because John's letting him. He doesn't know what to make of that.
He meets John Crocker's gaze one last time and finds it fucking unreadable.
Even when Crocker slides his shades back on the bridge of his nose, and the world gets shrouded in comforting, faded sepia.
John leaves.
It empties.