Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The loud, ear-splitting creak of the door echoed throughout the building as Curly slowly pushed the door open, a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in his hands as he walked over. He kept Jimmy in his room, away from the outside world—all to himself. Curly was over the moon that he now had him, his claws dug deep into him. He’s been looking after him ever since they got back to Earth, cuddling him, ‘helping’ him, bathing him—in his eyes, things were better now. Even if Curly often felt a twinge of disgust towards himself, when he had the rare moments alone. But perhaps that’s why he was determined to keep Jimmy around at all times.

“Made you some eggs. Some toast, too. Can never go wrong with them.” As he spoke, his gaze fell on Jimmy for a moment. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what the man was feeling. He had become incredibly different—docile, even. The dog no longer had any bite, nor any bark, really. Curly had tried a few times to rile him up, but all he got was a dead stare. Even after doing unspeakable things to him, Jimmy remained as obedient and clueless as can be. It kind of made him sick, sick about what he’d done to him, but in the same vein, he felt it right. It was the right thing to do, even though Anya’s reaction once she found out was that of shock. Curly could not understand why she even cared, why after what she proclaimed Jimmy had put her through.

Any remorse or guilt was tainted by this need of his to be the hero of everyone in his life. In his mind, he’d saved Jimmy. His mind seldom lingered on whether or not it helped Anya, but at least Jimmy would be easier to contain now. Before Jimmy could answer, he had already placed the plate down and had now sat himself down opposite him, a slight frown on his face. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the remarks old Jimmy would make. He’d make some comment about how the way he made his toast was shit and that he could do it better.

“Go on, eat. You seem to really be a pain to get to eat lately, yet you’ll do anything else I’ll tell you. Strange,” he mumbled. “But I can’t complain. You are a very good boy like this. Shame you weren’t before.”

Jimmy stared at the plate of eggs and toast with a vacant expression, his lips twitching into something that resembled a smile—wide and unblinking, as if someone had puppeteered his face into place. His eyes, once alive with resentment and narrow with anger, now seemed hollow. The color was the same, but the light behind them was gone. Extinguished on that metal table aboard the Tulpar, in the sterile cold of Curly’s improvised surgery.

The static was loud today. It buzzed in his skull like a broken radio, filling every silent crevice with white noise. Sometimes Jimmy pressed his fingers against his temples, as if squeezing might tune it out. It never worked. He never remembered it wasn’t going to work.

He reached out mechanically, his movements slow and deliberate, like a machine going through programmed motions. The toast felt rough against his fingertips, and the eggs smelled faintly burnt. Jimmy didn’t notice. He bit into the toast without tasting it, chewing because he knew that was what Curly wanted.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

Jimmy could still remember, in fragmented bursts of lucidity, the restraints digging into his wrists. His struggling had only made them tighter, his skin raw where the straps rubbed mercilessly. He remembered the cold press of the needle against the corner of his eye and how Curly’s voice stayed steady through it all.

“This is for your own good.”

“No! Please—Curly!!!! I’ll stop! I’ll stop!!! I’m sorry!” Jimmy had screamed, his voice ragged, broken by his own fear. “I’ll fix it! I’ll fix everything—I can! Please—don’t—please!!!”

He remembered the sharp, unbearable pressure as the needle pushed past his eyelid. There was no pain at first, only a sickening awareness of something invading him. Then, when it hit the soft tissue of his brain, agony like fire and glass flooded his skull. He’d howled, his voice twisting into something almost inhuman, and begged until his words melted into incoherent cries.

And then, somewhere in the middle of the procedure, Jimmy died.

Not physically, but the Jimmy who had filled the ship’s halls with bitter sarcasm and desperate anger—the Jimmy who had hated Curly almost as much as he needed him—was erased. What was left behind was a shell. A version of himself that smiled too much and thought too little. He remembered waking up afterward, his head throbbing and vision blurred, and the first thing he saw was Curly’s face.

“You’re gonna be okay now, Jimmy...” Curly had said, and Jimmy—obedient, lobotomized Jimmy—had believed him.

Now, back in the present, he glanced up from the plate, crumbs falling from the corner of his lips. That smile lingered, wide and empty. His voice came out soft, almost childlike, his inflection flat.

“Thank you… for the food, Curly. You’re so… good to me.”

The words felt foreign even as they left his mouth. Somewhere deep inside, in the parts of his brain Curly hadn’t managed to fully silence, something twisted and writhed. But he couldn’t access it, couldn’t articulate it, so he simply tilted his head slightly and kept smiling. His body leaned ever so slightly toward Curly, like a dog desperate for approval. For affection. His fingers twitched as if they wanted to reach out, but he pulled them back to his lap.

“You’re always so good to me,” he repeated, as though trying to convince himself it was true.

The mixture of guilt and adoration for Jimmy wrapped around Curly’s heart tightly, his chest feeling heavy as he watched him lean forward. But the weak smile that spread across his face only grew, watching his arms lift up, only for the smile to fade a little once they dropped back to his lap. There was a dark glint in his eyes. “If you want a hug, you can ask,” he spoke lowly, his voice soft, yet it dripped with some sort of command. He leaned back slightly, glancing down at the food.

As bad as he wanted to hug Jimmy, and do much more—he wanted him to eat. “But you need to eat first,” he spoke sternly, reaching out to grasp the fork and stabbing into the egg. He furrowed his brows as he scooped some up. There was a flash of the image of Jimmy begging and crying, flailing and pleading for Curly not to allow this. It caused his hand to shake a little, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I just remembered somethin’ from when we were kids,” he started, “The time I punched your Pops in the face.” He smirked, “You thought I was crazy for that, but he deserved it.”

He then sighed. “I wish I could’ve done more for you, maybe then this wouldn’t’ve happened.” He then lifted the cutlery up, pointing it towards his lips, “Open up, Jim. Be a good boy for me, yeah?” he spoke, his voice slightly raspy as those words left him. “Maybe I’ll reward you, I’m feeling generous today.”

He was such a good boy, so malleable—so pliant, no cussing, no name-calling. The “You’re so good to me” seemed to fan the flames of Curly’s delusion. He was SO good to him. There was a strange dichotomy between him truly believing he’s right, he’s saving Jimmy—to feeling this sickening guilt, the nausea overwhelming most nights.

But he couldn’t deny—it felt good to have him listen to him and do as told without much pushback, having someone cluelessly do whatever he told him felt empowering. For once, his leadership wasn’t questioned, no snarky comments about how lucky he was.

“I love you, Jimmy.” The words left his mouth, hot off his breath, the room lit up by the moonlight boring through the blind, casting the light over Jimmy. Curly glanced towards the bed. “Why haven’t you been sleeping in the bed?” he questioned, “You’re always on the floor lately.”

He was genuinely concerned. “You are allowed to sleep there, you know. I am not going to hurt you for that, darling.”

Jimmy’s head tilted slightly as Curly spoke, his expression shifting into that uncanny, empty smile again. The static in his head hummed louder with every word, but it didn’t drown them out. He heard everything. Hug, good boy, I love you. He clung to each phrase like a shipwrecked man clinging to debris in a storm. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, the faintest echo of something he might have once done with purpose.

When Curly mentioned the hug, Jimmy’s body leaned forward just a fraction, his shoulders rising and falling as if testing the weight of such a thing. Hugging felt distant, like something he used to know but couldn’t quite remember. He didn’t ask, though. Not yet. Not until he was told to. His fingers curled and uncurled in his lap, his nails scraping faintly against his palms. The noise didn’t bother him—nothing really did anymore.

The fork. The egg. The food. Jimmy’s eyes followed Curly’s movements with unnerving precision, staring at the fork as it pierced the eggs, watching the way Curly’s hand shook slightly. His lips parted, not because he understood what was happening, but because his body seemed to anticipate what was coming. The static wavered, and for a fleeting second, an image flashed in his mind: his wrists tied, his screams echoing in the metal room, the sharp, icy spike driving into his brain.

The memory was vivid, too real, and it made his hands twitch harder, his eyes darting for just a moment before returning to Curly’s face. He smiled wider. Smiling always made things better.

“You... punched my Pops,” Jimmy repeated quietly, the words sluggish as they tumbled out. There was no emotion in them, no laughter or anger, just a faint, ghostly recognition. “That was... funny, wasn’t it?” His voice cracked slightly, as if part of him wanted to laugh but didn’t know how anymore.

When the fork was held up to his lips, Jimmy opened his mouth without hesitation. The egg was warm but tasteless. He chewed mechanically, staring blankly at Curly as he swallowed. His lips twitched, and then the same flat, hollow voice spilled out. “Good boy. I’m... a good boy.” He said it not as if he believed it, but as if he needed to repeat it, needed to hear it spoken aloud to confirm it was true.

Curly’s “I love you” hung in the air, wrapping itself around the broken remnants of what Jimmy once was. Something flickered in his expression, like a crack in the perfect shell of his mindless obedience. It wasn’t recognition or understanding necessarily. It was the faintest ghost of something almost human. He didn’t know what to do with it. His static-filled brain couldn’t process the words. Instead, he tilted his head again, his hollow smile widening.

“I love you too, Curly,” he said, his voice a dead echo of something he might have once actually meant.

Curly’s question about the bed made Jimmy glance toward it, the faintest frown crossing his face. He hesitated, his hands moving to clutch at the fabric of his pants. “The floor, it feels right,” he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s quiet on the floor. Safer.”

The static buzzed louder, making his fingers press harder into his thighs. He thought of the bed, how soft it was, how close it was to Curly. Something about that proximity felt wrong, like he didn’t deserve it, but the thought was distant, buried under layers of obedience and compliance.

“I can try the bed,” he said suddenly, his tone eager to please. “If... if you want me to. I’ll try.”

He shifted slightly, leaning toward Curly again. His body language was subtle but desperate, his need for approval etched into every movement. The smile never left his face, even as his eyes, dark and hollow, glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

Jimmy stared at Curly for a long, unsettling moment, the gears in his fractured mind turning slowly, the static in his head like a white-hot wave drowning out any coherent thought. He didn’t think to ask permission, didn’t think about whether it was right or wrong... he just moved. The scrape of his knees against the floor echoed softly in the quiet room as he slid off the chair and began to crawl toward Curly, his movements eerily uncoordinated.

His hands pressed flat against the hard surface, his fingers trembling as they gripped the floor. Every shift of his body felt detached, like a marionette guided by strings he no longer controlled. His breath hitched once as he drew closer, a faint, involuntary sound that echoed strangely in the room. When he finally reached Curly, he stopped at his feet for a moment, looking up at him with those empty, obedient eyes. His lips twitched into a smile again. Soft. Unsettling.

“Curly,” he murmured, his voice carrying no inflection, no warmth, just an echo of the name as if saying it would anchor him to something familiar.

Jimmy lifted himself slightly, his arms bracing against Curly’s knees as he pulled himself into his lap. He settled there awkwardly, his legs tucked beneath him like a child unsure of where they fit. His movements were slow and almost reverent, as though he was handling something fragile. The weight of his body against Curly’s was slight, almost imperceptible, but the way he leaned into him was heavy with dependence, with a need he couldn’t articulate.

Jimmy’s head tilted slightly before coming to rest against Curly’s shoulder. His brown hair, messy and unkempt, brushed softly against Curly’s neck as he nuzzled closer without any real purpose, his body pliant and unresisting. His arms hung limply at his sides, his hands twitching faintly as if unsure of where to rest.

“Curly,” he said again, softer this time, his voice barely audible. His breath warmed Curly’s collarbone as he repeated the name over and over, a broken mantra spilling from his lips. “Curly… Curly… Curly…”

There was no malice, no sarcasm, no trace of the old Jimmy in the way he said it—only raw, mindless dependence. Each time the name left his lips, it felt like a placeholder for everything he could no longer say. Everything his shattered mind couldn’t comprehend. His expression remained fixed, his eyes unfocused as he pressed closer, his weight leaning fully into Curly as if seeking shelter from the static roaring in his skull.

The moment stretched, eerie and suffocating, as Jimmy clung to Curly without arms or hands, only the weight of his broken self resting heavily against him.

“That’s right, you’re a good boy.”

The words seemed to ring throughout the room, the cold air drafting through the open window adding to the coldness of the interaction. There was a small hint of warmth radiating from within Curly, despite the circumstance. He watched on, noting how vacant Jimmy was. He was about to open his mouth until he felt him shift.

The response to Curly’s words, ones he’s repeated constantly with him, even while buried deep inside, while Jimmy lay there, completely unaware. However, this was the first time he’s heard it back from him. Even in such a dead, emotionless tone, Curly felt himself warm up. “Oh, really? I’d love to see how you show that love,” he teased.

There was more silence. All that could be heard was the gentle breeze of the wind outside. It was a cold December night, as was evident by the large sweater he had given to Jimmy the day before. He was also wearing one, old knitted sweaters made for him by his late mother.

Silence was making the blond nervous, so he cleared his throat, trying to get Jimmy’s attention. "My sweet boy... you're so good for me." Still, no answer. He felt a twinge of annoyance.

“Jimmy?”

No answer. Instead, he felt him climb into his lap, leaning against him. Curly swayed back slightly, finding one of his hands reaching up to rest against Jimmy’s head. He soon had his arms wrapped around Jimmy tightly, humming in content at how close he was. His good, obedient Jimmy.

Curly found himself burying his head in the back of Jimmy’s head, inhaling his scent, hands roaming his body absent-mindlessly. He murmured sweet nothings, “I love you so much, I have for so long…” he purred out lowly. “I am so happy you’re mine now,” he whispered. “You should’ve been mine long before now, hmhm…”

His hands stopped at Jimmy’s chest, the urge to make his Jimmy feel good hard to ignore, but he shook such a lewd thought from his head, kissing along the back of his neck. “Why don’t we cuddle on the bed? Or do you want to eat some more?” he questioned, glancing over at the plate. He hadn’t made much, just enough to feed one person. He soon rested his head against Jimmy’s shoulder, his arms tightening around him.

“I’ll let you choose,” he murmured, now pressing gentle kisses to Jimmy’s cheek, murmuring soft, breathless ‘my good boy’s in between each kiss. He got even more handsy now, the rough calloused palms now resting on Jimmy’s thighs. “You’re so tiny now,” he laughed. “I think I can get used to it.”

There was a slight hunger lingering in him, one he felt disgust towards. Something about having this boy, who was once a bitter, daresay, domineering man—completely at his mercy, putty in his hands—it excited, ignited something in Curly he was afraid of facing. But it stood, in the doorway of his mind, blue eyes constantly staring, pushing him into his true nature. A darkness he hid so well. It was slowly eeking out, almost at full display with Jimmy like this.

He knew Anya caught it, the way she looked so scared once he told her what he'd had gotten done to Jimmy. Even Swansea looked at him differently…

He didn’t care, though. He never did—all he cared about was him and Jimmy. His only priorities were them. But Jimmy was on top of that list.

Jimmy sat motionless, his body nestled against Curly’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The words Curly spoke—'You’re a good boy,' 'I love you so much,' 'You should’ve been mine'—washed over him like the static that filled his mind. They didn’t evoke any feelings nor awaken anything in him, but they stayed, echoing faintly in the hollow cavern where his thoughts used to reside. The sound of Curly’s voice felt warm, almost soothing, even if the words themselves meant nothing anymore.

Jimmy’s head shifted slightly when Curly’s hand pressed against it, leaning into the touch like an animal seeking warmth. His muscles were slack, his movements slow, deliberate, almost like he wasn’t fully in control of his own body. When Curly’s arms wrapped tightly around him, Jimmy didn’t react, save for a faint twitch of his fingers. The sensation of being held didn’t comfort him; it simply was. The murmurs, the kisses trailing down the back of his neck, the way Curly inhaled his scent—all of it registered in some distant corner of his mind, but none of it made it past the haze.

“You’re happy,” Jimmy mumbled after a long pause, his voice dull, flat. He tilted his head slightly, as if to look at Curly, but his gaze didn’t quite meet his. “You’re happy now. That’s good.”

The words tumbled out mechanically, a reflection of the fragments of his old self, the part of him that once mocked Curly’s need for validation. But now, they were empty, devoid of malice or sarcasm. He said them because he thought they were the right thing to say, because he wanted... no, he needed—to make Curly happy. That was all that mattered now in whatever was left of his brain.

When Curly suggested moving to the bed or eating more, Jimmy froze. His body tensed briefly, as though waiting for permission to decide. His eyes darted toward the plate, lingering on the cold eggs and toast before shifting back toward the bed. The thought of lying on the bed felt foreign, overwhelming even. He didn’t belong there, didn’t deserve the comfort of something so soft, but Curly’s words lingered.

He shifted slightly, pulling himself closer into Curly’s lap, his hands now resting limply on his thighs. “I’ll go to the bed,” he murmured quietly.

His voice cracked faintly at the end, his lips twitching into a strained smile as he pressed his forehead against Curly’s chest. The static in his head surged, drowning out any remaining hesitation or semblance of agency. He clung to Curly like a lifeline, his grip tightening ever so slightly as Curly’s hands roamed his body, resting on his thighs. His heart didn’t race, his breath didn’t quicken; even his physical reactions were muted, dulled by the damage to his mind.

“Curly,” he said again, his voice a whisper now, a hollow echo that felt like it might break apart at any moment. “Curly. Curly...” His hands twitched, clutching the fabric of Curly’s loose sweater as he buried his face deeper into his shoulder. He didn’t know why he kept repeating the name. But it felt like the only thing tethering him to reality. To the person who had become his entire world. The only name that mattered.

The faint laugh about his size didn’t register as offensive; nothing did. He simply nodded, his cheek brushing against Curly’s chest as he did. “I’m… good for you,” he murmured, the words shaky, uncertain, but spoken with the same mindless compliance as everything else. “I’ll always be... good for you.”

His body was pliant, submissive, as he let Curly hold him, kiss him, touch him. There was no protest, no fight—just obedience. He didn’t notice the darker glint in Curly’s eyes, the tension in his movements, or the way his voice softened into something almost predatory. None of it reached Jimmy. He was too far gone, too hollowed out by what had been done to him.

And yet, deep in the recesses of his shattered mind, where the static couldn’t fully erase him, something stirred. A faint, flickering ember of who he had been—a man who had fought, screamed, begged for his autonomy—fought to resurface. But it was smothered quickly, drowned in the static, leaving only the shell behind. Jimmy, the real Jimmy, was long gone. All that remained was the obedient, mindless person sitting in Curly’s lap, leaning into him like a doll.

Jimmy shifted slightly, his movements slow, as though each one required careful thought. His fingers trembled as they lifted, reaching for Curly’s head. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as he ran his fingers through the blond's hair in slow, repetitive motions. The act wasn’t born of affection or intimacy—it was mindless, yet something about it felt oddly tender. His head tilted again, resting against Curly’s shoulder as his hands moved to trace the line of his neck, lingering just at the collar of his sweater.

“Curly,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, soft and breathless. His arms wrapped loosely around Curly’s neck, his lips brushing faintly against his jaw as he leaned closer, his movements unintentional but close enough to feel intimate. His breath was warm, shallow, ghosting against Curly’s skin as he spoke again.

“Pick me up...” Jimmy said, his voice flat but strangely sultry in its softness. “Take me to the bed.”

The static hummed louder, but Jimmy didn’t notice. He pressed his forehead against Curly’s cheek, the motion slow, languid, as though seeking warmth he couldn’t feel. His body was pliant, entirely dependent on Curly’s, his fingers clutching faintly at the fabric of Curly’s sweater as he waited for him to move. There was no urgency, no intention... just submission coated in an unsettling quiet that hung heavy in the cold room.

He was such a good boy, the way he so obediently remained in his arms. Curly’s rough hands continued to roam over his body, up under the sweater, gently caressing his skin. His breath was hot against Jimmy’s ear, hearing him repeat his name had that same dangerous glint appear once more, something about how dependent he had become on him was so arousing. But he remained calm, as if taunting Jimmy in some way. Unlike him, he could control himself, or that’s what he thought—what he told himself at night. Jimmy deserved this. In some twisted way, it was a cruel lesson being taught to him.

But Jimmy no longer was any threat, luckily—Curly often observed him, the way his body seemed to sway, how heavy his eyes looked. He’d often think back to when he did it.

The way the man beneath him squirmed and flailed, pleaded and begged Curly not to do it, even as he held the hammer and orbitoclast in his hands, there was a pitiful look on his face. “I’m sorry, Jim,” he whispered softly, his free hand resting atop his forehead and pulling his eye open. He could feel him continue to freak out.

Curly had decided to climb on top of him, his legs straddling either side of his body, using his entire weight to keep him from getting up. All Jimmy could do was kick his legs and scream profanities and apologies. It hurt the Captain, hearing him and seeing him like this, but in his own twisted mind, this was the right thing to do.

The sharp tip of the needle hovered there for a few moments, an audible gulp leaving him. “I’m sorry, Jim,” he repeated. It took him a minute or two—Jimmy had calmed down now but still had this look on his face—one he had only seen once before, only after turning up at his doorstep when they were teens, after his father had beaten him bloody. He felt his heart sink, but it was enough to push him to do it. Sure enough, he had now inserted the needle. He looked away for a moment, his heart thumping—he didn’t want to see him like this. He didn’t.

The sounds of pure agony that left his best friend killed him—the ear-splitting cry, the way he seemed to continue to beg, even as he pushed it further and further until he felt the tip nudge something.

He raised the hammer—there was a beat. His hand shook slightly, feeling his skin run cold, but he felt he just had to get it done—there was no turning back now. The needle was already in there.

Then, there was a loud, repetitive clinking noise, mixed with the symphony of Jimmy’s cries of pain. Each time the hammer came down, the stronger Curly’s grimace became. He felt himself becoming frustrated with Jimmy. “Please... this isn’t as easy on me as you think, Jim. Please just... let me do this, for you,” he whispered softly. That gentle tone was eerie in this situation. Eventually, he seemed to have hit the spot—and the screaming dulled out to pained, soft sobs, then—nothing.

Curly felt his body go numb as he watched Jimmy become limp, the blood that pooled from the wound beginning to fall onto his clothing. He leaned back, trying to pull the instrument out as gently as he could. It certainly wasn’t as easy as those magazines told him it was. He settled the instruments down and climbed off of him. He gazed down, feeling sick. He ran off to the trashcan in the corner and let himself vomit, coughing and gagging as he tried to catch his breath. “What have I done...”

Jimmy remembered the moment the needle went in.

It was loud. So much louder than he ever thought it could be—like the sound of metal scraping against bone, like something breaking inside him. His whole body had seized in terror, his screams raw, animalistic, echoing off the cold metal walls of the Tulpar. His eye had been forced open, tears blurring his vision as he stared at Curly, pleading, the words spilling from his mouth in gasping sobs.

“Curly- PLEASE! I’ll fix it! You don’t-- you can’t!”

The moment the tip of the orbitoclast pierced him, he thought he’d black out. He wished he would’ve. But no—he felt it. The slow, impossible pressure of it sliding past his eye, deeper and deeper. A sound like grinding filled his head, sharp and metallic, growing louder with every inch. He screamed until his voice cracked, his head jerking back as far as the restraints would allow.

And then came the hammer.

The first strike rattled his skull, sending a hot stabbing pain through his forehead, exploding outward like a starburst of agony. His brain—it felt like it was being punched hard and mercilessly, each hit driving the needle deeper. He howled, words spilling out in a flood of hysteria, until they stopped being words at all. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Each strike seemed to shatter something in his head, fragments of his mind breaking off, dissolving, slipping away into the darkness. He felt his thoughts melt, drip from his grasp like water or blood through his fingers.

The screams turned to sobs. Then whimpers. Then… nothing.

When it was over, Jimmy couldn’t move. He could barely think. He didn’t remember where he was, or who he was, or why it hurt so much. All he knew was the sound of the static—soft at first, like a faint hum, and then louder, unbearable, filling the space where his mind used to be.

Curly had said something to him, his voice trembling and distant. But Jimmy didn’t hear it. He stared blankly at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face as the blood pooled at the corner of his eye and dripped onto his temple. He wasn’t Jimmy anymore... not really. He was something else. Someone else.

Chapter Text

The request was so delicate, so polite. So unlike the Jimmy Curly once knew. The gentleness and purity in his tone hit Curly right in the middle of his chest, leaving him growing increasingly enamored with each passing moment. His gaze softened as he moved forward.

“I can do that... just don’t squirm too much,” he murmured, his eyes boring into Jimmy, lingering on those collarbones. The overwhelming urge to cover them in bite marks, to claim him as his, crept in—but he shook the thought away.

Hold him... Jimmy wanted him to hold him. Curly had a weak smile on his face; he didn’t move for a moment but soon gave in. The creaking of the bed was almost deafening as he climbed on, diving under the blanket and scooting up close to him, reaching out to pull him into a tight hug. His rough fingers danced along the soft skin on the back of Jimmy’s neck, and he pressed a few kisses against his forehead before he moved back a moment, moving down to leave soft kisses against his jaw, then down to his neck, before pulling back and squeezing him close. “You’re so small in my arms,” he murmured.

Jimmy’s body lay slack against the bed, his breathing soft and shallow from the moment Curly climbed in beside him. The sound of the creaking mattress barely registered when it happened; just another noise blending into the constant static that consumed his thoughts. Curly’s warmth against him was something tangible, grounding in its own way, even as the kisses and gentle touches only added to the haze. Jimmy didn’t react, didn’t flinch or resist, letting himself be held, his body pliant and unresisting. The words Curly murmured about him being small in his arms floated in the fog of Jimmy’s fractured mind. They didn’t stir anything within him, no sense of pride, embarrassment, or resentment. The Jimmy who would’ve snarled back a biting retort was gone, and what remained was a shell, hollow and obedient. His arms moved slightly, as if in slow response to Curly’s grip, but his motions were uncoordinated, disjointed, like a puppet unsure of its strings.

Curly clung to him helplessly. Sometimes he missed the old Jimmy. The Jimmy that would fight back, who would’ve beat his ass for this—but he welcomed this new warmth. His arms wrapped tightly around him, nuzzling into the back of his neck. Unable to let go, he remained still, only moving to press soft kisses along his skin, each touch being ever so gentle, even as the storm in his mind continued to brew.

As he lay there, pressed up close, he let his hands explore, running along each and every curve and concave of Jimmy’s body. He ran his fingers up and down his side a few times before he found his hand reaching down his stomach and into his boxers, wrapping his warm hand around Jimmy’s cock. Leaning in to whisper against his ear, he purred, “I want you to just relax and let me take care of you.” His finger gently moved up, brushing against the tip tentatively. He then began to stroke slowly, dragging his fist up and down in a painfully slow motion. He knew he was soft, but that didn’t stop him. He continued to gently stroke, feeling his cock slowly begin to harden, but he stopped, moving to press a gentle kiss against his lips.

A heat started to blossom in Jimmy’s chest, faint at first but spreading rapidly like a slow burn. His body, though fractured and disconnected from his thoughts, reacted in ways he didn’t understand. His stomach tightened, a warm, tingling sensation spreading down to his core, and his chest felt heavy, his breaths coming quicker and shallower. The warmth climbed to his face, and though his skin had paled significantly from months of isolation, a visible flush rose across his cheeks, stark against his usual dark complexion. He found himself growing hard against Curly’s hot palm, his hips making very slow movements as if it were purely muscle memory.

Jimmy remembered the procedure again, as he often did when the static in his head lulled for even a moment. The pain was so sharp, so visceral, it had left an imprint in him deeper than any thought or memory could. The sound of the hammer striking the orbitoclast was deafening, louder in his mind now than it had been in that sterile room on the ship. The repeated, relentless clink-clink-clink echoed in his thoughts, drowning out even Curly’s soft voice.

The needle pressing into his skull, the awful grinding as it pierced through... he could still feel it sometimes, like a phantom pain deep inside his frontal lobe. The sharp impact of the hammer sent waves of agony through his body, his thoughts scattering like shards of glass with every strike. His screams had faded into sobs, then gasps, then silence, his mind unraveling one layer at a time. By the end, there was nothing but the static, endless and all-consuming.

And yet, through it all, he had seen Curly’s face. His curly blond hair and blue eyes. An angel, surely. He heard his voice, soft and trembling, saying, “This is for you.”

Jimmy had believed it then. He still believed it now. What else was there to believe?

Now, as Curly’s hands roamed his body, Jimmy’s lips parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping him. He wasn’t aware of the sensations, not fully; they were distant, like they were happening to someone else. His brain couldn’t process the nuances, couldn’t recognize the context. His body reacted on instinct, his muscles twitching faintly under Curly’s touch, but his mind remained adrift, stuck somewhere between the static and the faint echoes of who he used to be.

Jimmy’s lips parted slightly, a soft, barely audible breath escaping him as Curly’s touch lingered on the curve of his waist and hip. The static in his head churned, louder and more chaotic, but it didn’t drown out Curly’s voice. It never did. His head tilted faintly to the side, his mouth slack, as if he were trying to form a response but didn’t know how. The thought didn’t even fully surface; it fizzled out, lost before it could solidify. His lips trembled faintly, not from fear or hesitation, but from the sheer effort of moving. His eyes, lifeless and unfocused, shifted toward Curly’s face without truly meeting his gaze. The tension in his jaw was absent, his features soft and pliable, the expression on his face eerily serene despite the situation.

Curly removed his hand for a moment, now moving it up to grasp at Jimmy’s jaw from behind and sneak two of his fingers between his mouth. “Suck. I don’t need to tell you to not bite,” he chuckled darkly. “You know how this goes by now, my good boy,” he purred against his ear, his voice gritty and low, tone sultry and mischievous. “Go on, my pet. Suck on my fingers, make it easier for me to make you feel amazing... like all those times before.”

“I might even teach you how to do the same for me if you are a good boy,” he hummed. “I need to teach you important things, not just to be obedient, but how to make Captain feel good. Now, use that adorable lil’ mouth of yours.”

Jimmy’s lips closed instinctively around Curly’s fingers when the blond pushed them into his mouth, his tongue brushing against them tentatively, the sensation strange but oddly comforting in its simplicity. He let out a soft gasp, barely audible, his mouth moving sluggishly as he adjusted to the intrusion. Drool began to pool at the corner of his lips, slipping down his chin as he tried, and failed, to control his reaction. His body trembled faintly from the overwhelming heat coursing through him, a physical response that seemed disconnected from any conscious thought.

His arms, limp at first, moved slowly, clumsily, until his hands found purchase on Curly’s sweater. His grip was weak but desperate, clutching the fabric as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. His body leaned into Curly’s touch, seeking the warmth and solidity of him, his legs spreading slightly until one of them pressed against Curly’s. He didn’t understand what was happening to him; his mind couldn’t form coherent thoughts, couldn’t process the sensations properly, but his body was reacting on its own, and it felt good.

A soft whimper escaped him, muffled by Curly’s fingers, and his flushed face turned slightly, his lashes fluttering as his body surrendered completely. The warmth in his chest and stomach intensified, leaving him breathless, his lips quivering around Curly’s fingers as he continued to obey without question.

“Curly,” he murmured against the blond’s fingers, his voice thick and muffled, trembling as he spoke around the intrusion. His breath hitched, a faint, involuntary moan escaping as he clung tighter to Curly, his entire being drawn to the only source of comfort he could comprehend.

The static in his head roared louder, but for once, it didn’t consume him. It blended with the heat and the trembling in his body, creating a strange, overwhelming sensation that left him flushed, breathless, and utterly pliant in Curly’s hands. Jimmy didn’t know why he felt this way, didn’t know what it meant... he just knew that it felt good.

There was so little on Curly’s mind now, he seldom even remembered what happened that night of the operation—only briefly, in short flashbacks. Right now, Grant was in the present, firmly steeped in the warmth and gentleness of his sweet, obedient boy. The way Jimmy fit into his arms despite their vast size difference—like his body was molded just for him, and him alone. He uttered sweet nothings, his tone holding a certain eeriness as he muttered sentences about how he’d never let Jimmy leave him, that now he was completely his, and if anyone were to take him away, there would be hell to pay. If this was old Jimmy, he knew he’d have gotten his ass beat or even slaughtered by now, but that seemed to excite Curly more. In his mind, he still believed Jimmy deserved this, at least a little bit.

His hand remained around Jimmy’s cock, humming in satisfaction as he so obediently suckled on his fingers. Feeling the saliva soak his skin, he pressed his fingers down against Jimmy’s tongue while the hand stroking him off picked up in pace, the slick noises adding to the mixture of lust in the air. Each time he dragged his hand up, he’d run his thumb along the very tip of Jimmy’s cock, moving it down just beneath the glans, then straight back to pumping it. He’d always thought Jimmy’s body was perfect, every inch—even when Jimmy would complain about it. Curly had no issue being close to him and touching him whenever he could. He always found himself making excuses to be close to him, to feel him. But now, he didn’t need to. He was free to do whatever he wanted—he could fuck Jimmy for months if he wanted, keep him bed-bound so he could repeatedly destroy that little hole of his, or he could treat him like a prince. Either way, in Curly’s mind, there was no consequence.

“Ahh… Curly…” The sound was soft when Jimmy moaned, almost innocent, his voice carrying a fragile, breathless quality as he leaned further into Curly’s embrace. His trembling hands clutched at Curly’s sweater, weak and desperate. As Curly’s mind continued to focus on Jimmy’s possibly bleak future under his care, his hand did not stop moving. He smiled a little as he listened to the other man gently moan his name, the clueless neediness that seemed to just pour out of Jimmy right now was incredibly adorable to him.

Every little noise that left those perfect lips of his, feeling his warm, slick mouth around his fingers, made Curly throb with need. “That’s my boy...” he moaned softly against his ear, “Get them nice and wet for me, I’m going to take such good care of you, pet.” The last word came out with a certain sourness yet laced with a sickening sweetness as it rolled off the tip of his tongue.

Each stroke was full of the immense love he felt for Jimmy, letting out a heavy breath as he squeezed at the head of his cock. Every moment was overwhelmingly arousing, and he hated himself for it, the disgust he felt beginning to overflow.

Without thinking—or perhaps because his fractured mind was incapable of real thought—Jimmy’s head tilted upward and Curly’s fingers slid out of his mouth, his lips brushing against Curly’s jawline in a hesitant, clumsy motion. A faint trail of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, catching the dim light as it fell onto Curly’s sweater. His breath came in shallow bursts, warm against Curly’s skin, as his body moved instinctively closer.

It was the static. Or maybe it wasn’t. Jimmy couldn’t tell anymore. The buzz in his head ebbed and flowed, like waves crashing against a shore, and somewhere in that endless noise, he thought he felt something. A flicker of sensation, a faint pulse of something warm and foreign. He didn’t know what it was, couldn’t name it if he tried, but it was enough to make him shift, his movements slow and uncertain.

The wetness on his lips, the softness of Curly’s skin against his mouth... it all blended into the haze, each sensation hitting him with a dull, muted intensity. His mouth opened slightly as he nuzzled closer, his tongue brushing faintly against Curly’s chin in a motion that felt more instinctive than deliberate.

“Curly…” he murmured again, his voice trailing off into a soft whimper as he clung tighter, pressing his face against Curly’s neck. His hands twitched where they gripped the sweater, and his hips shifted faster, moving in uncoordinated motions that seemed to surprise even him, causing his already blown pupils to dilate even more.

His flushed face pressed against Curly’s collarbone, and another low moan escaped him, softer this time, almost hesitant. “Ahh… feels… good… mmm... aahh-…” The words slipped out in a whisper, raw and breathy, as his trembling body leaned fully into Curly’s, seeking something he couldn’t name.

Jimmy’s mind was a foggy, fractured mess, but his body—weak, reactive, desperate—knew only one thing: Curly was here, holding him. He was keeping him from harm. Because he made him feel good. Curly was so good to him.

“Jimmy... you’re so good for me,” Curly let out breathlessly. As the pace of his hand sped up, he began to move his hips, his own hard length straining against the fabric of his pants. He continued to pump his fist. “You like this, don’t you?” he laughed lowly. “Guess that’s one thing about you that hasn’t changed, you’re still a needy bitch,” he growled out against Jimmy’s ear, squeezing at the base of his cock, his free hand now grasping at his neck.

“Let me know if you want more, or less,” he huffed. “Not that you have much of a choice, I’m going to keep doing this to you all night,” he smirked. “And you’re going to enjoy every second. Hell, you can cry, I won’t stop.”

This was an incredibly dark side that honestly started to scare him a little. There was a lingering feeling of disgust after the last part was said, but he was too lost in the moment. He felt the movement of his hips speed up now, rutting against Jimmy’s ass, dragging his clothed cock in between his ass cheeks, a hand moving down to squeeze and scratch at his cheek, giving it a gentle smack. “All mine. You’re nothing but my toy now.”

Jimmy’s mind was a foggy abyss, fragmented pieces of his former self drifting aimlessly in the static that consumed him. He didn’t remember how he had gotten here, or even the full weight of what was happening now. His body, however, reacted. It responded to every touch, every word, as though it had been trained to obey without question. The warmth of Curly’s embrace, the press of his hands, the constant closeness—it all blended into a haze of sensation that overwhelmed what was left of his consciousness.

Every inch of his skin seemed to tingle under Curly’s touch, hypersensitive and electric. The familiar warm hands on his body sent a hot, slow-burning heat coursing through him, starting in his chest and spreading outward until it reached his fingertips. His breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, as his frail body trembled in response. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but feel.

Curly’s words drifted through the static like faint echoes, fragments of meaning that he couldn’t fully grasp. The tone was sweet, low, almost soothing. Each word brushed against his mind like a gentle hand.

Pet. Needy bitch. My toy.

The meanings of the words didn’t register. Jimmy didn’t understand them the way he might have before. His shattered mind couldn’t piece together the implications, couldn’t feel the sting or humiliation they might once have evoked. Instead, they sounded kind. Affectionate, even. His lips quivered as another faint gasp escaped him, and his flushed face pressed further into Curly’s neck, his frail hands clinging tightly to his sweater.

“Ah... Curly...” he moaned, breathless, his voice slurred and soft, the name tumbling from his lips like a reflex. He didn’t think to ask why Curly spoke to him that way. He didn’t think at all. Every part of his broken mind told him that these words were just how things were now, and his body reacted with trembling eagerness, leaning into every touch and every sound coming out of the blond’s mouth.

Jimmy’s body was aflame, his skin hypersensitive to every sensation. The heat pooled low in his stomach, a molten warmth that seemed to spread outward, leaving his limbs trembling. Drool slipped from the corner of his parted lips, streaking his chin and dampening Curly’s sweater as he didn’t even try to contain the overwhelming sensations.

Curly’s hands seemed to light fires everywhere they touched: his neck, his sides, his chest. Each stroke, each press of fingers against his skin, sent shivers racing through him, his muscles twitching in response. His head tilted instinctively into the touch, his mouth parting wider as he let out another breathless moan. “Feels... so good...” he gasped, the words escaping him without thought, his tone a mix of awe and helplessness. The way Curly pressed against him, the warmth of his body, the rough calloused touch of his hands and the feel of his hard cock against him... it all felt too much and not enough at the same time.

Jimmy’s hips shifted again, this time more pronounced, grinding faintly against Curly’s own hard-on. He whimpered softly, the sound muffled as he buried his face in Curly’s neck by leaning backward, the movement clumsy and uncoordinated.

His hands, still clutching at Curly’s sweater, twitched as though trying to pull him closer. His lips brushed against Curly’s skin in faint, trembling movements, and his tongue flicked out, wetting his lips and grazing Curly’s jawline unintentionally. Jimmy’s head lolled slightly, his movements driven entirely by instinct, his fractured mind unable to process or resist.

“Curly...” he whimpered again, the sound a mix of breathless need and fragile submission. His flushed skin pressed against Curly’s, the heat from their bodies mingling as he clung tighter. Every sensation, every touch, every word felt amplified, echoing through his shattered mind and resonating in his body. In the depths of his broken self, all that mattered was Curly: his touch, his voice, his presence. Everything else had faded into the static.

His head tilted slightly, and with a shaky motion, his lips brushed against Curly’s jawline again. This time, it wasn’t just an accidental touch. His tongue flicked out tentatively, dragging across Curly’s skin in an awkward, uncoordinated motion. Drool dripped down his chin, dampening the space between them as he leaned further into Curly, his body trembling against the larger man’s frame. “I... want...” he was trailing off into the haze despite speaking, unable to finish the thought but clearly seeking something only Curly could give him.

The little noises, hearing his name leave those lips like that, it had Curly’s heart thudding against his chest. The little ‘I want’ had something wild switch within the blond.

Jimmy gasped sharply, his breath hitching as the overwhelming heat in his body reached a peak he couldn’t comprehend. His hips shifted erratically, grinding weakly against Curly’s clothed cock in a disjointed rhythm, his body reacting purely on instinct, disconnected from thought. A sudden, sharp groan tore from his lips, his head tilting back against Curly’s shoulder as his trembling form stilled momentarily. The tension in his body released in a wave, leaving him breathless, his chest heaving as soft, broken moans escaped him. “Aaahh...Mmm-ah....” he whimpered again, his voice slurred and fragile as he came hard and covered Curly’s hand with his hot cum. For Jimmy, the moment passed as quickly as it had come, leaving him pliant and obedient in Curly’s embrace, his mind too fractured to process anything beyond the immediate orgasm.

Curly soon found himself letting go of Jimmy’s cock, his hand now moving to grasp at his thigh, lifting his leg up and letting it rest over his own hip. Shifting forward, grinding his hips against him harder now, stroking faster, and his grip growing tighter. “Tell me. Tell me what you want, use your words,” he growled out breathlessly. Everything was becoming vastly overwhelming, the noises that escaped Jimmy when he came sent Grant through a tornado of mania. Spurred on by the intensity of his lust, his large, rough hand enclosed around Jimmy’s wet cock continued to drag up and down, a sharp gasp catching in his throat as he felt Jimmy’s hips press up against his clothed hard-on. Biting at the air as he felt his cock ache and throb for more. “Oh you dirty little thing-” the blond hissed, removing his hand to grasp at Jimmy’s jaw, yanking him into an aggressive yet hungry kiss, his tongue forcing its way into his mouth.

The aggressive kiss caught the brunet off guard, his lips parting automatically as Curly’s tongue pressed into his mouth. He didn’t resist—he couldn’t. His body reacted in kind, his mouth and tongue moving clumsily in response, though he didn’t understand the meaning behind the act. Drool slipped from the corners of his lips, mingling with the heat of the kiss as he clung to Curly with trembling arms.

Jimmy’s body moved instinctively, his hips shifting faintly against Curly’s as the overwhelming heat in his body continued to ripple through him. The words Curly spoke floated into the fog of his mind, faint echoes that didn’t fully land. He whimpered softly, his lips parting as though to respond, but nothing coherent came out. The static was loud again, roaring in his head, drowning out everything except the physical sensations coursing through him.

“Mmnh… Curly…” Jimmy gasped, his voice weak and trembling. His flushed cheeks burned brighter as his head tilted slightly, his glassy, empty eyes searching Curly’s face without focus.

Curly continued to hump against Jimmy. He knew that this man had no clue what he was doing—it was pure instinct, he didn’t know why it felt good—he just knew to move those hips of his. And it was driving Curly insane.

So insane, that he began to fuck into him, as if he were actually inside, thrusting up against him and letting out labored breaths, his arms wrapping around him tightly. “Tell me, Jimmy... tell me what you need, what you want me to do with you,” he purred in his ear as he slowed down, now just grinding against him. “Just say the words, and I’ll do it.”

When Curly spoke to him, Jimmy’s heart thudded faintly in his chest, though it wasn’t from understanding or intent. His trembling body pressed closer, his thigh lifted against Curly’s hip in a weak, instinctive motion as he felt the blond’s cock grinding harder behind him. His hands curled tighter into the fabric of Curly’s sweater, his grip shaky as his body leaned fully into the warmth and strength holding him.

“I… don’t… know…” Jimmy murmured, his voice breathless and uneven, cracking faintly as he finally responded. His hips shifted again, a hesitant grind against Curly’s movements that sent another broken gasp tumbling from his lips. “Feels… good…” he mumbled, the words slurring together as his trembling body quaked in Curly’s hold.

Curly knew this was wrong. Jimmy had no clue what was happening. A sharp contrast to who Jimmy once was, one whose lust led him to do unspeakable things. Now he didn’t even know what lust was—all it was now was a weird feeling. Curly’s lust, however, was completely taking over. He needed to be inside him, sometime soon. He hoped that’s what Jimmy wanted, at least.

Jimmy’s head lolled forward slightly, his forehead pressing weakly against Curly’s shoulder now. His breaths were ragged, shallow, and warm against Curly’s skin, his body reacting with a desperation that he couldn’t comprehend. He didn’t know why he moved the way he did, didn’t understand the strange tension in his chest or the heat pooling low in his stomach. All he knew was that Curly was there, grounding him in the haze, and he wanted... no, needed to be close.

“Curly…” he whimpered again, his voice fragile and filled with unspoken need. His back finally pressed the mattress as his hips slipped away from Curly’s grinding, arms now wrapped loosely around Curly’s neck, his body trembling in the larger man’s grip as he whispered, “I just want you...” The words were slurred, instinctive, void of true thought but laden with the raw dependency that had become his entire existence since the operation. He clung tighter, his flushed face pressing into Curly’s neck, his entire being seeking the safety and comfort that only Curly could provide, trembling lips brushing against the skin there, leaving faint trails of heat and moisture. The static in his head dulled slightly, making way for the sensations rippling through his frail body—the residual warmth in his chest, the tingling along his skin, the strange comfort in being held so tightly.

Curly’s movements, the grinding, the firm grip, the heat radiating between them; it all felt like a rhythm that Jimmy’s body instinctively wanted to mimic, even if his fractured mind couldn’t understand why. His fingers twitched, loosening slightly from Curly’s sweater as though searching for something. His hand moved slowly, clumsily, trailing down the fabric of Curly’s chest in an uncoordinated motion that was hesitant but deliberate in its aim.

When his trembling hand finally reached the hardness straining against Curly’s pants, Jimmy pressed against it with the faintest, shaky pressure. His fingers brushed clumsily, unable to do more than press and rub faintly in mimicry of the motions Curly had guided him through earlier. His touch was weak and entirely reactive, his broken mind unable to process the intimacy or intent behind the action. His lips parted, and another soft gasp slipped out, his voice fragile and tinged with confusion. “Curly…” he murmured again, his tone almost questioning, though his unfocused eyes betrayed no true understanding of what he was doing. His hand lingered there, trembling as his weak movements faltered, his grip unsteady as he tried and failed to grasp at what he thought he was meant to do.

Jimmy’s body leaned fully into Curly’s now, his head tilting slightly as if searching for approval. His dead, empty eyes held a strange melancholic quality, the faintest flicker of something deeply buried behind the static; a ghost of who he had been. His flushed skin glistened faintly with sweat, his breath shaky as he whispered, “Is this good? You feel… good?” The words were slow, slurred, his voice weak and full of dependence, seeking validation in a way that felt both tragic and painfully enticing.