Chapter Text
It doesn’t start as that bad of a day. He’s in the Younger One’s media room again, maybe a foot or two away from its floor. They’re keeping him there, the tentacles almost neutral today - the ones that hold him, the ones that occupy him, explore him with winding touches. Barely hurt at all. With the Younger Ones he can never be sure if that’s on purpose, but he’ll take it while it’s given.
Some further feet away, the Younger Ones arrange themselves on the couch and the floor beneath it in almost a half circle. He thinks they’re playing some sort of game, though not one they seem particularly interested in. Finish a round, maybe, because they stop what they were doing, seem even further bored. The tentacles in him poke more insistently, like they think he’s supposed to be doing something about it. Which seems a bit much to ask, really - unless they’re interested in either army stories or firearms demonstrations, his body is about the limits of what he can provide, and he can’t exactly provide it much more than he already is . And while the Elders have him make suggestions sometimes, the Younger Ones never have.
-!- One of the Younger Ones sits up suddenly, abruptly animated. -toy!-
-toy?- At the word, the others respond in kind, enliven, abandon dejection to pass excitement back and forth. -toy? toy!- He doesn’t think they mean him; forgetting about him while using him seems unlikely, even for the Younger Ones. -get! bring!- Definitely not him, then. The One who thought of it first seems to have been appointed the courier. In a moment, some of the tentacles disappear from him and the Younger One vanishes.
It returns, carrying, of all things, a cardboard box. Shipping box, from what it looks like. The Younger One catches him looking, wraps around it. Tentacles return, reinsert themselves into him, coordinate to flip him over and press his face into the carpet. -No peeking-
The box must be human items only, because he can’t sense it, but even out of his sight the Younger Ones are clearly apparent. And currently about sparking with glee.
The Elders have enough control to hold him however they want in any mood they might be in. The Younger Ones don’t. He’s pretty sure they must be opening whatever their prize is, because the tentacles that hold him don’t keep quite still, and the other ones squirm inside him, their owners’ exuberance spilling over into him. Altogether, it means it doesn’t take him long to notice when that mood changes.
-I won, I’m first-
-My idea, I’m first!-
-Me, me!-
Strings of tentacles inside him unwind, start, apparently, fighting. He still can’t move, can’t make a sound, but pain sends sharp edges into him. Even with the work the Elders did on him, some of his orifices are not meant to stretch this much inside. Please , he sends at them, despite himself, when they almost certainly won’t even hear.
-My idea. I remembered - The one that went to get the box, he thinks, is insistent. What must be its tentacles try to wrap the others. The others evade, push back. John tries to hold himself together, literally or figuratively, whichever. They’re better at sharing, usually. Argue but take turns, watch each other-
-Watch? Watch!-
-Fun!-
The tentacles stop pulling him apart. After a second, maybe two thirds of them disappear, retract off him and out of him. The ones that remain resettle themselves. Lift him up, draw him back towards the couch and the Younger Ones. In a pause, an extra one splits away to cover his eyes.
Usually, they set him on his knees, or drop him. Today, they keep him almost horizontal, face down, settle him across what feels like its lap. Is, he judges after a moment, almost definitely, though if it’s bothered with genitals or an upper body he can’t tell. The tentacles rearrange again, secure his legs and arms and torso, withdraw out of him. Let him open his eyes again.
John lets himself readjust to breathing the normal way. Stays where he was put, doesn’t try to turn his head or look anywhere but down. A tentacle, maybe the same one that had blindfolded him, pats his shoulder. -You’re nice. No peeking- They don’t communicate at him that directly, much. Haven’t. Maybe it’s a milestone.
-surprise,- it explains, also apparently to him. John tries to figure out if he’s supposed to pretend to be happy about that.
In lieu of that, he considers possibilities. “Toy” isn’t very helpful. The package size might narrow the field down more, though. And the position might suggest insertables, though it would be a question why they would even want them. John considers moving his legs apart more, preemptively helpful, but the tentacles holding him don’t seem interested. And in the end of course there isn’t much he can do but stay as he is and wait for whatever happens.
As it turns out, what happens is that it hits him. Not too hard - when he starts, it’s mostly in surprise. That - wasn’t what he’d been expecting. It follows it up with two more, one lighter, the other harder. Then another, much harder.
John runs analysis again. This - isn’t really his area of expertise: usually people go for his face, with fists. Pistol whip him, punch him where he can’t fight back. And he’d experimented with a girlfriend once or twice, but she’d used her hands and hadn’t kept it up long, ended up laughing (at herself, not him, she’d reassured him). The Younger One is fairly obviously not going to use hands, in any form.
It’s smooth, he can tell at any rate. Flat and wide. That and mail order suggest a paddle, or something like it. John presses his forehead into the couch. Really, after everything else, this shouldn’t even be that weird, but-
-look now.- It’s paused. John turns his head; apparently the Younger One has stopped keeping secrets. It is a paddle, indeed. Dark brown wood; ⅜ of a inch, he’d guess. The Younger One holds it in a tentacle, wraps the handle. -toy!-
That’s very nice , John finds himself thinking. Cuts himself off in the next moment, hopes the thought didn’t bleed through by accident. He doesn’t know if the Younger Ones can parse condescension, but if they can he doesn’t imagine they’d like it. The paddle disappears from his line of sight, returns to its previous task. Strike by strike again, softer or harder.
It’s practicing, John realizes after a few more. Modulating force, or just figuring out what it actually wants. The softer ones are barely taps, sometimes. Not even approaching painful. The harder ones, he realizes after about a dozen, are escalating. Which, given that the Younger Ones are fully capable of individually lifting him, the couch, and a refrigerator without straining, that he’s seen, feels like it has more than a chance of becoming a problem.
The softer ones taper off. The harder ones reach what he’d imagine to be his own full strength, and keep going from there.
John kind of wishes the tentacles in his mouth had stayed; if nothing else, they are effective at enforcing silence on him. Lacking that, he does his best for himself, grits his teeth, presses fingers into his palms. The first time he fails, the One above him pauses again.
-Shh!- It doesn’t reprimand him, which is something, not that he had any way of knowing that it also wanted him quiet. It touches his mark, then his throat. John feels the movement-that-isn’t in them. Knows he won’t be able to make a sound if he tries, now. He can’t tell if he’s grateful. The Younger One resettles him across its lap. Continues.
John notices when the paddle breaks over him mostly because one of the pieces falls directly in his line of sight. Above him, the Younger One freezes. The others, mostly unobtrusive in captivated attention until this point, follow the same.
John stays carefully still. If he doesn’t draw attention to himself, it’s slightly more likely they’ll find an outlet for their displeasure that isn’t him. (Slightly). (Not particularly). But the Younger Ones seem to have thought ahead for once.
{they have another one. It stops practicing after a bit and starts just hitting him}
John has dealt with considerably worse than a wooden paddle. In his life, and, well, in about the last week. He should be grateful, really, if anything. That that’s all it is. Five minutes, and he can hold that attitude easily. Ten and he mostly can.
By fifteen it’s becoming a strain.
By twenty, more so.
He feels like something should be going numb by now - his nerves, his skin. But that’s one of those things his body doesn’t do anymore. The strikes may come faster than he can count, sometimes, but his body will register them all just the same.
Sometimes, the rhythm breaks more, distinct, defined blows with higher force again. His body jerks with them, futily. Other times, the harder ones come in a flurry themselves, too fast for even involuntary reflex.
By forty-five minutes, John finds himself mostly wishing they could stop already.