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Simon wakes.
He wakes to the cold chill of a metal floor pressed firmly against the meat of his cheek, bruising his jaw, but he—he wakes.
It's not to brimstone and fire, or the freezing that some believed in, or even to the trumpeted gates of paradise.
Maybe it's limbo, he thinks, then coughs wetly.
He goes to rise, and his left arm is no help. The right pushes against some sort of rope, and the left scrabbles against the icy floor, and yet nothing happens.
He does it again.
Nothing.
He can feel it, feel his palm pressing into the warped ground, and yet even without restraints it is no help.
It's too dark to see why, so he just uses the little leverage his right elbow has to sit himself up. His bicep and forearm are tied tightly together, with some kind of scratchy rope and—
There's a bang, and suddenly a burst of light in the room.
"Holy sh—" Pain so bad his eyes blur.
"Good to see you're awake," a voice says as he's catching his breath against the floor, the sound masculine and joyful in a way that Simon knows means incoming cruelty. The swift kick to the stomach should've tipped him off, really.
His eyes can only really pick up the silhouette of two people in the doorway, a taller and a shorter one. The taller is presumably who kicked him, and who talked, based on where they're standing.
Simon blinks more, squinting to pick up anything else. He catches the edge of a beard, and dark hair, and eyes shrouded in shadow, but nothing useful. Then the taller of the two is stepping towards him and something in Simon tells him to run.
A shiver raises all his hackles at once, the room is immediately a few degrees cooler to him, it's all he can do to thrash when a hand reaches out to him—
It doesn't help.
There's a firm grip twisted into his hair, the hand large and unyielding, pulling taught until his scalp begins to warm and tingle, yanking him up onto his feet quickly, causing him to pant and hiss loudly in pain.
They keep pulling, dragging him towards the light—the light? no, no nononono—dragging him until his feet trip and he's being raked over the harsh, uneven edges of the floor of the ship, the gaps catching his clothes and skin alike as he struggles to try to get his feet back under him and—he catches sight of his left arm.
The pain in his scalp bursts a little as the grip in his hair shifts, changes the way it pulls on his head, clawing out a cooling, numbing sensation that registers brightly as pain. The smaller of the two is walking next to him, within his sight but he can't—his eyes won't leave his left arm.
He flexes it, then raises it slowly. There's feedback, he can feel the warmth of his palm and the way his fingers curl and his nails digging into his flesh.
He can feel all of that, but it's all—gone. All of it.
He rubs his thumb against his index finger.
There's sensation but all he's looking at his the softly flexing stump that connects to his shoulder. It's a lump of flesh that twitches, all the muscle connections just cut in half, and it barely looks like a part of him, more like some vaguely arm-shaped lump of clay, that happens to be Simon-colored, and ahaha, that's a very nice intimidation tactic, C.O.I., Simon would very much like his arm back—there's a crackling noise, wet squelching and snapping, the sound of him screaming and the shifting noise of those fucking things growing, a flash of his arm clutching the pipe, overgrown and covered in ocean, and then a flash of the stump, spurting blood and a memory of heat and a lack of real pain and the way the information floated over him like it was unimportant as he paused, then scrambled back up.
Oh.
He rubs a phantom thumb over callouses that don't exist.
"Given up?" that same cruel voice intones. "Butcher's lost all his fight?" Simon cranes his neck up to look at the one dragging him, pressing against the tug of his hair. That's—he barely recognizes him but he's pretty sure that's David. "C'mon, killer. Struggle a little."
He doesn't.
There's a disappointed click of a tongue that almost has Simon apologizing reflexively, but his own tongue is too fat and sluggish to get the words out, and he's not a kid anymore, not anything anymore, he doesn't have to apologize for existing, he doesn't have to—
Simon's thrown into the middle of a new room, skull cracking sharply on a metal bedpost as he goes down. He curls into himself and groans, but David just drags him by his ankles onto the bed, and someone—Jack—sits across from it, leaning back casually, like they're not about to pull his guts apart or something.
Nausea seeps from his gums into his mouth as David crawls on top of him with a switchblade and begins ripping apart the thin shirt he woke up in. Without all the layers, he already felt naked. That doesn't exactly matter anymore, he thinks, watching as the fabric is pulled away from his body and his chest and stomach are exposed.
His pants are next.
David drags the blade along the meat of his thigh, pressing just lightly enough to cause a low, raised line of red under the opening chasm in his trousers. Soon those are pulled off of him too, and he's shaking a little.
"Awwww, scared?" Simon blinks at him miserably. "I thought Eden's Children were supposed to be fearless." A warm hand presses against his thigh and moves it up towards his chest. The blade is slipped back into a pocket, and a little packet is retrieved from that same pocket.
It's torn open and the cold contents are emptied onto Simon's ass.
Lube. That's lube.
A finger presses quickly into him, and there's an uncomfortably pressing sensation, a little of a burning stretch, faint and removed, like his body isn't expecting things to be there.
They're not going to cut him open?
At least not right now, they aren't. But this might be—flashes of a certain ceiling, restraints, the sound of himself sobbing, blood rushing past his ears—worse.
There's another finger in him. He's supposed to be quiet, he knows his breaths are too heavy. Those prodding things find his prostate and he can't help but gasp, like a sinner, but the fingers don't seem to mind, pressing down harshly until he whines, then making way for a third before slipping out entirely, and oh, the room's spinning, he's being flipped.
His face presses into a shitty blanket, but the darkness and warmth is nice, or it is until something else is pressing surely into him, and he's being pulled up by his hair, both arms—stump and arm—flailing. There's blue eyes looking through him this time, half-lidded and disinterested and angry.
The face they're on is a tad more gaunt than he's used to seeing, maybe they had their rations reduced for some reason. The bone of their cheek presses out harshly from under their flesh, and Simon can't help but wonder what they'd look like healthier.
Who is that? His eyes glide over the face but recognition doesn't come. Which Brother is behind him right now, panting as he presses into Simon's ass? Which Brother is giving him that disappointed stare, telling him with just his eyes how much of a sinner he is?
"Killer…" a voice sings from behind him. He can hear the grin. "You like that? You're clenching pretty hard, you slut." Simon blinks. No one on Eden calls him Killer. Who—? "Is everyone on Eden such a whore, or are you special?"
David.
He tenses up immediately and tries to buck backwards, hoping to push him off or at least a little bit out.
"Eager," the man says instead of moving. "Fucking yourself back on my dick? You needed to get fucked that bad? Maybe your punishment should've been being locked in the middle of the ship… Maybe then you wouldn't be adding to your body count so quickly…" David chuckles. "Well, maybe you'd be adding to a different one."
"St'p," he slurs out.
"What? It's the truth," the voice is so gleeful, dripping with satisfaction. "You fucking hedonists are all the same anyway, weak little whores once you get a cock in you."
"Nuh-no, st'p—I can't—"
"You're so wrecked already, Butcher…" He thrusts slowly, enough so that Simon can feel the drag of the head over his prostate, breath hitching as he does it. It doesn't stop the burst of anger.
"Fuck off!" he yells, thrashing anew. "Piece of fucking shit—fucking get off me!"
"Feisty," David purrs, sinking his dick all the way into Simon's ass, wrapping his arm around Simon's throat and pulling him even further up. Simon tenses, able to breathe but each inhale and exhale have his adam's apple pressing harshly against the bone of David's forearm. "Ooooh, you got tighter! Got a choking kink?"
"No—stop, stop, please—" He's thrashing but it does nothing but make it harder for him to breathe.
"You beg so pretty for a killer."
"Don't call me—"
"It's true, isn't it?" David shifts, the arm locked around Simon's throat growing tighter. Simon grabs at it with his hand, but he's got zero leverage because of how it's tied. "I'm not even talking about Filament, or what you did on Eden." He presses close to Simon's ear and whispers into it, breath hot and way too wet. "Look him in the eyes, Butcher. Look at the dead man walking you created."
He does.
Jack is—thin. His muscles have atrophied from when Simon last saw him. His hair is greasy and flat and he looks… sick, to say the least.
His eyes are harsh, cold and unyielding, staring straight at Simon. His face is so neutral, and yet Simon can see the anger in it, the bloodlust.
Jack wants him dead.
Maybe he should be.
"I'm lucky it only made me shoot blanks, among a few other things. Jack here… well." He pauses, and Simon is left staring into Jack's eyes, watching his chest softly rise and fall, watching his clothes shift with the movement of his ribs, of his sternum. There's nothing but the sound of breathing, Simon's breathing, and the low slapping of skin, and the distant rush of blood, growing ever louder and present over everything else. His eyes unfocus.
Simon tries to refocus them, but it hurts and they won't. The crashing, static sound is created by so many individual noises that it turns into nothing but a solid, droning tone, squirming in Simon's ears, pressing harshly into his brain and grabbing hold, pulling softly at his brain until his mind is spread across the room the way a puddle seeps until it cannot, glistening and red and thin.
There's a snap, and Jack is still staring at him, and Simon is staring back, trying desperately to ignore everything about his body, every sensation it's being fed. Jack tilts his head, and Simon wants so very much for Jack to shoot him or strangle him or beat him to death instead of whatever this is. Simon almost starts praying. Almost.
"You really live up to your name, Butcher. You cut out parts of us and you weren't even in the same room." David tightens the chokehold a little bit more.
It takes him a moment before the words come tumbling out, until they're able to splat across the floor, squishing like the ugly little creatures they are.
"Fuck, I'm—I'm sorry! I didn't know! You—" David switches to slow, deep strokes. "Ngh—you said—that it was wired wrong, that there shouldn't've been pow—mrrgh—power anyway—" Excuses, nothing but excuses.
"Does it really matter?" David growls. "You signed his death warrant, you signed Ava's, you signed Filament's." He's right. Simon knows he's right.
"Please," Simon says, voice wet. "I didn't—please."
"Begging for more?" David says, laughing through the words. His other hand gropes roughly at Simon's ass, then his thumb presses threateningly at his rim.
"No—!" It's shoved in anyway, and Simon feels so full and suddenly nauseous and David's laughing again and Jack is still staring and Simon feels like his eyes are about to roll straight out of his head so they can land at Jack's feet and he can take them under the tread of his boot and crush them. Maybe then Simon wouldn't have to stare at his guilt manifest, this ghost haunting the room, barely there but weighing so heavily on him.
Then David stops moving.
He stops mid-thrust, and removes his arm from around Simon's neck. It slides against his skin as it leaves, a snake slithering away from its prey for a reason he can't identify. He thuds back onto the bed, face once again smushed into a scratchy blanket. The other hand pulls off of him, and its thumb out of him, and then they're on the bed, caging his torso in, unmoving and more threatening than the arm around his throat was.
"We're so lucky you came back to us," he says, and the fake-cheerful lilt of his voice cracks a little. "You, and not Ava, not any of the other crews. You." A pause. "Maybe we should tie you down in the middle of the ship. It would be a good sentence for you. Besides," he breathes, a hand coming down to palm at Simon's dick, "you like this, don't you? Moaning and dripping all over the sheets, like a fucking slut. It's what you're made for." He sounds manic, like his brain is frantically dosing him in endorphins so he doesn't fucking lose his mind. That could be projection on Simon's part though.
David grabs roughly at Simon's balls.
"Ow—owowowow—fuck!" He tries to elbow the man behind him but it does not work.
"Would it be better to let you suffer from your own whorishness or should we castrate you?" A wet mouth bites at his neck as cold fear permeates through him.
"No—please—"
"You're right, you deserve for every orgasm to be painful and humiliating. You shouldn't get a break. We'll lock your dick in some contraption that'll milk you until you're fucked stupid like the dumb slut you are." It's not about the sex, or really even the power, is it? It's just about making Simon suffer. That's all it is. Fuck.
"No," he sobs, like that even means anything. It doesn't, with the man above him and the one in front of him, both pressing into him, one with his cock and the other with his eyes, both only willing to be satisfied when he's been raked across the coals enough times that he comes back charred and blackened and crumbling.
None of it means anything, really. None of it means anything but pain and suffering for Simon, punishment to help with his repentance, except the COI doesn't believe in that like Eden does, but here they are, holding him down in much the same way, shoving themselves into him and onto him and around him, consuming him until he spits up nothing but ash, his body and mind fuel burned away quickly by a flash of bright, white-hot revenge.
David groans deeply, his thrusts getting slower and sloppier, until he's pressing one final time into Simon, hips twitching minutely against the flesh of Simon's ass, spilling his seed in a vessel that can't take. He slumps against Simon's back, pressing him further into the bed, his skin sweaty and sticky from the exertion.
There's a few panting moments of silence, then he's pulling off of Simon, pulling out, and pausing on the bed behind him. There's a firm strike to Simon's ass that has him tensing, but afterwards he sits back and sighs.
"You really are fuckin' made for this, aren't you?"
Simon doesn't answer.
David falls quiet.
Jack's still staring.
Simon locks eyes with him and stares back. It doesn't help the feeling of burning, of the heated ache in his chest, the guilt boiling in his blood, the spiking regret in his throat. It's so potent, pressing up from his stomach, passing along his throat until it reaches his nose and passes the barrier into his brain, grabbing hold of it and twisting, curling around it like a predator, like flames encircling their prey. It's choking out every other thought, every other feeling, until it's just this—the sight of Jack's sharp eyes and the sensation of guilt.
He needs to repent. He needs to. It's the only way to remove Lucifer's influence from within his mortal soul, to cleanse his body and mind.
He tries to bring an arm up, except the left won't move and the right is—tied up, right. His arm is a lot bigger than he remembers, his hair shorter, his face fuzzier—except it's not, and he's been this way for years, been this way for as long as it's really mattered, but no, Simon is a small kid, with too-long hair for a boy and smooth, hairless skin, and his momma is always telling him to eat more and be careful to stop getting boo-boos and—
Simon's not—Simon's fourteen—no he's seven, why would he be fourteen? That can't be right, he's thirty-six. Thirty-seven, actually, because his birthday was recent, and his mom is dead and his Brothers are dead and he's laying naked on a bed while the man he killed stares at him not like he wants to kill him, but like Simon hasn't gotten what he deserves yet, and maybe Simon will never get what he deserves, and maybe—maybe Simon should just die.
He has to repent first.
He gets his legs under him and sits up, kneeling. He's too far from Jack. There's a noise behind him, but he ignores it and shuffles closer, careful to slide gracefully off the bed, padding softly across the floor until he stands over Jack and drops to his knees.
Repent. He's gotta repent. He doesn't have food or water or skills to offer, so he offers the only thing he can, his body. It's not an unfamiliar situation to him. It's almost comforting, really.
Jack's legs are already spread apart for him, so Simon moves to be between them, and starts pulling at Jack's trousers with his teeth, and there's another noise behind him that he ignores, and as he's fiddling with the button and the zipper, pulling his pants open enough to be able to see his underwear just a bit, he realizes that there's no heat at his lips, no slight stiffness against his movements.
He's not hard.
He's not hard. Simon can't—how is he supposed to repent? He noses at Jack's crotch, hoping he just needs a little help.
There's a hand in his hair, yanking and pulling him harshly away.
"No," Jack hisses, finally speaking. He's frowning more deeply now, and Simon—Simon's there and not, he's out and in, coherent and incoherent, brain spilled across the floor at Jack's feet for him to pull apart and destroy, but all he's doing is staring—
David's laughing behind them.
"He really is such a whore, isn't he?" Jack ignores him, shoving a hand into Simon's mouth, pressing two salty, slightly bitter fingers against his tongue, and sliding them back firmly until he's gagging on them, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. They pull back slowly, then run over the teeth on his right side, pushing at his cheek and feeling at his gums, checking each tooth carefully, touching the flesh of Simon's lips as it passes over each area, finally arriving at his left side and pausing.
They're more careful now, softly running along each new tooth, only deigning to press from the inside out once the fingers have touched every centimeter of Simon's mouth, smearing cooling saliva on what's left of his left cheek, pressing and prodding and pushing until Simon's drooling and sliding back into his throat, holding him by the hair so he can't back away.
There's a firm press against one new tooth in particular, that becomes a harsh push, that becomes an earnest attempt to wrench the tooth out from his mouth, shoving and shoving and shoving until blood erupts from the root and Jack has to pull his hand out to wipe it across Simon's face.
"Please," Simon says, because that cannot be enough. It can't.
"Behave."
Simon sits up a little straighter and shuts the fuck up. The hand in his hair softens, and runs carefully through, gently detangling as it goes. It's nice, really nice.
He sobs.
He missed this so much, the soft way someone can touch him when they don't want to hurt him, except Jack very much wants to hurt him and isn't his mom, and fuck he really misses his mom—he misses being a kid, and being touched and held and believed and cared for, misses not having to use his body to make sure no one ever hurts him, misses being able to rely on anyone other than himself. He's sure his hair is greasy and gross and Jack must fucking hate him, but he's sitting here and detangling Simon's hair with his fingers, and it's the nicest thing anyone's done for him in years, maybe decades.
He leans forward.
"Sit up," Jack snips.
"Yessir, sorry sir," he replies without so much of a thought, and complies. There's a surprised noise behind them both.
"Are you really sorry?" Simon sobs again.
"I am," he pleads, knowing he's not going to be believed. "Sir," he adds, because that tends to keep him from getting beat worse.
"You're lucky I believe you, Lamb." Simon looks up, mouth agape. "Close your mouth unless you're speaking." It clicks closed before Simon can even realize what was said.
There's more laughing behind them.
"Oh he's whipped," a voice says, the grin clear in the sound.
"Not whipped, trained," Sir—Jack corrects. Simon's vision blurs. There's the sound of movement behind him, then there's another hand in his hair, gripping tightly and snapping a few hairs in the process. "Stop that, yer gonna fuck it up." The hand leaves. Sir is protecting him? "We're damn lucky someone else already did the hard part. He's broken in beautifully." Sir is protecting him.
"Thank you, Sir," he says, swallowing. He's salivating a little.
"Oh, you just want to be a good boy, don'cha, Lamb? Wanna be so good for me? Just be empty and obedient?" Simon nods. "Words, pet."
"Yes, please." Sir is looking at him a certain way. "Sir." There's a bored expression on his face, but there's a glimmer of interest underneath it all. The sharpness is still present, but something softer is emerging, something that makes him take Simon's right cheek in his hand and brush a thumb over Simon's lips.
"Be specific," he says, finally smiling.
"Wanna be good, Sir. W'nna be so good…" Sir's other hand ends up back in Simon's hair, scratching kindly at his scalp in a way that makes Simon close his eyes, sigh, and moan. "Pl'se don' hur' me…"
"I won't hurt you. Not when you're like this. You're a very good boy, aren'cha, Lamb?" Lamb blinks tiredly up at Sir. He nods. "Words."
"'m a good boy," he breathes.
"That's right! And so damn smart too." Sir's smiling down at him, grinning, looking practically ecstatic.
"Holy shit," a voice that isn't Sir's says.
"David, either be quiet or get out," Sir growls, a deep edge to his words.
"This is my place!" that voice says. Lamb—Simon?—presses further into Sir's hands, nuzzling somehow closer. "Fine, whatever. Tell me when you're done with the freak." There's a loud slamming noise, and then Sir is sighing, and Lamb doesn't really know what's going on, but Sir is upset.
"Sir?"
"You're not a freak," Sir says.
"What?"
"Don't listen to him, he's just salty you're being so good for me." Lamb doesn't really understand what that means, or why Sir is saying it, but it accepts it just the same.
"Mmm, okay." Lamb groans, and pushes itself against Sir's hands more, bumping up against Sir's thighs, and oh yeah, wasn't Lamb supposed to please Sir? With its mouth?
It blinks its eyes open slowly and finishes pulling that zipper down, still noting the lack of physical arousal there.
"Hey, no." Lamb freezes. "I don't want to fuck you right now, hun." Oh.
"'m bad?" It blinks, head fuzzy.
"No, no—you're still a good boy, you're just confused. It's okay." A thumb rubs softly against the lobe of one of it's ears. "Let's get you back on the bed."
Sir has it stand on unsure legs, guiding it by the waist to the bed, making sure it doesn't stumble on the way. Lamb feels a bit nauseous, but the sensation is sated a little when Sir helps it up onto the bed and shifts its body until it's laying on its back, arm and stump—stump?—by its sides, knees bent and feet softly planted on the mattress.
Lamb writhes a little, feeling exposed under Sir's sure gaze.
"Sir," it whines, but Sir doesn't move, just stands there, breathing, and stares at Lamb, his eyes running up and down Lamb's body. "Is Lamb going to be punished?" Sir looks surprised.
"No, pet, no. You've been so good, Sir thinks you deserve a reward," he purrs, smiling.
"Thank you," it replies, voice breathy and light. "Thank you."
Sir presses a hand against each of Lamb's knees, passing his hands along the length of Lamb's legs and brushing every so carefully against the sensitive parts of Lamb's inner thighs. The tendons that stick out there are taught, pulled tight by fear and anticipation, but Sir rubs against them slowly, and Lamb relaxes, understanding that Sir wants it to stop being so tense.
Then Sir presses a thumb to Lamb's cock and Lamb can't help but keen, whining already, hips twitching toward the soft pressure at the head, savouring the smooth glide of Sir's thumbprint against Lamb's most sensitive place.
"Please," it finds itself begging. "More, please—I can't—more!"
Sir chuckles.
"Desperate little creature," he says, sounding so incredibly satisfied. "You want it?" And Lamb is already nodding so hard that it's head begins to spin. "Words, pet."
"I want it! I want it so bad—"
"Be specific," Sir says, singsonging the command a little.
"Please touch me—"
"I am touching you." Lamb groans.
"Please, touch my dick, touch my dick! Please help me cum—Sir, I can't—please!" it pants out, hips thrusting so that the barest hint of friction can slide against it's cockhead.
"Good boy, Lamb. You're such a good boy."
"Fuck—" Lamb moans, then yelps when Sir wraps a firm hand around its dick and begins stroking. "Please, please pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—" It's barely able to get the words out around every small vocalization of pleasure, each downstroke and upstroke sending jolts of spikey pleasure to its brain. It feels so good that Lamb is floating a little, barely aware of the press of sheets against its back, barely aware of the pressure of gravity and its own body, barely aware of anything but Sir's hand on it and the mind-numbing sparks that have it babbling endless praises and thanks, all slurring together into nothing-speak and moans.
And then Lamb cums.
It's hot and tingly, and makes Lamb feel a little bit like they're dying, because of the light and the sparkles and the ringing, and then there's pain, a sharp sort of chafing ache that resounds in its dick and it really hurts and haha Lamb would very much like that to stop now actually that's—
"Stoppp, st'p, stop—Sir, please—no, nono—I can't—"
"You can. Give me another," Sir commands, and Lamb has to at least try.
The building pressure is harsher this time, Lamb's hips twitching both towards and away from Sir's hand, and maybe this is a religious experience of some sort because it swears it sees something in the darkness of its eyelids, some great shape, neither man nor beast, writhing and rolling like a ball of tangled, fighting rats, something that delivers great pain and pleasure, that presses against Simon and pushes him toward a great chasm, a great, yawning maw, one that is ready and willing to take him in and kindly swallow him whole.
There's a grip on his thigh, nails digging into his skin and—
"C'mon, Lamb."
"Lamb?" he gasps. Sir's eyes flick up to his own. "I'm not—I couldn't be so—" Simon heaves for breath, whimpering as Sir's hand slows down. "I'm not pure enough," he finally gets out. "I'm—" a choked sob, "I'm tainted—bloody, I-I've—"
"Lamb," Sir says instead. "Sink back down for me."
"I'm not—" Simon chokes as Sir squeezes his dick. "Fuck!"
"You are forgiven, gentle beast." A tight pump of his cock.
What? That's not—
"This is your repentance." A hand takes his balls softly and fondles them.
No, no he's not—it's not enough, none of it is enough—none of it could ever be enough.
"Sweet, sweet Lamb, come for me," Sir whispers, and then bites down on Simon's thigh hard enough that he screams.
It's bright, it's bright again but this time he's falling, falling so fast, and his vision won't work, eyes too slack and heavy, and that thing—that roiling thing, it's come for him once more, sinking its claws into his flesh and whispering truth to him as he falls, sliding scales against his skin, and perhaps it is an angel, sent to strike his sinful soul down and deliver him to Hell, or a demon, come to drag him down to torture him personally. Whatever it is, it presses a hand-paw-foot-hoof to his chest, and out from inside himself bubbles something hot and thick, pressing against his ribs until they expand and crack, crack, crack, making way for the thing stretching his skin until it—snaps.
Sir is looking at him, expectantly. He's rubbing Simon's chest, hand gentle and unhurried.
"Sir," he croaks, and then is immediately handed a glass of water. He drinks because he is expected to, not because he deserves it. "I'm not a lamb."
"Why not?" Sir asks, sounding genuine.
"I'm—I told you, I'm tainted, bloody. I'm impure, too much of a sinner and a bastard to truly be worthy of such a title—I—"
"Quiet." Simon's jaw snaps closed. Sir makes pointed eye contact with him. "You are forgiven. As long as you continue to repent, you will continue to be forgiven. I will not be changing my mind on this."
"Sir." Simon pauses, and Sir takes a good, long look at him.
"What?" he finally asks.
"Why? Why now?" Simon has to know.
"Because," Sir smiles, "you look so pretty when you cry." He sighs. "A bleating little lamb, scared and lost."
Simon sits, and stares.
Sir stares back, but his eyes—his eyes are set in a familiar gaze, in that gaze that holds such hatred for him that Simon flinches, bowing his head.
"Sorry."
"For what?"
"I don't—um, for being a sinner? I guess? For—" Jack.
Simon pauses.
"Continue, Lamb," Sir—Jack?—says. Simon's head is—fuzzy.
"For hurting Jack."
"Just Jack?"
"And Ava, and David."
"That's it?" Simon tenses.
"Filament wasn't—I didn't do it, I was trying to stop it, please, I just—"
"Lamb." Sir waits a moment for Simon to stop breathing so hard. "I believe you."
Simon stares right through Jack.
He can't mean that.
He can't.
"What?" he whimpers.
"I believe you."
Simon sobs. He can't mean that—Jack hates him.
"You—why?"
"I know you. You don't hurt unless you have to." He sounds so sure. Why is he so sure?
"You don't know me! You can't—I fucking melted your face off and yelled at you and got punished in front of you—none of that tells you what kind of person I am—"
"There's a reason you're my Lamb, and not my mutt, or my kitty, or my pony," Jack says, like it isn't completely fucking insane. He continues to stroke Simon's chest.
"No—" he heaves, because he understands the implication. "I—Why you? Why now? Why not before, when it fucking mattered?"
"I'm sorry, Lamb." Simon shudders.
"Please stop."
"I am sorry. None of this should've happened to you."
"Stop it."
"You don't deserve any of this."
"No."
"You're innocent."
Simon wails. He wails and he curls up, trying to shield himself from Jack's manipulation.
Jack's hand finds its way to his hair anyway.
"Laaamb," Jack intones.
"Stop."
"Let it happen." Simon grits his teeth.
"No."
"Wouldn't it be nice, just to pretend, for a moment?"
"Please don't."
"What's the alternative? You get put back in a cell, we take what we can from your body, marrow and blood and semen, teeth and organs and muscle, hair and bone and skin—pleasure—and then you die?" Jack laughs. "Sounds miserable."
"Please don't make me," Simon whimpers.
"If you're my Lamb, then you get fed, you get taken care of. You get touched and held and pleasured and taken. You get a long life. Longer, anyway." He pets Simon's hair. The words almost flow straight through him, mind spread too thin to really grasp anything else.
"Either way I'm owned, used, shackled. Is that even a life?"
"If you're happy, does it really matter?"
"I wouldn't be happy."
"Right. Like you weren't gagging for it earlier."
He can't help but go silent.
"I did mean some of what I said. This can be your repentance. This can be your path to forgiveness."
"I don't—This couldn't possibly make up for what I've done."
"It will," Jack says, sure and smiling. He smiles like a wolf, hungry and drooling. "Let it happen," he whispers.
Simon looks at him, then at himself, then back at Jack.
"Okay," he whispers, finally, and bares his soft neck to Jack's teeth.
"Good boy," Jack says, and bites.
It's bright, and that wriggling something is chasing him, and Lamb cracks a little smile.
Maybe this is for the best.