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When he wakes up, Merlin doesn't know where he is. The walls are a too-bright white that makes his eyes sting; the immaculately maintained hardwood floor and the furniture all look far more expensive than he could ever hope to afford. Every single aspect of the room, from the carved dresser and wardrobe to the ornate door, screams of opulence.
Try as he might, Merlin can't quite remember what happened to him last night. His head won’t stop spinning and his stomach rolls in a way that is almost, but not quite reminiscent of a hangover. He spent all of last night at a club, so it isn’t an impossibility that he got drunk, but he’s usually good at knowing when to stop. There was someone with him too, wasn’t there? A man he spent the night talking to, dancing with. Did Merlin come home with him, after? He distantly recalls a flash of blond hair, a shiny Rolex around someone's wrist. A name?
No, no name. Just a vague impression of a face.
There's something like panic niggling at the back of his skull, just out of reach. Merlin feels sluggish, and when he lifts his head off the pillow, the world spins, colours and shapes all blurring together. He closes his eyes against the nausea and focuses on his breathing.
In for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for four. Rinse and repeat.
It works, for a time—right up until the door opens somewhere off to the side. Whoever it is, their footsteps are loud, reverberating across the room, and Merlin bites down on his lip to keep any noises in check. The footsteps come to a stop right in front of him, and then—
Nothing. Not until Merlin pries his eyelids open and finds a pair of socked feet right across from him.
As it turns out, it’s not a bed he’s lying on. It’s a mattress on the floor.
"You're awake."
The voice is quiet, calm, and vaguely familiar. Merlin tries to move his head again, raise it up to look the man in the eye, but his body won't work right. When he opens his mouth to speak, words refuse to spill.
"Not quite there yet, then. The dose must have been too high," the man says. Merlin blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, the man has crouched down, tan slacks tight across his thighs. He's close enough now that Merlin can see his face.
Blond hair and blue eyes that are evaluatingly scanning the length of Merlin's body. He feels cold under his gaze, naked, even though he knows he isn't. The blanket tucked in around his body is soft and warm and manages to cover him in his entirety. Underneath that, he's—
The fingers pushing his fringe back come as a shock. Merlin startles, flinching back until he's just out of their reach, and the nausea makes a sudden reappearance.
The man tsks, and even through the fog in his brain, Merlin can tell that he's annoyed. He's not sure why that's what finally makes his heart race, but it's more of a relief than he can describe when the man rises to his feet and steps away.
"I'll bring you some water," he finally says, after a too-long silence that threatens to make Merlin's skin crawl. "And then when you're up, you and I can talk."
~oOo~
After closing his eyes again, Merlin drifts. He half-wakes a few times—once to the clatter of something metal being placed on the floor, another to a door slamming shut, and again to a voice, loud, talking to someone Merlin can't hear. He dreams of being in a club, grinding up against a blond-haired stranger in the rhythm to the music, accepting drink after drink after drink—
And then nothing.
When he wakes properly, the sun has gone down. The lamplight coming in through the floor-to-ceiling window is barely enough to see by. He can make out the shape of some furniture—the wardrobe, the dresser, and even a proper bed off to the back, all of them with those fancy curved legs that Merlin has only ever seen on antiques.
The panic comes quickly this time, flooding through his veins in a cold rush, and he scrambles to sit up. The blanket falls from his shoulders, and Merlin shivers against the cold air, because he's not—
He's not wearing any clothes.
It's another mad scramble then, to wrap himself back up in the blanket, except his fingers can't quite uncurl when he asks them to. They're trapped, he realises in another jolt of panic, in dark leather mitts buckled tight around his wrists, clipped to each other with a short length of chain. He pushes back against the cold wall behind him and moves his feet to brace himself against the floor, startling when they knock into something with a clatter and end up drenched with water. He pulls and pulls with all his strength, but both the leather and chain refuse to give.
"This isn't happening," he whispers to himself, and the flex of his throat as he speaks draws his attention to a tightness around it, pressed right up against his Adam's apple.
It's a collar.
The world starts spinning again. He's got mitts on his hands, and a collar around his throat, and a— a— a pallet, of some sorts, on the floor, and off to the side something metallic and wet that is probably a bowl and—
The door opens with a suddenness that has Merlin jumping. A click, and the room is bathed in a light so bright that each beam is a needle piercing straight into Merlin’s brain. The whimper that leaves his throat is unintentional; any further sounds, he bites back.
Literally. Merlin digs his teeth into his lip so hard that he tastes blood.
"Calm, now," the man says, closing the door behind him, but not making another move to approach him. He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows scrunching together just the slightest bit, and looks down at Merlin consideringly. All in all, the room isn't that large, and the man isn't that far away. He could cross the few feet of distance between them in a heartbeat and Merlin wouldn’t be able to get away.
"Who are you?" Merlin asks, his voice raspy and barely audible even in the quiet of the room. The wall is cold against his back, but he presses into it anyways—it isn't as though he has anywhere else to go, and he'll gladly trade comfort for those few extra centimetres of space.
The man smiles down at him, but there's no warmth to it; barely any emotion to it at all. His eyes are cool and assessing as he scans up and down the length of Merlin's body, gaze lingering on the collar around his neck. Merlin's skin crawls, and he struggles to pull the blanket tighter around himself.
"How are you finding the accommodations?" the man asks instead, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. "The… accessories are all top of the line, so there shouldn't be any discomfort."
"I'd like them a lot more if I could get them off," Merlin snaps, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to cower away when the man's eyes grow colder. His hand snaps forwards, the metal band of his wristwatch flashing in the bright light, and then his fingers are in Merlin's hair, pulling his head so far back that Merlin's neck aches. He raises his hands, pawing at the man's chest in a useless attempt to push him away.
"You don't get to make demands here." His voice is a low, angry rasp; the grip he has on Merlin's hair grows tighter with each word, until it's all Merlin can do not to gasp in pain.
Just as quickly, he's released; he doesn't quite manage to catch himself in time and falls onto the mattress. His scalp aches.
He has a flashback of that same voice saying his name, those same fingers wrapped tight around the length of him, stroking again and again until—
"Arthur," he gasps, blinking rapidly. "That's your name, isn't it?"
The man—Arthur—stares at him for a long while, before the corner of his lips rises up into a smirk. "So you do remember last night. Some of it, at least."
Bits and pieces that he can't make sense of, mostly, but he isn't going to be telling Arthur that. Instead, for what may very well be the first time in his life, Merlin stays quiet.
"You'll be living here now," Arthur says, reaching towards him again. Merlin braces himself for the contact, but it never comes—instead, Arthur's fingers catch on something else—a length of chain, clipped to the collar around his throat at one end and a chain plate screwed into the wall at the other. Nausea rises, unbidden and stronger than before, and it's all Merlin can do not to throw up on Arthur's fancy woollen socks.
Arthur tugs him forward, the collar an unwelcome pressure around Merlin’s neck, his throat, until the tips of their noses touch. "No one is going to come looking for you."
And that's not— that's not true. There's Will, and Freya, and his mum, and—
Arthur must catch a hint of doubt in Merlin’s expression because his smirk grows wider.
"There was an accident, you see," he says slowly, conversationally. "Some poor student drank too much when he went clubbing and tried to cross the street at a red light. It was so dark, the driver didn't see him in time and couldn't stop when he did. The body was so mangled, not even his own mother recognized him. Thank goodness he had his ID on him."
Merlin's blood runs cold.
"That's not—" he starts to say but breaks off when Arthur looks at him condescendingly.
"You might as well make peace with it," Arthur says, abruptly letting go of the chain. Merlin falls back and hits his head against the wall. "You'll never be getting out of here."
~oOo~
That first night he spent in Arthur's house was by no accounts the worst. Merlin didn’t get drugged again, but sometimes, he wishes he had. It would have made all the indignities easier to bear. Sleep, too, would have come easier.
The first thing he learned was that he isn't allowed to wear anything other than the collar, mitts and kneepads, no matter how much he begs (and he did, after that first night, unable to endure the shame of it). At least the house is warm enough during the day that it isn't, generally, uncomfortable, and the fireplace in the too-large living room is always lit and warm. Sometimes, when he's good, Arthur will let him stretch out on the rug in front of it for a nap.
Merlin learned very quickly that he isn't allowed to call Arthur by his name. 'Master' is the title Merlin is to use, though generally, Arthur prefers he doesn't speak at all. That took him a long while to learn—halfway through the first day, Arthur had fit a muzzle around his mouth and the humiliation had almost been too much for Merlin to bear. When it finally came off the next morning, he'd been so stupidly, inanely grateful that he hadn’t thought twice before doing whatever Arthur asked. The muzzle hasn’t made a reappearance since, but whenever he makes the mistake of speaking, Merlin sees the threat of it looming in Arthur’s shadowed gaze.
Defiance—or some small measure of it—only reappeared the first time Arthur gave him a bath. He knows better by now but the first time it happened, Merlin had dug his hands and knees into the floor—he isn’t allowed to stand, either—and baulked, uncaring of the collar painfully pulling him forward. Arthur had hauled him into the bathroom anyway, clipped the chain to a rung in the wall, and taken it out on his hide. The bath sponge had been hell against his skin, after, and the hot water even worse. Arthur's touch, though, had remained clinical all throughout—a small mercy.
It took a while, but Merlin is better at behaving now. Arthur made sure to train any bad habits out of him. He's allowed to sleep in the same room as Arthur now, too, locked inside a crate in case he gets any ideas in the night. Every morning, he wakes up to Arthur's alarm going off and he whines when Arthur either doesn't hear it or pretends not to. He's given food and water, sometimes in the bedroom, usually in the kitchen, and is then allowed into the bathroom. For the rest of the morning, Merlin has free rein of the house, right up until Arthur goes into work, at which point Merlin is locked inside his crate—an upgrade, apparently, from the pallet.
The first time Merlin had been left alone, he'd tried and tried to tear the chain out of the wall, but with the mitts on his hands, he hadn't been able to get a good enough grip on it to give more than a few paltry tugs. He'd cried, then. Arthur had remarked on the tear tracks when he'd got back, wiped them away with his thumb.
Each evening, after Arthur comes back from work, they spend at least an hour together. Arthur trains him. Plays with him. Like Merlin is no more than a dog.
He learns, quickly, that it's much less painful to shove the shame deep, deep down and do as Arthur says. When commanded, he lies down at Arthur's feet, barks when told to speak, pulls his hands up to his chest and begs, even, when Arthur taunts him with a treat. It's not always food—sometimes, all Arthur has to offer him is the chance for Merlin to put his head in his lap, to run his fingers through Merlin's hair. And as much as Merlin might hate him (and he does, he loathes Arthur), he can't help but crave the human contact, the touch of someone else's skin beyond the perfunctory evening bath.
It all becomes such a well-established routine that the first time Arthur breaks it, it catches Merlin entirely off guard.
~oOo~
The first sign is that his bath comes hours before the usual time. Still, Merlin obediently follows Arthur into the bathroom, barely noticing the snick of the door being locked behind him. The second—his leash, rather than being removed, is clipped into the chain plate secured to the tile wall, in a way it hasn't been since his first weeks here, back when Merlin had still been disobedient. It's only due to his resig acquiescence that he misses the third, perhaps the most prominent, sign—there's a towel spread out on the counter, and atop it, items he can't entirely identify from his position on the floor.
It doesn't even cross his mind to be wary—and it should, it really should, but he's gotten used to this dehumanising treatment, gotten complacent to the point where sometimes, he's so disgusted with himself it makes him sick—and after his mitts and kneepads have been removed, Merlin climbs over the edge of the bath and settles on his hands and knees on the cold porcelain.
"Good boy," Arthur murmurs, running his fingers through Merlin's hair, scratching at the nape of his neck in a way that makes him shiver. He stays still, staring patiently at the wall in front of him, as Arthur takes the shower head down and turns on the water, letting it warm before directing it over Merlin's body. The collar quickly gets soaked and becomes an uncomfortable weight around his neck.
He doesn't move when the water is shut off and Arthur clicks open the bottle of shower soap; closes his eyes and bites down on his lip when the lather is spread all over his body, starting at his arms, then his back and his legs. Normally, Merlin doesn't so much as twitch when Arthur's hands slide over his private parts, and today wouldn't have been any different, except for how towards the end, when he's finished making sure Merlin is clean on the outside, Arthur presses one soapy finger into his hole.
Merlin startles so badly he flinches forward, away from the intrusive touch, but he doesn't get far. With his other hand, Arthur grabs the nape of his neck and holds him in place. The chain clinks.
"Stay," Arthur says, a hint of warning in his voice.
Merlin knows better than to cross him. He's learned that in ways that left welts and bruises across his backside, that had him going hungry in the night, or forced to wet himself where he was chained down atop his pallet. He thought it worth it, at the beginning, the price he paid for his little rebellions—he'd quickly been relieved of that notion. The punishments took their toll on him, leaving him at Arthur's mercy, all too often barely able to crawl.
This is the first time in a long time he's considered resisting what is being done to him and that realisation, too, scares him.
"I don't want to have to punish you," Arthur says, momentarily squeezing tighter at Merlin's neck before letting go and stroking his fingers down the length of Merlin's spine. "Be good."
Merlin desperately, desperately wants to obey, but every single muscle in his body feels like it's been turned to stone and he's gritting his teeth so hard he can hear them creaking.
He could protest. He should protest.
But what if Arthur muzzles him again?
So he stays in place, blinking back the burning in his eyes as Arthur's finger pushes further inside him and is soon joined by another. The whole process can’t possibly last more than a minute or two, but it feels like it takes forever. Once he's clean enough to Arthur's liking, the soap is rinsed off of him and the water is shut off. He doesn't move—this is the part where Arthur gets up and grabs a towel to dry Merlin off—except this time, when Arthur comes back, the towel isn't the only thing he's holding.
"We'll be trying something a little different today," Arthur tells him, dropping the towel down onto Merlin's back and perfunctorily wiping away the water. It stays there when he's done, soft and damp and familiar. "Stay still and be a good boy. This won't take long."
And Merlin tries—he tries—but he can't stop his head from turning, desperately needing to know what it is Arthur's about to do.
As soon as he sees, he wishes he hadn't. It's lube, the thing that was in the bottle on the counter, and oh, oh, the thoroughness of the bath is starting to make a sick sort of sense. Almost unthinkingly, Merlin whines, bucking against the chain holding him in place. Arthur doesn't spare him so much as a glance, clicking open the bottle and letting the thick gel trickle down. It's cold and unwelcome and Merlin whines again, this time louder, as it trails down between his cheeks, over his hole.
"Merlin," Arthur snaps, making him instinctively duck his head. Nothing good ever happens when Arthur uses that tone of voice.
Arthur doesn't push his fingers in again, and Merlin shuts his eyes and listens intently for the sound of a zipper, of trousers being pushed down. This is it, he thinks, heart beating so quickly in his chest that it might just explode. This is what everything, all of it, has been leading up to.
It's not that he was naive to this fact before; he'd just done his utmost best to altogether avoid thinking about anything past the here and now.
Except Arthur isn't standing up, isn't unzipping his trousers—for a moment, Merlin dares to hope.
And then a moment later, the tip of something cool and unforgiving is pushing against his hole. Merlin tries to dart forward again, but this time, Arthur is ready for him. Quick as a snake, he grabs hold of the collar and pulls back, drawing the leather tight and threatening to cut off Merlin's air unless he settles back into place. It only makes the panic worse, and Merlin struggles against the chain, against Arthur's hand, until patches of black overtake his vision entirely. He raises one hand and reaches back, trying desperately to remove Arthur's grip, going so far as to dig his nails in—
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Arthur makes a noise deep in his throat, something not unlike a growl. The object he was pushing inside Merlin drops to the bottom of the tub and immediately after, Arthur's other hand is wrapped tight around Merlin’s wrist and he's twisting Merlin's arm up his back. The pain is lightning quick; Merlin's shoulder burns and he gasps, attempting to pull away, but there's nowhere to go—
There's no air left in his lungs anymore; it's laughably easy for Arthur to push and keep pushing, until Merlin's cheek is mashed up against the porcelain. It's only then that the collar is released and he's allowed to breathe again.
"If you insist on disobeying, you won't leave your crate for the next week," Arthur leans in and snarls into his ear. When Merlin doesn't make any sign to show he's heard, Arthur twists his arm further to illustrate his point. "Do you understand me?!"
"Yes," Merlin manages to gasp out, the voice barely a croak. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to bear the thought of looking Arthur in the face. "Yes, Master."
Arthur holds him down for a moment longer, as though to allow his words to sink in, before finally letting him go entirely. Merlin doesn't dare to so much as twitch when the object—the plug, he thinks it is—is picked up and pressed against his entrance.
He isn't a stranger to this particular action. Penetrative sex has always been something Merlin has enjoyed, but after this, he doesn't think he'll be able to stand the thought of ever having it again. That is, of course, assuming he's able to find a way out of here. As it stands, Merlin's hopes in that regard aren't particularly high.
The plug pushes inside him, the silicone unyielding as it forces its way past the tight ring of muscles. When it finally settles inside him, Merlin nearly sobs.
Something is off, though. He doesn't notice until Arthur takes his hand away but the plug is heavier for some reason, weighed down in a way he's never experienced. He clenches around it experimentally and the weight shifts, almost wobbling, before settling again.
He's too scared to look back and try and see what it is.
Arthur doesn't leave him alone for long—there was, apparently, another item on the counter. Arthur reaches underneath Merlin's hips and wraps a metal ring around the base of his balls; it’s cold against his heated skin. Through the rush of blood in his ears, Merlin barely hears the snick of a lock being shut. Is there no end to the humiliation?
There's a moment of silence, almost as though Arthur is testing him, waiting to see what Merlin will do next. When he doesn't move, he hears a murmured, "Good boy" as Arthur stands.
The chain leash is unclipped from the wall, and Merlin lifts his head wearily when Arthur tugs on it. He's urged out of the bathtub and onto the mat, and startles when Arthur crouches down next to him. The wet collar is removed from around his neck, only to be replaced with another, thicker one that's softer around Merlin's neck, but tougher, too. Most humiliatingly, perhaps, it has a tag attached to the metal ring just below his Adam's apple. Merlin isn't sure he wants to know what it says.
The mitts come next, and Arthur fastens them tighter around his wrists than before—punishment for Merlin daring to raise a hand against him, no doubt. Following that are the kneepads, and after having spent so long kneeling on the unforgiving porcelain, Merlin is almost grateful for them.
"One last thing," Arthur says. His voice is almost back to normal now; some of the tension leaches out of Merlin's muscles. He clicks the leash onto the new collar and stands, tugging at it to make Merlin follow.
He thought he'd gotten used to being treated like some dumb animal, but somehow, with the plug and the cock cage, it’s all become so much more humiliating. The plug moves uncomfortably inside him with every step he takes; the cage hangs down, pulling at him in a way he can't ignore.
Arthur doesn't lead him to the bedroom but rather to the door right past it. Merlin hasn't ever been allowed inside it before, and that realisation brings a fresh wave of anxiety crashing down on him. He stumbles to a stop right in front of it, nearly crashing into Arthur's legs, as Arthur pushes the door open.
At first glance, the room is surprisingly normal; empty, even. There are two dressers lined up against one wall, and a bed on the other side of the room. At the foot of it is a large black chest, the top of it half-covered with a folded blanket. It looks like a regular bedroom, right up until the point when Merlin is led further inside and turns, catching sight of the display of crops, whips, paddles, and canes hung up on the wall. He shrinks back, eyes wide as he stares up at Arthur and oh, oh, now that he's looking up, it's impossible not to notice the ring in the ceiling, nor the heavy chain hanging from it.
Arthur leads him forward until Merlin is right below, then substitutes the leash for the chain. It forces Merlin up onto his knees; he’s halfway to bringing his arms up protectively in front of his chest before he realises how that position would make him look.
Merlin twists his head, searching for Arthur—he's in front of one of the dressers, the top drawer open. He rummages around inside it for a moment before turning back to Merlin with an item in hand.
Another gag, except this one, rather than covering the entirety of his mouth with a piece of leather, is shaped like a bone.
He startles when Arthur, having come closer, runs his fingers through Merlin's hair and pushes his fringe away from his face. "You've been trying so hard to be good, I know," he says, gaze pitying, condescending. "I know this is all new to you. I didn't expect perfect behaviour, but really, Merlin—I thought you'd know better than to harm me."
The marks left by Merlin's nails are vivid red crescents against Arthur's skin. He drew blood. Merlin’s heart sinks. He—
Arthur uses that very same hand to pry Merlin's mouth open and before Merlin can so much as think to protest, he slips the silicone bone in between his teeth and winds the leather straps around his head. He takes care not to tug on Merlin's hair, and it's humiliating how grateful Merlin is for that.
"There we go." Arthur steps away, giving Merlin a once-over. His gaze lingers on Merlin's new accessories. "I'll let you down now, but you have to promise to behave."
The gag makes it hard to swallow; already, drool is beginning to drip out the corners of his mouth. Merlin can't quite look Arthur in the eyes as he nods, barely even able to do that with the chain keeping him upright.
"Pets don't nod, Merlin." Arthur's voice washes over him. It's cool. Distant. Unhappy.
Adrenaline spikes again. How is he supposed to answer Arthur with the gag in his mouth. He can't— he can't speak; anything he might try to say would come out garbled, which means the only thing that's left is—
He whines, long and low.
"Good boy," Arthur says again, and Merlin hates how those two words are enough to melt away the tension.
The doorbell, loud and shrill, rings right as Arthur is strapping him into a harness.
This is new. Arthur's never had guests before, not for as long as Merlin has been here. This could be his chance. Maybe if he's loud enough, someone will come investigate, come find him, and he'll even put up with the humiliation of having someone else see him like this if it means he'll be able to go home.
Arthur must see something of Merlin's thoughts in his eyes because he barks out a short, sharp laugh and grips Merlin's hair tight enough to hurt.
"Don't go getting any ideas," he says, patronisingly, stroking Merlin's cheek with the back of his other hand. "I've invited a friend over. He's been wanting to properly meet you."
And just like that, whatever bright glimmer of hope Merlin had is put out. He closes his eyes, turning his head to the side as much as Arthur's grip will allow, and exhales shakily as Arthur lets go of him.
"Stay," Arthur says, before leaving the room.
Stay. As if Merlin could do anything else.
The front door is one floor down, all the way over at the other side of the house, but sound carries. He hears the door, hears laughter—another man's—hears the sound of Arthur's footsteps as he makes his way back up the stairs and into the room he left Merlin in.
"Don't let me down," Arthur whispers, in a tone that could almost be kind if not for the underlying threat.
Merlin can't spend the next week in the crate. He can't. Being locked away in there while Arthur is at work is one thing, but an entire week would be—
He doesn't want to think about it. Merlin whines again, fixing his gaze on Arthur's socked feet. When Arthur undoes the chain, he falls to his hands and knees, waiting patiently for his leash to be reattached.
The stairs are a whole new version of hell now that he's wearing a plug. It jostles, prodding at places Merlin desperately wishes it wouldn't, and he's of half a mind to paw at Arthur's leg and beg to be allowed to walk down the stairs on his own two feet.
It would be a lost cause. Arthur wouldn't allow him up no matter how much he begged—Merlin learned that the hard way, too.
At the base of the stairs is a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Merlin tries not to look as they pass by it, but his eyes stray.
He doesn’t recognize himself. The man in the mirror—he doesn’t look like a man at all, not with the gag and the mitts, and the collar and leash. Not with the tail at the base of the plug, curving upwards and wagging with every step he takes.
Merlin tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, but the gag makes it impossible. He finally manages to tear his eyes away but the image he saw is still there, stamped into the backs of his eyelids.
The living room is right around the corner, big enough to span a good third of the entire floor. If the situation were any different, it would have been Merlin's favourite room in the house, with the fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves making for a warm and cosy atmosphere.
The man sitting on the couch whistles when they come in, raking his eyes over Merlin's body in a way that has him trembling and pressing closer to Arthur's leg. He looks vaguely familiar in the same way Arthur did the day this all started, with thick brown hair that falls to his shoulders and a roguish smile that, in any other situation, Merlin might have called handsome.
"You know, I didn't really believe you'd managed it," the man says to Arthur. He stands when Arthur leads Merlin further into the room, then crouches in front of Merlin. His pupils are blown. Merlin quickly looks away and tries to stamp down the rising dread. "Are you sure this is the same man from the club?"
"He took a bit of work," Arthur says, tugging lightly on the leash to make Merlin raise his head. "But he's ever so obedient now. Sometimes it's almost hard to believe I got him off the streets."
The man holds his hand out in front of Merlin's face and Merlin freezes.
"Say hello to Gwaine, Merlin."
It seems an almost insurmountable task, pushing past the humiliation and sniffing Gwaine's hand, but Merlin does it. Above him, Arthur hums, clearly pleased, and Gwaine sits back on the floor with a laugh.
"Have you broken him in yet?" Gwaine asks, leaning against the couch.
"Not yet," Arthur says easily, tossing the end of the leash over to Gwaine. While Gwaine busies himself unclipping it from Merlin’s collar, the door clicks shut.
Merlin stays absolutely still to avoid drawing attention. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Arthur sit down in the armchair across from the couch.
It becomes clear very quickly that he and Gwaine are good friends. Conversation flows easily between them, like they've known each other for years. Merlin only half-pays attention to whatever they're saying; the adrenaline has gone, taking the remnants of his energy with it. He goes obediently when Gwaine calls him over with a pat to his thigh, lets Gwaine pull him down until Merlin's head rests in his lap.
Gwaine runs his fingers through Merlin's hair every so often, scratches at the nape of his neck in a way that has Merlin's toes curling. His touch is softer than Arthur's has ever been, and despite all the indignities that have been forced upon him, it lulls Merlin into complacency. Losing track of time is all too easy; eventually, Merlin dozes.
He's awoken by Gwaine shifting underneath him. The sun has begun to set, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. Across from them, Arthur is still in the armchair, one elbow on the armrest, head leaning against his hand.
He looks radiant. Like a king.
Gwaine isn't petting him anymore either. His hand is— is—
It's on Merlin's side, slowly trailing down the length of his body. Gwaine's fingers brush over his waist, his hips, going further and further until—
Merlin jumps when Gwaine starts toying with the plug, rotating it in a way that has Merlin struggling not to squirm. When it presses up against his prostate, Merlin tries to get up, get away, but Arthur raises an eyebrow and he stills, hiding his face in the fabric of Gwaine's trousers.
"If you insist on disobeying, you won't leave your crate for the next week."
It's fine, Merlin tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut. His jaw aches. This isn't— it's not the worst thing. It's not like they're actually doing anything, just treating him like a pet. Like a dog. Like some stupid, mindless thing that they can do whatever they want with, that they can—
The tug is quick, sharp. Unexpected. His hole clenches down on the plug, unwilling to let it go. Somewhere above him, Gwaine laughs, the sound coming from deep in his chest; his cock is hard against Merlin's cheek.
Another tug, stronger, and Merlin's hole finally relinquishes its hold on the plug. It comes out with an obscene squelch that has him whining and hits the floor with a dull thud. A moment later, Gwaine's fingers are at his hole, toying, but not pushing in yet. His little finger runs along the metal ring at the base of Merlin's balls.
"A cock cage, really?" Gwaine asks, more amused than admonishing.
"It's not as though he'll be needing his cock." Arthur stretches his arms up over his head; cracking bones that have too long been sedentary. The hemline of his shirt moves up, revealing a sliver of tanned skin and the beginnings of a telltale bulge in his trousers.
Merlin hastily looks away, anxiety spiking.
He knew this was coming. All the weeks he's been here, he knew what this was leading up to. He's prepared himself for the possibility that— that Arthur would—
But in no world had he envisioned that in the end, it wouldn't be just Arthur touching him.
A click of a bottle, and then Gwaine's fingers are on him, in him, pushing right up inside him to the knuckle. Arthur, in Merlin's moment of distraction, had come over to them. He's kneeling on Merlin's other side now, one hand gripping Merlin's chest harness, and the other his arse, tugging to the side just enough to reveal his hole.
In the mitts, Merlin clenches his fists so hard that his nails dig into his skin. He feels lightheaded, not entirely there. Gwaine and Arthur are speaking again, but the words are distorted, as though he's underwater.
Gwaine crooks his fingers a little, pushing and prodding against his prostate. The realisation that his own cock is getting hard dawns on Merlin with horror.
He can't be enjoying this. He can't, he—
Gwaine adds another finger—he's at three, now—and Merlin's hips hitch forward, away from the intrusive touch. The cock cage is beginning to hurt, the restrictive metal cutting into flesh. It's too tight, he longs to tell Arthur, despite knowing that his words would fall on deaf ears.
Someone—Arthur, probably—wraps an arm around his thigh and hauls him back until his hole stretches obscenely and takes all three fingers up to the knuckle. It aches, despite the plug that was in him only moments ago, but somewhere along the line, even that small pain transforms into unwilling pleasure. This is worse, Merlin thinks, than if they had been actively hurting him.
The buckle at the back of his head is undone, suddenly, and the straps keeping the gag in his mouth loosen. Merlin refuses to let go of the bone; Arthur has to pry it out of his mouth.
"Merlin," Arthur says once, sharply, to catch his attention. His next words are slower, more deliberate. "You're going to be good and suck Gwaine's cock."
Ha can't protest, he can't he can't he can't—
"I—"
Arthur's hand clenching in his hair is a warning that Merlin takes to heart. Gwaine just laughs, pulling his fingers out, then shoving them right back ininin with so much force that Merlin nearly screams.
Somehow, between one blink and the next, they get him up on his hands and knees. They've left him empty for now, and it's both a relief and a sharp discomfort. Lube drips down his thighs in an unending stream; the bottle lies half-empty off to the side. They used too much of it, so much that for one feverish moment, Merlin could have sworn that he heard Arthur's voice in his ear, telling him he looked like—
"Like a bitch in heat."
Gwaine's trousers are unbuttoned, pushed down to his thighs along with his pants. He's kneeling in front of Merlin, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, and the other pressed to Merlin's cheek. His thumb swipes across Merlin's lips, then presses it in, pushing past Merlin's teeth and down on his tongue, almost as though he's testing Merlin, trying to see if he'll bite down.
When Merlin doesn't, the hand retreats, and those very same fingers grab a fistful of Merlin's hair instead.
"Good boy," Gwaine says, when Merlin doesn't close his mouth, and then he's pushing in again, this time with his cock.
Merlin's lips stretch around the width of it and he very carefully keeps his teeth from scraping against the sensitive head. Gwaine lets his cock rest on Merlin's tongue, giving him a moment to get used to the sensation, before pushing in further. Merlin's never had much of a gag reflex but it kicks in now, of all times, and he chokes, almost, when Gwaine pushes so far into his throat that the hairs at the base of his cock tickle Merlin's nose.
Gwaine keeps himself there for a moment, evidently content to watch Merlin struggle. When he finally pulls away, Merlin gasps for breath, tears running down his cheeks and onto the floor below. He manages to catch his breath—barely—and then Gwaine's pushing his cock past Merlin's lips again, thrusting inside almost lazily.
This time, when the tears come, Merlin can't tell if it's from the cock in his throat or the humiliation.
Somewhere behind him, Arthur makes a soft, pleased sound. He trails his fingers down Merlin's spine in a way Merlin is slowly becoming familiar with, almost as though he's petting him. And then a beat later, something is pushing against his hole, far, far bigger than a finger, stretching him wide.
There isn't anywhere for him to go. Recoiling away from Arthur would only push him further onto Gwaine's cock, so Merlin has no choice but to stay in place, only able to breathe when Gwaine allows it. The lack of oxygen is making him light-headed, and he barely notices when Arthur wraps his hand around one of the straps of Merlin's harness, dragging his nails across Merlin's skin so roughly that the scratch marks will keep for days. Distantly, Merlin wonders if it's some twisted form of retribution, or if Arthur simply takes joy in marking him in any way he can.
When Arthur's hips meet his arse, Merlin grunts around Gwaine's cock and squeezes his eyes shut. Above him, Gwaine laughs, almost giddily, dragging the index finger of his free hand down the length of Merlin's throat.
"Look at you," he says, voice hoarse. "You're taking us so well. Gods, it's almost like you were made for this."
There's a ringing in Merlin's ears, steadily getting louder as Gwaine speaks. He blinks his eyes open and tries pulling his head back, pulling away, but Gwaine refuses to relinquish his grip on Merlin's hair.
"I told you," Arthur says, pulling out until just the head of his cock remains inside Merlin's body, then thrusting forward harshly enough to punch a gasp from Merlin. The tag on his collar tinkles. "I told you he'd be perfect for this."
With the hand wrapped around the harness strap, Arthur pushes down on Merlin's back; the other he uses to lift Merlin's hips higher in a way that has Merlin's arse jutting out obscenely. He whines again, quieter this time, but the vibrations of his throat make Gwaine moan. In this new position, Arthur's cock presses against Merlin's prostate with every thrust.
It doesn't feel good. It can't feel good. It's just physiology, nothing more, that has all the blood going down to his cock, that has little bolts of pleasure shooting up his spine. This is degrading, not, not—
"You're enjoying this, aren't you," Gwaine coos, stroking the soft leather wrapped around Merlin's neck. "Getting on your hands and knees. Getting fucked."
Merlin isn't—
"He's been surprisingly pliable. Obedient," Arthur says. "That first week was a bit rough, but you learned better quickly enough, didn't you, Merlin?"
Merlin flushes, the heat extending all the way down his neck.
“You're such a good pet now," Arthur continues, his voice light and condescending. "Barely gave me any trouble at all today, didn't you? Almost as if you'd been waiting for this to happen, ever since that night at the club. Wanting this to happen."
After that, all of Arthur's words turn to white noise. Merlin can barely hear anything past the disgustingly slick sounds his own body makes as Arthur and Gwaine fuck him. Neither of them even thought to use a condom—a fact Merlin becomes all too aware of when Gwaine comes down his throat, thrusting so deeply that Merlin chokes again. The taste of Gwaine’s spend is salty and bitter, and if not for the echoes of Arthur’s threat in his ears, Merlin would have spit it all onto the floor the second Gwaine pulled his softening cock out of Merlin's mouth.
Gwaine moves away, after a long while of watching Merlin struggle to swallow, and immediately after, Arthur pushes down on his back again, this time not stopping until Merlin's cheek and shoulders are both pressed into the floor. Now that Merlin can breathe again, it's so much harder to ignore how Arthur feels inside him, how his cock stretches Merlin’s hole so wide that it'll leave him gaping, how raw Merlin feels back there despite all the lube.
The only saving grace is that at this angle, Arthur can barely see his face and Merlin can keep most of his reactions to himself.
Seeing Gwaine come must have done something for him, or maybe it's the change in position, because Arthur's thrusts come faster, rougher. He places both of his hands on Merlin’s hips and uses his grip on them to drag Merlin towards him every time he pushes in.
It doesn't take Arthur long to come. His hips stutter and he leans over Merlin, burying his face in the crook of Merlin's neck and panting. Arthur’s teeth scrape against his skin and for a moment, Merlin is terrified Arthur is going to bite down, leave yet another imprint of himself that Merlin won't be able to wipe away.
The bite never comes, and Merlin is so grateful he sobs, just once. Like Gwaine, Arthur presses as deep inside Merlin's body as he can when he releases. He rests his weight on Merlin's back, pressing him down until the ache becomes too much and Merlin's knees slide far enough back to leave him lying down entirely. The wooden floor is cool against his heated skin, but now, even more than before, he can't move.
Arthur keeps him down there a while, like he's trying to ingrain into Merlin's head that this is his place now—beneath him, beneath whoever Arthur deigns to share him with. When he finally lets his cock slip from Merlin's body, it's followed by a trail of come and lube. It trickles down onto his balls, uncomfortably, and onto the floor. He must look a mess; he feels a mess, and wants nothing more than to get in the shower and be able to wash all of this off his body. At this point, he wouldn't even try to put up a fight if Arthur were to put his fingers inside him again, if only it meant that he would wash the come out Merlin's body.
He's almost got up the nerve to push himself back up to his knees when something prods at his hole. For a moment, Merlin thinks that he's about to be fucked again, but the intrusion is harder, more unrelenting than a cock.
It's the plug again. Merlin blinks back hot tears, turning his face into the floor to hide his expression as Arthur pushes it inside him—it goes easily now that he's stretched and wet—and traps the come inside.
"Up, Merlin," Arthur orders, but Merlin can't quite unlock his limbs until Arthur's toes prod at his thigh. "Up."
The tail wags as he lifts himself off the floor; the plug shifts inside him as it moves from side to side. He refuses to lift his gaze from the floor. Even if Arthur allowed it, Merlin wouldn't be able to look him in the eye after this. He feels dirty, violated in the worst ways possible, and the worst part is, his balls are pulled tight against his body and his cock is still struggling to get hard in its cage. If Arthur unlocked it, touched him, Merlin doesn't think he'd be able to keep his own release at bay.
A bitch in heat, Arthur had whispered, and right now, that's exactly how Merlin feels. He swallows past the lump in his throat and sits up so that his arse is pressed to his heels—and even that hurts, because Arthur's thrusts were so hard that they bruised him—and turns towards the couch, keeping his gaze from wandering any higher than Arthur's chest.
He and Gwaine have cleaned themselves up some and put their clothes back to rights. Merlin kneels, still as stone, until Arthur orders him forward, patting his thigh twice. Though every cell in Merlin's body protests, he crawls forward and rests his head in that very same spot. He doesn't so much as twitch when Gwaine reaches for him again, giving him a quick pat on the head before lifting the tag on Merlin's collar.
"Property of Arthur Pendragon, huh?" he asks, his smirk audible in the tone of his voice.
Merlin— he expected it to be something of the sort, but hearing it said out loud is humiliating—dehumanising—which is clearly what Arthur has been going for.
“To help him remember who he belongs to," Arthur says, sounding just as amused. He scratches lightly behind Merlin's ear; the opposite of a comfort. "Who has the rights to his body."
They both laugh, loud and jarring, and Merlin turns his head away again, muscles coiled so tightly they hurt. Gwaine replies, says something to Arthur that Merlin can't quite make out past the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears, and the conversation flows again—something about offices and work and cases. He tunes it all out.
By the time Gwaine leaves, the sun has long since set and Merlin's muscles have gone stiff from being forced to remain in the same position for so long. His knees creak when he pushes himself onto all fours again and follows obediently as Arthur leads him back upstairs, to his pallet. He doesn't say anything the entire while, but when Merlin dares to look up at him, the slightest hint of a self-satisfied smile lurks in the corners of his lips. It's the closest to happy that Merlin has seen him in the entire while he's been here, and all it took was Merlin's debasement.
Arthur doesn't lead him to the bathroom—he heads straight for the bedroom and opens the door to Merlin’s crate. When he crouches down, Merlin has hope that maybe he'll at least take some of the accessories off, but it fades quickly. Arthur trails his gaze down Merlin's body almost hungrily, lingering on Merlin's crotch. Merlin knows better than to try to cover himself, but the urge to do so remains, an itch under his skin that he isn't allowed to scratch.
"You were good today," Arthur says. That hint of a smile is there in his voice, too. "I expected you to put up more of a fight, truth be told. I'd given so much thought to how I could punish you for it."
The smile becomes a smirk, and Arthur's gaze on Merlin turns condescending. He reaches between Merlin's legs and taps his caged cock; the touch is light, barely there, but Merlin bites down on his lip all the same.
"Gwaine was right. You were made for it." Arthur removes his hand and stands back up. He prods at Merlin’s thigh with his toes again, nudging him inside the crate.
Maybe, if this happened in that very first week, Merlin would have screamed and shouted and banged his fists against the wall. Now, he only lowers his head and obediently goes inside the crate, curling up on his bed as Arthur clicks the lock shut.
The key dangles from a silver chain around Arthur’s neck, gleaming in the limited lamplight—a taunt.
"How fortunate," Arthur says, in that same condescending tone of voice, "for you to have found me."
Merlin doesn’t reply. He turns away and finally lets the tears fall.