After the Party
[Part one here. TW: nonconsensual touching, creepiness, broken bones. There is no noncon in this. There’s a point where it may seem like that’s where we’re going, and it’s not.]
The deep-voiced man leaves first, the woman after. The other man, Harvey, seems to be staying the night.
Ellis is in the bathroom, brushing his teeth on his stool, while Harvey speaks to Master. It makes him a little curious, that they are speaking privately when Ellis is just pet, but he supposes it’s not a problem. He probably wouldn’t understand it anyway, like most of their conversation.
When he finishes, he goes to find his Master, and is surprised to find him waiting at the doorway. Before he can go to his knees, Master holds up a finger, and says, “You’re to spend the night in the guest room. Follow your rules and any orders you are given.”
Ellis nods, and Master pats his head once. “Give me your hand, darling.”
He offers it, and holds still while Master tapes a splint to his finger, secures it to its neighbour, and then kisses it gently. Ellis remembers to thank him before Master is sending him on his way with a rueful smile. He doesn’t understand, but that’s okay. Rule one. He’s doing the right thing by going.
Cradling his injured hand uncertainly in the crook of his elbow, he knocks on the door to the guest room, and waits until he hears, “Come in!”
Pushing the door open, he sees Harvey sitting on the double bed, a small bag on the nightstand. The lights are low, only a lamp at the bedside casting long shadows over the nice big room Master lends to his friends. Harvey, now wearing only a T-shirt and boxers, draws him over with a crooked finger. Ellis approaches, heart rising nervously in his throat, self-conscious at being alone with the stranger.
For the first time he gets a proper look at Master’s guest. Harvey has blond hair over strong features, glasses, and a muscular body. There’s a tattoo on his right bicep, but Ellis tries not to stare, so he can’t tell what it is.
“Come up here,” Harvey says, and Ellis’s stomach flips, but he gets up onto the bed, pulling his knees under him and waiting for his next order, eyes cast submissively downwards.
He listens closely as the man shifts nearer, feeling the eyes on him. When a hand enters his field of vision, he is careful not to flinch. Even when it slips under his collar and runs fingers over his marks, chafing them awake into painful itching, he does nothing but watch. Master touches him like this all the time. It’s not Master, but it’s close enough.
