maculategiraffe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maculategiraffe) wrote2007-11-26 07:12 am
maculategiraffe) wrote2007-11-26 07:12 am
Back with a story
Hope everyone had a very nice Thanksgiving! Me, I'm thankful I was able to commandeer my grandparents' TV away from the football-watchers for long enough to watch Battlestar Galactica: Razor Saturday night. My husband demands to know why I watch Battlestar Galactica, "since there are no good guys and everything that happens is completely horrible." I tell him that's not true, sometimes good things happen as a fake-out to intensify the horribleness of the horrible things, and he looks at me like I'm weird or something. Then I point out the number of gorgeous disheveled badass women on the show, and he settles down. Ah, SciFi, you do know how to pander.
Also, check out this cool new community I just joined:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sexstoryfinders. Like whatwasthatbook, but for erotic stories online! Awesome, yes? Everybody join! The more people that join, the greater likelihood that someone will remember that name of that one story you read two years ago, with the guy and the place and the stuff and the meringue. (NB: must be over 18 with birthdate in LJ profile to join.)
So a little while back![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shadowsonthesun requested a fic describing the scene when Holden brought Bran back from Karl and Tara's, and then mareaclo wanted the scene where Bran agreed that Yves and Jer could have "fucking rights" to him. I started writing this to establish a couple of things to my own satisfaction (sometimes I just need to get the characters talking), but what with those requests I thought I should just polish and post it here, especially since I'm still sorting out a few timelines for "Lee" (What? Stall for time? Me? *bats eyes*).
And now to catch up on my comments and friends listand write angsty kitchen-located Starbuck/Shaw femmeslash!
Bran was a mess.
He'd already been a bit of a mess when Holden half carried, half dragged him into the house. Hands still chained behind his back, Holden's stolen tunic stained with dirt from sleeping in the woods, a fragment of dead leaf in his hair, Holden's handprint a pale bruise on the tearstained face he'd hidden desperately against his master's shoulder when the others crowded around, exclaiming and questioning. But Holden's miraculous wife, after one look, had said firmly, "Go on, love; we'll talk later," and Holden, with a grateful look and quick apologetic glances at Yves and Jer, got his boy upstairs as rapidly as Bran's stumbling feet would carry him.
He hadn't bothered to remove the manacles and certainly hadn't bothered to undress Bran before flinging him face down over the edge of his own bed, and he didn't take time to stretch the boy with his fingers before he slicked his cock and drove inside him. He did take a moment to silently bless Argounov's training in orgasm control when Bran cried out in pain and shock at the same time he thrust himself back in ravenous need against his master; he writhed and sobbed incoherently as Holden fucked him hard and long, without gentleness and without speaking, not even the only word he could actually remember at the moment: Mine, mine, mine, mine.
By the time Holden was done with him, Bran looked like something the cat dragged in: the chained hands, the muddy tunic, soaked with sweat and pushed up past his waist, his hips still pushed up towards Holden, his hole slick and glistening with oil and Holden's seed, the half of his bruised face that wasn't pressed into the mattress blotched and wet with tears, his hair wildly disheveled (though the leaf seemed to have gotten itself dislodged, or possibly disintegrated), bite marks on his neck, breathing hard.
Breathing a touch hard himself, Holden moved to unlock the chains at Bran's wrists. Bran stayed perfectly still, leaving his hands in position at his back the way he had on the first day, when Holden had untied them.
When the manacles were off, Holden lifted the boy in his arms, and Bran, still limp, let himself be carried into the bathroom, where Holden laid him down on the tiled floor, started the water running in the bath, and undressed himself before gathering Bran up again and gently removing the stolen tunic. Bran cooperated as best he could, considering that he seemed less than fully conscious, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Well, he'd had a long day.
Holden tested the water's temperature carefully before slipping into it with Bran in his arms; Bran seemed to revive slightly when immersed, eyes opening and focusing on Holden, a punch-drunk smile illuminating his features. Holden smiled back as he bathed the seemingly boneless body thoroughly, not neglecting Bran's face and hair, but taking care that no soap slipped into the wide, blissful gray eyes. There were scratch marks on Bran's back Holden didn't even remember inflicting, and Bran whimpered softly with pleasure when the soap touched them.
After he'd sluiced water from a soaked cloth over Bran's head to rinse, he rose, leaving Bran to watch him dazedly from the water as he dried himself and dressed. Bran managed to stand up on his own feet when Holden pulled him out of the water, patted him dry with a clean towel, and led him, stumbling slightly, back into Bran's own bedroom, where he took a fresh green tunic from the drawer by the bed and put it on Bran, admiring the effect (Mine, fucking mine). Alix had chosen the green to complement Greta's eyes, but it was a good color on most, though a certain complexion of blond tended to look a little bilious in it. His gaze lowered respectfully, Bran looked very neat and decorous now, but for the pale bruise still on his cheek from Holden's slap, and the bites on his neck. As Holden looked him up and down, Bran sank gracefully, if a little shakily, to his knees at Holden's feet, not touching him, eyes fixed on the toes of Holden's boots.
Holden let him kneel there, since it was probably easier than standing, while he arranged the pillows at the head of the bed-- for Bran's sake, of course; it wasn't that Holden needed propping, not really-- then helped Bran rise and drew the boy down next to him on the bed, leaning back against the pillows, one arm encircling the languid young body. Pressed close to his master, Bran seemed utterly relaxed, only his head lifted and alert, his eyes intent on Holden's face.
"So," Holden said, his voice steadier than he'd feared it might be. "Let's talk."
"Yes, master," Bran said quietly, watching him.
"You understand that I won't be able to give you as much attention as I have been. Even after the situation with Jer has settled down. I'll have other delinquents coming in, and-- you won't be my job any more. You'll just be my-- one of my slaves."
Bran smiled brilliantly at him, and Holden couldn't help smiling back at the pure joy on the kid's face. "Yes, master."
Holden hesitated slightly before adding, "What you said before, about being willing to serve Yves and Jer. Did you mean that?"
"Of course, master," said Bran with obvious surprise-- that Holden would take him up on the offer? Or at the idea that he'd refuse any demand Holden made of him? "Is that what my master wishes?"
Holden smiled at the formal, deferential language, but sobered quickly; he wasn't sure it was what he wished. Yves was a little fonder of variety in his sexual partners than was strictly ideal for the slave of someone as possessive as Holden, and his tendency to become preoccupied with a new member of the household to the point of neglecting his-- all right-- unreasonably jealous master had caused their one serious quarrel to date. They were more careful now, Holden to catch any twinges of jealousy early and discuss them calmly with Yves, Yves to enjoy the steady supply of new and interesting youngsters only on his master's strictly defined terms. Was it a good idea to make Bran-- possessive as Holden already was about him-- the exception to the rule?
Well, Holden had just smashed careful to smithereens, disrupting the long-established peace and security of Yves' life with two new slaves, one his lover from before Yves' time, the other a lad younger than Yves had been when Holden first bought him. Yves had been extremely sweet about Jer, and if the one look he'd given Holden when he walked back in with Bran was any indication of the conversation they'd have to have later, he at least understood how Holden felt right now. Still, some concession seemed in order. Yves would definitely enjoy being an object of Bran's service. And Jer's inevitable jealous insecurity might be assuaged by making Bran's position at the bottom of the pecking order official, though Holden might have to watch closely to make sure the kid didn't get pecked too hard.
"When you say you're willing to serve them--" he began, then trailed off rather uncertainly.
"In any way they wish, master," Bran said quickly, "so long as it pleases my master."
"All right," said Holden finally. "Just one more thing, then. You know most of my-- rules, and my requirements. But-- well, what have I told you about lying to your owner?”
“To do it as seldom as I possibly can,” said Bran precisely, “and not to do it at all until I’ve gotten to know my master and know how he feels about it, because even if I think I won’t get caught, I probably will, despite all your training, because I’m terrible at it.”
Again Holden grinned despite himself at the retentiveness of the boy's memory. “Good. So what do you think that means if I’m going to be your owner?”
Bran gave this question due consideration. Holden had already gathered that this habit of his– falling silent before answering– had irritated Dunaev; at first, every time Bran hesitated before answering a question, he’d gotten more and more anxious and agitated the longer he hesitated, and ended up freezing altogether. Holden had taken to touching him while he thought, finding that caresses kept him from becoming paralyzed with fear of either hesitating too long or of answering wrongly. He ran a hand through Bran’s damp curls, twining them around his fingers, and stroked his back, resisting the urge to yank the boy into his lap and taste his mouth, bite his lips, suck his tongue, his pulse quickening again: Mine, mine, mine.
“I don’t think I should lie to you,” Bran said finally. “Ever. The only time you ever– well, you didn’t end up punishing me even then, but the only time you’ve said you should was when you said I was lying to you.”
Holden nodded. “That's right. Good boy. You know why I didn’t punish you then?”
“Because I wasn’t lying?” Bran suggested, with just enough righteous indignation tempering his meekness that Holden had to grin again. He shouldn’t be smiling so much– this was a serious conversation, and Holden’s demeanor as well as his words should communicate that– but as long as he was making concessions, he might as well give himself credit for not having had a stupid grin plastered across his face from the moment he'd dragged Bran from Karl's house and towards the car to now.
“Sort of,” he said thoughtfully. “You told me you weren’t feeling resentful, when you clearly were, but you weren’t trying to deceive me. You just weren’t being very self-aware. See the difference?”
“Yes, master,” said Bran readily. “I won’t try to deceive you.”
“Good. But if you ever do, you need to know what will happen.”
Bran nodded seriously. “Yes, master. You’ll sell me.”
“Bran!” It was almost a shout, and Bran looked up, startled. “Gods damn it, kid– no. No, I won’t sell you as punishment. Not for lying or for anything else.”
Bran blinked at him. “You– won’t?”
“No, Bran, I won’t. Have I ever given you the impression I sold slaves as a solution to behavioral problems? I’m the slave breaker, kid. I don’t sell you until you’re done being corrected.”
Bran smiled a little. “Yes, master. But I– this is different. I just thought– you have enough to deal with, like you said at Karl’s, so if I displease you, if I cause trouble– I figured you’d–“
“You figured wrong,” said Holden firmly. “You’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine. Whatever trouble you cause, I’ll take care of you. And I understand now– that taking care of you means not selling you until you’re ready. Least of all as a punishment. Is that clear?”
Bran bowed his head. “Yes, master. I'm sorry for interrupting.”
"That's all right. I was saying-- you need to know what will happen if you lie."
"Yes, master."
It was Holden's turn to consider before he spoke.
“Did you lie a lot to Lord Dunaev?” he asked finally.
To his surprise, Bran chuckled. “Yes, master.”
“What made you lie to him?”
“He wanted me to,” said Bran matter-of-factly.
Holden raised his eyebrows. “He did?”
Bran shrugged; a faint but unmistakable tinge of mockery had started coloring his expressive voice when he answered questions about his former master, and Holden relished it more than ever now that he could look forward to hearing it grow. “Maybe he didn’t want me to lie, but– there were right answers and wrong answers. He probably wanted the right answer to be true, but he sure wanted to hear it whether it was true or not.”
“Answer to what?”
“Do you want this,” said Bran flatly, without affect, “do you love this, do you want it harder, did you love that, do you want more. Are you sorry now. I’m having Genya over tonight, won’t that be nice.”
“Ah,” said Holden neutrally. “But you know if I ask you– well, whether you want more–“
“I’ll always say yes,” said Bran, a sudden sly smile making Holden's spine tingle, “but not for the same reason.”
“Minx,” said Holden, shaking his head and trying to look stern. “So– what do you think would make you lie to me? Or put it this way: what would tempt you to lie to me?”
Bran considered this as well, and Holden caressed him while he thought.
“I think–“ he said finally. “I guess if I felt like I– couldn’t tell you the truth. Because I was afraid of what might happen if you knew– something.”
Holden nodded thoughtfully.
“So if you’re ever considering lying to me,” he said, “what would help you not to lie?”
Bran's pause this time was accompanied by a look of sheer adoration. It was clear he liked this way of looking at things. I’m a good owner for him, Holden thought defiantly, though who he was defying was less clear.
“Knowing I’m safe,” Bran said eventually. “Knowing that telling the truth is safe. Not safe from being punished, I don’t mean, master, but you won’t– you really won’t sell me, even if I– make you really angry?”
“No. No more than I’ll stop feeding you if you make me really angry." Holden drew Bran's head gently down onto his chest, and the boy nestled obediently closer, his damp hair wetting the breast of his master's tunic. "You shouldn’t ever be afraid to tell me the truth, sweetheart, and do you know why?”
“Why, master?” Bran asked, a little unsteadily.
“Because you’ll put yourself through worse-- your imagination, your worries will be worse-- than anything I’d ever put you through, Bran. Because whatever I do to you, you’ll know that it’s over when it’s over, and everything’s all right, and I’ll hold you and comfort you and you don’t have to be afraid any more.”
Bran nodded against his chest.
“I told you the first day I had you," Holden continued, hugging the boy briefly and hard against him, "that I didn’t want you scared. I still don’t. But you need help not being scared, don’t you? That’s why you need to be honest with me. So I can help you. I can’t help you if you lie to me– any more than I can keep you safe if you run away.”
“Yes, master,” Bran whispered. “I won’t.”
“Good boy. So if you lie to me, it will be because you’ve forgotten that. You’ve forgotten that I want to take care of you, that you’re safe with me, even when I punish you. And I’ll have to remind you. If I catch you trying to lie to me– and believe me, I will, because you are a terrible liar– I’ll whip you."
Bran tensed against him, though Holden's caressing hand seemed to help him relax after his first, momentary shiver. "Yes, master."
"Corporal punishment is best for you, I think," Holden continued, still stroking the boy soothingly. "You tolerate it very well, and haven't you told me that getting whipped makes you focus on me?”
Bran nodded again.
“So it will remind you– first of all– that my punishment will never be more than you can take, or as bad as what you can imagine. And it will remind you that you can trust me to do what I say, and it will probably get your defenses down so you can tell me the truth and we can deal with it, whatever it is. All right?”
"Yes, master," Bran whispered again, and after a few moments, wonderingly, "Master, your heart is... pounding."
“Bran.” Holden swallowed hard. “I– you have to help me out, here. I can’t give you as much attention as you– deserve. I just don’t have time. But you’re mine now, and if something happens, again, because I haven’t paid enough attention to you– because I didn’t see what you needed– I’m not going to be able to live with myself. You have to help me take care of you, Bran. You have to be honest with me.”
“Yes, master,” said Bran a little hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “But please don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. As long as I can be with you.”
“For as long as you need me, Bran,” said Holden quietly. “I promise.”
They sat in silence for some time after that; long after an almost imperceptible change in Bran's weight against him told him the boy had fallen asleep, Holden still sat motionless, his heart thumping so hard he was astonished Bran could sleep so close to the noise of it, wondering if it was even legal to be this happy.
He should wake the kid, get him downstairs and fed-- he wouldn't have eaten all day, probably, and Tara had still been cooking dinner when Holden picked him up. Bran could eat while Holden got started having the several conversations he'd be needing to have tonight: Alix, who'd be patiently concerned and a little exasperated, asking if he'd really thought this through; Yves, who would need to talk about it, the way he'd needed to talk the morning after Jer's late-night arrival, and might need to be held for a while the way he had then, too; Jer himself, his confidence in the stability of his new home no doubt staggering under this development. He'd wake the kid, take him downstairs, and feed him; he'd have the talks; everything would be all right. He'd make it be.
"My Bran," he whispered, so low that even he could barely hear it, but Bran made a sound in his sleep, a pleased acquiescent purr, and nestled closer. Holden, listening to him breathe, finally let the smile spread onto his face, stupid and unthinking as if he didn't have anything else to do tonight. As if everything-- Bran breathing so quietly, so close against him, clean and happy and safe, and dressed in green-- were already, somehow, all right. "Mine."
Next chapter
Also, check out this cool new community I just joined:
sexstoryfinders. Like whatwasthatbook, but for erotic stories online! Awesome, yes? Everybody join! The more people that join, the greater likelihood that someone will remember that name of that one story you read two years ago, with the guy and the place and the stuff and the meringue. (NB: must be over 18 with birthdate in LJ profile to join.)So a little while back
shadowsonthesun requested a fic describing the scene when Holden brought Bran back from Karl and Tara's, and then mareaclo wanted the scene where Bran agreed that Yves and Jer could have "fucking rights" to him. I started writing this to establish a couple of things to my own satisfaction (sometimes I just need to get the characters talking), but what with those requests I thought I should just polish and post it here, especially since I'm still sorting out a few timelines for "Lee" (What? Stall for time? Me? *bats eyes*).And now to catch up on my comments and friends list
Bran was a mess.
He'd already been a bit of a mess when Holden half carried, half dragged him into the house. Hands still chained behind his back, Holden's stolen tunic stained with dirt from sleeping in the woods, a fragment of dead leaf in his hair, Holden's handprint a pale bruise on the tearstained face he'd hidden desperately against his master's shoulder when the others crowded around, exclaiming and questioning. But Holden's miraculous wife, after one look, had said firmly, "Go on, love; we'll talk later," and Holden, with a grateful look and quick apologetic glances at Yves and Jer, got his boy upstairs as rapidly as Bran's stumbling feet would carry him.
He hadn't bothered to remove the manacles and certainly hadn't bothered to undress Bran before flinging him face down over the edge of his own bed, and he didn't take time to stretch the boy with his fingers before he slicked his cock and drove inside him. He did take a moment to silently bless Argounov's training in orgasm control when Bran cried out in pain and shock at the same time he thrust himself back in ravenous need against his master; he writhed and sobbed incoherently as Holden fucked him hard and long, without gentleness and without speaking, not even the only word he could actually remember at the moment: Mine, mine, mine, mine.
By the time Holden was done with him, Bran looked like something the cat dragged in: the chained hands, the muddy tunic, soaked with sweat and pushed up past his waist, his hips still pushed up towards Holden, his hole slick and glistening with oil and Holden's seed, the half of his bruised face that wasn't pressed into the mattress blotched and wet with tears, his hair wildly disheveled (though the leaf seemed to have gotten itself dislodged, or possibly disintegrated), bite marks on his neck, breathing hard.
Breathing a touch hard himself, Holden moved to unlock the chains at Bran's wrists. Bran stayed perfectly still, leaving his hands in position at his back the way he had on the first day, when Holden had untied them.
When the manacles were off, Holden lifted the boy in his arms, and Bran, still limp, let himself be carried into the bathroom, where Holden laid him down on the tiled floor, started the water running in the bath, and undressed himself before gathering Bran up again and gently removing the stolen tunic. Bran cooperated as best he could, considering that he seemed less than fully conscious, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Well, he'd had a long day.
Holden tested the water's temperature carefully before slipping into it with Bran in his arms; Bran seemed to revive slightly when immersed, eyes opening and focusing on Holden, a punch-drunk smile illuminating his features. Holden smiled back as he bathed the seemingly boneless body thoroughly, not neglecting Bran's face and hair, but taking care that no soap slipped into the wide, blissful gray eyes. There were scratch marks on Bran's back Holden didn't even remember inflicting, and Bran whimpered softly with pleasure when the soap touched them.
After he'd sluiced water from a soaked cloth over Bran's head to rinse, he rose, leaving Bran to watch him dazedly from the water as he dried himself and dressed. Bran managed to stand up on his own feet when Holden pulled him out of the water, patted him dry with a clean towel, and led him, stumbling slightly, back into Bran's own bedroom, where he took a fresh green tunic from the drawer by the bed and put it on Bran, admiring the effect (Mine, fucking mine). Alix had chosen the green to complement Greta's eyes, but it was a good color on most, though a certain complexion of blond tended to look a little bilious in it. His gaze lowered respectfully, Bran looked very neat and decorous now, but for the pale bruise still on his cheek from Holden's slap, and the bites on his neck. As Holden looked him up and down, Bran sank gracefully, if a little shakily, to his knees at Holden's feet, not touching him, eyes fixed on the toes of Holden's boots.
Holden let him kneel there, since it was probably easier than standing, while he arranged the pillows at the head of the bed-- for Bran's sake, of course; it wasn't that Holden needed propping, not really-- then helped Bran rise and drew the boy down next to him on the bed, leaning back against the pillows, one arm encircling the languid young body. Pressed close to his master, Bran seemed utterly relaxed, only his head lifted and alert, his eyes intent on Holden's face.
"So," Holden said, his voice steadier than he'd feared it might be. "Let's talk."
"Yes, master," Bran said quietly, watching him.
"You understand that I won't be able to give you as much attention as I have been. Even after the situation with Jer has settled down. I'll have other delinquents coming in, and-- you won't be my job any more. You'll just be my-- one of my slaves."
Bran smiled brilliantly at him, and Holden couldn't help smiling back at the pure joy on the kid's face. "Yes, master."
Holden hesitated slightly before adding, "What you said before, about being willing to serve Yves and Jer. Did you mean that?"
"Of course, master," said Bran with obvious surprise-- that Holden would take him up on the offer? Or at the idea that he'd refuse any demand Holden made of him? "Is that what my master wishes?"
Holden smiled at the formal, deferential language, but sobered quickly; he wasn't sure it was what he wished. Yves was a little fonder of variety in his sexual partners than was strictly ideal for the slave of someone as possessive as Holden, and his tendency to become preoccupied with a new member of the household to the point of neglecting his-- all right-- unreasonably jealous master had caused their one serious quarrel to date. They were more careful now, Holden to catch any twinges of jealousy early and discuss them calmly with Yves, Yves to enjoy the steady supply of new and interesting youngsters only on his master's strictly defined terms. Was it a good idea to make Bran-- possessive as Holden already was about him-- the exception to the rule?
Well, Holden had just smashed careful to smithereens, disrupting the long-established peace and security of Yves' life with two new slaves, one his lover from before Yves' time, the other a lad younger than Yves had been when Holden first bought him. Yves had been extremely sweet about Jer, and if the one look he'd given Holden when he walked back in with Bran was any indication of the conversation they'd have to have later, he at least understood how Holden felt right now. Still, some concession seemed in order. Yves would definitely enjoy being an object of Bran's service. And Jer's inevitable jealous insecurity might be assuaged by making Bran's position at the bottom of the pecking order official, though Holden might have to watch closely to make sure the kid didn't get pecked too hard.
"When you say you're willing to serve them--" he began, then trailed off rather uncertainly.
"In any way they wish, master," Bran said quickly, "so long as it pleases my master."
"All right," said Holden finally. "Just one more thing, then. You know most of my-- rules, and my requirements. But-- well, what have I told you about lying to your owner?”
“To do it as seldom as I possibly can,” said Bran precisely, “and not to do it at all until I’ve gotten to know my master and know how he feels about it, because even if I think I won’t get caught, I probably will, despite all your training, because I’m terrible at it.”
Again Holden grinned despite himself at the retentiveness of the boy's memory. “Good. So what do you think that means if I’m going to be your owner?”
Bran gave this question due consideration. Holden had already gathered that this habit of his– falling silent before answering– had irritated Dunaev; at first, every time Bran hesitated before answering a question, he’d gotten more and more anxious and agitated the longer he hesitated, and ended up freezing altogether. Holden had taken to touching him while he thought, finding that caresses kept him from becoming paralyzed with fear of either hesitating too long or of answering wrongly. He ran a hand through Bran’s damp curls, twining them around his fingers, and stroked his back, resisting the urge to yank the boy into his lap and taste his mouth, bite his lips, suck his tongue, his pulse quickening again: Mine, mine, mine.
“I don’t think I should lie to you,” Bran said finally. “Ever. The only time you ever– well, you didn’t end up punishing me even then, but the only time you’ve said you should was when you said I was lying to you.”
Holden nodded. “That's right. Good boy. You know why I didn’t punish you then?”
“Because I wasn’t lying?” Bran suggested, with just enough righteous indignation tempering his meekness that Holden had to grin again. He shouldn’t be smiling so much– this was a serious conversation, and Holden’s demeanor as well as his words should communicate that– but as long as he was making concessions, he might as well give himself credit for not having had a stupid grin plastered across his face from the moment he'd dragged Bran from Karl's house and towards the car to now.
“Sort of,” he said thoughtfully. “You told me you weren’t feeling resentful, when you clearly were, but you weren’t trying to deceive me. You just weren’t being very self-aware. See the difference?”
“Yes, master,” said Bran readily. “I won’t try to deceive you.”
“Good. But if you ever do, you need to know what will happen.”
Bran nodded seriously. “Yes, master. You’ll sell me.”
“Bran!” It was almost a shout, and Bran looked up, startled. “Gods damn it, kid– no. No, I won’t sell you as punishment. Not for lying or for anything else.”
Bran blinked at him. “You– won’t?”
“No, Bran, I won’t. Have I ever given you the impression I sold slaves as a solution to behavioral problems? I’m the slave breaker, kid. I don’t sell you until you’re done being corrected.”
Bran smiled a little. “Yes, master. But I– this is different. I just thought– you have enough to deal with, like you said at Karl’s, so if I displease you, if I cause trouble– I figured you’d–“
“You figured wrong,” said Holden firmly. “You’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine. Whatever trouble you cause, I’ll take care of you. And I understand now– that taking care of you means not selling you until you’re ready. Least of all as a punishment. Is that clear?”
Bran bowed his head. “Yes, master. I'm sorry for interrupting.”
"That's all right. I was saying-- you need to know what will happen if you lie."
"Yes, master."
It was Holden's turn to consider before he spoke.
“Did you lie a lot to Lord Dunaev?” he asked finally.
To his surprise, Bran chuckled. “Yes, master.”
“What made you lie to him?”
“He wanted me to,” said Bran matter-of-factly.
Holden raised his eyebrows. “He did?”
Bran shrugged; a faint but unmistakable tinge of mockery had started coloring his expressive voice when he answered questions about his former master, and Holden relished it more than ever now that he could look forward to hearing it grow. “Maybe he didn’t want me to lie, but– there were right answers and wrong answers. He probably wanted the right answer to be true, but he sure wanted to hear it whether it was true or not.”
“Answer to what?”
“Do you want this,” said Bran flatly, without affect, “do you love this, do you want it harder, did you love that, do you want more. Are you sorry now. I’m having Genya over tonight, won’t that be nice.”
“Ah,” said Holden neutrally. “But you know if I ask you– well, whether you want more–“
“I’ll always say yes,” said Bran, a sudden sly smile making Holden's spine tingle, “but not for the same reason.”
“Minx,” said Holden, shaking his head and trying to look stern. “So– what do you think would make you lie to me? Or put it this way: what would tempt you to lie to me?”
Bran considered this as well, and Holden caressed him while he thought.
“I think–“ he said finally. “I guess if I felt like I– couldn’t tell you the truth. Because I was afraid of what might happen if you knew– something.”
Holden nodded thoughtfully.
“So if you’re ever considering lying to me,” he said, “what would help you not to lie?”
Bran's pause this time was accompanied by a look of sheer adoration. It was clear he liked this way of looking at things. I’m a good owner for him, Holden thought defiantly, though who he was defying was less clear.
“Knowing I’m safe,” Bran said eventually. “Knowing that telling the truth is safe. Not safe from being punished, I don’t mean, master, but you won’t– you really won’t sell me, even if I– make you really angry?”
“No. No more than I’ll stop feeding you if you make me really angry." Holden drew Bran's head gently down onto his chest, and the boy nestled obediently closer, his damp hair wetting the breast of his master's tunic. "You shouldn’t ever be afraid to tell me the truth, sweetheart, and do you know why?”
“Why, master?” Bran asked, a little unsteadily.
“Because you’ll put yourself through worse-- your imagination, your worries will be worse-- than anything I’d ever put you through, Bran. Because whatever I do to you, you’ll know that it’s over when it’s over, and everything’s all right, and I’ll hold you and comfort you and you don’t have to be afraid any more.”
Bran nodded against his chest.
“I told you the first day I had you," Holden continued, hugging the boy briefly and hard against him, "that I didn’t want you scared. I still don’t. But you need help not being scared, don’t you? That’s why you need to be honest with me. So I can help you. I can’t help you if you lie to me– any more than I can keep you safe if you run away.”
“Yes, master,” Bran whispered. “I won’t.”
“Good boy. So if you lie to me, it will be because you’ve forgotten that. You’ve forgotten that I want to take care of you, that you’re safe with me, even when I punish you. And I’ll have to remind you. If I catch you trying to lie to me– and believe me, I will, because you are a terrible liar– I’ll whip you."
Bran tensed against him, though Holden's caressing hand seemed to help him relax after his first, momentary shiver. "Yes, master."
"Corporal punishment is best for you, I think," Holden continued, still stroking the boy soothingly. "You tolerate it very well, and haven't you told me that getting whipped makes you focus on me?”
Bran nodded again.
“So it will remind you– first of all– that my punishment will never be more than you can take, or as bad as what you can imagine. And it will remind you that you can trust me to do what I say, and it will probably get your defenses down so you can tell me the truth and we can deal with it, whatever it is. All right?”
"Yes, master," Bran whispered again, and after a few moments, wonderingly, "Master, your heart is... pounding."
“Bran.” Holden swallowed hard. “I– you have to help me out, here. I can’t give you as much attention as you– deserve. I just don’t have time. But you’re mine now, and if something happens, again, because I haven’t paid enough attention to you– because I didn’t see what you needed– I’m not going to be able to live with myself. You have to help me take care of you, Bran. You have to be honest with me.”
“Yes, master,” said Bran a little hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “But please don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. As long as I can be with you.”
“For as long as you need me, Bran,” said Holden quietly. “I promise.”
They sat in silence for some time after that; long after an almost imperceptible change in Bran's weight against him told him the boy had fallen asleep, Holden still sat motionless, his heart thumping so hard he was astonished Bran could sleep so close to the noise of it, wondering if it was even legal to be this happy.
He should wake the kid, get him downstairs and fed-- he wouldn't have eaten all day, probably, and Tara had still been cooking dinner when Holden picked him up. Bran could eat while Holden got started having the several conversations he'd be needing to have tonight: Alix, who'd be patiently concerned and a little exasperated, asking if he'd really thought this through; Yves, who would need to talk about it, the way he'd needed to talk the morning after Jer's late-night arrival, and might need to be held for a while the way he had then, too; Jer himself, his confidence in the stability of his new home no doubt staggering under this development. He'd wake the kid, take him downstairs, and feed him; he'd have the talks; everything would be all right. He'd make it be.
"My Bran," he whispered, so low that even he could barely hear it, but Bran made a sound in his sleep, a pleased acquiescent purr, and nestled closer. Holden, listening to him breathe, finally let the smile spread onto his face, stupid and unthinking as if he didn't have anything else to do tonight. As if everything-- Bran breathing so quietly, so close against him, clean and happy and safe, and dressed in green-- were already, somehow, all right. "Mine."
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