When Jean starts to wake, Sky is inside him.
He’s barely moving, just kissing his face and murmuring to him, pressed up against him, stroking his hair.
"Until I die. You promised."
A somewhat more confident cuddle.
"And you'll have my collar, and all my marks, and everything."
"Because I'm yours," in a tone that's maybe a tiny bit asking for reassurance.
"Because you're mine."
He touches Jean's neck again, then trails a hand down his chest and aside to the gauze on his hip.
Happy noise. "And what are you going to do with me?"
"Anything I want."
He presses down on the stitched wound a little.
"...except I want to take your stitches out, and it hasn't even been a day yet."
"I'm worried it'll ruin your design if I let it scar."
"You could take them out and put them back in again." He doesn't like the pain but he likes Sky enjoying him so much.
"Maybe. Maybe I'll try to wait."
His fingers start exploring other bruises – the ones on Jean's back, from the caning, first.
"Maybe I'll just stitch a new cut."
"Mmm. Anything you want."
This kind of thing isn't enough anymore.
He doesn't want to really take him apart, not so quickly, but...
He scoots up a little and starts to cuff Jean's hands.
He doesn't resist, of course.
He does look a little concerned. Sky isn't pleased.
When he's cuffed, Sky gets up and disappears into the closet.
He's gone a while.
When he comes back he has the cattle prod.
He's terrified. And Sky -- Sky obviously wants to see him terrified -- but.
There's a first order of business.
"Did I," he asks shakily, "do something wrong, Sky?"
That's it. That's the face he wanted to see.
He switches it on.
"I just want to hear you scream."
Then he jams the tip into Jean's side.
He screams. Through a clenched jaw, because every muscle in his body is contracting painfully. His hands yank against the handcuffs; he tries to roll away, without voluntary action of any sort.
When he takes it away, he waits a few moments for Jean to start thinking again.
He wants him to know the next one is coming.
It takes a few moments for the pain to shift to whimpering terror.
He manages to gasp "I love you." Thank you doesn't make it past his lips.
The next one is on his hip – the other side from the stitches, a small mercy.
He manages -- just barely -- to keep still as it comes at him.
Once it touches him, he's struggling away again instantly. With only his hands restrained, he has a fair range of motion, although it's horribly hard to move while being electrocuted.
He raises an eyebrow as he pulls it away.
"You just can't keep still, huh."
(It's not fair, and he knows it.)
He'd hated the single lesson in which he'd taken electricity, at school. Nothing is worse than this -- the way it takes over his body, moves his muscles with its burning fingers. He hated it then, and he hates it now, more than even the pain would justify.
"I'm sorry, Sky," he chokes out. "I'll do better."