Balthier was not as wise as Aerith in slipping away before things got out of hand, though he doubts it would have mattered; he's recognizable enough -- especially given how much he likes to show off at a gathering -- that they likely would have had his name anyway.
He's done solitary at other prisons, hard labor, you name it. He's not even that worried about being made to copulate. That's been getting easier for him, and hell, if he needs to find some drink to make it easier, fine. It was worth a genuinely good evening.
But when, already stripped of an outfit he'd very much like back thank you, someone slaps a collar around his neck and begins explaining their punishment, he feels the acidic taste of panic rising in his throat. His hands come up to pull at the stiff material, thicker and tighter than the collar he so enjoys with Aerith, pressing just a little too tight on his windpipe. Much as his fingers search, there is no clasp, no stitching to be pulled loose.
His eyes rove like a cornered animal, trying to keep his breathing steady as he looks around the other prisoners, trying to see if maybe, maybe there's someone he trusts to have power over him. Already inmates from the crowd are coming forward, claiming partners who have little ability to resist.
His throat tightens, trying to shrink to the back of the group. Maybe he can partner with another collared inmate, even the dynamic -- he doesn't want to give orders anymore than he wants to take them, but at least then there's motivation not to be cruel.
When Aerith's arms wrap around him, he's so far in his own panic that he winces, body going entirely rigid. But something in her voice penetrates the haze and he breathes out weakly, arms coming to clutch at her too tightly.
He still doesn't want to do this -- the guards were very clear only public displays would work -- but he could sob in relief at having Aerith be the one giving him orders.
Still -- "You don't have to put yourself up for them to see like this." He might be the one following orders, but she's still going to have to compromise herself.
no subject
He's done solitary at other prisons, hard labor, you name it. He's not even that worried about being made to copulate. That's been getting easier for him, and hell, if he needs to find some drink to make it easier, fine. It was worth a genuinely good evening.
But when, already stripped of an outfit he'd very much like back thank you, someone slaps a collar around his neck and begins explaining their punishment, he feels the acidic taste of panic rising in his throat. His hands come up to pull at the stiff material, thicker and tighter than the collar he so enjoys with Aerith, pressing just a little too tight on his windpipe. Much as his fingers search, there is no clasp, no stitching to be pulled loose.
His eyes rove like a cornered animal, trying to keep his breathing steady as he looks around the other prisoners, trying to see if maybe, maybe there's someone he trusts to have power over him. Already inmates from the crowd are coming forward, claiming partners who have little ability to resist.
His throat tightens, trying to shrink to the back of the group. Maybe he can partner with another collared inmate, even the dynamic -- he doesn't want to give orders anymore than he wants to take them, but at least then there's motivation not to be cruel.
When Aerith's arms wrap around him, he's so far in his own panic that he winces, body going entirely rigid. But something in her voice penetrates the haze and he breathes out weakly, arms coming to clutch at her too tightly.
He still doesn't want to do this -- the guards were very clear only public displays would work -- but he could sob in relief at having Aerith be the one giving him orders.
Still -- "You don't have to put yourself up for them to see like this." He might be the one following orders, but she's still going to have to compromise herself.