"Penalty"
Walker/Dan Phantom, justice

It cracks across his skin leaving oozing welts in its path. Rear up and strike down again, a bitter serpent cloaked as a whip. He shudders and grits his teeth as it bites down. Don't cry out. Can't give that to him. Don't dare. He turns and twists, ignoring the screaming protest of his shoulders.

"Did I say you could look up? Did I give you permission? Rules, remember?"

A boot grinds down onto a wounded shoulder blade. Still he swallows his own screams. Swallows them until he thinks he'll never hunger for anything else again. But he'll be further damned if he'll give that bastard the pleasure of hearing him.

"You're trying so hard. I almost have to admire that. But that doesn't mean I have to respect it." Cold and impartial. He speaks with an executioner's voice even though his hands work with the passion of a predator. "I believe additional measures are in order."

What? Those fingers. Those cold, cold fingers. Tracing his wounds, lingering with gentle hesitance over each welt and cut and sore, tracing the braille of his flesh to read the praises of that cruel handiwork with frigid fingertips. Pressing down, palm flush in the small of his back.

"There is so much more I could do to you. I'm hurting you right now. And I could hurt you further. But you'd just endure that, wouldn't you? Turn a blind eye and mute voice and endure."

He sucks in a startled breath as cold fingers slip below and spear inside, forcing their way past a protesting ring of muscle. Cold and questing and slick with what has to be his own blood and sweat. Eyes widen. Can't mean. Wouldn't dare! But dare is lost to challenge lost to conquerer. Something warm and solid prods his mouth. He bares his teeth and twists away.

"Open. Now. Open or I'll put something much worse in this end."

Worse? How much worse could it possibly--

Oh god. Another inside. Finger. Another finger. Pressing down. Pushing. Insistent. Circling that tender bundle of nerves inside of him as though it were a button that could detonate him. And it is. And it does. It shudders through him, dark blossom, dark flower, unfurling and spilling liquid heat beneath him. Something like a sob tears from his throat and flutters against the walls, tattering to echoes. Opens. Opens and something shoves inside, past grimace and protesting jaws. Tastes like leather and sweat.

"Better. Much better. Was that so hard? Just swallow the nice handle now. If you've got that end, it can't be whipping your back, now can it?" One hand abandons it's grip on the whip and soothes the sweat from his brow. "Good boy." Gentle. "Good boy." So fucking gentle.

Then it's gone and the fingers are gone and for one delirious moment he's empty. Fingers out of him and handle out of him and screams purged from his pores. Then hands settle on his hips and jerk him up and he's kneeling, kneeling on hands and knees, ass pert in the air. Knows what's coming next, knows what's coming next.

Not quite.

Handle shoved inside again, but not in his mouth, dear god not in his mouth, hard and fast and brutal and he screams even as his flesh parts to let it in. And in. Twist and pull and not nearly slick enough but still it impales him even as he arches his back and rolls his hips to meet it. His flesh is the hilt and he sobs in relief as he is broken.

Flicker and twist and there is another. More hands. More hands to tear his soul from his skin and curl around greedy, greedy flesh, thumbnail flicking across the slit and fingernails scratching across throbbing veins. He bucks and pants greedy in his own turn for more. Again something prods at his mouth, but more living and insistent than any inanimate handle. Parts his lips and it slides inside, still tasting of sweat, still tasting of sweat, but a feverish sort of cold. But it's inside and the whip's inside and hands are on him, touching and greedy and taking and no more, no

"Shut up." Growled and breaking as well, icey tone melted and rough. "Shut up!"

And he does and it is enough. He chokes and sputters as rude release slithers down his throat and slams into his mouth. But then it's gone and the handle as well. Collapse and keep on falling even when he hits the floor.

"I didn't say you could lay down."

Struggles. Coughs and something white and thick spatters on his chin and on the floor. But struggles to get up, gather limbs beneath him. Falls.

"Well. It's an improvement at least. Was that so hard? Really?" Hears him kneel, voice warm against his ears. "It's just a few new rules, that's all, Walker," Dan says. Grin in that voice, slow and cruel and cold. "And we all know how much you love the rules."

Walker smiles weakly. That's all it's ever about. Following the rules.