The first thirty minutes of the box are probably the worst. It's his own fault, too, for thrashing and pulling and yanking at the ties that bind him, but no-one has ever been able to make him stop fighting and he's not letting metal walls and a dildo keep him captive.
Except, fucking damn it, they do.
The first thirty minutes are the worst, because the first thirty minutes offer no thought, no relief, no option for Ace to do anything but rage and rasp out howled curses from behind the gag stuffed in his mouth.
Forty-five minutes is when it starts to hurt, because he has to accept that right now he can't fight it. His lungs are burning, exertion with a gag dangerous at the best of times, and he knows he needs to force himself to calm down but throwing himself around had meant fucking onto that stupid plug, big enough to rival any alpha dick, and his blood is pounding from that, too. So: at forty-five he has to calm down, has to think about the ache in his limbs and the too-full, too-long burning of being held in one position. Forty-five minutes is when he has to stop anger from turning into panic and hyperventilation, to drift dizzily as black swarms across his vision and he breathes shallow, desperate breaths to try and stop himself from fainting.
Sixty minutes is when he starts to lose count. He's trying to keep track of the time while cataloging his position (on his knees like he's expected to stay; cock bound half-hard, wrists tied to his ankles; and then collar and leash, tying him back; the gag, that fucking gag, and the stupid silicone shoved in him making him drip slick steadily) and it's too hard to count time when potholes make him lose concentration on figuring out what's been done to him. It's the drawback of flexing his thoughts to every finger and toe; he can't drag his attention away from the other things that he feels when he's trying to take stock.
He's a stupid fucking omega. According to everyone, the only thing he should feel is a cock. According to everyone, omegas are too sensitive to do what Ace is doing. According to everyone, he's just an outlier and not the norm.
If he ever meets 'everyone', Ace is going to rip their throat out with his teeth and show them that omegas with canines are the norm.
The car jolts again, throwing the box up, and he hates the noise that gets punched out of him as the plug jumps too. The bastards are going out of their way to hit bumps, he's sure. But what better way to keep a new omega docile than play around with what their bodies want? It's a cruel trick, but not any worse than other things Ace has had to put up with before.
Sixty-two (it feels longer, but he thinks that's just the pain playing tricks on him), and the car starts to slow. He can feel it; when they do hit potholes, the jolt isn't nearly as violent. They're not even that far away from the sale center Ace has just come from, either, at least not according to his mental map. To drive around just for an extra thirty minutes so he's squirming for the Alpha that bought him? They're stupid if they think he hasn't picked up on that, and assholes for doing it anyway.
The car stops. The roller door clangs open. It's hard to hear any speech from inside the box - steel has never been a great conductor of sound - but it's easy enough to know he's being moved when the box tilts dizzyingly and gravity shoves him down hard against the back wall.
His hands spasm as they get trapped under his body weight, and he bites down so hard on the ball gag that he can hear his jaw creak. Fuckers, fuckers the lot of them - and fuck their families too, for good measure. Fuck the rocks they were born under, the mud-crawling, shit-eating bastards- he shudders again as pain rolls through him, eyes shut. Drool creeps out the side of his mouth, and Ace growls lowly at the feeling of it sliding down his jaw and throat.
In contrast to his now pulsing hands (he has to pull his thoughts away somehow, or he thinks the pain is going to make him choke or cry, especially with how thin his self-control is at the moment, and he's barely happy at the alpha seeing him drool, let alone seeing him cry-) the actual ropes barely chafe. It's infuriating, to be honest, because it means nothing takes attention away from how carefully he's been presented. No messy chafe marks, just rope and leather, and Ace dripping slick and drool. Like a pig on a platter, an adorned trophy, arms laced from elbow to wrist behind his back to put him on display for consumption. It pulls his shoulders till he can't even think of hunching over unless he wants to yank his arms from their sockets, and it has the added effect of pushing his chest out like an invitation.
Probably because they think his pecs are fucking assets, something he's built to show off and not a side effect of fighting for his life, his freedom, his rights. Training to be strong, and yet he's still trussed up and he knows he's leaking onto the floor of the stupid box, because any sort of stimulation gets him going. He's probably going to be praised for it; for being such a good omega, and Ace has never cursed being sensitive before, but now he wishes-
Well. He can wish for a lot of things right now. It's not going to change the fact that there's a gag in his mouth and he's barely breathing, his stomach a mess of knots and the pull of falsely stimulated arousal. He's had a lot of shit thrown at him over the course of his life - but this? This is going to suck.
There's no freedom in being in alpha's plaything.
read the tags in ch1 and dont whine if it aint your cup of tea; back button's there and easy.
literally if you got this far its your own fault lmao. but if u enjoyed the inklings of plot 👌👌 review
also the level of swearing in this is probably indicative of most of ace's thoughts for first half of what i have planned so if THAT gets you then the rest just gets worse.
ANY WAY happy new year and all that shit check me out on kingsofneon . tumblr .com + review my work bc i write for positive reinforcement and attention :)
