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The punishments are getting more creative. Feren still fights them, still snarls and lashes out like a wild animal because, for all intents and purposes, he is one. He’s barely been out of the forest for six months, has only been with this unit a little over four — ten weeks of training is nothing compared to eighteen years as a human Wolf.
Be a Wolf or be dead, runty, Kestrel’s voice echoes inside of his head, and he can imagine his brother’s sneering muzzle, the wrinkle of it and the glint of light off his fangs. If yer no’ a Wolf, th’ humans’ll gobble yeh right up; rip yeh ta tatters an’ leave nothin’ left.
He’d been right; more right than Feren had ever anticipated.
The brick wall is unforgiving, and he hits it hard enough to whine through gritted teeth; feels the throbbing in his cheek that promises to bruise later on. He thrashes against the hand clamped down on his nape, strains to break free of the hold despite having nowhere to go.
“You really are somethin’, aren’t you,” the Major huffs. He’s a big man, so much bigger than Feren, even if he can’t compare to a Wolf. Still the biggest human he’s seen yet; the Alpha of this unit. That means he’s supposed to be Feren’s Alpha, that he’s supposed to listen and obey despite the wrong, wrong, wrong screaming under his skin with every heavy, unwanted touch of the man’s hands on his body.
“Tch, you’re such a small little bastard. Are you sure you’re really a boy?” the Major chuckles, and then one of his hands is pressing against his crotch and Feren keens in a complicated mixture of fury and fear. He hasn’t felt this helpless since Briar’s first rut; hasn’t been this afraid since he watched their sire fight his oldest brother off while Briar kept trying to get to him.
“Oh,” he hears the man hiss, feels the damp heat of his breath against the back of his ear. “What’s this?”
This is the same as back then, only it’s not. No matter how hard he fights, he can’t get free, not with his hands pinned behind his back with flex cuffs. Not when his sire isn’t here to save him this time, or any of his brothers. It’s dark in this hidden corner of the base, far away from everything. Late enough that everyone else is in bed, none of them knowing that their commanding officer has ordered Feren out into the darkness to discuss his recent conduct.
He opens his mouth to shout, snarl, rage, and chokes instead when fingers covered in gun oil shove in, all the way to the back of his throat. He gags, drools, flexes his jaws to bite down until he feels something hard press up against his ass. Something that is definitely not a gun.
“You bite me and I’ll shoot you,” the Major hisses, shaking him by his scruff. Feren whines, shudders hard. He’s still flighty around guns, still gets spooked whenever one goes off, and the Major knows it. Has already proven himself to be a cruel man, and Feren has no doubt that he will shoot if his orders aren’t obeyed. That’s the kind of Alpha he is.
“Good girl,” the Major breathes, and he’s never felt more nauseous, more filled with rage. Rage that quickly turns to chilling terror when the hand on his nape slides heavily down his spine; curls around his front and shoves beneath the loose waistband of his cargos and boxers to press between his legs.
“You’re just a little slut, aren’t you,” the man whispers, hot and excited. “Look how loose your uniform is. You’re just waiting for anyone to shove you down and fuck your slutty little hole, huh. Surprised you’re not already all wet from the last man. You were just waiting for me to do this, weren’t you?”
Feren shakes his head as much as he can, tries not to throw up around the fingers forcing their way in and out of his throat. His eyes are burning, he’s so angry; wants nothing more than to snap his teeth down, to rip those goddamn oily fingers off at the base.
“I’m gonna teach you how a good little girl behaves,” the Major growls against the shell of his ear. “I’m going to make you the best little soldier. All you had to do was listen and behave, Private Elliot. You brought this on yourself. You made me do this. So you’re going to learn, one way or another. Try not to like it too much, little slut.”
How could he like anything that’s happening right now? He doesn’t want any part of it, hasn’t chosen this monster of a man as his partner or anything close to a mate. He’s not an idiot, he knows about cycles, about heats and ruts and breeding season, but humans do it wrong. It’s not even winter, it’s the middle of summer, sweat making the dip of his spine slick and sticky between the humidity of the night and the closeness of their bodies.
Those fingers hook and press in, and it aches. He’s vaguely aware that he’s gasping; that the fingers are gone from his open mouth, are clamped over it instead to muffle his wordless despair. He tries to struggle, but he feels sick-weak; so nauseous he swears he can feel it crawling up his throat.
His pants and boxers are shoved down, his feet kicked apart; the fingers leave his cunt to dig bruises into his hip and force him to bend over, to arch his back and present his hips completely against his will. And then they’re back, too-dry and demanding, and he snaps his teeth against the palm muzzling him without making contact.
“Settle down, bitch,” the Major warns, jamming a knee up between his thighs. The pain is white-hot and radiating, his soft, oversized clit crushed against the bricks, and this time, Feren does throw up. He gets laughed at for it, taunted, as strings of bile-sour saliva drip down his chin along with his furious tears.
When the Major’s cock shoves into him, there’s no warning. Nothing to ease the way. Feren doesn’t scream despite how much it hurts, doesn’t give the human the satisfaction. This pain can’t compare to what his brothers have done to him — is nothing close to what they’ve prepared him for. He’s proud that he doesn’t make a sound aside from a quiet grunt. The tearing pain burns away the fear, just leaves him enraged, and Feren bows his head to hide his face as the Major thrusts and grunts and squeals like a boar. Something too-warm and wet drips down his inner thighs, and he is intimately familiar with the scent of blood, knows the raw feeling of injuries constantly being aggravated and strained. He’s never felt them like this before, but pain is pain, and he knows pain better than most.
It hurts, it hurts so fucking much, but his brothers didn’t train a belly-up bitch. Be a Wolf or be dead, they taught him, and right now, that’s the only thing keeping the screams at bay.
“Such a good girl,” the Major croons, cupping his throat and forcing him to lean back. He spits in Feren’s open mouth; grins at the rabid fury he must see boiling beneath the surface. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. They say the first time is the hardest. Even if you don’t enjoy it now… you will. In time, I’ll make sure it’s all you can think about. No room for disobedience in that pretty little head when all you’re thinking about is having your sweet little cunt filled. You’re going to be the best little fucktoy; my top soldier. No more acting out, no more fighting, no more disobedience. Every time you step out of line, I’ll make it worse for you. When you listen, you’ll be rewarded. Doesn’t that sound fair? Hmm?”
Feren lets out a strangled growl-whine. It feels like he’s being torn apart from the inside out; how much worse does this man believe himself capable of getting? Is he all bark and no bite? Does he think himself on the same level as Wolves for punishment?
“Answer me, slut,” the man growls, thrusting harder, and Feren’s answer is a wet, pained hiss.
“Yes, sir,” he grits out through clenched teeth. He feels like he’s going to be sick again. “I understand.”
“Good,” the Major purrs, hips slamming home one last time, and then Feren feels a new heat, new wetness, a whole new kind of pain, and the fear makes itself known again as he trembles and cries silently through it. His clit is still aching from being crushed, but this was never about him. This was never even about pleasure or mating or sating a need. It was about control, just an attempt to break him to heel, to force him to bend and obey. A pitiful human attempting to bring a Wolf’s child under his thumb, to create an obedient slave that could be used as a monster when directed — to fuck as a toy when desired.
Be a Wolf or be dead, Cymber had cautioned before he’d left, always the most gentle out of all of his brothers. The world is large, and it is not kind. Do not let it break you.
As if he could, Feren thinks savagely, turning to watch the Major pull his pants back up; to button himself to perfection, as though nothing had happened. No hint of a fight aside from the shine of sweat on his temples and the curve of his top lip.
“I would ask if you’ve learned your lesson,” he puffs, reaching for Feren. He doesn’t flinch, but he does tense, lips pulling back to bare his teeth. “However, I can tell you’re one that will need several sessions to drill the facts into that mutt-dumb skull of yours.”
“Touch me again an’ I’ll kill yeh,” he snarls, all bristling rage and promise. That hand comes for him again, knuckles splitting his lip open and knocking his head back against the wall. He seethes, spits out blood; lurches forward and nearly crumples to his knees when he realizes how much moving hurts. Fuck, this is going to make drills hell. It’s going to make missions unbearable. It’s fine though; he’s lived through worse, and he’ll live through this too.
“Every time you threaten me, mutt, you’re just going to make it worse for yourself,” the Major says calmly. “Now go get cleaned up, you filthy little animal. Lights out was two hours ago; wouldn’t want to add another black mark to that record of yours, would you?”
He walks away then like he’s out for a late-night stroll; leaves Feren seething with blood and cum dripping down his thighs, with blood trickling down his chin and soaking into his shirt. He wipes it away, licks it off his arm with broad strokes of his tongue; turns his back to the world and vomits again, tears and snot running like he’s a pup bawling for his Ma after Hawke clawed his back and bit his ear too hard again.
Be a Wolf or be dead, little brother, they chanted, and he wipes his mouth again. Claws his cargos back up and fixes them, belts them as tight around his waist as he can — hard to do when even the smallest pair of pants in his drawer is too big for him. He’ll make it work somehow. Steal a smaller pair from one of the women if he has to. Anything to make it harder, next time. To give himself a fighting chance.
I’d rather be dead than be a human’s toy, he swears to himself as he limps back toward the barracks with his jaw clenched and his temples throbbing. He ignores the guard on patrol and slips into the building, heading for his room and trying to ignore the wetness that makes his boxers cling to him. All he has in his room is a mattress on the floor and a drawer for his uniforms and gear; the other soldiers keep stealing the rest of it. It’s fine, it’s not like he cares; he’d slept on the ground or in trees for eighteen years. What can they do to him that hasn’t already been done?
A lot, a nasty little voice whispers. His stomach cramps, surges, and he swallows until his eyes water. Shuts his door and locks it like it’ll be enough to keep anything out. There’s a lot they can do to you that your brothers didn’t.
Nah, there’s no fucking way. Humans don’t have the backbone for that kind of violence, no matter what they threaten. Feren looks down at himself, at the drops of blood on his shirt. At where his pants and boxers are sticking unpleasantly to his thighs, dark red starting to seep through the material.
Be a Wolf or be dead, he thinks. Cracks his neck and nearly rips his clothes off in his haste to be out of them. Grabs his towel and a bar of soap and heads for the showers — doesn’t care who sees him, who sees the blood. They won’t do anything about it anyway.
I choose Wolf. As if there were any other choice, any other way that this was going to play out. They want him to fall in line? Not a chance in hell. They haven’t seen shit from him yet.
He’ll show them what it means to taunt a beast.
***
Four years later:
He’s standing in front of the Colonel, spine straight and eyes forward; blood still not fully dried in his nose and shoulders stinging, his shirt catching and sticking to the tacky red beading up from the lashes there. He stares straight ahead, eyes focused just past the man’s left ear while he leans back in his seat and glowers.
“I’m about done with your shit, Private First Class Elliot,” he growls. Spazz blinks, tilts his head just a little to the side, catches a hint of the green and tries not to zone out at the uniqueness of it.
It’s not like it was his fault; he’s too small to fight off that many men when they drag him from his bed in the middle of the night and hold him down to dye his hair. He got his own back afterwards, but he’s the problem child of Her Majesty’s military . Has been reminded on multiple occasions that the only reason he hasn’t been dishonorably discharged is because he’s a damn good medic when he’s not behaving like a rabid mongrel. Even then, of course the Colonel isn’t going to listen when he tries to say he didn’t dye his damn hair himself. Not when it’s him against eight of the man’s golden soldiers who can do no wrong even when they’re caught red fucking handed.
Or green, in this case, since the idiots didn’t even think to use gloves.
The door opens behind him and he stiffens, just barely keeps from looking back so he doesn’t catch another whipping. Still hyperfocuses on the woman that comes into view because she looks so different from the standard superior officers he’s used to being handed off to. Hair back in a loose bun, civilian clothes, no visible gun at her hip. She practically reeks like a high rank, but carries herself differently from a military officer.
So she’s his new handler, then?
“Station Chief Laswell,” the Colonel says, looking surprised to see her. Interesting. Not a handler then — someone unexpected. Someone the Colonel isn’t happy to see, judging by the look that flashes across his face before he controls himself. “To what do I owe the visit?”
“I was in the area and figured I’d stop by,” she replies, and Spazz’s instincts scream liar. Not with the way her jaw is clenched. Not when she turns to look at him and he can see her taking him in fully.
“What’s your name, soldier?” she asks, and her tone is significantly more gentle for him. She rests a hip against the Colonel’s desk, crosses her arms loosely and looks completely unphased by the blatant disrespect she’s showing, by the way the Colonel’s cheeks are turning pink as he holds in his anger. She tilts her chin up and to the side enough that Spazz can see her pulse beating steadily at her throat, her eyes never leaving him despite his own being fixated on her neck now.
“Private First Class Elliot, sir,” he replies before licking away the blood pooling in the corner of his mouth.
“Not your rank, your name,” she repeats, her tone firm and disarmingly gentle. He blinks at her, not quite sure why it matters.
“M’friends call me Spazz.” He doesn’t have friends, but it’s a lie he’s said so many times now that it sounds like the truth.
“She said your name, boy, not your callsign,” the Colonel spits, standing up and reaching across the desk to grab his hair. Probably to knock his head against the edge— he seems to favor that punishment. Before he makes contact, the woman — Laswell — grips his wrist so hard he hisses in pain, fat fingers already turning red.
“I wasn’t aware we’d changed the rules regarding physical punishments, Colonel Tucker,” she says, and her voice is calm, but her words are ice. “I suppose you’re the one to ask about Private First Class Spazz’s injuries, then?”
“Military gives leeway for ferals,” the Colonel growls. “Read his chart; he’s two shades from rabid. Doesn’t listen worth a damn unless his handler makes it clear who’s in charge.”
Spazz stays silent, stays staring ahead at nothing. He can feel a bit of blood drip down his spine and wonders if these lashes will get infected too, like the last ones did.
“Well then, since you clearly don’t want to deal with him, I’ll take him off your hands.” She lets the man go and stands back, her aura daring him to argue. “I’ve been hearing about a problem child being bounced around for a while. A real wild sort.” The woman turns to Spazz, looks him up and down again. “That you, kid? Are you the problem child no one wants to deal with?”
“If they say it, it must be true,” he answers obediently, staring at the simple sapphire stud in her right earlobe. “I do seem teh cause problems wherever I go.”
Clearly, she doesn’t like that answer. He’s just not sure why. “On me then, Spazz,” she decides, sparing the Colonel one last withering look. “Let’s see if I can’t be the one to find you somewhere you’ll be more comfortable.”
“Yes, sir,” Spazz chirps, following without any fuss, because at this point, why fight it? No one has cared about his comfort since before he left home; he highly doubts this stranger is about to start now, four years after he signed up for this hell.
“Is there anything you need to pack before we leave?” Laswell asks, and he watches her from the corner of his eye.
“Clothes,” he grunts. He’s got nothing else worth taking.
“Alright. We’ll collect them and then we’ll head out. Your file said your parents are both Shifters, and your brothers all are as well?”
“Mhmn.” Feren catches Major Greer watching them from the end of the hall. He bares his teeth and growls, shoulders hitching, until Laswell puts herself between them to break his focus.
“You’ll like the 141,” she says quietly, offering him a smile he shies away from with a warning rumble. “There’s a few Shifters in that unit.”
That gets his attention. He hasn’t met a single Shifter since he joined the service. Now he’s being moved to a unit that has more than one? It’s like a dream come true.
No one will hurt you there, that persistent fucking voice whispers eagerly. You’ll be with your own kind there.
Except Feren doesn’t have a kind. He’s never met anything like him before. He’s not a Shifter, but he’s not exactly a human either — he’s just some horrifying amalgamation stuck between the two, never destined to belong to either side.
Be a Wolf or be dead. He’s trying, as hard as he fucking can. He hasn’t grown fur yet; knows he never will. He still keeps trying though, because being a Wolf is better than being a human any day of the goddamn week.
“Tha’s good, sir,” he answers, wooden and toneless. “I look forward ta meetin’ them.”
She doesn’t look convinced; at least she’s smart enough to recognize a blatant lie when she hears one.
***
Bonus POV:
Mariah had expected Kate to come back to the hotel angry. She hadn’t expected her to walk into their room leading the smallest man Mariah has ever seen. He looks painfully young, and hurt. There’s a bruise on his temple and blood drying under his nose; she can see the split lip even from across the room. What takes her back the most is how carefully blank his expression is. No emotion anywhere but those big baby blue eyes. He walks in like a stray, wary and stiff, his head down and his shoulders hunched as he clutches the strap of his rucksack like a lifeline.
“I take it the meeting went poorly then,” she murmurs, approaching the pair and giving Kate a kiss that visibly leeches the anger from her posture. She catches the boy watching from the corner of his eye, sees the way he blinks before looking away.
“Depends on who you ask,” Kate sighs. She turns to their guest, and Mariah has only ever seen her this gentle with the boys of the 141. “Sorry it’s not more lavish, but it’ll have to do until we’re back home. It’ll take a few days for the transfer to process.”
“S’fine, at least th’ floor is carpeted,” the boy says, and Mariah can’t help but be confused by such a statement.
“What do you mean by that?”
He looks between them — doesn’t like eye contact, she notes to herself — and then down at the thick, surprisingly lush carpet beneath their feet.
“Barracks floor is concrete,” he replies. His accent is Irish, though surprisingly light, like he never spent time around anyone with a hearty brogue. “Even with a cot mat, s’cold. This’ll be warmer.”
“There’s two beds?” She doesn’t mean to make it sound like a question. “Kate and I sleep in the same bed.” There, that was better. “The other one is yours.”
He frowns at the beds like he’s not sure how to take what she’s said. “Are yeh sure, ma’am?”
“We are,” Kate interjects gently. “Why don’t you go take a shower, Spazz? Change into your civvies. When you come out, we’ll order food.”
“Yes, sir.” He doesn’t salute, but Mariah can see the tension in him, the stance of someone used to following orders. This time, it makes her heart ache, because the boy looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He’s so… expressionless. Worryingly so. Where’s the unpredictable violence that brought Kate here in the first place?
Those questions take a backseat to horror when the boy — Spazz? — drops his rucksack and turns toward the bathroom, and Mariah sees blood seeping through his shirt. “Kate,” she says, her voice strangled, and Spazz turns to look at them, going tense like a wolf about to bolt from a hunter.
Too late. Kate saw it too. “Spazz,” she says, level and calm, and so, so gentle. “What happened to your back?”
“Oh.” He relaxes at that, shrugs like it doesn’t hurt. “Colonel gave me a lashin’, sir. For my hair.”
The noise Mariah makes can only be described as devastated. “Why? Corporal punishment has been prohibited for decades. That isn’t reprimand; it’s abuse.”
Spazz looks away and down, his jaw clenched. “I’m fine, ma’am. I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t make it better, honey,” she protests, and he twitches violently at the nickname. Shuts his eyes and shakes his head.
“Go get washed up, Spazz,” Kate murmurs. “We’ll treat your wounds once you’re finished, and then we’ll order dinner. How does that sound?”
“Don’…” The boy pauses. Swallows thickly and backs toward the bathroom. “Don’ touch me. Sir. I don’ wanna be touched.”
“Okay,” Kate says easily, her voice soft with understanding. “We won’t touch you. If you need anything, just let us know.”
Spazz nods; snatches his rucksack and disappears into the bathroom. Shuts the door surprisingly carefully, and locks it, which isn’t surprising to either of them.
Mariah swallows, feels tears in the corners of her eyes. “Kate…”
“I know.” Kate pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath. “I’ll call John, let him know he’s got a new problem child coming. At this point, there isn’t anywhere safer for him than the 141. No one would dare touch him with our boys by his side.”
Mariah desperately hopes so. That kind of blankness doesn’t come from nowhere; someone has hurt that boy badly — likely more than just one person. Possibly every single superior officer he’s ever been under. “What do we do?” she asks, fingers twitching with the urge to help, to soothe. “What can we do?”
“Nothing,” her wife sighs, rubbing her face tiredly. “Nothing at all, unless he asks for help. Until then, our hands are tied. All we can do right now is hope that we weren’t too late.”