Chapter Text
Everyone hears horror stories. Murders, rapes, kidnapping, stalkers, the news is full of that shit, but no one ever expects it to happen, not really.
It's the monster under the bed, the dark shadow cast by your coat hanging off your closet door. As scary as all of it sounds you never really stop thinking that someone's going to rip away the curtain and reveal that it was all some cruel trick.
And intellectually Tommy knows that being a public figure is dangerous. He's been to plenty of internet safety lessons in his life. He knows that there are psychos and creeps out there who probably watch his content.
It doesn't make it any less confusing to wake up with a head that's pounding and cold concrete under his cheek.
He groans as he tries to move, his entire body aching in protest.
Where… where is he?
Tommy forces his eyes to open, blinking them rapidly until the room comes into focus.
It's a shithole. Some half finished basement room the size of a pitifully small bedroom.
This feels too real to be a dream.
"That's because it's not."
Tommy snaps up in a rush, his vision blackening for a second as the blood rushes out of his head. He doesn't know that voice. He, he doesn't know who that is, and he's in some horrible shitty basement with a fuck awful headache--
Tommy shoves himself to his feet, his heart suddenly pounding in his ear, but he staggers the second he makes it upright, nausea swirling in his gut.
"Woah," the stranger chuckles, and suddenly there are hands steadying Tommy, tightening ruthlessly when he tries to yank away from them, "Careful there, kid. The drugs are gonna take a couple minutes to clear out."
"D-drugs?" His voice is rough with disuse. How long has he been asleep?
"Mhm."
Tommy's vision clears, and the person who has him in their grip becomes clear.
A man, Tommy doesn't think he's ever seen him in his life. He has a calm smile on his face, but something about it makes Tommy try to pull away again.
The grip tightens even more, and a pained gasp slips out of Tommy's mouth.
"Ah, ah, ah," The man reprimands, "Enough of that. Save all that fiesty energy for the show, Toms."
"Don't call me that," Tommy whispers, and the man tilts his head.
"Sweetheart," The man's lips stretch into a terrible grin, "I'll call you whatever the fuck I want."
Tommy flinches back as specks of spit fly from the man's mouth and spray across his face. He wants to wipe them off, but his arms are pinned to his side by the man's bruising hold.
"But fine," The man continues, "If it really bothers you so much I'll leave that one to your boyfriend."
The word boyfriend is accompanied by a mocking sneer, and Tommy reels in confusion.
His boyfriend? Tommy doesn't have a boyfriend. For fucks sake Tommy isn't even out yet.
"Don't be shy," The man says, and Tommy opens his mouth only to realize the man is talking to someone behind him, "Say hi to your little pet."
"...hey, Tommy."
Tommy's blood turns to ice, his breath stuck in his throat.
No. No, no, no, no, it's a coincidence. It can't actually be--
His captor yanks him around in his arms, pinning Tommy's back to his chest and forcing him to look the other man in the room dead in the eyes.
Wilbur. It's Wilbur.
He looks as shit as Tommy feels, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his hands clasped together tightly like he's trying to stop them from shaking.
The man shoves him forward, laughing as Tommy stumbles, colliding to the wall to avoid falling.
"Now that the main attraction has woken from his beauty sleep, we can finally get started!" Their captor claps his hands together.
Tommy tries to shake the remaining haze from his mind, and wobbles over to Wilbur who accepts Tommy's offered hand and pulls himself up to stand alongside him.
"What do you want from us?" Will asks in a valiant, but unsuccessful attempt at sounding confident.
"I've watched you both for ages you know," The man says, ignoring Wilbur's question, "Watched Tommy grow from a cute little kid to a pretty young man--"
Cute. Pretty. The words echo in Tommy's mind, every bad interpretation of their use rattling around like marbles in a glass jar.
"--and these ideas just started festering in my brain," The man smiles and shakes his head, "You know how it is. Eventually, I just had to do something!"
"So, here you are," He throws out his hands, gesturing to the room, "For my pleasure."
"We're not fucking-fucking zoo animals you psychotic bastard," Tommy spits out.
The man smiles, "Of course not. No, zoo animals are so… detached. They're just meant to be watched. I, on the other hand," The man's eyes rake down Tommy's body, "can touch."
Tommy's stomach drops to the floor, and he thinks he hears Wilbur make some noise of protest but the rush in his ears is too loud to tell.
"You can't," He protests weakly.
"I can," The man says, "But I don't have to. It's really up to you, sweetheart."
"What?"
The drugs are wearing off, and Tommy almost wishes they would come back because everything is in such stark focus now. As the man crosses the distance between them, stepping close enough for Tommy to smell the cigarettes in his breath, he's in vivid, horrible detail.
"Trust me Tommy," He says, and it makes Tommy feel sick to hear his name in the man's mouth, "I would love to fuck you until you're a crying wreck--"
Tommy breaks eye contact with a gasp hissed through clenched teeth, the last bit of hope that he was reading this wrong shriveling up in his chest.
"--but I'm a kind man," Like fuck he is, "I've decided to let you choose."
He hears Wilbur shift behind him, and Tommy looks up warily.
"The fuck do you mean, choose?"
The man smiles, "Either I fuck you…" He looks past Tommy to a wide-eyed Wilbur.
"Or he does."
Tommy's stomach lurches. There's a scuffle behind him--Wilbur stumbling back a few steps if he had to guess. He can't bring himself to look.
There's a right answer here.
Tommy should be grateful the man is giving him a chance to spare at least one of them this nightmare.
He tries so hard to choose the right thing. He grits his teeth and sets his jaw and tells himself that he can do anything if it means keeping Wilbur out of it… and then the man puts his hand on Tommy's face, thumb brushing against his lips.
"I hope you choose me, darling," He says, "A boy like you is just begging to be fucked. You'll look so pretty on your knees with my cock down your--"
"Will!" He blurts out before he can think to stop himself, "...I choose Will."
Every inch of Tommy's body writhes with wrong wrong wrong .
The man's hand stops its caress, and Tommy watches him smile with dread. He waits for whatever sick shit is about to come out of their captor's mouth, but the response to his decision doesn't come from in front of him. It comes from behind.
"What?"
Tommy's heart drops to his gut.
He's never heard Wilbur sound so hesitant and quiet, heavy with fear, and he doesn't want to turn around because it means facing what he just chose but he has to. At the very least, Tommy can do Wilbur the dignity of that.
So, despite every instinct in his body telling him not to turn his back to the man, Tommy turns and looks at his best friend.
Wilbur looks terrified.
Terrified like Tommy felt when he looked at the man God he's a fucking monster he's doing to Wilbur what the man was going to do to Tommy and Wilbur is going to be scarred forever--
Tommy cuts the train of thought off before he can spiral because Wilbur's breathing has gone from frightened to panicked, and Tommy got them into this mess so he'll get them out of it.
He calls Wilbur's name, but the man only staggers back a few paces with unfocused eyes that only seem to see their captor standing behind Tommy. He fights down his own panic and focuses on getting Wilbur to turn away from the man. It's not ideal, but Wilbur isn't going to calm down unless Tommy can get his attention.
Wilbur flinches when Tommy lays his hands on his arms, but he lets the teenager turn him. Or maybe he's just too disoriented to stop him.
Tommy takes a deep breath.
He can do this. He has to do this.
The moment Wilbur's back is turned he looks over at their captor who's taken a seat to watch. He reveals a gun held loosely in his hands, and Tommy freezes.
"Do your job, Tommy," The man says with a soft, amused lilt, "And I won't need to use this on your boyfriend here."
Tommy nods and prays to any God that might be out there.
Alive. I just need to get us both out alive.
----
How did this happen? This can't be real, this isn't real, why is this happening, stop stop stop stop--
"Wilbur."
Tommy's voice echoes through Wilbur's thoughts, but it sounds so far away. It isn't until Tommy calls his name again, sharp and pleading, that the fog on Wilbur's mind shatters.
"Will!"
His eyes finally snap to Tommy who smiles, shaky but genuine.
"You back?" Tommy asks gently, and Wilbur nods, "Good. Just keep looking at me, alright?"
Tommy takes a shuddering breath, "You-you heard what he said right? You know what we need to do?"
A boy like you is just begging to be fucked.
"No!" Wilbur recoils, and Tommy flinches, "No, I won't. Tommy, I can't--"
"You have to," Tommy says sternly, but not without compassion, "You have to, Will. Please."
"Please," Tommy repeats, and continues like he's confessing his sins. Wilbur doesn't like the thought. He feels far from priestly right now, "Please, I can't do this by myself."
"Tommy, I--" Wilbur moves like he's going to step back, but Tommy stops him, gripping his arms like a lifeline as he looks at something behind Wilbur with panic.
When Wilbur turns to follow Tommy's gaze one of Tommy's hands catches Wilbur's jaw in as gentle a hold as he can while still keeping him from looking away.
"Just look at me," Tommy repeats, and Wilbur feels like he's falling, "Just look at me, a-and promise me you'll help me, Will. Promise you won't leave me alone."
"Okay," He breathes, and Tommy's eyes close for a moment, "Okay, I promise, Toms."
Tommy's eyes open again, and Wilbur sees a dead sort of determination in them. He brings his hand up to join the other on Wilbur's face, holding it with a kind of gentleness that doesn't suit the situation.
"You're doing great," Tommy says softly.
Tommy's hands aren't shaking anymore. Wilbur wonders if that's a good or bad thing.
"You're good, Wilbur. Remember that," He says.
Before Wilbur can ask what that means Tommy's lips are pressed to his and his hands fly to Tommy's waist to steady his suddenly weak knees. He tries to pull back, but Tommy follows, his hold on Wilbur's face as resilient as before.
"I'm sorry," Tommy whispers against his lips, "I'm so fucking sorry, Wilbur, but it's going to be okay. Just focus on me."
Tommy's words sound like their ringing in Wilbur's ears, and he can feel himself drifting so… he listens. He lets Tommy become the only thing that matters, the only thing that exists.
Please, please, please, please. Just let it be over. Just let it be over.
I'm sorry, Tommy.
----
Tommy's knees almost buckle with relief when Wilbur starts kissing back.
He's here. Tommy isn't doing this alone. He isn't pressing his lips to a version of his best friend that might as well be a corpse.
If he closes his eyes and locks all of the horror and panic in a little box he can almost convince himself that this is real and there isn't a man with a gun lazily aimed at the back of Wilbur's head.
The almost-peace is shattered as soon as Tommy finds it.
"Get on your knees."
The drawled command from their captor makes Tommy flinch, but he can see Wilbur start to panic again so Tommy pulls him into another kiss. It doesn't do much, but Wilbur's eyes seem less glazed when he pulls away.
He hears the gun tap against the side of the man's chair in warning, and Tommy yanks away from Wilbur and drops to his knees, wincing as he hits the concrete.
"Tommy!" Wilbur reaches out, and Tommy smiles reassuringly.
"I'm fine, Will."
The situation seems to be dawning on Wilbur, and Tommy sees the blood drain from his face, "...no," Wilbur shakes his head, "No, no, no. Stand up, Tommy--"
"Hey, hey, hey, Wilbur. It's okay," Tommy cuts him off, "We can do this, yeah? You promised, Will. You promised you could do this for me just..." He closes his eyes and tries not to fall apart because Wilbur's already in pieces and if he loses it they're going to die, "Just put your hands in my hair, okay?"
Wilbur hesitantly threads his fingers through Tommy's curls and under any other circumstance Tommy would be in heaven. Right now he just hopes he doesn't throw up on Wilbur's dick.
The man with the gun and their lives in his hands coos.
"Look at that," Tommy can hear the grin in his voice, and it makes him sick, "The whore already knows what to do. He's such a pretty little slut, isn't he Wilbur?"
"Shut up," Wilbur manages to croak out, but his wide eyes don't leave Tommy at his feet.
"Do a good job, and I'll give you a present," The man sings, and Tommy looks over to see him dangling a bottle of lube from his fingers.
Oh.
Tommy presses the back of his hand to his mouth and swallows down his nausea, ripping his eyes away from their captor.
It's a smart bargain because while Tommy doesn't know a lot about sex he does know that he's going to need that lube--for both of their sakes.
"Okay," Tommy whispers to himself, raising shaking hands to start fumbling with Wilbur's belt, "I can do this. I can do this."
When he finally gets to the point where he needs to pull Wilbur's cock out Tommy falters, and Wilbur's grip on his hair becomes almost painful.
"Will," He says, not even sure if Wilbur is coherent enough to understand him, "Can you… can you talk please? About anything."
The silence last for long enough that Tommy resigns himself to finding another way to distract himself, and then a hoarse voice, barely loud enough to hear, begins to speak.
"Once upon a midnight dreary, w-while I pondered, weak and weary…"
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.
Tommy almost wants to laugh. Of course when push comes to shove Wilbur starts spouting poetry. It's so in character that for just a moment Tommy feels like nothing is wrong at all.
The moment passes as soon as it arrives, and Tommy takes a deep breath, let's Wilbur's voice wash over him, and slips his hand into Wilbur's pants before he can chicken out.
Wilbur isn't hard, not that Tommy's surprised by that with the situation, but it does mean Tommy has his work cut out for him.
He pulls his hand back to spit in it, using the bit of moisture to coat Wilbur's cock before he forces himself to take the tip in his mouth.
The poem stops as Wilbur takes a sharp breath, but after a moment the shaky voice resumes, "t-tap-tapping at my chamber door…"
The taste doesn't even register, Tommy's too focused on keeping his teeth away, on figure out where the hell he's supposed to put his tongue, on remembering to use his hand, and trying not to gag every two seconds because fuck he knows Wilbur is going to hate himself the second he starts to enjoy this, but Tommy needs this to work.
It's hard to tell which of Wilbur's noises are from pleasure and which are from fear, but Tommy does his best to adjust, to find what Wilbur likes.
What feels like an eternity later it begins to work. Wilbur is hard and staying that way. The poetry is constantly hitching with small noises of pleasure, and Tommy can feel Wilbur's hips twitching under his free hand.
"Fucking hell you're both boring."
Tommy squeezes his eyes shut as the man speaks, already dreading whatever the next command will be.
"Fuck his throat," The man suggests like he's recommending a restaurant instead of ruining their lives, "I know you want to with all that pathetic twitching. It's not like the bitch is going to stop you."
Wilbur's voice has fallen silent entirely, and Tommy pulls away, allowing himself a few breaths before he raises a hand to rest over the ones Wilbur has tangled in his hair.
"You promised," Tommy reminds Wilbur quietly.
"Besides," He adds with a small smile, "You haven't finished the poem yet. I want to know what happens next."
Wilbur doesn't respond, but Tommy doesn't have time to wait for him to find the strength.
He helps Wilbur guide his head back to his cock, urging him to keep pushing when Tommy spasms with a gag and his grip on Wilbur's jeans turns white knuckled.
It isn't until Tommy's nose is buried in the curls of Wilbur's navel, throat aching and eyes burning with tears that Wilbur speaks again.
"'Prophet,' said I, 'thing of evil,'" Wilbur quotes, and Tommy thinks he must be crying with how wet his voice sounds, "--prophet still, if bird or devil, by that Heaven that bends above us--"
The words start to run into each other as Wilbur pushes his head down again, and again, and again until Tommy doesn't even bother blinking the tears out of his eyes, until Tommy thinks he might suffocate just like this with Wilbur's hands in his hair and the devil two feet away.
At some point Tommy's hand leaves Wilbur's and joins the other in desperately gripping at the fabric of Wilbur's pants for some kind of balance as he gets light headed.
"Stop."
In an instant Tommy is yanked away, sending him into a fit of coughing until he's collapsed and nearly limp with his face buried into Will's thigh.
There's nothing blocking air from getting to his lungs now, but Tommy still doesn't feel like he can breathe. He fights for air through a damaged throat, and Wilbur's shaking hands in his hair turn from a vice grip to a warm, comforting hold, grounding Tommy.
By the time he's regained his mind the man is already speaking.
"--get on to the main event, shall we?"
Tommy can barely feel it as Wilbur guides him to his feet.
The main event.
Sex.
The reality of the situation slams into Tommy in one staggering wave, stealing away the breath he had fought so hard to regain.
Someone is about to fuck him. Wilbur is about to fuck him with that creepy monster watching, his disgusting voice crawling into their ears.
This isn't fair.
The thought is sudden and sickening, childish in its grief, but he finds it to be too true to deny as Will holds his shoulders and he stares into the gleeful eyes of the man who is tearing them apart piece by piece.
This isn't fair.