Sometimes I Punish Him
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Pairing: Tom/Hyde
Time frame: Shortly before the series.
Warning: This fic contains nonconsensual sex though I don't think the accusation would hold up in court.
Title taken from a line in the DVD release. Ever wonder why Tom decided to secure Hyde to the chair? I did. Thanks to lawyergirl15 for the beta and her incredible insight.

Tom sinks onto the bed, the usual uneasy thoughts disquieting what little chance at a restful slumber he has. Soon he'd come, like clockwork, the parasite that feeds on his life, replacing it with its own. It feels as if he's slipping away into the darkness with every change and he can't help but wonder if that would be the loss he hopes it would be. After all, they'd be better off without him, Claire and the boys. No more uncertainty. No more suffering unexplained abandonment. He owed them the peace that escaped him. But, as it always does, a glimmer of hope, or maybe just an ego-fueled dare, invites a solution tomorrow. It's the only thing that calms his mind, and he can finally close his eyes.

Sleep seeps like a stain across his consciousness. They always meet somewhere between light and dark, in the chaotic purgatory of a shared mind. Tom opens his eyes and watches with scientific fascination as the misty dreamscape sharpens. He finds his twisted reflection beside him on the bed, a parody of his position; flat on their backs, hands braced at their sides. Their faces turn toward one another and they stare for a long moment, sizing each other up, each silently challenging the other. If Tom didn't know any better, he'd swear the bastard was regressing, more youthful with every transformation while he aged centuries with every passing minute. The other smiles, lips curling to welcome Tom as his colorless eyes plot otherwise. Their fingers claw the blanket then stretch, releasing what superfluous tension is left behind. Their feet move, enough to jingle the chains and the other lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Not this again.” He rolls his eyes, taking his customary temperamental tone. “Some would say this is bordering on abuse.”


“For what? I haven't done anyone in ages.”

“It's been two days.”

“Like I said, ages.”

“You refuse to leave messages on the Dictaphone. You trash hotel rooms. And you continually batter the bloody car.”

“And I leave the seat up in the loo. Bitch, bitch, bitch.” He rolls onto his side and props his head up on his bent arm. “Next you'll be telling me I don't bring you flowers anymore.”

“If you won't cooperate, neither will I.”

“Be reasonable, Daddy. I have places to go, people to fuck.”

“Not anymore.”

His dark eyes go wide, then narrow as he bites back his anger and snarls, “That's torture, not punishment. Now who's the monster?”

“You won't control yourself so I'll do it for you if I have to.”

“By chaining me to the radiator? Silly Daddy, I'll just find other ways to amuse myself.”

“At least you won't be able to hurt anyone.”

“Not anyone… just you.” Crimson sparks within his eyes, warning of foul intentions.

Sadly, Tom recognizes he's used to the abuse. He's lost count of how many injuries he's suffered at the carelessness, or design, of his dark half. “You'll only be hurting yourself.”

“Ah, but a hurt so good. Worth it,” he sang and leaned in close.

Fingers reach out for Tom. He wills them to stop, to retreat, but can't keep them away. “What are you doing?”

“Whatever I want.” His voice is deep, almost a purr. “Don't you feel it, Daddy? Feel it inside. That aching hunger. I know you do, Daddy. I feel it too.”

“No.” He realizes he can't move and panic wells.

“Yes, you do and you can't ignore it. It'll only get worse.”

Tom frantically reminds himself the scene is all in his head, only a sickness not yet but soon to be cured. Much to his horror, there is a touch, ethereal fingertips brushing the faint stubble along his cheek, and his breath hitches. His eyes close involuntarily, and he can imagine the smile it brings to the other. Sure enough, when he chances a glance, it's there. The mock tenderness is too disturbing, especially from him.

“Stop it.”

“Poor Daddy. So scared. So very alone.” The lean fingers gently trace his jaw line. “You don't need to be.”

Tom tries futilely to move but he's trapped under the influence of uninvited affection. The revulsion he feels isn't enough to keep his body from reacting to the amorous attention.

“Don't touch me.” He wasn't the least bit convincing, voice trembling as much as his hands.

“Someone has to. Can't keep this up, Daddy, locking yourself up away from the world.”

“I'm locking *you* away from it.”

“Locking me in, is what it is. Keeping me to yourself, I bet.”

“Whatever this is, it won't work.”

“Already is.” He wears an arrogant smile as he glances down to Tom's groin. The beast's black eyes twinkle with devious inspiration as his hand wanders along Tom's neck, leisurely making its way over the buttons of his shirt. “You're hungry, Daddy, same as me. Difference is, I'll do something about it.”


Hot breaths break along Tom's clenched teeth. He sucks in the scent of lust. It's a heady musk choking thick along his nose and throat. For all he tries, he can't pull away. He's not sure he wants to anymore, as lips purse along his neck and pointed teeth rake the crest of his chin. The zipper sounds like a growl. The chill of the room wafts through the thin fabric of Tom's boxers and his cock twitches in anticipation of what's to come.

“No,” Tom orders in a pointless whisper.

“Fuck yes.” He gropes Tom's cock through the boxers, nails biting into the threads and skin with feral want. “Mine,” he snarls and persuades submission with an ungentle squeeze. Tom winces at the captivating pain radiating out to awaken his body, reminding him he's still alive.

All moisture evaporates from his mouth as he pitifully sighs, “Stop.”

“But I haven't finished yet. Not even close.” The determined hand shoves under the waistband and fondles Tom's erection like a newfound toy. His cock responds with disobedient twitches and bobs, encouraging its own desecration.

“Please,” Tom begs, unsure what he means by the plea.

“Please?” The other pouts, feigning sympathy as his grip falls slack. Tom steals a breath and shuts his eyes, preparing for more. “Good Daddy. Now you're learning.”

Rough tipped fingers massage his scrotum just as he likes it, a slow roll of thumb shifting his flesh with delicate, deliberate pressure. Tom hisses curses though clenched teeth as his cock is ensnared by a grip threatening pain but just shy of delivering. The first strokes are superficial; enough to churn his desire but leave him thirsting for more. They lengthen as he gives in, admitting arousal with his uneven breathes matching tempo with the beast.

“That's it. Almost there.”

Faster and harder, the motion hastens, building upon desires refused by him for months. Soon inescapable pressures boil from deep within, ones long ignored but never forgotten. The impulse of release seizes his body, arching his back, setting his legs quivering with tension and he clasps tight to the mattress. Tom cries out as he comes, spilling humiliation in the palm of his torturer and nauseatingly grateful for it.

His body falls limp to the bed while his head floats within a waning haze of euphoria.

“Liked that, didn't you, Daddy? Bet you did. Know I did.”

Tom works to steady his breath as his heart settles from the thunderstorm in his chest. When he's able, he looks to the beast beside him.

A smug grin prefaces his words. “I take what I want, old man, and you can't stop me.” He leans in and presses a kiss to Tom's parted lips, lingering long enough to warrant concerns of suffocation. Mercifully, the beast pulls back and whispers along Tom's parched mouth, “You can never stop me. Not that you'd want to.”

Suddenly the need for rest overwhelms Tom and he can't deny it any longer. He closes his eyes and succumbs, accompanied by a sardonic song lulling him to sleep, “Nighty night, Daddy.”

Tom awakens alone on the bed still dressed in the same clothes as the night before. His hand is tucked within the shredded remains of his boxers, his fingers sticky and still cupping his sore cock. He feels both violated and embarrassingly sated. Sick bastard crossed yet another line. Shattered it, actually. Enough with these petty torments, it was time to bring his plans to fruition. Today Tom would begin construction of the chair and show the beast the meaning of punishment.