Replace [warning: implied non-con]

[Ghost]

Request by Bunn: What happened between 2P Lenny and 1P Witchy.

A/N: I'm afraid this has no smut >> -prude as ever- Credits to Torry for being an awesome proofreader, Dory for looking through the whole thing and 2P Dory, and Wanda for permission to use 2P Wanda.


[Replace]

When Witchy first wakes, he panics.

The room is dark, the shadows blending into one another and concealing all; his body is sore, partly due to his hands being suspended above him in thick chains, straining his arms and back. His brain frightens him with memories of what happened and what is about to happen in one great rush, unrelenting. He thrashes and flails, away from the wall and the smothering darkness that is pressing in, getting closer and closer, until he can't breathe and finally tires out, collapsing back against the wall, back to square one.

He takes a couple and more of deep breaths and forces himself calm before assessing his environment. The room is bigger than it previously seemed under the guise of darkness, but smaller than the space required to draw a decent circle to transport him out of this hellhole. There is nothing else in the room save for a sturdy door directly across him, and no sign of his trusty oak staff. Tugging once more at his restraints, he twists his hands up to feel for a lock, a weak spot, anything.

"Break," his voice rasps out, sandpaper against each other. Nothing happens.

(The chains were made of cold iron, he later learns, effective against witches like himself and the fae.)

He watches the door and waits, since there is nothing else to do, and soon enough he enters the room. He looks the same, moves the same and even feels the same way his Lenny does - but Witchy refuses to call him 'Lenny' for they are far from the same. There are no factors to compare, no questions to be raised and no answers to be given, and he intends to keep it that way for as long as he could.

Witchy glares as he approaches, kneels down and begins to trail his hands over his 'new toy' as if he was unwrapping a long-awaited present for the very first time, holding back a shudder when they press into places he definitely does not want them to be. "You finally woke up," he murmurs, and Witchy bites back a reply. The demon hums in delight at his new pet's apparent obedience (not that he could do anything) and sets about releasing him from his bindings. Perhaps this Witchy would be easier to train.

The moment the heavy iron falls away from his wrists he barrels into the demon, intent on knocking him over and making his escape; only to be slammed back against the wall with a hand over his throat and a rough mouth over his own. He chokes and gasps into the kiss, regaining his breathing only when the demon pulls back, his pleasant smile replaced by a slight scowl. "Now that wasn't nice," he chides as Witchy pushes insistently against his chest to no avail. "Why can't I contract with you?"

The hand on his throat tightens with each passing second and Witchy is forced to reply. "Lenny," he chokes out. The demon pauses, confused, until he continues. "I'm already bound to Lenny in my world." Annoyance flickers on his countenance before the smile returns and settles.

"We'll see how long that contract takes to break then," he says casually and lets go of Witchy altogether. He stumbles forward, but before he could regain his bearings the demon pushes him down onto the floor and hovers over him, slicing his shirt open with one fingernail. He becomes painfully aware of sharp nails pressing against the skin on his chest, yet to draw blood as the demon takes his time to fully appraise him. A line is continuously traced above his heart, over and over - and Witchy thinks he knows what is about to happen next, if the empty hole in the chest of his alternate self was any indication. He knows that the Sherry here had ripped his heart clean out of his chest in an effort to woo Kirk, and the demon had picked him up like a cat on the street and imprisoned him - just like what he was doing to Witchy now.

"There's no scar here," he muses aloud, thoughtfully, and Witchy's eyes widen as a steel blade materialises out of thin air. The demon holds him down and the blade is placed against his ribcage, cool metal against burning skin, and in pure desperation he thinks of home, of his family and of Lenny, of their warm cuddles and his gentle smile -

At the first slice he does not scream, but as the cold metal works its way in deeper and further Witchy is reminded that he is still human and very much still scared of pain after all.

* * * * *

"...for good."

He holds the last note longer than it was meant to be held before finally letting it fade away with his fifth attempt at contacting anyone in his own world. His voice is hoarse from screaming and his body aches all over as if his muscles are screaming in protest of being alive. The demon has taken to favouring bloodplay whenever his 'visits' turned sexual in nature - the memory of the bloody kiss forced onto him yesterday is still clear in his mind. Witchy wonders which part of his body is still left unmarked. He doubts his answers.

He does not have much time to decide, for suddenly the door swings open and the demon strides in and crouches in front of Witchy's limp form. "You can sing," he says in almost childlike wonder, his tail waving about like how Lenny's did when he was excited. "I never heard Witchy sing before."

It does not come as a surprise to Witchy - because honestly, neither man nor songbird will sing under what torture this demon can administer, much less for him. He refuses to reply to this new revelation and soon enough the demon becomes aggravated at the lack of response. "Sing something," he demands, "sing some more."

Witchy closes his eyes and subtly shakes his head.

The slap across his face is not entirely unexpected, but what was whispered to him next is. "Perhaps I have been too lenient with you," he says lowly into his ear and Witchy cannot help but to shrink away. He grips him closer regardless, and continues. "Think, my sweet, think of how easy would it be for me to slip over to your world and find myself another pet."

His blood runs cold and words tumble out of his mouth before he can think. "Don't," he pleads, "don't."

There is a flash of triumph in the demon's eyes as he relishes every word spoken next. "Perhaps Farmy," he taunts, "I do want to continue playing with him. Maybe Damsey, your own brother, hm? Or..." He toys with several strands of Witchy's hair, seemingly thinking. "Or even myself," and Witchy almost thought his heart would stop there and then. "It'll be most amusing to have myself as a pet, don't you think, darling?"

He shakes his head profusely and for what feels like the first time, begs. "Please, no," he croaks, his throat sore and strained. "Don't. Not them."

"You know what to do then," the demon murmurs back. Witchy nods shakily, almost gratefully, and thinks of the song his master once sang to him, a nursery rhyme. He opens his mouth.

"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clemens'..."

* * * * *

Pathetic.

"I know," he says back into the darkness. Pain has dulled into a feeling he pushes to the back of his mind with each visit, and he wonders if this was why his alternate self had such a high tolerance for pain. He also wonders if it is also the cause of what was happening now - him talking to a shimmering pale blue apparition that took the form of the demon's mother, which can't be real because- because-

What was his name again? Witchy cannot remember.

The apparition scoffs at him. I've never been one for being a good pet, he mocks, and I thought you'd be the same. It gets up and circles him, laughing at the gown of dark and heavy silks, velvet and ruffles that the demon decided to dress him up in on a whim the previous visit. Look at yourself. 2P or not, I doubt you would have gone down wearing a dress of all things without a fight.

He protests weakly. "If I don't, he'd take someone from my world..." and he falters, for he cannot exactly recall who had to be protected. How long has he been here? Where was here?

The apparition eyes him before remarking in a rather cryptic manner, there are some people he won't take. It then dissolves into the darkness just as the door swings open, and the demon hurries in and looks about wildly.

"Who were you talking to?" he asks.

"No one," he answers, and he truly does not know. It looked familiar and surely they have met once upon a time but still Witchy is unable to recall. "How is anyone supposed to come in here anyway?"

The demon blinks but seems to accept the answer - but suddenly a name comes to Witchy's mind and the damage is done. "Rippy," he says casually and malicious pleasure registers as the demon suddenly freezes. He presses on.

"I never did see Rippy around here," and Witchy faintly recalls how upset Lenny was when he favoured his brother in the past. "I do miss him. Has he moved on from prostitutes yet-"

He is slapped silent yet again, but the feeling of getting one over his captor is far too sweet. The demon breathes heavily and if Witchy turns to look surely his eyes would be flashing red too. He grabs Witchy by his hair and yanks him forward, and he waits.

Suddenly he is pushed back to the wall and someone slams the door shut. Witchy cracks an eye open before exhaling, sighing in relief, a first in a very long time. He shifts backwards into the most comfortable position he have found during his stay, impeded slightly by the heavy materials clinging to his body in the form of the gown, but succeeds in the end.

"Thank you," he whispers into the darkness, and no one replies.

* * * * *

The demon returns later that day, anger still visible on his face but much, much cooler. Witchy says nothing as a blindfold is wrapped around his eyes, retreating into his shell of silence once more - surely the demon was here to carry out the punishment for his blatant disobedience earlier today. The metal falls away from his wrists once more, but he knows better than to further raise his ire.

However, he is pulled forward into an embrace and cradled close to the demon's chest - and somehow, this gesture frightens Witchy more than the prospect of being taken as patterns are carved into his back and licked away. He struggles albeit weakly, but the demon merely holds him more tightly and firmly.

"My poor, poor darling," he murmurs softly into the shell of Witchy's ear, and he freezes almost immediately. "No one is coming for you, sweetheart, no one has come for over a month. They've all forgotten about you, never did care, see? No one ever wanted you, no one at all."

It was horribly cliche, but it was the very thing Witchy dreaded to hear. Time had blurred into a single continuous line marked by the demon's visits, and he does not want to believe that it had been a month. His hands scrabble up, weak from disuse, and grabs onto the demon for there is nothing and no one else to hold for support. He struggles for names to pull out, for a face to hope for, but none comes to mind and where have they all gone?

"Why would anyone even want you, save for me? No one else would care for you like I would, honey. No one. " Witchy does not want to hear, he does not want to cry but his body betrays him nonetheless. "Why would they want someone who can only bring trouble? Who would want someone, a wicked old witch like you?"

There is something wet flicking over his cheek, lazy and languid, and belatedly he realises it is the demon's tongue licking his tears away. A sense of revulsion passes but Witchy can only cling on for every way he moves the demon is there, binding him up closer, tighter and tighter...

"Lenny," he sobs out, "Lenny."

"Oh, baby," Lenny coos into the back of his neck, "I'm already here."

* * * * *

When Witchy remembers, he dreams.

He dreams of family and friends with sharp faces and blurry lines, the colours bleeding into one another. He dreams of antics and pranks involving furniture and chocolates, and occasionally of heartbreak and grief. He dreams of performing feats beyond human imagination and capability, and the exhilaration it brings.

But most of all, he dreams of Lenny. He dreams of fingers running through hair in gentle strokes, of playful nips upon his neck and of bolsters shared and cuddled. He dreams of sweet kisses and comforting hugs, and slowly, slowly, gentle turns vicious and playful painful. Someone screams, maybe him, but he is too occupied over where his Lenny had disappeared to.

Then again, there can only be one Lenny - for two of the same person is a foolish thought. Right?

* * * * *

Witchy wakes up to the buzz of a heated argument outside of his door and dried tear tracks beneath his eyes. The blindfold is still wrapped snugly about his eyes, a sound reminder of yesterday where Lenny had marked him all over again with sharp teeth and rough nails. He strains to listen, to find something out about the world beyond this room.

"That isn't my son," someone calmly states.

"Your son decided to recruit some people from the other side to assist him in his own suicide," Lenny coolly retorts. A sense of relief washes over Witchy and he relaxes muscles he did not even realise were tense; but he continues to listen nonetheless.

"I appreciate your part in the extermination of that Mudblood," the same voice replies, "but my priority is my family, if you care to understand. I allowed you to look after him under the assumption that you would keep him safe." There is the sound of a wooden stick tapping against a surface of some sort, and it grates on Witchy's nerves. "Have I, perhaps, misplaced that trust...?"

"He was already broken," comes the smooth answer. "Perhaps an arrangement of some sort can be worked out? Surely we, who have similar interests, can reach equal terms."

There is a pause before the door swings open. "Very well, but I wish to see him first. I may be able to find some use out of him yet." Witchy shrinks back into the wall, this person he does not know. Where was Lenny? Where?

A hand roughly grabs his chin and the feeling of eyes on him tells him that he is being appraised in some way. The person attached to the hand talks but Witchy does not listen because his opinions does not matter and Lenny is all that does.

(Something screams in protest at this line of thought, but it is quickly snuffed out by everything else.)

"Are you quite done yet?" Lenny growls. "He isn't your son, remember?" The world snaps back to audial clarity and he hangs on to every last strand.

"Do not rush me." There is a rustle of clothes and the person steps back. "I shall think over this. Perhaps we can see eye to eye on a certain level after all." Witchy is tense, still wary; warier still when he is addressed next. "I made you an offer once. That offer still stands."

A snarl issues from somewhere within the room and the person seems to take it as a cue to leave. Arms wrap around him tightly, possessively as Lenny asks. "What did he offer you, darling? What did he want?"

"I..." Witchy struggles to remember, but a sharp spike of pain shoots through his mind and he stops and gives up. "I don't remember."

He is hugged to the point of being unable to breathe as Lenny mutters harshly into his ear. "That's right, you don't remember. It's alright, sweetheart, there's no need to, it's not important, not at all. Don't remember, okay? Don't remember."

He is still muttering as he strips the gown from Witchy's shoulders, as he bites down sharply on the junction between his shoulder bones, as he laps and licks away at the blood and repeats the cycle all over again; and Witchy is far too lost in pleasure (or was it pain?) to even attempt anything anymore.

* * * * *

Lenny hurries down the corridor, clutching a bleeding shoulder. He should have thought twice about throwing away his mother permanently - he had forgotten completely about that blasted brother of an angel Witchy had. The bastard had ambushed him with a generous heaping of glitter bombs he was so proud of, and he was lucky to get away before further damage could have occurred to him or Angel. (He was still on tenterhooks with Dory, and that was one agreement he found extremely beneficial.) For now he has to lay low - surely the Death Eater would deal with his own son sooner or later.

He slips into Witchy's room, grabbing its occupant by the scruff of his neck and sinking his teeth into his throat. This Witchy's blood is an excellent source of energy, saturated with magic and tinged with traces of his Witchy's own. There is no resistance as Witchy hangs limply like a rag doll, a puppet with strings of suggestions and enchantments he had woven over the warlock to keep him under his control. (Although the contract would be much more efficient, this would have to suffice.) He hisses as the wound on his shoulder sealed itself up, leaving nothing but a faint outline, and licks the last drops of blood away from the wound he had made on his pet's throat.

This Witchy was much more fragile than the original one, he reflects, but it was so much easier to find a hold over him. His Witchy had nothing to be threatened - his family was kept under Dory's watch at all times, and all his other friends had their own protection of sorts. He remembers losing his temper more often than not when playing with Witchy, but for some peculiar reason he became Lenny's favourite over Farmy who is more receptive and his mother who merely pissed him off. He recalls the thrill of forcing the warlock to submit to his demands, the challenge it presented and the results were often more than satisfying.

But he favours this Witchy too, who is just as feisty and screams where his own would have laughed and gloried in trying to skewer Lenny's metaphorical heart, who is broken as far as he could afford to try. The only thing holding him back is the contract, he thinks irritably, and even if it is stupidly simple it is proving harder to break than he first thought. He wonders if it will be so much simpler to cross over and kill himself, but decides the hassle was more than he wants. Perhaps the contract will deteriorate over time, Lenny can wait.

He sits down and pulls Witchy onto his lap, who regards him hazily. "You're mine," Lenny suddenly says. "You're mine, and mine alone." He rakes his nails over the expanse of Witchy's marked and scarring back, creating four new thin lines of blood, and continues talking. "It doesn't matter if you break, I'll just replace you. I'll always be your master and you'll be my favourite pet. Isn't that right, darling?"

And as his mind wanders to the Witchy left in another dungeon with a gentle smile on his face (one that Lenny had seen so long ago, when they had just newly met and became 'best buds') and his heart back in his chest, he realises that perhaps he will be able to return that world a Witchy of their own after all.

Hopefully they would not mind a used product.

[Arthur Rabbit]

Wiiitttccchhhyyy. Oh Witchy. My feels. All my feels. ;A;

I. Don't. Even--

Only you could so beautifully write about your own character's suffering. ;u;

[Angel Arthur]

Wiiiiitchy! This is fantastic and I love your writing.
Oh, angst, such wonderful beautiful angst.

I dont know why I find it funny that 2P Angel glitter bombed 2P Lenny, or that 2P Lenny didn't use Angel in the list of people he could go back over and get as a pet, seeing as Witchy and Angel do get along really well. Im thinking he doesnt want to mess with an angel and again mess with 2P Dory.

I want to read more oAo

[Dr. Jones]

MOAR ;D

oh witchy, you write me to lovely =w=
*huggles*
*kisses*

=w=
this is wonderful~

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