Don Ferna (BWWM)

48.5

WARNING: HOMOPHOBIA, SEXUAL ABUSE, AND TORTURE.

ALVARO

He would have sworn he was having a decent sleep if not for the insanely annoying dripping sound and well, the pounding headache at the back of his head.

The dripping however forced him to open his eyes and groan at the painfully bright light.

"The faggot is finally awake." He heard a voice say as he struggled to keep his head up and eyes focused.

"Fuck, I feel like shit." He muttered, coughing as some liquid with a metallic taste seeped into his mouth.

It didn't take a genius to realize it was blood. His blood and a bit of something foreign.

Drugs?

He tried to wrench his hands free but they would not budge. Groaning in frustration, he let it be. His head was too heavy to think of a plan and he very desperately needed one. However, he did not miss the way an incision was made in his upper hand.

It was not exactly professional.

"Not so sharp-mouthed now, are you?" The voice said again and he finally quit his self-pitying and looked at the speaker.

His expectations were further diminished when he saw the strange person who seemed to be wielding a weapon.

"Now, who the fuck are you?" He asked disappointedly, feeling something drip down the back of his head. Curiously, his eyes wandered to the increasing pool of blood by the edge of the chair he was restrained to.

"Christopher Davis, awesome to meet you." He finally noticed the dark-skinned man who had a terrible scar on his face.

Varo took one look at him and decided he was not impressed.

"You work for Giannini too?" he asked, raising a brow. "What's the bastard's deal with working with hideous people?"

First, it was chalkboard Wallace, and now, Scarface.

"You faggots are so vain. Thinking beauty is everything," Davis said easily, approaching Alvaro with the weapon that now looked like an iron rod.

On other days, Varo would argue that aesthetics were a part of life but at that moment, the blood getting into his eyes was his major concern. He was also sure that he did not have the looks to support his argument at that moment.

"Of course, you would disagree," he said snarkily, looking at the seemingly empty room.

It was just a chair and cleaning equipment and the other part of the room was pitch black.

He was about to make another snide comment when pain exploded around his knees. It stung him.

"What the fuck, man?!" He yelled, gritting his teeth in pain while glaring at Christopher who now sported a grin as he brandished the rod.

As he tried to move to soothe the pain, he could hear his kneecaps shift. Varo believed they were broken.

"Mr. Montez?!" Clara's voice sounded from the dark room, momentarily distracting him from the pain. "Are you okay?"

"I should be fucking asking you that Clara!" He yelled back groaning again when the rod reconnected with his knees. "Quit it, you fucking prick!"

"Bitch, I told you to shut the fuck up!" Davis said in the same tone, referring to Clara.

"Who the fuck are you calling a bitch?" Clara answered back forcing a pained chuckle out of Alvaro.