Chapter Text
Felix’s limbs don’t move as they should.
Or rather, Felix has no control over what his limbs do, most of the time. His arms and legs are almost always useless to him now, though he can still feel them. His joints are tight and immovable, thanks to whatever Chan injected him with each morning. When he screams at his body to just move, nothing happens.
Chan is the one that controls his movements. Dressing Felix up and positioning him as he’d like. Posing him in the shop’s display window—even though Felix is the one thing in Chan’s shop of oddities that isn't for sale. Bending him over the edge of the bed, or sitting him at the dining table to have dinner with Chan.
Though, Felix can’t eat anymore. He can’t do much of anything anymore.
Chan puts him where he wants him, wherever he thinks Felix looks pretty, and that’s where Felix stays.
Felix likes it best when he’s posed in the shop window, and he gets to watch everyone going about their day. It’s much more entertainment than he gets being left in the glass display case, or sitting on a chair in the corner of the shop.
The window is better than the display case, and the display case is better than being knelt on the crate beneath the counter and having Chan’s cock stuffed into his mouth to keep it warm. Drool spills past his lips, collecting in a little puddle in his lap, and the rough wood of the crate digs into the tender skin on his knees. It's harder to tune everything out then, with Chan’s hand buried in his hair, petting, and Chan’s cock in his mouth, shoving past whatever meager resistance Felix can put up.
Thankfully, Chan didn’t put him there often. He liked Felix to be where people could see him.
It is embarrassing, being seen like this. Depending on his positioning, he could see people glancing at him, sometimes doing a double take. People that pass by think he’s a mannequin, or a performance. A creepy display, in a creepy shop, designed to draw in customers. Most people didn’t look further than that.
A few times, someone had stopped, and looked into his eyes for several long seconds. Noted the slight rise and fall of his chest, the occasional slow, heavy blink. Help me, he thinks, as if he thinks it hard enough he can send the thought into their head. He cannot put on a panicked expression, cannot wear anything other than his resting face, so he doesn’t know how much it comes across when he tries to put an imploring look in his eyes. He probably looks just the same.
In any case, it never works. They turn heel and leave.
He’s given up on that, mostly.
Escape is not something that he spends much time thinking about anymore. One loses the will to fight rather quickly when you can’t even move. His only choice was to take it day by day, to not think even one hour ahead. He’d lose his mind, otherwise. He suspected that he was already beginning to.
—
Felix is never awake for long before Chan comes in with that needle. In the morning, Felix’s voice works much better. He can speak weakly, and move his mouth to form words. Sometimes, he will beg Chan to let him go, or to not drug him, or just curse at him until he’s injected and his voice dies in his throat. Sometimes he just stays quiet.
“Just a pinch,” Chan says, and there’s a stinging in his lower back where he’s injected. He’s always put to bed on his stomach, so that Chan can give him the injection without unstrapping him first.
Felix feels his body go stiff over the course of ten or so minutes, while Chan busies himself with picking out Felix’s outfit. There is a whole closet of horrible frilly dresses for Felix to wear, and Chan seems to struggle each morning to decide which one to put him in. Felix differentiates them by only two criteria: mildly itchy or terribly itchy.
By the time Chan has chosen his outfit and unrestrained him, the drug has set in and Felix cannot move at all. He is deadweight as Chan lugs him out of bed and carries him to the bathroom. Chan sets him on a little stool in front of the mirror. He pulls Felix’s mouth open by sliding a thumb past his lips and hooking it behind his bottom teeth. He brushes Felix’s teeth with a hand holding him by the jaw, tilting him this way and that. There is a foamy mess because Felix can’t close his mouth, but Chan is careful to wipe it away before it can ruin his pretty pyjamas.
Felix used to feel embarrassed by this, but now he didn’t feel anything when he watched himself in the mirror. Chan liked him this way—helpless.
There’s the familiar sound of Chan snapping on a pair of medical gloves, and Felix’s brain begins to go fuzzy. When Chan takes care of his catheter and enema, Felix turns his brain off completely. He’s like a real doll, then.
Back in the bedroom, Chan maneuvers him into the dress. Stockings tugged up his unmoving thighs, rigid fists molded into something pretty and delicate. There is a petticoat, and garter belts, panties and a corset, cinched tight until he feels like he can’t breathe. It must be a lot of work to dress him, but Chan never complains. When he finishes, he looks Felix over with a satisfied smile.
At the vanity, Chan does his makeup and hair. Felix’s hair has grown since he’s been here, almost to his shoulders now. He closes his eyes and waits for it to be over, so that he doesn’t have to see Chan fussing over him in the mirror. Doesn’t have to see himself become something he doesn’t recognize.
Brushes tickle at his cheeks and eyelids, making him pretty and pink. Eyelashes gingerly painted dark, and freckles tediously reapplied over the thin layer of foundation. Chan likes those.
“There we go,” he says, pleased, snapping a compact closed. “So pretty.”
Chan actually has a talent for applying makeup. Felix is always a little surprised when he sees himself in the mirror and finds that he does look pretty rather than ridiculous.
Chan brings Felix to the kitchen to have breakfast with him. He’s sat at the little table and watches as Chan eats, mouth watering at the sight and smell of real food. Chan talks to him while he eats, about the weather, about his friends, or work. Talks and talks without leaving any space for Felix to respond, if he could.
Sometimes Chan will ask him a question with the intention of actually getting an answer, and Felix will blink to say yes or no. Sometimes Chan will ask a question that Felix isn’t actually supposed to answer, but does anyway, and Chan will slap him across the face before gently repositioning his head.
Felix has gotten better at guessing when Chan actually wants a response.
When Chan finishes his meal, he feeds Felix.
He gags, of course, when Chan tilts his head up and opens his mouth to put the feeding tube down his throat. He does have a little control over his tongue, his eyes, but that’s nothing to put up a fight with. The tube will make its way down regardless. Felix closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to watch the nutritional drink be funneled into the tube. He can feel it make its way down, cold, thick, and settle in his stomach. The whole experience is nauseating. He has to close his eyes and breath heavily through his nose when Chan pulls it back out, feeling the ridges of it against the walls of his throat.
Felix can tell that Chan doesn’t like this part, either. He wants to pretend that Felix does not need sustenance. The tube, the enemas, the catheter—they all shatter the illusion.
Unpleasant task finished, Chan pats Felix on the head and puts the tube out of sight.
—
Sometimes Chan will bend him over the bed, or over the shop counter while he’s on break, and fuck him. Felix is always kept ready and open. Oftentimes Chan will shove Felix’s panties into his mouth, so that no sound escapes, however small.
Felix is stiff and rigid, but warm, when Chan fucks into him roughly. Still, Chan holds him by the hips tight enough for him to bruise, as if he’s trying to wriggle away, even though he can’t move at all. When he’s over the shop counter, the wood presses hard into his hip bones, leaving them tender and bruised.
He always feels it the next day.
—
Today Felix is posed in the window, head tilted down to look at the book splayed open in his hands. Chan is careful with his fingers, posing and reposing until he’s happy with their position. On the little table beside him is a pot of tea, freshly brewed, and Chan pours that into the little teacup, fragrant and warm. It will be poured down the sink at the end of the day, untouched.
Beside Felix is a little wooden sign that reads Not For Sale.
Chan fusses with him some more, until he’s content with the little scene. Fixes his hair, repositions his feet. Once he’s pleased, he pats Felix on the head and tends to the rest of the shop. “Be good, doll.”
It’s a pity that Felix’s head is tilted down, so that he can’t see outside. He reads the open page of the book again and again, until he can recite it in his head with his eyes closed. He can’t in good conscience complain about the boredom, because being allowed to sit is a mercy.
The display case is unpleasant, because he’s made to stand all day. He is weak now, and even when he feels his muscles grow tired he cannot move. He’s held in place by straps at the waist, arms, legs, and neck. When the door is closed, it quickly grows stuffy inside. Felix feels as if he’s gathering dust. Thankfully, Chan doesn’t usually leave him there for long.
By the end of the night, when Chan closes the store, the injection has begun to wear off a little. Felix’s muscles unlock, but he is sore and achy and cannot move well. He certainly couldn’t walk, or do much more than weakly lift a fist when Chan comes to pick him up out of the window display, book clattering to the floor.
“Oh, none of that, Felix,” Chan clucks at him. “We’ll get you ready for bed now, just be patient. I know it’s late but I have to close up the shop, you know.”
Chan always talks to him in that easy way, like they’re friends. Like Felix doesn’t want him dead.
He keeps up his chatter as he carries Felix bridal-style up the staircase to his apartment above the shop. Felix’s hand falls off his lap and he’s too weak to lift it back up, so it dangles there until Chan sets him down at the dining table and brings over the tube. Felix groans a little at the sight of it, a quiet, choked off sound.
Every night, after he’s been fed, Chan places a pill in Felix’s mouth and puts a large hand over his nose and mouth until Felix swallows. This much, he can manage, even though the pill is large. He doesn’t fight it anymore, just swallows obediently. He will take the pill, Chan makes sure of that. There’s no point in making himself lightheaded and red in the face. It will put him to sleep, and sleep is welcome, anyway.
“Good doll,” Chan says, watching the bob of Felix’s throat, and patting him tenderly on the head.
—
Chan loves him. That’s indisputable. Felix had never in his life been shown so much devotion. Chan looked at him like he was everything.
Some nights Chan would hold him, Felix pressed perfectly into Chan’s body. By that point in the day his muscles would loosen up, and he would regain some of his movement. Chan held him tightly, kissing at his neck, righting a crooked stocking. He often didn’t have the energy to try and wriggle out of Chan’s grip. It was easier to just sit there and wait until Chan put him to bed.
Today, he speaks.
“Stop with the drugs,” Felix says softly, voice hoarse and halting. “I’ll be still. I’ll be good. You don’t have to use it anymore.”
“Oh, Felix,” Chan croons. He pets Felix’s head, smoothing back his hair. “I wish I could, little doll. But I don’t trust you just yet. You’ll have to be patient.”
—
Felix is broken out of his reverie by the twinkle of the shop bells.
“Excuse me?” Someone says. “Delivery.”
“Oh!” Chan comes out from behind the till to greet the man. Chan is always exceedingly polite, always friendly, always smiling. Felix watches from the window as he helps the delivery man lug the large box covered in big red Fragile! stickers out of the unmarked van.
The package is huge, taller than both of the men, but Chan is always getting packages delivered, large and small. Last week he’d gotten an old piano delivered, and Felix had spent the next day sat on the bench, posed as if he were playing. His hands ached terribly at the end of the day. But the piano had already been sold. Chan had an eye for interesting things.
“Right here is fine, thank you,” Chan tells the man, and they lean the package against the wall by the entrance. Chan thanks the man again and the bell rings as he exits. Felix watches as he climbs into his van and drives away.
“Felix, you have to see this,” Chan moves Felix’s chair so that he’s facing the giant box, gently repositions his head when it slumps forward.
Chan often got excited about the things that he bought for the shop, but this felt different. He never showed things to Felix so directly, like he wanted his reaction. Felix wasn’t even able to give one at the moment, as he couldn’t move his face even if he wanted to.
Chan made quick work of slicing through the tape, and behind the cardboard flaps was a large piece of styrofoam, holding the object in place. When Chan pulls that back there is… a boy. A man.
His eyes are closed—asleep, Felix hopes. There was another piece of styrofoam behind him, made to fit his body perfectly, so that when the box was sealed he wouldn’t be able to move. Straps held him in place at the waist and neck, ankles and wrists, like an unopened Barbie doll.
Had Felix arrived like this? Delivered in an unmarked van, a giant box made to fit him exactly? He had no memory of it.
He thought that Chan… that night, when he’d been drinking… Someone must have put something in his drink and he’d passed out in the bathroom, and then—
Then the next time he woke up he was in the display case, immobile, thinking that he’d been permanently paralized. How much time had passed between him collapsing in the bathroom and waking up in Chan’s shop? Maybe much more than he’d thought.
He thought that Chan had been the one that took him. It didn’t seem that way, now.
Chan looked giddy with excitement, but Felix thought he was going to throw up down the front his pretty dress, the scene was so disconcerting. The man looked close in age to Felix, and he was naked aside from a pair of white briefs. His face was pretty in sleep, long lashes casting a shadow over his cheeks.
But—why? Did Chan not want Felix anymore? If Chan didn’t want him, what was going to happen to him? If Chan had bought Felix like he’d bought this one, surely he had spent a lot of money on him. Surely Chan wouldn’t just… kill him. He wouldn’t kill him after all that work he’d put in, would he? He may be horrible, but surely he wouldn’t resort to that. Felix wasn’t even fighting anymore, he took his pill, he rarely cried—
“Look, Felix,” Chan beams. He gestures to the man in the box, as if Felix could look anywhere else. “I got us a puppy.”