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Chapter Text

Gabriel Reyes could barely contain the storm roiling inside him. His son had done the unthinkable. The unbelievable. The raw embarrassment that surged through him when APD called to inform the Texas Rangers—the Texas Rangers—that not just any officer but his son had apprehended a wanted bank robber… and then let him go.

Without securing a story.
Without contact details.
No times. No locations.
Not a shred of follow-through.

There was going to have to be an investigation and everything. The family name smeared through the mud. 

Just let him go.

Because Carlos felt like it.

On the drive into town, Gabriel had felt the humiliation heat his cheeks, after everything he had done to bring pride to the Reyes name, undone in one day by one act.

That only made Gabriel’s blood boil hotter as he parked his vehicle in the APD staff carpark.

And now, here they were, standing in a holding cell downtown.

Without a word, he pulled Carlos into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping protectively around his son. The younger man’s shoulders tensed briefly before giving in to the familiar comfort. Gabriel’s hand settled firmly against Carlos’s back as he leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“Wait,” Carlos began, his voice raw. “I looked into his eyes. His fear was real. I trusted my instincts like you always taught me.”

Gabriel’s grip tightened slightly, his lips near Carlos’s ear as he responded, his tone steady but edged with the weight of years of hard-won experience. “Ah, yeah, see, but the thing is, son, you gotta have the right instincts.”

Carlos closed his eyes, his father’s words sinking deep.

Meanwhile, Gabriel's dark eyes roamed Carlos’s face, searching for something, anything, that would redeem his son in his eyes. But all he saw was weakness.

Gabriel did have the right instincts. Unfortunately, the object that was formerly his son, Officer Carlos Reyes, was, in its current form, a weak liability. He had always known Carlos would never make a good cop, but he had hoped that it would prove him wrong.

He had always known Carlos would fall short. It was inevitable. A son who smiled too readily, spoke too softly, and let his heart lead him down roads paved with poor decisions. Tonight had only confirmed what Gabriel had feared all along: Carlos was not cut out for the family legacy, nor the badge that came with it.

Not even the Austin PD badge, as much of a joke as that was. 

Gabriel’s disappointment festered as he drove, the skyline bleeding into the night as his mind churned over the details of what he’d learned. A bank robber—escaped. A stolen car, gone. And Carlos? Carlos had faltered, let emotion cloud his judgment, and disgraced the Reyes name in front of his peers.

By the time Gabriel reached Carlos’s home, he was resolved. He wasn’t here for a conversation. He was here to fix the problem.

After talking to a few high-powered friends, he arrived at its house with its new I.D in hand.

Carlos opened the door with those soft, stupid puppy dog eyes - how he ignored the red flags for so long was beyond Gabriel. “Dad, what are you doing here, please come in.” Carlos stepped aside, allowing Gabriel to wander in.

Gabriel frowned, the words hard to get out after so many years of trying to raise Carlos as a man, as a person, as a son, all that wasted time. 

Oh how his mother had cried when Gabriel had told her Carlos’s upcoming fate, but even a mother’s love could not save Carlos from his weakness.

Carlos tilted his head, sensing the tension. “Something wrong?”

Gabriel turned to face him, his expression unreadable. The words tasted bitter as he spoke them. “You are to no longer call me ‘Dad,’ Carlos. From this moment forward, you will refer to me as Master.”

Carlos blinked, his confusion evident. “Master? This isn’t the Rangers, sir,” he joked nervously, a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

Gabriel didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. He simply stood there, his posture rigid, his presence suffocating. The silence stretched, heavy and unyielding.

Finally, Gabriel broke it. “Where is your ID?”

Carlos frowned, his confusion deepening. “Uh… in my wallet? Why?”

“Bring it to me,” Gabriel commanded, his tone sharp enough to cut. When Carlos hesitated, Gabriel’s voice dropped lower, colder. “Now.”

The shift in dynamic was noticeable, Carlos face searching Gabriels for clues. Luckily, depsite Carlos faltering slightly, the ingrained deference to authority taking hold. His son had always submitted to a tougher, more powerful man.

That's why Gabriel was surprised that Carlos had shacked up with some druggie from New York and not the father, god knows his former son had enough daddy issues. 

Without another word, Carlos turned and retrieved his wallet from the counter, pulling out his ID and holding it out.

Gabriel snatched it from his hand, his grip firm. He studied the small plastic card with a cold detachment, his lips pressing into a thin line. “This,” he said finally, holding the card between two fingers, “is no longer who you are.”

Carlos took a step back, unease prickling at the edges of his mind. “What are you talking about?” His voice wavered, the air in the room thickening with an unspoken threat.

Gabriel’s eyes snapped to his, dark and unrelenting. “You’ve forgotten what it means to carry this name. To carry this legacy. But don’t worry, son.” He pocketed the ID, his expression chillingly calm.

The plastic card in Gabriel’s hand gleamed under the harsh overhead light as he extended it toward Carlos. The ID looked official—perfectly legitimate—but the details burned into it were a mockery. The name emblazoned below Carlos’s photo was Puta Mujerzuela. Below it, an address Carlos didn’t recognize but knew instinctively: one of the brothels in the seediest part of downtown.

Carlos stared at the card, his pulse hammering in his ears. “What the fuck is this?” His voice was raw, a mix of confusion and growing dread. He looked up at Gabriel, searching his father’s face for some kind of explanation, some sign this was a sick joke. But Gabriel’s expression was cold and unyielding, carved from stone.

“There’s been some kind of mistake,” Carlos said, his voice shaking. “This… this can’t be right.”

Gabriel’s hand lashed out faster than Carlos could react, the crack of the slap echoing through the room like a gunshot. Pain exploded across Carlos’s cheek as his head snapped to the side. He tasted blood, the metallic tang sharp on his tongue. His vision blurred for a moment, but the tears that threatened to spill never came. He forced them back, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Shut your mouth,” Gabriel growled, his voice low and venomous. “You stupid little puta. That’s the only name you need to remember from now on. You’re not a Reyes anymore. You’re nothing.”

Carlos’s breath hitched, the words cutting deeper than the slap. He stared at Gabriel, his cheek burning and his heart racing, trying to process what was happening. “You… you can’t do this,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m your son.”

Gabriel scoffed, the sound sharp and disdainful. “You stopped being my son the moment you disgraced this family. You’ve always been weak, Puta. A disappointment. And now, you’ll finally be useful for something.”

Carlos’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as Gabriel’s words sank in. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice trembling. “What do you mean, ‘useful’?”

Gabriel stepped closer, his presence looming, suffocating. “The ID is real,” he said, his tone calm, almost casual. “It’s been arranged. Your life as Carlos Reyes is over. You’ll go to the address on that card, and you’ll work there. You’ll earn back what you owe this family—every ounce of dignity you’ve stolen from the Reyes name.”

Carlos stared at him in disbelief, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. “You’re insane,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not doing this. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gabriel’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “You don’t have a choice,” he said, pulling out a manila envelope and tossing it onto the table between them. “Your life is over, you have been fired by the APD, your lease on the apartment cancelled and your car has been reprocessed.” 

“You bastard,” Carlos hissed, his voice breaking. “You’ve gone too far, I’ll tell mom, TK, Captain Strand...”

Gabriel shrugged, unbothered. “You’ve had too many chances, Puta. This is the only way you’ll learn.”

Carlos clenched his fists, anger and desperation bubbling to the surface. His mind raced, searching for a way out. He knew he couldn’t fight Gabriel physically—not here, not now—but he also couldn’t let himself be dragged into the abyss his father had created for him.

"Come on then," Gabriel jerked his head towards the door. "Time to see what kind of man you've become. If you can even be called a man at all."

“Dad, wait…”

Another smack, this time followed by the four more in quick succession. “I’m getting real tired of this Puta, 

Swallowing hard, Carlos stood on unsteady legs. He followed his father out of the apartment and down to the car, the weight of his new identity settling heavy on his shoulders. The whole world seemed to have shifted in an instant, and he didn't know if he had the strength to navigate the changed landscape.

As they drove through the city streets, Gabriel's silence was threatening to consume them both, a living presence pressing in from all sides. Carlos sat rigid in the passenger seat, his hands fisted in his lap.

After what felt like an eternity, Gabriel spoke. "You were a disappointment as a son. I always knew you'd never make a real man, even before your confession. But maybe you can still be useful in other ways."

"I...I don't understand, what...what do you mean?" Carlos stammered, confusion and fear etched on his face.

Gabriel tightened his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, his eyes narrowing into slits as he glared at the road ahead. "As we have established you'll be my little puta, my plaything. It's the best thing for you. I'm taking you downtown to a man who will make some...adjustments to break you in."

Carlos's eyes widened in abject horror, his body beginning to tremble. "What? Dad, no!" he cried out, voice cracking. "Please, I'm begging you, don't...don't do this! Wait, what would mom say? What about my sisters?"

Gabriel sighed, a sound dripping with annoyance, before his hand lashed out in a brutal backhand. The impact was sharp and unforgiving, sending Carlos’s head snapping to the side. A startled yelp escaped his lips as he stumbled, the sting radiating through his cheek.

“Shut up,” Gabriel growled, his face twisting with cruel satisfaction. “You will speak only when spoken to. Understand?”

Carlos stayed silent, his chest heaving as he struggled to hold back a mix of anger and fear. Gabriel’s voice dropped into a venomous sneer. “Or you’ll get worse than a slap for your insolence, puta. ”

Carlos looked up, his eyes blazing with defiance despite the fear clawing at his chest. “Dad, I’m a police officer. I have a house, a boyfriend, a life—”

Gabriel’s sigh cut through his words, heavy with disdain. “ Was. You were all of those things,” he said, his tone calm but dripping with malice. “As of five o’clock tonight, you are no longer an officer of the APD. My friends took care of everything. Your name, your badge, your identity—it’s all gone.”

Carlos’s stomach dropped. “No,” he whispered.

“Your department was more than happy to be rid of you,” Gabriel continued, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. “Your poor decision-making today sealed it. Carlos Reyes no longer exists in any database. And as for your boyfriend… ”

Carlos’s eyes snapped to Gabriel, his heart pounding. “What did you do?”

Gabriel smirked, pleased by the fear flickering in Carlos’s expression. “I sent TJ a message explaining that you’re over. That you’ve found a new Master, sure little TJ was heartbroken but he's a New York fag, he'll find another cock to choke on...”

“TK,” Carlos corrected automatically, his voice sharp despite the trembling in his chest. "And he's not like that." TK was a flirt, a hot mess but he wasn't a slut - TK was a sensitive, kind, sweet heart teddy bear. 

The response earned him another vicious backhand. Carlos flinched, his cheek burning as Gabriel loomed over him.

“If you ever correct me again, puta, you’ll regret it,” Gabriel hissed. “From now on, I am your Master. And if your TK tries to interfere, my friends will make sure he disappears for good. He’s just another pretty boy—easily disposed of.”

Carlos’s stomach churned at the threat, bile rising in his throat. His voice wavered as he stared at the floor of the car, the words spilling out in a broken whisper. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened, his voice hard and venomous. “You were weak. You let a man steal $27,000 right in front of you. You brought dishonor to our family name. But no more.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against Carlos’s ear. “From this moment forward, you exist only to serve me and please my friends. You’ll make a good little toy, puta. ”

And with that, the car sped on 

The car came to a halt outside a nondescript building in the heart of the city. Gabriel stepped out, pulling Carlos roughly by the arm. The neon sign above the door buzzed faintly, casting an eerie glow as they entered.

Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant and ink. A heavily tattooed man behind the counter looked up and grinned when he saw Gabriel. “Ah, Gabriel,” the man said smoothly, his eyes flicking to Carlos. “Another slutty sub for you to train?”

Gabriel’s smirk widened. “This one’s special, Juan. Needs the full treatment. Start with the nipples, add a cock cage, and finish it off with a very personal tramp stamp.”

Carlos’s eyes widened in horror, and he stumbled backward. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t happening.”

“Dad, please—”

Gabriel’s hand shot up, causing Carlos to cower instinctively. The gesture alone was enough to silence him. Gabriel’s voice was ice-cold. “I won’t remind you again. It’s Master now, puta. ”

Juan leaned against the counter, watching the exchange with amused curiosity. “Your son?”

Gabriel’s expression darkened, and for a brief moment, sadness flickered across his face. “He was,” he said flatly. “But too many mistakes have consequences.”

Juan chuckled, motioning for them to follow him into the back room. “Let’s get started, then. This one looks like he’ll be a fun project.”

Gabriel nodded, “I want the works done to it, I want everyone to know it’s place the minute they see it's pathetic figure.”

Juan, the piercer nodded, already prepping his tools. "I like the way you think. The cock cage is a nice touch too. So humiliating for them."

Carlos trembled in fear and disbelief as the piercer got to work. First, the piercer carefully sterilized Carlos' nipples before using a hollow needle to push through them. Carlos cried out in pain and reluctant pleasure as the rings were carefully put in place.

He hated the thought of getting any pleasure from this, making his stomach churn.

Next, the piercer brought out a cock cage. The cold metal device clamped around Carlos' soft flaccid cock, trapping it. Carlos whined at the feeling of his dick being locked away, that cock cage feeling strange around his genital's.

"Remember, Puta, we control your cum now," Gabriel growled, giving the tiny padlock a little shake. "You won't be touching this dick without our Masters permission."

Carlos looked at his father in the eyes, but there was nothing there but disgust and loathing, everything Carlos had worried his father felt from all these years on clear display. 

Finally, the piercer handed Gabriel a tattoo machine. Carlos' eyes widened in alarm. "W-what are you doing?!"

"Oh hush," Gabriel cooed. "This will look so pretty on you. My own personal cumdumpster, clearly marked."

Carlos’s screams had long since turned to broken sobs, his voice hoarse from protesting and pleading. The sharp, relentless sting of the tattoo needle was a constant, brutal reminder of his father’s cruelty. Gabriel’s steady hand moved with precision, each stroke of the needle pressing the word PUTA deeper into Carlos’s flesh.

“Stop,” Carlos choked out between gasps, his body trembling. “Please, stop…”

Gabriel didn’t even look up. “Hush, puta. Your tears mean nothing to me. This is for your own good.”

Carlos’s head drooped, his resistance crumbling as the humiliation overwhelmed him. The room reeked of ink and antiseptic, but the true stench was the suffocating aura of control Gabriel exuded, his authority unshakable and absolute.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the needle stopped. Carlos flinched at the feeling of cool antiseptic being wiped across his lower back, the sudden absence of pain almost jarring. He could hear the low hum of satisfaction in Gabriel’s voice as he admired his work.

“Perfect,” Gabriel murmured, his tone laced with twisted pride. “A masterpiece. My puta. ”

Carlos couldn’t bring himself to look in the mirror. He didn’t need to see it; the searing pain on his skin was enough of a reminder. The word PUTA, branded in bold black letters above his buttocks, burned like a mark of ownership.

Carlos pinched his arm, desperate to wake up from this nightmare. But the sharp sting grounded him in a cruel reality—this wasn’t a dream. This was real.

"Enough moping, puta. You're going shopping with me," Gabriel growled. Carlos felt the leash tighten around his neck as Gabriel gave it a sharp tug, forcing him to stumble forward. His bare feet slapped against the pavement, the sting of cold concrete biting into his soles. He barely registered the gasps and muffled whispers of passersby, their wide-eyed stares like daggers against his exposed skin, covered only in a collar, nipple rings and a cock cage.

Maybe one of them would call 9-1-1. 

Maybe TK would turn up and save him from this.

Gabriel led Carlos into a lingerie boutique. The saleswoman behind the counter gasped at the sight of them, her eyes widening as she took in the lewd display. Gabriel merely smirked, enjoying the scandalized look on her face.

"We're here for some new undergarments for my pet," Gabriel announced. He released his grip on the leash, allowing the chain to the nipple rings to swing freely. "Find something lacy and feminine that will accentuate his best assets, like his big stupid titties and ass."

The saleswoman swallowed hard and nodded. "Y-yes sir, of course. We have a lovely selection of bras and panties over here."

Gabriel followed her to the intimate apparel section, Carlos slinking along behind him, trying to cover his exposed genitals with his hands. 

Gabriel prowled through the boutique like a predator, inspecting the delicate fabrics and holding up pieces with a critical eye. "What do you think, Puta? This one?" He held up a crimson lace bra with matching panties, the fabric sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination. Gabriel chuckled when Carlos dropped his gaze to the floor. "Not that your opinion matters. I’ll decide what looks good on you."

The saleswoman fumbled with hangers, her discomfort clear as day on her poor face. Gabriel seemed to revel in it, his grin widening with every awkward movement she made. Carlos’s skin prickled under the fluorescent lights, every moment stretching into an eternity.

"Try this one," Gabriel ordered, tossing the crimson set at Carlos. The flimsy material felt foreign in his hands, a stark reminder of the control Gabriel wielded over him.

Carlos looked at Gabriel, tears in his brown eyes before Gabriel got bored of playing whatever stupid game this was. “Do you need me to backhand you again Puta?”

Carlos felt his cheeks burn with humiliation. Every fiber of his being wanted to run—to bolt out the door and keep running until he could no longer feel Gabriel’s presence looming over him. But fear rooted him in place. If he disobeyed, he knew the punishment would be swift and merciless. Still, a flicker of hope lingered in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, if he endured this, if he played the obedient puppet Gabriel wanted, his father might forgive him. Maybe his father could save him. He clung to that thought, desperate for some semblance of salvation.

So Carlos meekly obeyed, stepping into the dressing room and shutting the door. After a moment, a soft gasp sounded from within.

Gabriel knocked on the door. "How do they fit, puta? Or are they too small for your fat udders and bubble butt?"

There was another gasp, followed by a shaky murmur. "They fit. Sir."

"Let me be the judge of that." Gabriel opened the door and cultured a low whistle. The bra cups barely contained Carlos's nipples, the lace straining over his pumped pecs. The thong disappeared between his muscular buttocks, leaving the branded "PUTA" on full display.

"Fuck, look at you. Such a pretty little puta." Gabriel reached out to tweak Carlos's nipple through the thin lace. "My own personal whore doll to dress up and degrade as I please. I'm going to enjoy breaking in this new wardrobe on you."

Carlos blushed hotly, tears of humiliation welling in his eyes as Gabriel's fingers stroked his upholstered curves. He knew there would be no dignity for him, only endless emasculation at the hands of his sadistic Master. He was nothing more than a plaything now, a naked slut to be paraded around and violated on a whim.

He was a broken toy, and he knew it. Gabriel's puta, in body and mind, now and forever.

Gabriel gave Carlos's nipple a painful twist before releasing it. "Pay for the lingerie, puta. With your ass. Bend over the counter and present yourself to the nice saleswoman. She deserves a tip for her excellent customer service."

Carlos obeyed, turning and leaning forward over the counter, the thong riding up his crack obscenely. The saleswoman stared at his Display, biting her lip, before reaching down to run a finger over the humiliating brand on his ass. Carlos whimpered and arched his back, his cock twitching against the cold metal of the lock.

"Such a good whore," Gabriel purred, watching Carlos submit to the stranger's touch. "I'll have to bring you here more often. For all your wardrobe needs. Isn't that right, Puta?"

"Dance for me," Gabriel commanded. Carlos shivered but began to awkwardly sway his hips, the flimsy outfit leaving little to the imagination. His nipples hardened as he moved, the new rings tugging deliciously on them.

"Fuck, you look so good," Gabriel groaned, giving his own cock a squeeze through his pants. "I can't wait to use your slutty holes. You're mine now, Puta."

And with that, Gabriel bundled his newly pierced and tattooed fucktoy into the boot of his car.

The darkness inside the trunk was suffocating, a void that pressed against Carlos from every side. The stale air reeked of gasoline and metal, making it hard to breathe, but that was the least of his concerns. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in the cramped space, but even that couldn’t drown out the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind.

How did it come to this? he thought, curling his knees closer to his chest, the cold metal digging into his bare skin. The vibrations of the car hummed beneath him, each bump in the road jostling his fragile body and rattling his already frayed nerves. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself away from the present, but the weight of his situation clung to him like chains.

He pictured his father’s face, stern but loving, the way it used to be before everything fell apart. Before today. Does he even recognize me? 

That thought hit him like a punch to the gut. His father had never believed in him, always told him he wasn’t strong enough. Carlos choked back a sob, biting down hard on his lip until he tasted blood. Stop it. Don’t fall apart now. If there was one thing he’d learned in the hell Gabriel had created for him, it was that tears didn’t solve anything. They only made him weaker, more vulnerable, and Gabriel thrived on that.

The car hit another bump, and his shoulder slammed into the side of the trunk. He winced, the sharp pain a reminder of the bruises already littering his body. He traced the marks in his mind, each one a testament to Gabriel’s cruelty, each one a story he didn’t want to tell. He could still hear Gabriel’s voice, cold and commanding, echoing in his ears. You belong to me, Puta. Don’t forget that.

A shiver ran down his spine, and he pressed his fists to his temples, trying to block it out. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the feeling of the leash around his neck, the phantom weight of it reminding him that he was nothing more than property now. A pet. That’s all he sees me as. And maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s all I’ve become.

The thought made him sick, but a flicker of defiance sparked in his chest. He clung to it desperately, like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. No. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t where it ends.

TK would save him.

“Carlito” His mother called out as his father dragged him out of the boot of the vehicle rushing over to him before his father stopped her, “Andrea, I have told you, this is not Carlos anymore, this is Puta Mujerzuela and I will not have you interact with it.”

The night air was cool against his bare skin. He dared not look up to meet his mother's eyes.

"No Gabriel," Andrea pleaded, rushing forward. "This is my son. Please, we can work through this."

"Silence!" Gabriel yelled, shoving Carlos to the ground. He glared at his wife, his dark eyes flashing with anger and disgust. "That boy you birthed is gone. Puta Mujerzuela is all that remains - a stain, a blight on our family."

"Gabriel, mi amor, please," Andrea begged, falling to her knees. "He's our flesh and blood. We have to help him, guide him, not...not..." She broke off with a sob, unable to finish the sentence.

"Guide him to where he belongs!" Gabriel roared. "The streets, where he can wallow in filth like the whoring dog he is."

Carlos flinched at the cruel words, curling in on himself. He could feel his father's rancid breath on his neck, his skin crawling with revulsion.

“To the garage.” He barked, as Andrea looked at him in horror, “Gabriel have you forgotten, tonight is poker night? Your friends are in there.”

“Oh I know, tonight we gamble not for money but to see who gets to deflower Puta.”

Carlos smirked despite everything, because if nothing else he could still get back at the man in front of him. “It’s too late to deflower me, TK took that honor.”

Gabriel glared at him, “You let some druggie loser from New York defile you like a whore?”

Carlos glared at Gabriel, his eyes flashing with resentment. "I didn't let anyone defile me,  I gave myself to someone who actually cares about me, who loves me despite my..."

Gabriel slapped him so hard he tasted the blood in his mouth. “That pesticide-sniffing gutter rat bent you over like a cheap whore and fucked you?”

Carlos felt his anger boil over. Before he could stop himself, he was in Gabriel's face, jabbing a finger against the man's broad chest. "At least TK doesn't treat me like dirt! At least he doesn't make me feel like I'm nothing more than a set of holes for him to use."

Gabriel’s hand lashed out, striking Carlos’s away with a force that made him flinch. His eyes darkened, his fist clenching at his side like a coiled snake ready to strike. “How dare you speak to me like that, you ungrateful little puta ,” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “To the garage. Now. Though I doubt you’re worth much anymore, being so thoroughly… used.”

Carlos straightened, his trembling frame giving way to a defiant sneer. Fear clawed at the edges of his resolve, but he clung to the spark of rebellion that had been smoldering for far too long. “And if I don’t?” he shot back, his voice sharper than he expected. The thought of escape—of running —flashed through his mind. He was naked, vulnerable, but the possibility of freedom was intoxicating. If he could just make it down the street, he could find help. 

Maybe he could even call TK.

Gabriel’s lips twisted into a cruel grin, and before Carlos could process the movement, the man pulled a sleek handgun from his waistband. The cold metallic glint of the barrel froze Carlos in place, his breath hitching as Gabriel leveled it at him with terrifying ease.

“Then,” Gabriel said, his tone icy and deliberate, “I’ll put the whore down myself, and then your precious TK.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Carlos’s heart thundered in his chest, his earlier bravado slipping through his fingers like sand. Gabriel’s finger brushed the trigger, a silent reminder that the leash around Carlos’s neck wasn’t the only thing holding him captive.

Grabbing the leash, Gabriel led Carlos, naked and trembling, out to the garage. Carlos's heart raced with a mixture of fear and shame. He knew what was coming. The humiliation, the physical degradation, the pain.

Gabriel's poker buddies were already gathered around the table, beers in hand, cigar smoke curling in the air. They looked up at the shameful display, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

He recognized some of them as long time family friends, some of whom had watched him grow up, now leering at him like prey.

"Well well, here's our entertainment for the night," Mike chuckled, eyeing Carlos up and down. "Look at that sweet ass, guys. Bet it'll look real nice stretched around a pool cue later."

The other men laughed and jeered, making lewd remarks about Carlos, calling him "Puta" and "Cockslut". Carlos burned with humiliation, feeling Gabriel's hand tighten on the chain around his neck.

The crimson red bra and panties did not last long as hungry hands tore them off his body.

Hands pulled and tugged on the nipple clamps causing pleasure to run through his body, a weird feeling while being degrade by men who had watched him grow up. 

Hands cupped his tight ass, fingers running over his hole slowly teasing it but not in the same loving way that TK did. None of this had any of the warmth or love that TK hands had. 

"Bend over the table and spread 'em, bitch," Gabriel ordered. Carlos obeyed with shaking legs, bracing himself against the rough wood. He felt the first slap on his bare ass and whimpered.

"Aw yeah, gotta mark up that pretty skin," Gabriel said. He punctuated his words with more open-handed slaps. Carlos yelped and squirmed but didn't dare pull away, knowing it would only make it worse. The men cheered Gabriel on, urging him to hit harder.

"Fuckin' puta's getting off on this, aren't ya whore?" Mike said. "Gonna come just from having your ass beat in front of us?"

Carlos shook his head, not that it matter, the guys had made up their mind as his father coughed to get their attention. “Winner of tonight's poker game gets to take Puta home for the weekend for it’s first outing.”

Carlos swallowed the lump in his throat as the men cheered. 

Chapter Text

Puta, as he is known now, stands in front of the mirror in the rundown motel room. He’s naked, of course, he only wears shorts when Master takes him to the gym to keep him valuable.

He has a silver metal chain around his neck with a small padlock, little metal clamps clipped onto his abused nipples and a bright pink cage on his cock. He hasn’t had an erection in months.

If he twisted around he would said the ‘PUTA’ tramp stamp above his well used asshole, what was once tight was now gapping. 

Once, a long time ago, Puta thinks he might’ve known what warmth felt like. Love, too, though even the word tastes foreign now. Distant. Like a song, he barely remembers the melody too.

That sensation, whatever it once was, has long since slipped from his skin.

A time when he only thought his father didn’t respect him, not when his father had banished him to a life of sexual servitude. 

Now, he exists for one thing. Used. Claimed. Shaped into something other people can consume and forget.

Right now, he’s lying on a cheap, stained mattress in a room that smells like smoke and stale beer. A man, yet another nameless, grunting blur is forcing his way inside him, fist deep, deeper still. It’s too much. It’s always too much. Puta doesn’t scream. Screaming stopped meaning anything a long time ago.

If anything, they liked the screaming. 

If his body split in half right now, it might be a mercy.

He stares at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, and lets his mind drift. That’s the trick. You go somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

He imagines a bar. Dim lighting. Music low and lazy in the background. A cute guy across the table, grinning over a whiskey glass. Pale skin, black hair, green eyes that sparkle like they’ve got secrets. A crooked smile and a sharp tongue.

Someone who would touch him without hurting. Someone who might see him.

He can almost remember a name, sitting on the edge of his tongue when he gets brought back to reality with a sharp smack across his face.

“Clean me you stupid fucking Puta.” The man orders, slapping Puta again when he moves too slowly, causing Puta to move quicker, despite the bruises and sore muscles but not quick enough to avoid another brutal slap, then another.

“You look so fucking good like that, with tears in your eyes and your cheeks swollen.”

The man cupped Puta’s jaw, forcing it open before he spat in it.

A couple of days later, give or take, it was hard to keep track and Puta was bouncing on some old man cock. If he knew the word shame anymore he would possibly feel it, but at least the old man only want to fuck him, none of the other degrading stuff that usually came with these visits.

Afterwards the old man runs a hand along Puta’s body, calling it exotic and delicious, kissing his skin but it’s not warmth, it’s not kind - no, it’s claiming, it’s ownership, it’s proving that Puta is nothing more than an object for his temporary attention.

Master turns up a few days later, and Puta is deseperate to please him, so it spends the day tidying the dirty motel room as much as it can. It doesn’t really matter, nothing Puta can do will be enough.

Puta waits on his knees, back facing the door, hands clasped behind his head and head ducked as Master enters the room. Master says nothing, just walks over to make himself a coffee. He opens a envelope on the motel counter that came a few days ago. Puta knows better than to open it’s mail.

“You’re behind on rent.” Master announces, “If you don’t find a way to make up the payment they’re going to kick you out.”

Puta feels sick, how is it possible he hasn’t got enough money when all he does all day is get fucked by strangers? 

“Master…”

“Shut up, boy, I don’t want to hear your snivelling.” Master spat out and Puta ducked his head again. “You always were weak and pathetic. Look at you, kneeling there with that metal contraption on your manhood. I should have it removed.”

Removed? The metal contraption? Freedom of his body again?

Master seems to see the thoughts running over his face because he smirked cruelly, “I meant your manhood, you aren’t using it anyway are you.”

“Master…” Puta starts, real fear in it’s stomach for the first time in months. 

“Here, look at this.” Master states, passing him a photo. There’s a cute guy in the picture, someone Puta feels he might know, with his arm around someone else.

“Do you remember him, do you remember T.K? Because he doesn’t remember you.”

Puta feels sick as he hears Masters zip unzip slowly.

“Come on boy, time to earn my visit, it’s a privilege to see me, isn’t it?”

Puta allowed his Master to pull his head over to his hard, leaking cock.

The blowjob wasn’t gentle, it was messy, punishing. Master gripped his hair tight, dragging him down his thick length until Puta choked, spit dribbling from his lips.

“Jess… so pathetic. I hope you don’t treat my guests this way, you filthy little slut.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Puta rasped, throat raw, lips trembling. But the apology barely left his mouth before Master shoved back in, deeper this time, cutting off his breath with cock and control.

His grip didn’t ease—if anything, it got tighter. Fist buried in Puta’s hair, Master used him like a toy, hips snapping forward, thick cock bruising his throat with every relentless thrust.

"Look at you," Master growled, voice dark with amusement. "Drooling all over yourself, eyes watering… and still not doing it right."

A sharp slap across his face burned him, and Puta's vision blurred, not sure if it was the tears or the heat pulsing between his legs. He whimpered, but that only earned him a deeper thrust, nose pressed against skin, the air stolen from his lungs.

"You want to be used, don’t you?" Master taunted, dragging him off just enough to let him gasp for a breath. "Beg for it. Let me hear how much you love choking on my cock like the desperate little whore you are."

Puta gagged as he tried to answer, spit and precum coating his lips, eyes glassy and unfocused. But Master wasn’t looking for words, instead he was watching with great joy the mess, the way his cock disappeared into that used throat over and over again.

"You're good for one thing, aren't you?" Master hissed, thrusting harder, faster, using Puta’s mouth like a sleeve. "Not thinking, not talking… just staying open and taking it."

A second slap echoed sharp across Puta’s cheek, his moan caught around Master’s cock. “Sloppy. Look at this mess—your face is soaked. You love being humiliated like this, don’t you?”

A whimper vibrated against his shaft, and Master laughed low. "Yeah, I feel that. Fucking twitching while I'm face-fucking you. Filthy fucking whore."

He didn’t slow. Just grabbed tighter, forced Puta all the way down, his nose flush against his base, the cock buried in his throat. He held him there, shuddering, groaning deep in his chest as his release hit, cock pulsing hard while he spilled down Puta’s throat.

"Swallow all of it," Master snarled. "Every drop. And don’t you dare spill a fucking thing, slut."

When he finally let go, Puta collapsed to the floor, coughing, spit and cum smeared across his chin. Master stood over him, satisfied, cock still twitching.

“Good little cumdump. Maybe next time, you’ll actually make me proud.”

Putas body was sore, his throat raw as Master finished drinking his coffee. 

Master grabbed him by the chain around his neck, Puta struggling to breath until he was dumped on the lino floor next the counter that had the sink, jug and microwave.

Trying to catch his breath, he was surprised but not shocked as a warm stream of piss hit his body, splashing across his chest and stomach, trickling down between his legs. The humiliation burned, but so did the heat of it, Puta didn’t dare move.

“Filthy little slut,” Master sneered, shaking the last few drops from his cock before tucking it back in. “Clean this mess up. With your tongue.”

Puta whimpered, his cheeks burning, but he crawled, obedient, dragging himself through the puddle. 

He looked upwards towards Master with tears in his eyes, hoping that the man who he used to call father might show some mercy. 

But he just saw disdain and disgust in those eyes. Master had always thought he wasn’t good enough and nothing changed now. 

“What are you waiting for?” Master barked out at him and Puta lowered his head, tongue out, licking the floor, tasting his Master’s piss mixed with his own tears.

Master watched from the doorway. “You want to be useful, you better sparkle this floor with your face, puta.”

The floor was dirty, the taste of piss and dirty filling his mouth and worse, he realised someone else had entered the room.

“Fuck he really is a gross faggot.” The new guy said as Master nodded.

“Do whatever you like, no one cares.”

He keeps the photo of TK stashed under his pillow, which is a blessing and a curse. For the first time in a long time he’s no longer numb but it also means for the first time in a long time he cries himself to sleep.

Going to the gym is the only break he gets. Two hours a day, three days a week. 

He doesn’t even care about the looks he gets from other gym goers, the way the chain and padlock smacks against his chest or the way the cock cage hurts his groin from bouncing.

He tried not using the changing room but Master was not impressed, demanding he shower in the open showers. 

That of course gets the other guys attention and he ends up getting fucked in the stalls, but at least it’s easier than at the hotel because no matter how degrading the gym bros think they are, it’s nothing on the motel guests.

A muscle daddy currently had him pinned against the tile wall, fucking his ass raw and deep, one hand gripping his hip like he owned it, the other fisting in Puta’s hair to keep his head back, throat bared.

“You like getting used, huh?” the man grunted, sweat dripping from his chest onto Puta’s back. “Bet you came here just begging for it.”

Puta moaned, cheek pressed to the cold tile, the filthy wet slap of skin echoing in the stall. Another guy watched from just outside, stroking his thick cock, waiting his turn. Maybe more.

It hurt—of course it did—but it was easier than the motel. These guys didn’t expect conversation. Didn’t drag it out. Just took what they wanted and left him dripping.

“Fuckin’ hole,” the muscle daddy growled, cock slamming in harder, deeper, until Puta cried out, legs nearly giving out. “Gonna fill you up and leave you leaking in the shower like the dirty slut you are.”

He came with a low snarl, slamming deep one last time and holding there, twitching. Then he pulled out fast, letting the cum spill, watching it ooze down Puta’s thigh.

“Next,” he called, zipping up, not even looking back.

And Puta? He didn’t move. Just stayed bent, ready, like a good little cumdump.

A sharp smack to his ass signaled the next guy, this one a younger, cocky twenty-something gym bro with a thick grin and an even thicker dick already out and ready.

“Damn, they weren’t kidding,” he laughed, grabbing Puta’s ass in both hands, spreading him open to admire the mess left behind. “This hole’s used . Just how I like it.”

Puta whimpered as the bro pushed in without warning, sliding easily through the cum-slick heat. His grip was rough, but playful—more teasing than brutal, but still claiming him like a toy left out for everyone.

“Fuck, you just take it, don’t you?” he said, hips slapping fast, shallow at first, then pounding harder. “Bet you’re tighter than you were ten dicks ago.”

He reached under to grip Puta’s hair, yanking his head up to see his own reflection in the stall door’s grimy metal. “Look at you. Bent over, dripping, just waiting for dick. Bet you’d live in this stall if they let you.”

His thrusts grew more erratic, breath hotter against Puta’s neck as he leaned in. “You’re lucky. Most of us just get a post-workout shake. You get a protein load straight to the hole.”

And with a final thrust, he buried himself deep, groaning as he filled Puta up. He stayed inside a moment, grinding slow, cock twitching before slipping free, another load added to the collection leaking down Puta’s thighs.

The stall door creaked again.

Another shadow.

Another voice.

“Still open?”

In the car, ass sore and dripping, Master gave him a backhand. “I take you to the gym to keep you, not so you can be a dirty little slut.”

Puta rubs his cheek, “I’m sorry Sir.”

It was barely light out when the knock came, sharp and impatient. An urgent call to attention.

Puta stirred from the mattress, groggy, wrapping a towel low around his hips. Too early for a guest. And guests didn’t knock.

He opened the door, blinking at the silhouette.

The motel owner.

“Out.”

Puta blinked, still waking, brows drawing together. “What?”

“You’re behind. Way behind. No money, no stay.”

“But, Master takes care of this…”

The man shrugged. “Not my problem. Grab your shit.”

The door slammed before he could beg for more time, to ring Master.

Ten minutes later, he was on the side of the road, barefoot, shorts clinging low on his hips, the morning chill raising goosebumps on his skin. His phone buzzed with a low battery warning, almost dead. No bag, Puta has almost no belongings anymore. No plan. Just a quiet hum of shame burning under his skin.

When Master pulled up in his unmarked white Ford F150, Puta’s heart stuttered. Relief mixed with dread.

Maybe he was going home.

Maybe Master would take him back—back to his bed, back to his mother, back to warmth and walls that didn’t reek of bleach and alcohol, cigarettes and bodily fluids.

But the truck didn’t turn toward home.

It rumbled to a stop outside the chain-link fence of a homeless camp he recognized. Too well.

Master leaned across the seat, sunglasses catching the morning sun.

“I found a solution,” he said, voice calm.

Puta looked at the tents. “Please, Master, no…”

“Out.”

Puta stepped out onto the dirt and stones and waited for Master to get out but instead he just drove off.

The issue with degrading someone is they get desensitive over time so you have to ramp up the humiliation.

Which is why Gabriel watches from his Ford F150 as Puta stands on the side of the road before he makes an anonymous phone call.

Less than five minutes later, Puta is being arrested by his former colleagues at the APD, handcuffed and thrown in the back of a patrol car in just his short black shorts with the chain around his neck, the tramp stamp tattoo clearly visible. 

The fear in his eyes bring a joy to Gabriel, watching the worthless piece of trash react again.

For Puta, the experience is terrifying, because for the first time ever he’s on the opposite side, being sneered at by cops, having his fingerprints taken, photographed and then chucked in a cell with five other criminals who are stare at him like he’s a piece of meat. 

The officers, his former colleagues openly mock him, causing the criminals in the cells to realise he’s ex–police, and they start their taunts, cornering Puta in the corner of the cell and beating, only stopping when a cop finally pulls them off.

Puta is released without charges and dumped somewhere on the fringes of the city for his long, barefoot walk back to base camp. 

The next day, a white woman, pretty, with long brunette hair who looks familiar to Puta walks up to him and touches his face, it’s gentle and it’s soft and she mutters a name he’s long since forgotten.

He looks at her, really looks at her, trying to place her but he can’t. 

Then a camera flash goes off in his eyes and he stumbles back and she’s gone. 

T.K opens the door, and finds a woman standing there, holding a flower that she’s staring at. He watches her for a moment before he coughs to get her attention.

“Ah, Can I help you?”

“Me?” She askes, sounding shocked by the question, “No, you can’t help me, I’m okay.”

T.K nods then, because honestly this isn’t the weirdest thing to have happened to him. “Oh, okay, well have a nice day.”

When he goes to close the door, she puts out her hand and shes surprising strong for someone so small and fragile. 

“You know Carlos right?”

T.K feels faint, he’s still not over his first serious boyfriend since the New York thing who went missing, presumed dead. It took all his inner strength and both his parents to stop him relapsing and even then it was a close call.

“Carlos Reyes” She repeats when he doesn’t reply.

“Uh, yes, we dated for a bit before he disappeared.”

“Disappeared, Carlos hasn’t disappeared.” the lady argues and T.K no longer has time for this.

“I’m sorry, but now’s not a good time” For whackjobs talking about his dead ex-boyfriend, which still tears a hole in T.K's heart. Some nights he reaches for pills that thankfully aren't there to get through the pain. Some nights he has to call Cooper at 3am in the morning to stop from finding a random seller on the streets of Austin.

“I think he needs you.” the lady says, looking at him with piercing eyes, like she’s looking into his soul. “He’s not well.”

“What…what do you mean.”

Because Carlos is gone. T.K has spent many nights awake, wishing he knew what happened to him.

The lady pulls out her phone, and taps the screen and T.K does half drop before he catches himself. 

There on the screen, shirtless, scuffy and scrawny is Carlos, with a chain around his neck and something on his nipples. He looks empty, like a shell.

“Where, where did you take this.”

“Base camp.” She replies, “I’m Iris.”

“This, this is amazing Iris, oh my god, we have to call his parents, we have to tell them that we found him, they’ll be over the moon.”

Chapter Text

For Gabriel, image was everything. 

He was a fine, outstanding man: A Texas Ranger, proud and noble. 

He didn’t make mistakes and he wasn’t weak, he wasn’t emotional, he wasn’t like his son.

How Carlos had ended up this way was beyond him. Was it having two older sisters or a mother who coddled him? Was it his fault for being away so much working on cases. 

He had once sworn to do everything in his power to protect Carlos but the one thing he couldn’t protect his son from was his son’s own failures. So now, now he didn’t have a son anymore. Luckily for Gabriel Reyes history is written by the victor, and fiction was better than reality.In this fictional world, Carlos had died a hero, on the job, a man’s death - one that people respected, one that got him sympathy and cold beers. Carlos, in his fictional death, was a better son than alive as a play pretend cop with the Austin Police Department. People felt sorry for Gabriel, rather than mocking him for having a weak son who let criminals escape and got fucked by other men.

As Puta Mujerzuela, his former son had gone some way towards making up for his failings but it would never be enough. No, the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of his faggot son would never be wiped clean. 

His only son was a pathetic little whimpering loser for a druggie from New York? 

Gabriel was taking the next steps to removing all traces of Carlos from his life; See, as a whore Puta had made him a lot of money, but being in the same town brought risks.

Even more so when T.K refuses to stop looking for him. One day T.K would find him and when that happened. Well, Gabriel couldn’t risk it. 

So he was arranging everything. First, in a couple of days a well placed plastic surgeon would remove Carlos’s manhood for him, making him smooth like a ken doll, removing the need for the cock cage and cementing his place as less than human.

Then, well then the Cartels would take care of him, ship him down to Central or South America… hell even Europe. Gabriel didn’t care, once Puta was gone, he was gone. 

His phone rings, and it’s bloody T.K again. The kid just won't stop hounding him with new theories on Carlos, he refuses to let him go.He considers letting it go to voicemail but instead answers it, thankfully so it turns out:

“T.K, look bud now’s not a good time.”

“Wait, this… this is important, I’ve found Carlos, did you hear that Gabriel, I found your son… he’s alive, isn’t that great. We can go rescue him.”

Time freezes around him  he almost drops his phone, he is not being undone by some twenty something punk from New York. 

Think Gabriel, think.

He forces a smile into his voice, sounding smooth as velvet, measured to sound appropriate shocked by the news. “That’s... incredible. Truly. That’s wonderful news. Tell me; where exactly did you find my son?”

“He’s in a homeless camp across town.”

“Just you,” T.K says, oblivious to what he’s stumbling into. “I figured since you’re law enforcement, you'd know what to do. We need to act fast Mr Reyse, Carlos doesn’t look well, it must of been months since he had proper care….” T.K’s voice breaks like a little bitch

“Yes,” Gabriel says, already moving toward the back office. “Yes, of course we do. Come here directly. We’ll contact the appropriate agencies and get everything started right away.”

He pauses at the threshold, dropping his voice into something cooler.

“Oh, and one more thing. This is very important. Tell no one. If this leaks before we’re in control, you could jeopardize everything. Understood?”

T.K agrees wholeheartedly, anything to save Carlos. 

Gabriel prepares the house for T.K.’s arrival, parking his Ford F-150 up against the garage for easy transport of the body. It’s gonna be messy, T.K going missing, with that nose bloody, fire captain certain to get involved with is why there has to be no loose ends. 

He could kill the other man, dump his body, probably even frame someone for i,t but questions will still be asked and there's too much risk. 

Or he can drug T.K the fuck up, get him addicted again, messed up and brainless and ship him off South America as well. Two birds, one stone.

T.K. arrives, alone and impatient, with a grainy photo and directions. Gabriel manages to convince him to sit down and brings him out a glass of water to help calm his nerves so they can focus. 

Or so the story goes. 

It only takes a few moments for the drugs to kick in and T.K is out cold, Gabriel bundles him up and drags him into the garage, where he loads him into the back of the truck. He sends Owen a text from T.K’s phone explaining that he’s going away for the weekend and he will have limited phone reception.

Owen texts back a ‘I love you son.’ and Gabriel feels almost sorry that the last text Owen will ever send T.K will never get to him. Oh well, life is cruel sometimes.

They get to the motel, the same one that Puta spent the last couple of months in before he got evicted after Gabriel ‘forgot’ to pay his rent. He gags and ties T.K with ease, slicing off his shorts so that his faggot ass is in the air, tempting and disgraceful. 

Real men should never present themselves like this, T.K is as much a disgrace to the Strand name as Puta was to the Reyes name.

Gabriel doesn’t bother waiting till T.K is awake, or opening him up, just ramming into the toy in front of him, enjoying the tightness. He spills quickly, before leaving T.K like that.

He has things to take care of.

Arranging to bring forward Puta’s operation is easy enough as Gabriel drives across town. He finds Puta trying to de-escalate a fight in the homeless camp under the highway overpass, like the bleeding heart liberal he is. 

He flashes his badge, and it scares off the bozo’s, nut jobs and whackos, and leaves Puta cowering before him. It doesn’t take much to get Puta to climb in the back of his truck as they drive across town to the doctor’s clinic. 

They use the side entrance and walk down the long corridor, Puta barefoot beside him, head down, silent like he should be. The hallways are long, sterile, lined with flickering fluorescent lights that make Puta look even smaller than he already is. His steps are silent. His head bowed. Just the way Gabriel likes it.

The nurse is waiting, and Gabriel admires how young and efficient she is, no questions asked. She nods and gestures them through a pair of double doors.

The operating room is colder than the hall. Stainless steel gleams under the surgical lights. A narrow table waits in the center, black restraints already laid out across it.

Puta hesitates, so Gabriel elbows it. 

Puta doesn’t resist. He simply shivers, his skin goose-pimpling under the chill.

They lay him back on the table.

The first restraint goes over his right wrist. Then the left, his ankles are next, clamped into place so he can’t move. 

Not that he’s struggling, that fire went out ages ago. But he is breathing faster.

Gabriel steps closer, leans in, his voice low, just for him. “You’ll thank me later.” It’s a lie, but it feels good to say it.

Puta doesn’t respond, but the way his eyes flicker in fear, just once, toward the surgical tray beside him says everything and gives Gabriel that feeling of almighty power. 

The doctor entered, giving Gabriel a slight smile before looking down at naked Carlos, sorry, Puta, his manhood uncaged for the first time in months so that it could be removed for good. 

Gabriel stood just off to the side, his arms crossed, watching Puta strapped to the surgical table like a specimen awaiting dissection. Everything was going to plan.

Then…. bang.

A door slammed open somewhere down the corridor.

Boots. Heavy and urgent entering the room. Multiple pairs.

Gabriel’s head snapped toward the sound. The nurse froze mid-step.

Another bang . Closer now. Muffled shouting.

“ Austin Police! Everyone on the ground NOW! ”

The double doors to the operating room burst inward, crashing open under the weight of two armored officers in tactical gear, weapons drawn and aimed directly at Gabriel.

“Hands where we can see them! Now! ”

Gabriel lifted his hands slowly, calm despite the chaos. “You’ve got the wrong guy”

“Don’t,” the lead officer snapped, cutting him off. “Gabriel Reyes, you’re under arrest for unlawful detainment, conspiracy to commit bodily harm, and abuse of authority.”

More officers flooded the room, two breaking off to secure the nurse, another rushing to Puta’s side. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, the restraints tight against his skin. His eyes fluttered open, glassy but awake

How had this happened Gabriel asked himself? 

Just as he watched that bloody fire captain, Captain Owen Strand enter the room, and run a comforting and kind hand over Puta’s face. 

“Carlos, can you hear me Carlos, you’re safe now, I promise you.”

See there’s one thing that Gabriel wasn’t counting on through, one piece of the puzzle under the table that he didn’t see, one ray of hope. 

That was Iris.

As Gabriel left the motel to go take care of a few things, find a chemist who could help load him up with some drugs to ruin T.K for good this time, he didn’t notice the crazy eyed, skinny girl with gaunt features and long, dark hair.

She scuttled up the stairs, two at a time, heart pounding with urgency and rage. The door to the motel room, Room 209 was locked, of course and she couldn’t have kicked in.

And this was a run-down motel in a rough neighborhood. The walls were thin, the guests nosy, and all she needed was a scene.

Iris didn’t hesitate, she knew exactly what to do.

She slammed her palm against the door, over and over, loud enough to echo across the entire second floor. “You cheating bastard! ” she screamed, voice cracking with theatrical fury. “Open the goddamn door! I knew it!”

She threw in a few sobs for good measure, clawing at the door like a woman scorned, then turned and banged on the adjacent wall. “You think I won’t burn this whole dump to the ground? ”

The door next to her creaked open a few inches. A bleary-eyed woman with mascara smudged under her eyes peered out, followed by a shirtless man trying to look annoyed and interested at the same time.

“What’s going on?” the woman asked.

Iris sniffled, instantly shifting from rage to desperation. “Please, I need your help. My fiancé’s cheating on me in that room. I just need to get onto the balcony…just to see. Please. I won’t do anything crazy, I swear.”

The woman hesitated, glanced at the man who shook his head like ‘Bitch, she gonna do somethingy crazy’, then opened the door wider. “This place is a hellhole anyway. Go.”

Iris slipped inside, murmured a frantic thank-you, and crossed to their sliding balcony door. She yanked it open, climbed over the low railing with all the grace of a jungle cat, and dropped onto the narrow concrete balcony of Room 209.

Room 209’s curtains were half-closed. But the glass sliding door was unlocked, so she slid it open with a soft click , slipped inside, and then she stopped cold in her tracks.

There, tied to the bed, wrists raw against the ropes, was T.K. with torn shorts at his ankles.

When T.K came around, he was cold but sweaty, sore… oh, so sore and pantless, sitting in a damp, mouldy room. It looked like a motel room, with the crazy chick from his door sitting opposite him. 

His face stung from where she slapped him, hard and then again. She wasn't messing around.

“I know it sucks but you can’t take forever to get your shit together, he’s going to cut Carlos open, T.K., do you understand, we need to get to Carlos first”

She was right, there was a lot he was going to have to process, but now was not the time. Using the reception phone line (standing pantless in the reception did not get as many stares as he expected, and the one guy who cupped his ass stopped the moment Iris glared at him with a kinda crazy you couldn’t fake.)

The police went straight to the homeless camp and wait, following Reyes white Ford to the Clinic before intercepting. 

Owen came to the motel, with a pair of pants and picked up T.K and Iris and drove them to the Clinic.

As the paramedics wheeled Carlos out, T.K ran over to him. “Babe, babe you’re okay…”

Now, as much as being rescued was amazing, it was also overwhelming and Carlos couldn’t cope, pushing poor T.K. away. The paramedics tried to explain, and logically T.K. understood but it still hurt, still cut deep despite Tommy and Nancy’s gentle words.

“He just needs some time to breathe, to process, I’m sure you can understand.” Tommy said gently as she closed the doors on the ambulance.

T.K. nodded numbly, but the words bounced off the ache swelling in his chest. Because it didn’t matter that it made sense. It didn’t matter that he understood.

It still felt like being gutted.

Owen came up beside him, steady but gentle. “Son, you know he’s been through hell lately. And so have you. You need to let the doctors take a look at you , too.”

T.K. shook his head at first, stubbornness and shame twisting together in his stomach. “I’m fine,” he lied. “I just want to stay with him.”

But he wasn’t fine, not really, not deep down - and to be honest, not even that deep down.

T.K. felt the tears well in his eyes, as he explained to his dad he was scared to know the truth that frankly, he already knew. He was kidnapped, and woke up pantless and sore, like can hardly walk sore, in a dirty motel room.

He knew.

He just didn’t want to know.

He hadn’t said the words out loud yet. Maybe because saying it would make it real. “I don’t want to know what happened,” he admitted hoarsely. “I mean….I do. But… I already do, and I just…” His voice broke. “I don’t want it to be true.”

Owen’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained soft. “I know, son. But you need to be checked out. You need to be treated. Not just for your body,but for your heart , too.”

T.K. nodded, tears brimming now, hot and helpless.

“I’ll come with you,” Owen said firmly, already motioning for the EMT. “You’re not alone in this. I’ve got you. You hear me?”

“But Dad…” he croaked out as they started toward the ambulance. “I feel like I’m back to day zero. And the worst part? It’s not even my fault.”

All those hard days and nights struggling with addiction, and just like, thanks to that drugged drink he was back to day zero. 

Owen pulled him close, wrapping him in a hold that didn’t fix anything but made the world a little less unbearable.

“I know, son,” he whispered. “I know. And I’ll carry that weight with you. Every step of the way.”

“Thanks dad,”

It was all a dream, a beautiful dream but dream none the less…

Carlos gasped awake with a ragged breath, the warmth replaced by damp cold biting into his skin. His back ached. His legs were cramping. The floor beneath him was hard, freezing concrete. The stink of mildew and rust filled his nostrils as he looked around.

The dream had lied.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked gasps as he looked down and saw his naked body curled on the filthy floor. A shiver racked him, but it wasn’t from the cold.

He was still here.

Still trapped.

Still Puta.

Carlos scrambled upright, his palms scraping the concrete, his knees weak. But the moment he surged forward, the iron around his ankle snapped taut, jerking him back down hard with a sharp clang that echoed through the room.

Chains.

He was still chained.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he clawed at the manacle. His fingers were raw. Bruised. Useless. “Please, not again….please…..”

The sound of a lock turning froze him, turning to watch as the door opened slowly.

A silhouette filled the frame, with broad shoulders, deliberate steps, Carlos’s body tensed, breath trapped in his throat.

The figure approached, boots heavy on the concrete. When he stopped, he crouched down in front of him, face still hidden in dim light.

Then the man reached out, his rough fingers curling in Carlos’s hair and yanked his head up.

Carlos whimpered, blinking rapidly against the sudden pain and the sting of reality.

Carlos stared into the man's face—blurred at the edges from the dim light and the fog of his own panic. He was older, maybe mid-fifties, with a weathered face that might have once passed for kind. Now it was carved with cruelty, deep lines etched by years of wielding power in the dark.

The man’s fingers tightened in Carlos’s hair, tilting his head further until it ached. Carlos didn’t fight. He couldn’t. His muscles were spent, his spirit hanging on by a thread.

“You dreamed, didn’t you?” the man asked softly, mockingly. “You saw your pretty boy—what’s his name? T.K.? You thought he came to save you.”

Carlos’s breath hitched.

The man chuckled. “God, you should’ve seen your face. Hope… that’s the real poison, isn’t it? Gets in your bloodstream. Makes you believe you’re something more than you are.”

He released his grip suddenly, letting Carlos’s head drop. Carlos slumped forward, forehead hitting the floor with a dull thud, the sting sharp, grounding.

“Tell me,” the man said as he stood, pacing slowly now, boots clicking in rhythmic echoes. “When you thought you were rescued—did you cry? Did you tell him you loved him? Or were you too ashamed of what you’d become?”

Carlos didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was dry, lips cracked, words buried beneath layers of humiliation and exhaustion.

A kick landed hard in his ribs—not full force, but enough to make him jolt, enough to remind him who he was here.

“ Answer me, Puta. ”

Carlos gasped, breath knocked out of him. “I… I didn’t say anything.”

Another kick, sharper this time.

“Liar.”

The man crouched again, face close now, breath sour against Carlos’s cheek. “You thought about it. Begging. Crying. Letting him scoop you up like the broken little thing you are. Didn’t you?”

Carlos squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block him out. Trying not to shatter.

But it was already too late.

Because even now, even with the pain, part of him still wanted the dream to be real.

And the man saw it.

He smiled again. “You’re not a cop anymore. You’re not a boyfriend. You’re not even Carlos, are you? Just a dirty fuckhole for real men.”

He leaned in.

“You’re mine, at least for now.”

Carlos shook his head, above him a light glow and a softer, kinder voice rang out “Carlos.”

A voice—soft, shaky, full of breath and disbelief.

“Carlos, baby… wake up. You’re safe.”

The world shifted. The concrete floor fell away. The cold chains vanished.

Carlos blinked.

There were fluorescent lights above him, burning his eyes as he blinked things into focus. Next to him the beeping of a heart monitor. A steady rhythm next to his ear. Clean linens. The distant sound of hospital shoes squeaking on tile.

And a hand, oh god, a warm, trembling hand gently cupping his cheek. Not rough and impersonal, not inspecting him, no this was comforting him.

“T.K.?” Carlos rasped, voice raw like he’d swallowed gravel.

T.K. exhaled, tears already tracking down his face. “Yeah, yeah it’s me. You’re here. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe now, I promise.”

Carlos flinched as he tried to sit up, panic still thrumming in his chest like it hadn’t gotten the message yet. “The… the room. The man. The chains…”

“Just a dream,” T.K. whispered, brushing the sweat-matted curls from his forehead. “It’s over. You’re here with me.”

Carlos looked around, his eyes drinking in every sterile detail of the room like he didn’t quite believe it yet. The IV drip. The oxygen line taped under his nose. The whiteboard with the date scribbled in black marker. He wasn’t on a concrete floor. He was on a hospital bed. Clean. Safe.

“I thought…” Carlos swallowed hard. “I thought I was still there.”

“I know,” T.K. said, barely holding it together. “You’ve been in and out for hours. Fever, sedation, it’s all messed with your head. But you’re here now. And I’m not letting you go. Ever again.”

Carlos reached for his hand, squeezing it like a lifeline. “Please don’t let go.”

“Never,” T.K. whispered. “Not for anything.”

** Six months later**

It was surprisingly difficult to get Carlos back into his old identity, the levels of corruption at the Texas Rangers, the APD, the Mayor's office ran deep but sitting outside the same Boba shop from all those years ago, Carlos thumbed his drivers license in his hand.

Carlos thumbed his driver’s license, running his fingers over the name.

Carlos Reyes.

It was his name again.

It felt foreign in his hand.

Carlos Reyes.

T.K. sat across from him, sipping boba tea through a wide straw, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, watching the street like he was memorizing it. Like the city was an old friend who might vanish at any second. No sirens today. No radio calls. Just the humid Austin breeze and the occasional laughter of someone passing by.

“You ready for therapy, babe?” T.K. asked gently.

Carlos slid his license back into the wallet, then the wallet into the front pocket of his jeans. Even that felt strange. Owning things. Wearing things.

There had been a time, too long, too soon when he’d been naked, collared, and caged, treated like property for anyone with a dollar. When his cock had been locked down like it didn’t belong to him, a cruel reminder that nothing did. That he was less than, because he had been. 

That cage was long gone now, at least physically it was. Mentally, there were times when he could feel it. The phantom weight. The shame.

Some nights, it kept him from getting hard. His own body still flinched from his boyfriend’s hands. Still obeyed the invisible rules someone else had etched into his skin.

T.K. never pushed. Never looked disappointed. Just smiled that small, heartbreakingly kind smile and held him through the frustration, the rage, the silence. It helped. Most days, it helped.

But some days?

Carlos still woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, convinced he was back in the dark. In the warehouse. Shackled, waiting for the next man to use him like a toy, or to be shipped away from America, away from hope. Some nights he wondered if this was real, if T.K was real. If he was really safe, really free.

And worse, he still couldn’t be around strangers without studying their hands. Their eyes. The way they moved. Any twitch too sudden, any voice too deep and he braced. Flinched. Made up excuses to leave early. Every shadow felt like it might pull him under again because how could he know if those men had ever used him in the dark room. How could he know they weren't waiting to rip him away from his life again.

It had happened so quickly, so fully, by the people he thought loved him unconditionally. 

He hadn’t stepped into a public restroom in weeks.

He couldn’t walk through crowded places without his heart rate spiking. Not unless T.K. was with him. Not unless he could see the exits.

And yet, sitting across from the man he loved, the man who had fought to get him back, he nodded.

“Yeah,” Carlos said softly. “I’m ready.”

Not because he felt ready.

But because he had to keep trying.

Because surviving wasn’t the same as healing. And he was tired of just surviving.

T.K. reached out, took his hand across the table, warm and grounding.

“You’re doing amazing,” he said quietly, like a secret. “And I’ve got you. Every step.”