Chapter 18 #2
Where is the boy who collapsed in my arms? Where is the voice that cracked with real terror?
"One more time," Vale said, still patient but strain creeping in around the edges. "I think you can go deeper, Thorn."
Take twelve.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Each performance technically flawless, each one missing the raw honesty that made 'Poison Saviors' devastating. Kieran moved through the basement like he was following a script, settling into the chair at the song's decrescendo with control. Vale's teeth ached with frustration.
He's protecting himself. He’s building walls again after I spent four days tearing them down.
"Oh my god," Eliza said after attempt twenty-two, reviewing footage on her camera's small screen. "This is incredible. The way he moves around the space—it's like watching someone try to escape their own skin. And that moment when he finally surrenders to the chair? Fucking gorgeous."
Vale forced his expression into something approaching satisfaction. "It's certainly... polished."
"Polished? It's raw as hell. Look at this shot." She angled the camera toward him. "The vulnerability, the way the lighting catches the bandages—it's like watching someone bleed poetry."
She sees what she wants to see. Surface-level artistry instead of authentic suffering.
"You know what," Vale said, checking his watch, "I think we should do one more full run-through. Just to make sure we're not settling for good when we could have great."
Eliza nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. You want me to adjust anything? Lighting, angles?"
"Actually, could you do me a favor? Run into town and grab lunch for the three of us? There's a café about twenty minutes down the road." Vale smiled that warm, paternal smile that always made people want to listen to him. "We can give Thorn time to reset, then we'll do our final take."
"Of course! Any preferences?"
"Surprise us," Vale said, already moving to usher her toward the stairs. "Something substantial. It’s been a long shoot."
The front door closed with finality, and Vale listened to Eliza's car disappear down the gravel drive before returning to the basement. Kieran stood in the center of the space, still wrapped in gauze, looking like a question mark waiting for instruction.
I’ll give you everything you need, sweetheart.
"Twenty-two attempts," Vale said quietly.
Kieran's shoulders tensed. "I—I thought the l-last few were good. Eliza seemed—"
"Eliza is a film major who thinks surface-level pretty pain is the same thing as authentic vulnerability." Vale moved closer, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper, "But I know the difference. I've heard you sing with real honesty, Kieran. What you just gave us wasn't honest."
"I was d-doing my best—"
"You were lying." Vale's hand found Kieran's throat, his thumb tracing the edge of gauze wrapped around his throat. "Do you think I can't tell when you're protecting yourself from your own words?"
The tears started immediately. "I don't kn-know how to—with her here, I c-couldn't—"
"You couldn't access the honesty. You couldn't let yourself feel the words instead of just singing them." Vale's grip tightened. "Because honesty requires the right conditions, doesn't it?"
Kieran nodded, tears spilling over now. "I'm s-sorry. I tried, I r-r-really tried—"
"I know you did." Vale's voice turned gentle, understanding. "Which is why we're going to have one final lesson before she comes back."
"P-pl-please," Kieran whispered. "Not with her coming back. Not—"
"Especially with her coming back." Vale smiled, warm and patient and absolutely immovable. "So you can learn to carry the truth in your voice even when everything's gone wrong. Even when you're breaking."
I need this. I need to see you break one more time before you perform. And you know you need it too.
Vale moved his hand up to stroke Kieran’s jaw, feeling the slight tremor in the muscle there. "Kneel for me, beautiful boy."
Kieran's knees hit the stone with a soft thud as the most beautiful sob bubbled out of him, his eyes locked on Vale, magnetic even in their terror.
"P-please, Vale, don't—"
God, you're exquisite when you beg.
Vale couldn’t hide his shaking hands as he fumbled with his zipper, the basement air cool on his heated skin as his cock sprang free—hard and throbbing, veins pulsing with anticipation as he gripped the base and guided Kieran's head forward. Kieran’s lips hovered inches from the swollen head, quivering, as he whimpered, trying to shake his head.
"P-please, no, Vale—d-don't…I-I-I'll sing better, I pr-prom-promise, just—not…I c-can't—" His hands fluttered up, pressing weakly against Vale's thighs as if to push him away, eyes wide and glistening with fresh tears.
But Vale twisted his fingers in his hair, pulling him closer until the tip brushed those quivering lips. "Let me in, sweetheart."
Kieran's lips parted hesitantly, warm and soft, enveloping the crown in slick heat, and Vale sucked in a breath through his teeth at the sensation—the velvet slide of that mouth, the faint scrape of teeth before Kieran opened wider. "Good boy, that's it."
Kieran's hands clutched desperately at the hem of Vale's shirt, his fingers twisting into the fabric with a white-knuckled grip.
"Wider," Vale murmured, his hips rocking gently at first, inching deeper into the wet tightness. "Use your tongue. Relax."
Kieran's tongue moved awkwardly, exploratory, lapping at the underside and circling the ridge, sending jolts of pleasure up Vale's spine that made his balls tighten and pre-cum bead at the tip, slick against the boy's hesitant swipes. Tears glistened on his cheeks, his grip on the shirt tightening.
"Your tears make you so beautiful. Look at me—don't look away." Vale's grip on Kieran’s hair tightened as he pushed deeper, feeling his throat flutter and resist around his shaft.
"Focus, sweetheart," he moaned, the words ragged as pleasure built, his cock sliding over the flat of Kieran's tongue, bumping the back of his throat. Kieran gagged, his throat convulsing around him, muscles squeezing in a way that nearly undid Vale right there.
Kieran’s head jerked back with a desperate tug, his hands yanking harder on Vale's shirt hem. "I-I c-can't breathe. P-p-lease–!"
But Vale pulled him back down, forcing his cock deeper until Kieran's nose pressed against his pelvis, lips stretched wide around the base.
Kieran's face turned bright red as he twisted in panic, saliva dripping from his chin in messy strings as he slammed his fist into Vale’s hip, jerking his head back again.
"Vale, p-please slow down! I c-can't—let me breathe—"
Vale couldn’t stop. Kieran’s sad eyes and melodic whimpers cast a spell on him. There was no world where he could have stopped.
Vale grabbed his head with both hands and slammed back into Kieran’s mouth.
The basement filled with wet, choking sounds—the obscene gluck of his cock plunging into the boy's throat, spit bubbling at the corners of Kieran's mouth as he struggled.
When another gag ripped free, a violent retch that made Kieran's body heave, Vale dug his nails into Kieran’s scalp.
Mine. You're mine and you're going to break beautifully for me.
Tears streamed down Kieran's face, mixing with snot, his breaths ragged and desperate, pleas muffled around the thick intrusion filling his mouth that only heightened Vale's arousal, his cock twitching with each spasm of the boy's throat.
Vale held his gaze, those eyes pleading, wide and wet and utterly captivating.
Pleasure coiled hot at the base of Vale's spine like a damned symphony reaching its discordant peak. Kieran’s face was a canvas of sacred degradation, his tears the ink of hymns written in flesh and submission, every choking whimper and gag a stanza in the ballad of his shattering.
"Fuck, that's it—take all of it," Vale groaned, the words spilling out unbidden, crude and filthy in a way that shocked even him. He rarely swore aloud, but something about it made fire race up his spine as he thrust harder. "Choke on me, beautiful—you were made for this, for me."
It felt so right, so fucking perfect, like desecrating an altar to birth something divine.
“So fucking good for me…so fucking good. I’m going to cum, fuck, fuck, mmhm—FUCK—!
” He let out a low gasping moan as he thrust deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his orgasm hit and flooded Kieran's throat.
Vale held him flush against his pelvis, forcing him to swallow convulsively around the pulsing shaft.
He pulled back, still gasping, as he tucked himself away with trembling hands, his cock still twitching with aftershocks as he watched Kieran gasp and dry heave. Kieran let out a broken sound, raw and hoarse, his face a mess of tears, snot, and smeared saliva streaked with cum.
Look at him. Ruined and radiant.
Now he'll sing like I need him to.
By the time Eliza returned with lunch, Kieran looked hollowed out from the inside. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, swaying on his feet like someone fighting to remain upright.
There you are. Finally ready to tell the truth.
"Ready for the final take?" Eliza asked while adjusting her settings on the steadicam. If she noticed Kieran's deteriorated state, she didn’t say anything. That was one of the reasons Vale hired Eliza. She had the makings of an industry vulture.
"More than ready," Vale said. Kieran nodded mutely. "I think this one's going to be special."
When the cameras rolled again, everything was different.
Kieran began with his back to the camera, shoulders hunched, guitar cradled against his body as he started the opening lines.
"Built a temple out of skin and bone,
But the architect was never shown."
Each word felt torn from his throat, and he began moving—not the same blocking from earlier takes, but desperate, restless motion like a parasite fighting its way out of a dying host. His hands found the stone walls between phrases, palms pressed flat against cold surface as if seeking stability, then returned to the strings.
His breath between lines was audible, ragged, like someone barely maintaining control, but still breathing in time with the song to create another element.
As he moved into the second verse, his voice grew stronger, his arms wrapped around himself protectively—or as protectively as someone holding a guitar could manage. The instrument became part of his body language, a shield and a burden at once.
Beautiful boy. Show them what I made you.
The pre-chorus built with desperate intensity. Kieran stopped moving entirely, frozen in the center of the space, every muscle tense, his voice climbing.
Then the chorus ripped out of him:
"I'm a heretic in my own cathedral,
Worshipping at the shrine of fear,
Every prayer's a betrayal, every tear is insincere;
How can I let you love me when I don't trust my own design?
This temple that I'm living in was never meant to house divine…"
His movements became erratic, hands gesturing helplessly at the air like trying to catch something that kept slipping away.
By the third verse, Kieran worked himself into something approaching a trance-like state. He pressed his forehead against the wall, his voice took on a heat reserved for rock vocals in some areas as the words poured out of him.
In the final chorus. Kieran's voice soared and shattered simultaneously. During the lines about maybe love meaning letting someone see the cracks in your design, his eyes found the camera lens and held it—direct, devastating eye contact that felt like watching someone's soul being flayed open.
The outro was whispered, contemplative, Kieran finally still as his voice dropped to something barely audible:
"So I'll unlock the heavy doors,
Let the light touch the floor;
Of this temple made of fear and shame,
And maybe learn to love my name."
The final note faded to silence as he pulled the strap of the guitar over his head and held the instrument by the neck, still staring into the camera. He collapsed into the chair at the room's center, letting his guitar drop as his lower lip began to quiver.
Vale sat breathless, unable to find words for the perfection he witnessed—
Then Kieran's expression changed.
"I don't feel good," Kieran whispered, his eyes wide as he moved his gaze from the camera to Vale. There was a fear in his eyes, like Death himself had manifested in the room and was tapping his watch.
His eyes rolled up and to the left, fixed on nonexistent points in space. His body went rigid in the chair, his back arching and hands curling inward toward his chest as the tonic phase of a seizure took hold.
"Stop recording!" Vale commanded, already moving toward Kieran. "Eliza, stop the camera and help me get him on the floor!"
Vale caught Kieran's stiff body, scooping him from the chair as he dropped to the ground, cradling his head as the clonic phase of the seizure began: full body spasms, eyes still fixed, drool bubbling out of the corner of his mouth as small grunts accompanied each devastating rhythmic jerk.
And as Vale cradled Kieran's seizing form, something unexpected crashed through the pounding in his ears.
It wasn’t fear for his project. It wasn’t even concern about his methods being exposed. Nor was it about losing the artist or the voice or the beautiful broken instrument he'd been creating.
It was pure, unbridled terror.
Terror at the thought of losing this specific boy.
Kieran.
Don't leave me. Christ, don't you dare leave me.
The seizure lasted forty seconds—an eternity compressed into less than a minute. When Kieran's body finally went limp, Vale rolled him into the recovery position, checking his airway.
"Is he okay?" Eliza's voice came from somewhere far away, high and panicked. "Should I call 911?"
"No," Vale said. "He has epilepsy. This happens sometimes. He'll come around." He brushed hair back from Kieran's damp forehead. "Stay with me, sweetheart. I'm right here. You're going to be okay."