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He’s surprised to see her, a little. Sure, word’s gotten around, and her work with Interpol has her in town from time to time, so it’s not so strange that she knows. But he didn’t exactly expect to see her here. There’ve been a few, prosecutors he once faced and defeated who came to take advantage of his situation, but mostly, people he knew from before have steered clear. Don’t speak to him. Won’t even look at him.
Maybe this is better, in a way.
“I know why you’re here,” he says. His voice sounds different, he’s sure she notices. Like a rusty latch. Blown out from screaming.
Franziska is frozen in the doorway, the coils of her whip clenched between her hands. Phoenix gets to his feet and goes to her. His eyes are drawn to the supple leather. Just the sight of it makes a hum start up at the base of his skull. “Take your whip to me,” he says. “I’ll like it.” His mouth quirks up in a wry sort of smile. “It’ll cost you, though. Gotta keep the lights on.”
He expects it right away, a flash of hot agony. That’s how it would’ve been, before. She had no trouble whipping him in court - in front of everyone, fuck - when he was someone else, someone who startled and sputtered and didn’t get it up.
She was just another hazard, like thrown coffee or sore palms from slamming the bench. He didn’t really think about it. Not then.
Now, he sees her raise her whip and he sucks in a breath and he’s ready, but this one time, she hesitates. He’s burning for it and she isn’t even looking at him. Her eyes are soft and far away.
Panic sparks in his chest. What are you doing? Don’t tease me, please! If he isn’t even good enough for this -
Was I not clear enough? Is that why?
He strips, not that he was wearing much to begin with, and stands naked in front of her. If he was a different man, it might’ve been an act of intimidation. What he reveals is the body of a punching bag, a piece of public property. He sees her looking at his scars. They don’t all have them, guys like him. Bruises, yeah, that’s pretty much inevitable, but a lot of people draw the line at taking permanent marks. Not him. There are welts in various stages of healing all over his body, angry red where they broke the skin. Knife cuts low on his belly, shallow little scores from someone who wanted to watch him squirm and bleed and cry and told him over and over not to come. A slash across his thigh, his punishment for coming anyway. He isn’t worth much as a sub. Can’t follow orders to save his life. He’s nothing but a painslut, a quivering bag of meat and nerves, fit only to take and take and take.
Franziska sees all of that as she looks him up and down. Phoenix has gotten good at reading people - better late than never, right? - and he can guess at what she’s thinking. He disgusts her, that much is obvious, but there’s a chance it’s the turned-on kind of disgust sadists feel. He waits for her to spit on him and leave. He hopes she’ll force him to his knees, make him suck on the tip of her whip and then split his mouth with it. His skin tingles, and he feels his cock start to fill. Fuck, he really hopes she won’t leave. She’s brutal, and he needs it. Fucking shameless, charging for it, but what else is he good for?
More sure of himself, as his mind starts to fog. The world turns soft, and things fall into place. No point in groveling for her, he thinks. She’d scoff, and turn on her heel and go. Bratting’s more likely to get him what he needs. “Do it if you want,” he says, eyes locked on hers. He drops his guard enough to let his resentment show. “I’m happy to take the money. I don’t have my badge, after all.” Bitterness in the set of his mouth. Let her see him for what he really is, disgusting and mercenary and not worth anyone’s pity.
The touch of her whip makes his skin sing.