#noncon references tw

[kim-poce]

Full House/Pet-verse question: How do people become pets? Eri pretty much immediately clocked Day and Night as guard dogs, so were they born for that purpose (how German Shepherds are bred to be attack dogs) or were they rounded up somehow and, because of their size, designated guard dogs and trained accordingly?

BBU Worldbuilding. Heed the warnings.

CW: BBU (boy box universe), pet whump, institutionalized slavery, human trafficking (including children), kidnapping (including children), child abuse in general just to be sure, talks of sex slavery, racism, classism, ableism, noncon body modification (includes mutilation), food control, near death experience, torture, brainwashing, long term captivity, minor whumpee. If I forgot to tag anything PLEASE let me know.

Officially, pets are people who signed up to the facility. There are laws for it; adult applicants must have a witness, underage applicants as young as 12 years old must have the guardian’s permission and at least three witnesses; after a test, the applicant can choose which, from the given option, kind of pet they wish to be. No children under 12 allowed.

Unofficially, there is a lot of illegal human slavery, the consent papers are often fake or forced, and children really young go to the facility often and the register about it is erased.

The facilities avoid illegal acquisition because there are several people against the BBU system, people who jump at them at any given chance. There are however circumstances that makes them more prone to illegal acquisition:

Children: Easier to train and more moldable to whatever the client wants. 

Foreign people: Some clients want specific races that do not always come by so they don’t lose a chance when they get one.

Neurodivergent people: Again, some clients have specific tastes.

Pretty people/People with unique features: For obvious reasons.

Training and Customization

The training is personalized both to the client's tastes and to the pet needs. Touch starved pets are sold to not-touching clients, pets allergic to fur are sold to people with no animals and so on.

In matters of customization, well, as long as the client pays, the facility will make ANY body modification asked: tattoos, piercings, removal of vocal cords/eyes/hands/etc, sewing the mouth and make the alimentation integrally IV, and so on. The more hardcore modification the less it is shown to the public.

Another important point is alimentation: To the underaged pets (the ones who are still growing) the alimentation is controlled. Guard dogs's rations are really nutritious and meant to make them big and strong. Lapdogs are feed enough to survive so they can be small and cute. Domestic and General pets are fed in an irregular way so they can work under any circumstances. Romantic Pets are usually also kept small, but the future owner can "customize" them (feed less if small, more if big, if they want the pet thin or fat, hair length, etc). 

Guard dogs: Torture with no regard to scarring. Trained in martial arts and weapon use over stamina and strength training. Kept 24/7 with a shock collar and when the client pays enough they are implanted with a kill switch. During training, the torture often gets them in the brink of death, this happens so whoever owns them after it’s “merciful” in comparison, so the pet will see them as a “savior” and don’t try to fight back.

Lapdogs: Trained to be as touch starved as possible. Torture usually leaves little to no scars. fed and touched as little as possible so their owner may be their only source of comfort. The training is usually about being as still as possible, acting cute, identifying tricks and traps and acting as such, and makeup and hairstyle. Also, they learn to undergo pain in silence unless told otherwise.

Romantic Pets: Torture leaves little to no scars. Trained to be silent until told otherwise. Kept touch starved all the time but during sex, they have stamina training, and acting lessons so they look as if they are really enjoying it. Their interaction with everything and everyone in a non-sexual setting is cut so sex can be their only form of comfort and contact with other people. Training includes long periods of torture with no apparent reason, where the pet is kept in constant pain, the pain only stops during sex training so they make the realtion of “no sex=pain.”

Domestic Pets: Torture with no regard to scarring. Punished for every sound they make. Not allowed to talk until said otherwise, choke collar activated by speech (and it is kept on n moment they are obligated to speak so even allowed words hurt). Training includes cleaning and cooking lessons, made to overwork with little to no food, hours and hours of repetitive tasks.

General pets: Torture with medium scarring. Usually they sign up as adults and aren’t conventionally attractive so they go into basic training for all types of pets and are sold at a cheaper price.

The Full House pets:

If you want to know about other's series pets, please ask.

Beige: He is a Domestic Pet who voluntarily  signed up when he was a young adult. He had no family.

Pink: He is a Lapdog who voluntarily signed himself when he was a teen. The money went to his father. One trainer tried to make him into a Romantic Pet but the facility didn’t allow him to.

Purple: He is a Lapdog who was forcibly sold by his uncle when he was a teen, it was so he would protect his brother. Money went to his uncle.

Day: He is a Guard Dog who was kidnapped when he was a really young child. No one got the money. He was meant to be a lapdog at first (he was cute) but he grew up too much so his alimentation and training was changed.

Night: He was kidnapped in his teens for political reasons and made to be a guard dog because they couldn't tame him enough to make him a Romantic pet.

Little One: He is a Lapdog who was sold by his parents as a young child. Training was customized so the “ugly” autistic traits were not shown and the “cute” ones were encouraged. At first they tried to make him touch starved, and since it didn’t work, they made him a dancer. Was meant to be sold to a non-touching owner but his first mistress wanted to “fix him,” she signed a document declaring she was aware that she was buying a touch repulsed pet and took responsibility for any defects about it.

#whump #bbu #pet whump #boonasaurusrex #BBU #boybox #institutionalized slavery #human trafficking tw #children trafficking tw #kidnapping tw #child abuse tw #sex slavery tw #noncon references tw #racism tw #classism tw #ableism tw #noncon body modification #food control tw #near death experience #torture #brainwashing #long term captivity #minor whumpee

[deadsetobsessions]

Once more the hallucinations hit, and once more I am here writing it out.

My brain is fucking terrifying and I want out, so bad. This came to me in the form of a nightmare.

Also, please don’t take the timeline into consideration, because I have no idea what’s going on. Again, nightmares and dreams tend to not have the best coherency when it comes to plot and timelines. The reincarnation doesn’t have a name, I was too busy feeling terrified. Shit in parentheses was how I experienced the nightmare. Everything else is just me adding sprinkle sprinkle.

——

Ra’s al Ghul.

Talia al Ghul.

Two names that she had been aware of, in the peripherals of her hyper fixation. Two characters meant to enhance the story of the Dark Knight. Side characters, on a good day. Perhaps, a main antagonist on a better day.

On a bad day?

Main characters. Real, living people. Real, living, breathing assassins.

Unfortunately, they’re her new family. One she remembered coming into, bathed in a pool of blood and screams.

She was not a baby.

She is now, a baby. The first of Talia al Ghul’s children. The eldest, once Damian al Ghul was born.

Swaddled in emerald green and gold silks, she was presented to a man with silver streaked hair and a receding hairline. He too, was robed in green and golds.

“A daughter, Talia?” He rumbled, the smooth Arabic flowing out of his mouth failing to hide the acrid disappointment. The child, past the haze of confusion of suddenly being deported from her own adult body into one of a helpless child, felt a stirring of irritation. It’s good she learned the language, because now she knew exactly how Ra’s felt about her. The child grumbled a displeased sound. Not that she would have ignored the fact that her grandfather was Ra’s al Ghul. (He smelled like moth eaten fabric and blood- but I think that was because my cat accidentally scratched me.)

“My apologies, father.”

“Do not tell the young detective of this. Had it been a son, perhaps things would have been different. No, a daughter would only hinder him.”

Talia bowed, hands tightening on her daughter. “May I raise her, father?”

“A resource is still a resource. Go ahead, Talia.”

“Yes, father.” Talia took the dismissal and bowed before leaving.

On her way back to the room with the reincarnation’s crib, Talia al Ghul stroked her daughter’s head.

“I wish you were born a boy, my daughter. I am sorry my beloved will never know of you.”

The reincarnation looked at her new mother. She’s young, the woman-child realized. A teenager.

“You’ll have to be useful, my daughter. Your grandfather is not so kind as to keep the useless. I… do not wish for your death,” her mother muttered.

Great. She got new life and it’s already in danger.

——

She learned to swing a knife. Swords. She learned and devoured the teachings. She learned to be useful.

But then they asked her to take the life of a man who did her no wrong.

Her baby blues clashed with her grandfather’s Lazarus green.

She was still young. A child.

“No.”

“No?”

“He did no wrong.”

“He failed, granddaughter.” Ra’s smiled down at her, patronizing. Cruel. “Perhaps you possess your father’s heart, and you are foolishly sentimental, as women and children tend to be. But in the end, you are an al Ghul and you will obey. Plunge in your blade and I will reward you.”

The reincarnation looked at the man kneeling in front of her, resignation and a hint of pity in what little she could see of his face.

She’s already died before. What did she have to be afraid of?

“No.”

They tried to beat the weakness out of her. It didn’t work.

——

The reincarnation stared at the mirror, left alone in an opulent cage of gold and emeralds and precious stones that meant little to her now.

Her hands traced her back, small fingers finding purchase in soft skin. Her mouth opened fruitlessly, noise refusing to escape. She still felt the burning magic, the brand her own blood had carved into her skin and soul because she refused to kill. The chains her grandfather had shackled around her with magic and cruel amusement.

She had killed him, in the end. Obey, or be punished. Her body had moved without her permission, the reincarnation a prisoner in a body that refused to do as she commanded. The knife swung, a life taken, her hands dipped in red.

She learned a valuable lesson that day.

There were things worse than death.

“This is an order, granddaughter.”

The Magic had flared a searing heat at her neck, forcing her to kneel on broken legs. Ra’s loomed above, authority in his voice. She was bound to obey, regardless.

“You will never speak another word of affection, you will never speak another word to anyone unless I allow it. Perhaps this will teach you of your folly, and your place in this world.”

The loss of her freedom and the fear that came with it was a bitter and devastating lesson.

——

Ra’s al Ghul was so much worse than what little she knew of him.

She was right to be afraid for herself.

Her mother had worried, when she’d withdrawn and refused to speak to her. Even if she could, the reincarnation would not have wanted to. The reincarnation had felt furious, back then, when she thought of Talia. Her mother who refused to protect her. Her mother, who claimed she loved her but refused to see the chains Ra’s wrapped around her neck. She who plied the reincarnation with a supportive hand but forced her into the fighting pits.

But, as the reincarnation stumbled out on bruised and used legs from Ra’s al Ghul’s meeting chambers where he had allowed his business partners to partake in her, she realized that Ra’s was a monster in a human’s body and her mother was a victim of his making.

The lesson Ra’s taught her that day was that if she was not useful, if she did not kill, he would take what was left of her and make use of her.

Hate flared in her heart, and the beginning of Ra’s downfall began the day he let her go from the chambers alive. Injured, but alive. Injured and violated, but alive and furious.

——

She carved her hate and rage and helplessness and fear in the bodies of the people he bid her to kill. Her silenced screams were expressed in the way she splattered blood, the way she covered herself in it. A killing machine first, a stress reliever second, and a child… wasn’t on the list of things she was allowed to be.

His enemies were felled, one after another. He gave her his approval, something she detested.

But still, she continued, bodies racking upwards, tens turning to hundreds, hundreds edging into thousands.

The red in her ledger became ichor and guilt. Her language became violence and obedience.

“You have become a sharp tool, granddaughter.”

She was a genius, after all. And now, she could not disobey. A blade that Ra’s believed will never point towards him. She kneeled. She obeyed.

“Thank you, grandfather.” Her words were only allowed to come out- without searing, terrible pain- when she was thanking him. She tried not to do it as often as he wanted. He thought he broke her when he read the obedience she carved into her body language.

But she never bowed. Never. Not to him. Never.

——

“My weapon could learn much from your granddaughter,” David Cain sat across from Ra’s, wine in their stupid goblets. How she detested the green and blacks he’s seen fit to dress her with. She’s dressed provocatively, not of her own choice. She doesn’t have much of those- doesn’t have much in ways of choices- these days.

She was twelve, and Ra’s al Ghul deserved to die.

“Her combat is a higher form of what my daughter has achieved. How did you do it?”

When Ra’s began to reply, she slipped away.

She found the girl. She found… the cage- the black box- the child was placed in. The child flinched from her when she opened the metal box, fear only easing as the reincarnation kept her body language neutral and kind. (It was pitch black, and about the size of like, a closet. No light. Only from whatever door the box had.) (Cass’ hands hurt from banging on the walls to be let out)

David Cain’s daughter, her mind whispered, the memories of another life once more making itself known.

“Cassandra.” She whispered, regretting it immediately when pain wracked her body. She fell to her knees as the punishment for disobeying an order slammed into her.

The girl looked at her in concern, but did not move closer. The reincarnation stared at this girl and saw a reflection of herself.

David Cain would be here for a month. She will free Cassandra in those days.

——

The weapon stared at the girl in front of her, kneeling in pain.

She did not understand.

-

The girl came back. Water. Food. Kind.

The weapon felt warm. The girl was quiet. No sounds. Good. The weapon knew the girl understood. The weapon thinks that the girl is a weapon too.

-

The girl comes back, again. This time, she makes a sound. It hurt her, but she did it again. The weapon understands when the girl points at herself and repeats the sound. The sound means the girl. The girl expects something from the weapon.

The weapon makes the sound, flinching to see if the owner will come to punish it. The girl purposefully sits, relaxed but vigilant… and protective. Of the weapon?

The weapon relaxed. It repeated the sound, pointing at the girl.

The girl smiles, in pain. But approval. The weapon feels- the weapon is warm, like under the blanket. Approval.

The girl teaches her to make sounds but the weapon communicates without it. It does not like the sounds, does not need them, but the girl seems to think it’s important.

The weapon likes the girl, so the weapon learns. They still understand through no sounds, through reading each other.

-

The girl comes back, silently. Secretly. The weapon does not notify the owner. The weapon feels- does not want to.

The girl- the girl with the sound- she says a different sound. Her body tells the weapon that it’s important, this sound.

And when the girl points at herself and says her own sound, then points at the weapon and says that new sound again, the weapon begins to understand.

The girl had given the weapon her own sound.

“Cass—n- ra.”

“Cass,” the girl said, and Cassandra understood.

“Cass.” Cassandra pointed to herself.

-

The owner wanted- wanted Cassandra to end a life. Cassandra watched the owner kill and gesture to the dead thing.

Cassandra did not want to.

When Cassandra is placed back into the pitch black box, she waited for the girl.

The girl came.

“Don’t want.” Cassandra clung to her, reading the welcome and the sadness in the girl’s body. Cassandra tucked her face into the girl’s shoulder. She is cold. The girl is warm.

The girl hugged her back. The girl understood. Sadness hardened into lines of determination. Cassandra felt… light. Felt hope.

-

Cassandra slipped away from the place, water in her pack for the dessert and money to run from the country. The girl stayed behind, seeing her off. The girl tells her to never come back.

Cassandra did not want to leave the girl behind, but the girl could not go.

“Be free, Cass.” The girl had whispered through the pain. “For the both of us.”

——

Her grandfather knew. He allowed David Cain to break her, not kill because she was of use to him still, as a lesson. She found that she hated his lessons. But, she hated his attention more.

And still, she could not regret. How could she, when Cass trusted her with what fragile hope she had?

So, she lets him beat her, and provokes him with smirks and fearless eyes because the longer he’s focused on her, the more time Cass has to run.

Then, he gets too angry, and insults Ra’s, whose eyes grew cold. Her grandfather gestured and while she usually hated the command that followed that gesture, she could not feel that hatred now.

She got back up, legs broken and arms twisted once more, and attacked David Cain.

Ra’s would not follow Cass. Not when she was not his business to deal with, and not when David Carin’s fury amused him so.

David Cain would not follow Cass. Not while she still drew breath. The reincarnation stood, and threw herself at one of the best assassins of the century.

She tore his throat out with nothing but her teeth. She felt, for once, not like a monster. Not even when Ra’s nodded in approval and ordered for David Cain’s broken body to be cleaned up.

——

She’s been granted a mission in New Jersey, once her months of discipline- of torture- ended. She does not get ordered to find Cassandra. She’s fourteen now, and as silent as ever. Her mother had adjusted to her silence by then- long ago, actually, taking it as a quirk her daughter had developed. She hadn’t been a terribly vocal child, after all. Talia praised her for being useful even as a woman- the self degradation something the reincarnation had no doubt Ra’s had insidiously trained into Talia- and for being loyal to Ra’s.

Sometimes, she hates Talia for being- for-

Never mind. She couldn’t afford to hate anyone else.

She killed her targets early, determination and wistfulness urging her movements into sharp . Then, she made her way to Gotham and slipped into the city of darkness- where her father was.

She watched as he hid in the shadows almost as easily as she did. She watched as he flew and glided with the younger Robin. (He was younger than her by a year. She checked.) He was free. They were free.

She wished…

As she turned away, she saw a child tumbling from the edge of a roof. It was an instinct she’d thought Ra’s had managed to bury after the months he’d spent making sure she killed only children.

She hated him.

She caught him, swooping in and tucking him against her side as she plucked him from the air and plopped him back onto the crumbling roof of Gotham’s slums.

“Oh, thank you! So much- are you a vigilante?” The boy asked, looking at her masked face. It’s a good thing she wasn’t exactly dressed like a regular League operative.

She shook her head. Her eyes fell onto his camera, faint memories rising once more. She had an inkling-

“I’m- uh- Tim!” The boy introduced himself nervously, edging away from her silence. “Thank you for saving me…?”

She nodded. She pointed to the camera, tilting her head.

“Oh- you… want to see it?” He clutched his camera closer. Oh, he did have some sense of self preservation. She wondered why a seven year old was allowed to roam these streets… but she did worse at seven.

She held her hand up and back up. The boy hesitated, and then showed her the camera. “Uh- I took pictures of Robin and Batman!”

They sat on that roof for hours, and she let Tim Drake tell her stories about her father and his son. Ward. Son.

She could tell that Tim didn’t have anyone to listen to him.

She didn’t have long until she had to go back or risk severe punishment, but… she could make time for Tim, to listen to him.

She wondered if Cass managed to escape completely. She wondered if her sister all but in name and blood learned how to smile.

——

Tim had never had a friend before!

She listened to him! And gave him hugs the one time he was brave enough to ask! And she seemed to like Batman and Robin as much as he did! No one who didn’t like them would listen to his endless rambling otherwise, right? (Tim was super skinny, like ribs poking out skinny. He looked like a sickly Victorian child and he was kind of cold)

“And then, Robin went like this,” he pantomimed the awesome punch Dick Grayson did on a Joker goon. “And the guys got knocked out just like that!”

His new friend nodded, looking interested.

“Sorry, am I talking too much?” Tim asked anxiously. He didn’t want to make his friend hate him!

She shook her head, and gestured for him to continue.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

His new friend was so cool! She even taught him how to throw a punch and to fight!

——

When she had to leave, she prepared Tim for it.

“Do you have to go?”

She nodded and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Her other hand held a duffle bag with an assortment of weapons she carefully kept from him. (One of the blades still had guts on it, which, ew.)

“Try not to fall off anymore roofs, little photographer.” She said, smiling at his shocked look before leaping away.

“Wait, you can talk?!” He shouted at her back. She smiled a little wider.

——

“A son, this time.” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice echoed in his disgustingly flashy throne room. It rings of approval.

The reincarnation stood behind her mother, eyes cast downwards.

“Well done, Talia. I finally have a worthy heir.”

Damian al Ghul cooed.

The reincarnation was scared. But… she could not allow her younger brother to be trapped like she was. She’s fifteen now, a decade of slavery having worn her down and nearly broken her. But with her brother… no, she could not allow it.

She met her mother’s eyes and knew then that they agreed. Protect Damian, at all costs.

She ignored the sting of envy. So what her mother could not find it in herself to protect her daughter? So long as she protected Damian, it didn’t matter.

Maybe she didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t worth anything. Maybe- maybe- maybe.

She also ignored the seed of disgust she had for mother’s actions in conceiving Damian. She couldn’t do anything about it. Talia was also a victim.

A louder voice in her asked if she could really excuse that, when Talia had a choice and she chose to hurt and violate Bruce Wayne like that. She wondered if she could truly ever forgive Talia. She wondered if Bruce Wayne got therapy.

——

She stared at the tome in front of her, eyes blank. (Actually, she had no eyes. Like? Empty sockets, but then later she had eyes???)

The brand- the shackles- the chains could only be broken if Ra’s died. She wasn’t opposed to that. But if he died, so did she. She couldn’t even kill herself to get out, because the chains would be there even if she died. If she was revived- a high chance, thanks to the fucking pits- then the chains would still be there.

Perhaps… she could use the pits?

Her mind turned and turned.

——

“This is your ukht.” Her mother pointed at her. Damian stared up at her, and she melted. Her brother was too damn cute.

“Ukhti?”

She nodded as her mother smiled in joy. “Yes, habibi.”

She was better at hiding the pain, now. She was better at enduring it, too, that fucking burning feeling. She spoke more, but only to Damian.

It would not do for her brother to grow up not knowing how to receive verbal expressions of affection. Not like she did, in this life.

Still, it hurt to speak. But then, she had an idea, based on Cassandra.

She could not speak, but speaking wasn’t the only way of communication. She’ll teach Damian sign language- standard, as commanded- but also her own version. Yes, she could do it. It wouldn’t be hard.

She was a genius, after all, and creating languages wasn’t as hard as people seem to think.

——

Damian copied her, small fingers patting his hand four times.

She did it back to him. “I love you.” She tells him, with sounds and with motions.

He does it back, excitedly, because he had a secret with ukhti!

——

Sometimes, she dared not to touch Damian. She wants to ruffle his hair and give him hugs but the ichor on her hands reminds her to not get to greedy. She did not deserve it.

Not when her hands were stained with the lives of so many people.

——

Another mission.

She was twenty now, and not much closer to escaping her bonds. Though, once she hit her majority, Ra’s lost interest in her in that way. A blessing, even if she had to seduce his “business partners” into giving him better deals more often now.

She stops by Bludhaven. The Robin she watched so many years ago- six, by her count- had grown new wings and moved. She wanted to see if he could fly still.

He could. He flew as free- no, freer than his days as Robin.

She dipped away to complete her mission (nuclear weapon trading, really?) and swings back to see a spider trying to break the former Robin’s wings.

“No.” Nightwing whispered, staring upwards at the cloudy sky blankly. “Please, stop.”

She didn’t need to hear any more. She saw red, and dove feet first straight onto the spider’s head, knocking her out.

She picked up a near-catatonic Nightwing, and helped him to his apartment. She left Tarantula in the rain and felt zero guilt about it.

He changed mechanically, some kind of instinct keeping him from removing his domino, but it was a bit pointless considering she escorted him to his personal apartment.

She watched as Nightwing slipped into an exhausted sleep before leaving. She had a spider to squish, and traces to hide.

——

Dick wakes up, drained and exhausted. He… someone saved him.

He sees a scrawled note, handwriting impeccable enough to be a font, written with his pen. He picked it up from his table, and his eyes tiredly read the message.

“Don’t worry about Tarantula. Or your identity.”- A friend.

He remembered- the mask- the mask of the stranger that saved him vividly. He’d remember. And he’d thank them if they ever came back.

——

She was in charge of training assassins, these days. A year and a half later after Bludhaven, she was back in Nanda Parbat, and she’s devoured every magical tome she could get her hands on. They all say the same things.

Her assassins were trained well, and Ra’s praises her with more responsibilities as he followed the pit in his obsessions. Her mother began to splinter the group, not knowing that as Ra’s began his descent into madness, people looked towards her instead of Talia for leadership. They did not know that her unwavering presence by Ra’s side wasn’t voluntary but it is their true that she became his right hand out of pure skill. And flawless obedience, of course.

Then, someone new joins.

Someone with pit rage and empty eyes that goes rigid when she approaches.

Then again, most of the operatives freeze up when she walks towards them.

Her memories roar. A child.

He bowed, and her eyes followed the streak of white hair at the forefront of his skull.

She gestured at him to follow, and ignored the pitiful eyes the rest of the assassins gave to the kid- they act like her training was hard when she went easy on them (it was)- and led the kid towards the training rooms.

She knew who he was, even if her grandfather and mother didn’t think she knew.

Her… Bruce Wayne would probably appreciate his son being returned relatively sane.

But first, she had to beat the Pit out of him. Then, she could assign body guarding duties to him, in an attempt to protect him.

——

“Grandfather, I will take Damian’s punishment.”

“A whipping girl, granddaughter?” But he nodded anyways. He made Damian watch.

She kneeled and allowed the punishment. She couldn’t always protect him from Ra’s, but this she could do anytime. It’s not like she was unfamiliar with the torture. (The whip had barbs. Rusty. And they sprinkled salt.)

——

“I liked poetry….” Jason Todd tells her after a training session. “I think.”

“Sure. I’ll call you Grave, then.” Pain. But she was used to it.

He tilted his head, eyes going blank once more. She sighed. There went his memories again. (His eyes were blank and glazed. Like looking at someone you love and knowing they’re looking through you.)

——

“I would not trust her,” she says to the air, next to a Red Hood emerging from Talia al Ghul’s chambers. She could see it, the beginnings of Gotham’s new crime lord. But still, “Talia al Ghul is known for her lies.”

She pushed away from the wall. It was up to Grave if he listened. It was out of her hands now.

——

She’s twenty-five, and she’s helping Damian pack for his first meeting with Bruce Wayne.

“You must not tell him about me.” Because he’d come rushing here, and she had worked too hard to save Damian for her fool of a father to come and ruin all of that effort.

“I promise.” Her little brother said solemnly. Ukhti said it out loud, which meant it was important and she expected him to keep that promise.

The only other time he’d heard her speak was to tell him she loved him.

The reincarnation smiled and told him through their special sign language, to treat the current Robin with respect and to try his best to get the current Robin to pass down his title.

‘Robin is earned. They have different rules, over there. Try your best to learn those rules.’

Her brother was sheltered. She loved him, but he was spoilt and sheltered. Of course she was worried. Talia barely mothered him.

“I know. You do not have to remind me so often, ukhti.”

She smiled, and patted his head.

“Be safe,” she whispered. “I will miss you.”

Damian darted in for a hug. “Of course. Goodbye, sister. See you soon.”

She hoped not. It was hard enough to convince Ra’s that Damian would learn more under Bruce Wayne.

(She was locked in a small closet- like Cass- for about a week, because she brought up the idea first.)

——

She found it.

The answer to pit rage laid in an old, all but crumbling tome from Atlantis- answers “from a ghost.”

——

Bruce Wayne died. Months after Damian came to live with him. That- irritating- she sighed and worked with her mother to turn Ra’s al Ghul’s attention away from Gotham, lest he called Damian back in Bruce Wayne’s absence.

The little photographer caught grandfather’s attention. She stood vigil as he played chess with Ra’s. His interest in Damian wavered. Anticipation blurred in her veins.

She saved his friends. Her assassins. She let them go, telling them to wait for the little photographer’s plan. (Y’all miss girl had fucking bloody handprints on her pants like someone tried to grab it.)

The first few people who had an inking she might not be loyal to Ra’s… and it was them.

When her other assassins attacked Red Robin, she cut them down before they could touch him, helping him with a furious League of Spiders or whatever operative. She hated spiders.

“What…?”

“You’re a lot of trouble, little photographer.” She sighed. His jaw dropped.

“It’s you!”

“Go,” she cut him off. “Blow this place up. I left a surprise for you outside.”

——

“Owens?! Z?!” Tim trembled, exhaustion and shock and wonder hitting him at once.

“Heya, boss!” Z chirped. Owens helped Tim up while Z helped Tam. Pry walked around them, looking out for further threats. “The nightmare trainer let us go. She knew you, I think.”

Tim smiles, all shark teeth and zero hero. (In the background, the song zero to hero from Hercules 2, played in reverse.) “Tell me more.”

——

Damian grunted, bracing himself for the magical creature’s attack.

“Robin!” His father barked out, panicked. Damian hoped he’d survive-

Shhhlk!

He looked up and there stood his ukht. She bounded forwards, using the odd fauna of the magical plane to bolster her movements as she sliced the creatures apart with her swords, magic humming brightly as she cut through them… and the magicians attacking them.

“What- what are you doing here?” He asked. She greeted him, three fingers curled over her shoulder.

‘My question is,’ she signed. ‘Why were you here without a magical weapon.’

Damian sighed as father stepped in between them.

“Who are you.”

“Batman. Cease your excessive worry. I trust her with my life,” Damian snapped. He stepped around a shocked Batman, looked him in the eyes, and unsheathed his katana. He handed it over to his ukht, who took it with amusement.

‘See?’ His eyes seemed to say. Father tensed when his sister unsheathed her own blade and handed it to him.

‘Are you here for a specific reason?’ His sister signed to him.

“Uh, you gonna introduce us, little man?”

Damian sent the Flash a derisive look and ignored him.

“We’re looking for a magician. He set a squadron of demons loose into D.C. last night. He has a tower.” Damian added.

“Robin,” Father growled. “Who is this.” Damian shot him a look and turned back to his sister.

The reincarnation tilted her head. ‘Tower… it’ll have to be that way.’

“Could you take us there?” Damian asked. Truthfully, he could find the way himself. But he wanted more time around his ukht. She nodded and Damian straightened.

“I feel like we should be concerned that Robin’s friend just murdered a bunch of people.”

His sister glanced back and ignored them.

“Silence, incompetents. Speak another word against her, and Batman’s no killing rule will be applied creatively.” He hissed. (The fucking surroundings hissed with him y’all what the fuck)

He turned when his sister ruffled his hair (Superman muttered a super shocked “what the fuck.”) and Damian allowed it. He had missed his sister.

——

#I have vivid nightmares #batman #oc in dc #dc #batman fic #idea for a fic I definitely don’t have the time to write #reincarnation #isekai #once more my brain has seen fit to fuck me over #tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #like holy shit what the fuck #brain what is wrong with you #tim drake #jason todd #Damian Wayne #Damian Wayne’s older sister #dp reference lol #couldn’t resist #oc gets Isekaid and proceeds to have a shit of a time #y’all there’s a second part to this shit #it’s a long ass dream

[ashintheairlikesnow]

All We Have Is Each Other

CW: Intimate whumper, captivity, defiant whumpee, biting, creepy whumper, obsessive whumper, noncon kiss, vague noncon references, drugging. For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 1: Duel

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

Takes place during Jax’s second captivity. As always, Jax is used with oversight and permission from @comfy-whumpee)

-

Savvie rolls dice every time she uses the mortar and pestle in the kitchen to grind up one of her collections of pills and mix it into Jax’s drink.

She’s always gambling with the drugs. The first part of the game is seeing whether he’ll drink it before he realizes there’s something in it. If she doesn’t mix it well enough, he’ll see the cloudy bits floating around in the glass and look at her with terrible sad eyes. Sometimes she can’t take it. She just takes the drink right back out of his hand and pours it out, makes him a new one. 

Other the other hand, sometimes his sad voice and sad eyes piss her off worse than anything else could, and she just tips it up until he chokes and makes him finish it anyway. Or shocks him, pressing the button to the remote and watching his muscles lock up, knowing he’ll look sweeter once he’s fighting the way his muscles jerk afterward, the unconscious twitches he can’t quite get rid of as the aftermath works its way through him. 

Sometimes he even looks scared. Those nights are some of her favorites. Savvie never loves Jax as much as she does when he is scared of her. 

But... she can’t keep him scared all the time. What kind of marriage would they have if she did that? No, the drinks aren’t to scare him, they’re just to make… to make things easier. And she doesn’t always do it! She doesn’t always drug him, but it’s enough that he never trusts her. She knows that. He doesn’t… trust easily. 

That’s okay. 

Their relationship got off to a rough start, that’s all, what with Jax starting off as one of the staff, bought and paid for. Plus, Jax’s dad convinced him Savvie was evil, once upon a time when he ran away from her. Taught him to hate her. She had to have her uncle fly all the way to England to bring Jax back, and it’s taking years to undo all the damage that stupid old man did. 

That’s okay. He’s getting better, he’s definitely getting better. He is. He has to be getting better. 

Still… he’s not an easy man to be married to. Not with having to keep an eye on the remote to his shock collar so he can’t take it off and try to run away again, not with the way he watches her sometimes like he wants to dunk her head into the toilet and hold it there until she drowns. Putting stuff in his drink just lets Savvie be able to relax. 

She doesn’t have to worry about what he might do when he’s so high he can’t do much of anything. Besides, it’s only like one out of every ten nights, sometimes twenty, sometimes she even goes for a month or two without doing it. 

She really doesn’t even want to. If he would just learn to be happy without it, she wouldn’t have to keep drugging him, would she? If he’d just stop being so difficult about being her husband… but that isn’t fair. He can’t be any better than he is, not really. Jax just… isn’t wired that way.

So she has to help him a little, to make it so he can have nights when he can’t stay mad at her. Or at least nights when his anger isn’t able to simmer in there behind his eyes while he says Yes, Miss Savvie or No, Miss Savvie like there’s a gun to his head. 

Still. Trying to give him these evenings where both of them just relax… it’s always a gamble. 

Even if he drinks whatever she makes without realizing it’s spiked, he doesn’t always react the same way. If she’s lucky - if her dice rolls well - the drugs make Jax… softer. He’ll lean against her when some of his strength slides away, not seek out touch but loathe it less. Those are the nights she can coax a sound out of him that isn’t clipped or tense. She still thinks about the night she gave him a back rub and he genuinely fell asleep sitting on the floor between her knees, his head drifting until it rested on her leg, the knots of tension slowly loosening beneath her kneading hands until she got distracted by the movie and forgot what she was doing. 

Sometimes he smiles, when he’s blurry and unfocused. Smiles, enough to show teeth even… God, sometimes he even laughs at some of Savvie’s jokes. It’s rare, but it happens. She loves those nights the best. Those are the nights that their marriage almost feels normal… if she just ignores the dilated pupils and the way he can’t stand up on his own. 

Sometimes he gets so foggy he can’t stop laughing, which is irritating but at least adorable to watch and take videos of to make him look at later on the next day when he sobers up again. Sometimes the side effects make him too scared to smile, his eyes darting nervously everywhere watching the movements of shadows he swears are watching him. She… tries not to give him those pills anymore.

The nights tend to end with her telling him to take off his shirt so she can enjoy the view, or even his pants, too. She usually waits on that, though, because it doesn’t matter how good the drugs are - he always hesitates when it comes to taking off his pants, as soon as his fingers touch the boxers with their oddly rolled waistband. 

It reminds him he doesn’t want to be here. Makes his addled mind come back to the collar he wears around his neck, to the reality of the life they’re living, the marriage Savvie has built all by herself whether he wanted to or not.

And he… he didn’t want to. 

So normally she waits on the getting naked bit until they’re in the bedroom and what he wants matters so much less that neither of them think about it any longer. The drugs, at least, make it harder for him to slow her down in there. 

Savvie tries not to think about that, because she doesn’t remember it that way. She likes the nights best where he doesn’t even try to fight, just lets her pull him upstairs and she gets to bury her hands in his hair and tell him what to do and have him, languid and loose-limbed, follow every command without the tension and misery he usually carries into their bed. 

She doesn’t always roll well. 

Sometimes, she rolls snake eyes… and she gets this, instead.

“Fuck’s sake,�� Jax groans, words slurring around the edges, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He pushes clumsily away from her, nearly falling off the couch before he manages to catch himself. “For… f’r fuck’s sake, Savvie, what the fuck.”

His wedding ring glints, light from the TV bouncing off the deceptively plain platinum band. She’s hit all over again with a wave of love for him, for the life she’s built after he was brought back home to be hers forever, just like he always should have been. She’d been an idiot not to see it, not until he was gone and she spent years in prison dreaming about getting him back. 

“Fuck’s sake what?” She asks, voice light, smiling at him and poking him in the shoulder where they sit on the couch. 

He doesn’t slap her hand away, but she sees him look at her and… he wants to. His expression is dark. The light is bouncing off his hazel eyes, too, giving them a strange sheen of white that wipes out the color, obscures even his dilated pupils slowly taking over the iris. “What the fuck was it?”

“What was what?”

“What the fuck did you give me?” He goes to push himself to standing only to have his knees buckle beneath him, crashing him to the floor, barely catching himself on his hands. Savvie’s mouth waters, and she swallows, trying to ignore the flutter of fascinated interest in watching his fingernails scrape the rug as he tries to steady himself. “What the fuck is it, Savvie?”

“It doesn’t matter,” She answers, without changing her own tone, leaning forward with her arms resting on her thighs. Her hair falls in heavy waves down her back and over her shoulders. “It’s not anything that could hurt you.”

This time, he doesn't say Miss Savvie or try out the sad eyes. Instead, he looks away. She can nearly hear his teeth grinding. “Yeah, but once I’m all fucked up, you will.”

“Don’t be rude,” Savvie chides him, but she doesn’t move. He looks good, on his hands and knees on the floor. Well, he looks good all the time, really, but he looks even better on his hands and knees. She knows the physique he’s built with the workout routine she makes him do, knows the muscles there hidden beneath the green sweater and jeans he’s wearing. “You’ve been stressed all week. I’m just trying to help-”

“Fucking shit, the hell you are!” He manages to sit back on his knees, then collapses back until his back hits the edge of the couch cushions, upright through sheer force of will and a bit of good luck. His hands lay limp at his sides, now. When he turns to look at her, his eyes don’t focus quite right - but the fury in them is clear.

Well.

Tonight’s not going to be the best night for them, then, she supposes. She feels the edge of a headache starting up, and sighs, looking mournfully at the movie she’d pulled up for them to watch. Another night, then. A night when the gamble pays off and doesn’t backfire. A night when he can’t remember how to be angry at her.

“Fine,” She says, heavily. “I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to help me.”Her own voice changes - drops almost a full octave from her usual carefully constructed diction and sweetness to something sharper. “I’m making tonight easier on me. Making you less… less-” She can't think of a good way to end the sentence, so she just lets it hang there between them. 

Jax snorts, looking away again. His head keeps lolling forward until his chin nearly touches his chest before he jerks it back again. “Yeah, I fucking know,” He manages, but his slurring is getting worse. “Shit f’r brains.”

Savvie sniffs, but the fake tears aren't coming as easily as they usually do. She probably accidentally gave him too much again. It’s just sometimes so hard to remember exactly how much the dose is supposed to be…

“I don’t enjoy you being cruel to me any more than you enjoy it when I do it to you, you know,” She says, suddenly… so tired. She spends so much time and effort creating a marriage herself out of a man her uncle bought for her once and abducted for her the second time, and she’s doing this all on her own - no one helps her, not really. And Jax never gives up.

She’d been sure he’d start to settle in and understand by now, but he just… he just doesn’t. And she’s so tired. Her fingers toy with the little black remote to his shock collar. Maybe she should just… just give up on having a good night and punish him for the cursing until he just bites off his stupid tongue. 

No, wait. 

She likes what he does with his tongue, when she gives the order. He’s so good with it now. Maybe… maybe just a small shock. Just to remind him he's hers. She takes a deep breath. “Jax… get on your-”

“On m’knees f’r discipline?” He starts laughing before she can finish, cutting her off, letting his head fall totally back against the arm of the couch until he’s staring at the ceiling. He sounds wild, almost like an animal. Her quiet watchful husband is feral, and Savvie resolves never to give him the pill she gave him tonight ever again. “Yeah, fucking… fuckin’ do it. Second I don’t play along, there y’go. Bzzzt.” He cackles, a cracked bark of laughter she’s never heard him make before. “Shut me up so you don’t hear me say it.”

Savvie’s heart twists. “Say what?”

The laughter dies in him as suddenly as it appeared. He turns his head, or tries to - it mostly just falls to one side until he’s looking at her. Their eyes meet, his all black pupil and hers with nearly no pupil at all. “How much I fucking hate your fucking guts.”

“You don’t hate me.” She says it firmly, as if he’s being ridiculous. “Don’t be mean, Jax. You don’t hate me at all.”

She takes a deep breath. Married couples have fights, even ugly ones sometimes, and they work it out-

“Yeah. I… I really do.” Disgusted, that’s the tone in his voice. Disgusted with her. “I do. I hate you.”

“Why do you hate me?”

The look he gives her is such a blatant are you a complete fucking moron that she can hear his voice even though he doesn’t say a word. 

“No, hold on.” She waves one hand, dismissing her own question. His eyes briefly follow the movements of her fingers, distracted by whatever the drugs make him see there. Trails of light, maybe. It’s probably beautiful. “Hold on. I know why-”

“Do you?” His question is sharp, snapped, even as his every muscle can barely tense enough to move. “Do you fuckin’ really?”

“Yes. I do.” Savvie’s too tired to talk him in a circle tonight. She’s just… too exhausted by her bad gamble, bringing neither the snuggly Jax or the scared one, but this angry, vengeful animal instead.

Her headache is getting worse. 

She grabs her glass of wine off the coffee table and chugs it so fast a little drip escapes the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. She has to wipe it away, wincing at the… at the idea of how that looks. Her mother would have had a fit about it. If she hadn’t died years ago. “Because I had you kidnapped.” 

Jax is silent, for a beat. He squints at her. “Fuck… what’d you say? Might be hearin’ shit.” 

She laughs, softly. Not her usual laughter, crafted to fill up a room and put all eyes on her. This laugh is barely there, but far more genuine. “No. You're not hallucinating, that shouldn't happen with what I gave you tonight.”

“Oh, good, not this fucking drugging, then, jussss-” His head falls too far to one side and he forces it back up, groaning. “Jusss… others.”

“Only one of the pills does that. And you were cute when you thought there were monsters in the bathroom.” She gets that flat stare from him again and this time she can't hold eye contact, looking down and away, still fiddling with the remote to his collar. “I just. I do know what I did, Jax.”

“Yeah, I fucking know you know-”

“I had you kidnapped.” She takes a deep breath. It feels oddly good to say, like a scene in a movie confessing to a priest. A foul-mouthed priest she’s been sleeping with for over a year. The thought makes her smile, just a little. “My uncle had people watching you, and when I was ready, he knew where you’d be and he abducted you for me. I know that. I know that you’d run, if you could. I’d take your collar off right now if I thought you’d stay without wearing it.”

Jax is silent for so long she briefly wonders if he's flat out forgotten how to talk. Then he shrugs - or tries to, his arms don't quite follow his commands. “You’d find somethin’ else, some other reason for shit ‘round my neck. You fuckin’ like it.”

For the first time, she doesn't deny it. “I do.” She laughs at the way he looks almost comically surprised, unable to keep his usual closed-off expressions in place with the drug coursing through his veins. “What? Can't a girl have a kink?”

“Sure fuckin’ can, but you… you don' have a kink, you got… goddamn victims.”

“... I… yeah. But it-... that's not my point. It isn't about the collar, Jax. Your wedding ring does it for me, too. I could barely wait to get you home after we signed the marriage certificate.”

The glare is back. His hatred is blistering her skin. She watches him try to stand, making it nearly upright before he falls back down again with a heavy thump. 

Her mouth twitches. “You want help, sweetie?”

“Ffffuck you.” 

“Well, I mean, if you’re asking so nicely.” She giggles at her own joke. 

He mumbles something she can't quite hear, trying to stand one more time but quickly giving up. He makes it onto the couch, at least. Savvie stands, turning to grab his ankles, shifting so he’s lying on his back, head and feet each cushioned by the arms of the comfortable, overstuffed couch. He struggles weakly, and it's hard work, but she gets him where she wants him. She barely breathes, taking in his chest rising and falling under his sweater, how his inhales are coming more sharply. 

She can't help herself. 

Savvie climbs on top of him, like she’s done a hundred times. She straddles him, sitting on his hips and leaning down to kiss his neck, nosing under his jaw. At first, his head tips back in resignation - but then he curses and pushes at her weakly instead. “Don’t.”

She grabs his wrists and shoves them above his head. He’s so weak, the drugs have taken all that muscle and made them… useless at holding her off. There’s a shiver of excitement down her spine. “Uh-uh, sweetie. You’re the one who said to fuck you, remember?”

She feels a thrill at saying fuck, like she’s still a kid sneaking swears in her room when her parents won’t overhear. 

“Don't,” He groans. “Sav-... Savvie, stop. G’t off me. I hate you.”

“I know.” She smiles down at him. His eyes meet hers, tired and bleary. Furious and almost resigned. “I know you hate me, Jax… but I love you.”

She leans down, her hair a waterfall curtain, blocking them both off from the world. She can smell the cologne she buys for him, blended with her own pricey perfume. His wrists jerk against her grip and she digs her nails in until he grunts in pain and the skin gives beneath. 

“Savvie,” he whispers. 

“Sssshhh.” She lets go with one hand, shifting both his wrists to her other one, and presses a finger against his lips. “I love you so much,” She whispers. “And I don't need you to love me back, sweetie, I don’t. I just need you to lie for me.”

 She kisses him, then, pressing her lips firmly to his. For half a second, his mouth is slack and unresisting even as his body shudders with disgust. He’s warm, his skin burning up beneath her. Her mouth moves against his, trying to get him to answer her, to open up.

His lips gently part. For a brief moment, Savvie feels the rush of victory.

Then he bites.

Pain blooms in a sudden flare as his teeth bury themselves into her lower lip and he jerks his head to the side, sensitive skin tearing.

“Shit!” Savvie jerks backwards, staring down at him wide-eyed. She can taste her own blood in her mouth. It’s smeared on his lips and his teeth like badly-done lipstick as he gives her a smile that's really a snarl. “Oh my God, Jax-... how dare you-”

“Fuck you! Don't fucking touch me!” He gets his arms more or less under his own control and shoves her off of him. She crashes into the coffee table, the legs giving out, tumbling her to the floor. Pain spikes hot and demanding along her hip where she hits the hard angle of the corner and she finds herself the one lying on the floor, while Jax slowly sits up, wiping blood off his lips. 

Her blood. 

Savvie pulls her fingers from her mouth and gasps. There’s a smear of red, bright and vibrant, the unmistakable sense of blood trickling down over her chin. She tongues at the wound, then winces as the pain flares bright, like he’s bitten her all over again. She considers tears - looks at the loathing in his eyes, the absolute rage written in the lines of his face - and then decides they’re wasted on him tonight. Instead, she just shakes her head. “That hurt.”

“Good. Don' like bein’ the one fucking bleeding for once, huh?” His eyes drift closed. He struggles to open them again, to keep his eyes on her. “Shit feelin’, isn't it?” 

“God.” She swallows. Blood on her tongue is making her feel nauseous and she gets to her feet carefully. Her mouth and hip throb. She’s going to be so bruised tomorrow, going to ache so much. “You’re awful sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He grins. He hasn't bothered to try and get the red off his teeth. “I know. So… so fffffuckin’ get rid of me, then.”

Savvie snorts, limping a little as she moves to pick up the spilled wine bottle from the floor. She could shock him now - that’s what she would usually do. Or call Isaac and have him carted off to spend another month locked in the kennels with the dogs. He… probably doesn’t care about that, though. Anything to get away from her. Anything is better than her, to him.

“Get rid of you?” She drinks the last swallow in the bottle, washing blood down her throat with the wine. “Then what, Jax? I should just… live here alone, without you, for the rest of my life?”

“Fucking-... yes, or go fucking die. I don't fucking care.” The flush of hot anger bleeds away, his voice softening a little. “I don't… don' care, Savvie. I don’t care about you.”

“No. You do.” She feels a burst of desperation to make him understand. “You hate me, right? That’s caring about me, still.”

“Savvie-”

“No. I love you. You are mine, and I am keeping you. This is love, Jax. What I feel for you is true love.” 

He shakes his head, swaying a little where he sits. He tries to push her away again as she takes him by the arm but his burst of energy seems to have used him up. He lets her, in the end, get him onto his feet. She leads him on his unsteady legs out of the room, and he stumbles along with her. 

“S'not love,” He mumbles. She keeps an arm around his waist to help him balance. “Fucking… fuck you. Let me leave, Savvie.”

He doesn't have the strength to push her away, not anymore. He has to use her to stay up as they take the stairs one at a time, although after three or four he jerks away again and uses the railing, leaning heavily against it as he drags himself upwards, inch by inch, step by step. 

She lets him pull away, watching his determination to not need her, how badly he doesn’t even want her. There’s a canyon inside of her, something dark and deep that hurts so much worse than her hip or her torn open lower lip, threatening to claw its way out as she watches the man she has forced to play the role of her husband do anything he can to avoid her touch. 

Her jaw sets. “It is. It is love, and you know what? It’s all the love you’re going to get. Ever. No one else will ever love you.” Savvie’s voice stays low. “You’re not… you’re not lovable, Jax, but I don’t care, I love you anyway. Nobody else would. No one is ever going to even want to love you but me.”

He slumps. The fight’s all gone out of him, for now. Her gamble failed tonight and Jax is buckling under the weight of what runs through his veins, the heavy expectations in her eyes and her smile and her devotion. 

“Fuck,” is all he says, barely a whisper under his breath.

Savvie sighs, touching her fingers to her lip again. The bleeding has slowed but there’s still a spot of red. “Goes both ways, though, I think.”

He doesn't look at her. “What?”

“This… how much you hate me… how I had to kidnap you, and put that thing on your neck to keep you here, how you wish you were anywhere but here with me… you know, I, I get it.”

He has to stop at the landing and lean over, resting his forehead against the wall. 

She lays a hand on his back, leaning over to speak right against his ear. “I get that your hate is all the love I’m going to get, too, Jax. Nobody else will ever love me, either.” 

Her throat feels tight, and she can’t tell if she really feels the twisting nerves in her stomach, the sense of dread, or if it’s part of her act for Jax. Sometimes even Savvie isn’t sure when she means the things she says. Sometimes, even worse, she really does.

“All we’re ever going to have is each other.”

He doesn’t answer her. But when she takes his arm in her hand, he allows himself to be dragged along towards her bedroom. The fight might be gone, but so is the feeling. There’s nothing in his eyes that shows he even heard her.

That’s okay. She can be honest, in the dark, in the middle of the night, knowing that he’s too drugged to remember anything she said when he wakes up again. She’ll lie to herself again by morning. So will he.

She just needs him to lie. 

-

@whumpyourdamnpears consider this my evil savvie gift to you

#whump #amonthofwhump #amow tropeathon day 1 #duel #intimate whumper #obsessive whumper #creepy whumper #noncon touch #noncon kissing #noncon references #sadistic whumper #drugging tw #drugged whumpee #jax #comfy-whumpee #captivity #defiant whumpee #whumpee fights back #amow tropeathon2024 #day1

[house-afire]

you can have a little revenge, as a treat (Izzy/Lucius)

(tw: references to noncon)

Izzy knew Lucius was tailing him back to his cabin. He didn’t stay so close it was stupid—more like a nervy cat’s way of following than a puppy’s—but he was still as subtle as a cannonball. He wasn’t surprised when there was a knock half-a-minute after he got inside.

“I’d say ‘fuck off,’ but you don’t like listening, do you?”

The door creaked open. “Did you know it was me, or is that just, like, how you greet people?”

“It can be both.”

“Fair.” Lucius slipped in and sat down, like he’d had a real invitation. He gave Izzy a fierce, almost angry look. “I asked Pete to be my matelot.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected this to be about, but it sure as fuck wasn’t this. “And you came to me for congratulations?”

“Uh, no. I can see why that would be weird, if I’d done that. No, I want to—” He pressed his lips together. Turned out that was one last bolstering-up of the dam before he kicked it to pieces. “Stede doesn’t want to listen to what happened to me after Blackbeard pushed me overboard, and he said I shouldn’t tell Pete every dark little detail, either. And he was right. It’s a lot, and I shouldn’t … track filth around. But if I don’t tell someone about it, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. You’re not squeamish, and you won’t cry over me.”

That glare of his, Izzy saw now, had just a hint of desperation to it.

He’d never talked about anything more than he’d had to—swallowed it all down like his fucking toes—but he had, as the whole cursed lot of them knew by now, sicked up enough before to know that it could help. And if you were going to spew, better to do it in private.

“Fine,” Izzy said.

Lucius boggled at him for a moment, like a fish pulled out of the water, and then said, “Right, I expected that to be a lot harder.”

He sat down on the other end of the bed, as far from Izzy as he could get. Crossed his legs and uncrossed them, scowling at his knees like they’d betrayed him. He fixed his gaze somewhere over Izzy’s shoulder.

“I went between a lot of ships, after I got picked up. Wasn’t really by choice, not after the first … first bad one. A good ship—a good ship will let you leave, and you don’t know until it’s too late that if they’ll let you go, you might be … might be better off staying. I should never have left the first berth I got. They only wanted me as a whore, but that’s not so bad, is it? I mean, you’d probably say that’s most of what I did around here anyway.”

His gaze flickered over to Izzy like he expected him to laugh or nod. Izzy didn’t do either: you didn’t fuck about when you could see there was a storm on the horizon.

“Okay. Fine. Be understanding, like that’s not creepy.” He shifted around again, fidgeting like his own skin wasn’t enough to keep together, like he had to hold on to himself. “The other ships were all worse. I thought most pirates were—”

“Like Bonnet?” Izzy said incredulously.

“Like you,” Lucius said. “I thought the worst I’d have to contend with would be a whole ship of Izzy Hands, and I’d just be annoyed and stressed or, fine, dead, but in a—normal way. But you never—you wouldn’t—”

He dug his fingers into his arms. He’d wind up with bruises from it.

“The worst ship was called Dead Man’s Folly. And they had a little dog named Pepper, and they liked having puppet shows in the evenings, and I just fucking need—somebody—to fucking listen.”

Izzy didn’t know the details yet, but the puppet shows were a cursed enough notion for him to tell the outline of it already. Nothing curdled like whimsy; nothing was worse when it turned dark.

He listened. And as Lucius told him all of it, he stowed away a few things in particular.

Dead Man’s Folly. Captain Graves.

***

It took another fortnight—and a through-gritted-teeth request about it to Bonnet, who was so shocked Izzy would ask him for a favor that he gave in at once—but Izzy saw to it that they made one of the Dead Man’s Folly’s regular ports of call.

“I never had the impression you were all that enamored of shore leave,” Bonnet said, watching as Izzy scanned the ships crowded into the bay. “Care to share your holiday plans?”

Izzy’s lips flexed, hard, as he found the flag he was looking for. “Not responsible for what you don’t know about,” he said. “Better to leave it.”

“If you’re looking for trouble, you ought to have company!”

“Not for this,” Izzy said. “You’d approve, at least in theory, but you won’t want to see it. It won’t be very … gentlemanly.”

Bonnet looked crestfallen, but he said, “Well, if that’s what you think, I suppose I agree. I—trust you, Izzy. God, never thought I’d be saying that.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Izzy said.

“It is a bit weird, yeah. Nice, though.”

Almost against his will, Izzy said, “Yeah, it’s nice.” He cleared his throat. “Keep Lucius and Black Pete on the ship, even if everyone else goes to shore for the night. I don’t know, throw them a fucking engagement party.”

Bonnet brightened. “I have been meaning to do that, you know. Of course, you can’t plan a proper celebration in one night, but—”

“Whatever,” Izzy said, putting his foot into the rigging and starting down. It took more presence of mind to do this these days, but it wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. “Just no cake.”

“Yes, I think we all learned our lessons on the cake front. Have no fear! Roach is a pastry virtuoso. There doesn’t exist a confection that he can’t master.”

Perfect. A night of sugar and blood. Captured their lives here pretty well, really.

***

It wasn’t hard to find the Dead Man’s Folly. Ships captained by assholes always made themselves known sooner or later.

Some of Bonnet’s luck must have rubbed off on him, because he got the sweetest of chances: all hands in port for the night, and just Graves and his first mate aboard.

Easiest thing in the world for Izzy to hail them, plain and simple, and get welcomed on. The first mate didn’t even ask him his business, though he found it out in a hurry. Izzy didn’t make a meal out of that one: it was Graves he’d come here for, Graves who had been the rotten core of Lucius’s story.

Graves, who was drinking the night away in his cabin.

He wasn’t completely soused yet, which was good. Izzy wasn’t going to give him a chance to retrieve his sword or pistol—he was here to murder, not raiding or dueling; the usual rules of the profession didn’t apply—but he wanted him sober. He wanted Graves to know what he was paying for.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Curious passerby,” Izzy said. “My ship dropped anchor here, same as yours, and I’d heard so many rumors about the fearsome Captain Graves that I had to come myself to see what was what.”

The fact that Graves didn’t immediately blink at him and ask if he was taking the piss was a marvel and a half. As far as Izzy was concerned, the only pirate worth that kind of slobbery adulation was Edward himself—and Edward had tired of it a long time ago.

“What rumors would those be?” Graves said, hungry for any morsel of a reputation.

“I heard,” Izzy said, “that you picked up a pretty little piece of one-time jetsam a while back.”

Graves earned himself an even slower death by not even being able to fucking remember at first, like he fished bitchy scribes out of the sea every week at least.

“Oh,” Graves said, comprehension finally dawning on him. “Rat Boy. I wouldn’t go as far as pretty.”

Fucking hell, at this rate, Izzy was going to have to spend most of the fucking year killing this prick.

“Rat Boy. That’s the one.” He gave Graves a smile that would’ve sent a smarter man running. “Heard something about a bit of puppetry too, I think. Sounded … inventive.”

Graves, not content with all previous acts of wanton fucking stupidity, took this compliment at face value too. “Keeps the crew entertained on the slow nights. Everybody loves a good show.”

“Yeah? You come up with that yourself, then?”

Graves spread out his hands. “I’m a great innovator, unrecognized in my time.”

“Oh, I bet recognition’s right on its way,” Izzy said. “Nipping at your heels. You really got your whole hand up his arsehole, then.”

“He squirmed, but in it went,” Graves said, wiggling his fingers.

“You like that, watching him squirm? Wouldn’t go so far as to call him pretty, no, but you liked how he looked with you wrist-deep in his arse and making a show of him? Liked having him catch rats with his teeth? You must have. Liked it so well you didn’t even call him by his right name. Do you know it?”

It was, to Izzy’s great pleasure, finally starting to dawn on Graves that Izzy hadn’t really come here to have a wank to his great ingenuity. He stared at Izzy, the damp whites of his eyes looking like Roach’s poached eggs.

“My first mate is right up on deck—”

“He is. All over the deck, you might say.” Izzy leaned back in his chair. “Now, him I didn’t have much of a conversation with, so he didn’t have a chance to make things worse for himself. Just as dead as you’re going to be, though. Had it coming too, because a first mate’s responsible for everything that happens on his ship.”

Graves stared up at the ceiling, like blood was going to start dripping down right on cue. Izzy hoped he had a vivid picture of what all over the deck could mean. He gave Graves time to think about it. Then some more time to think about how much worse Izzy might do to the man who’d just been running his mouth about being the brains behind the human fucking puppet.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Izzy said, drawing his sword and laying it across his knees. “If you can come up with his name, I won’t cram a fat bilge rat down your sorry throat until you choke on it. I don’t really want to go looking for one anyway. This is going to take enough time as it is.”

Graves was sputtering now, like he was trying to save Izzy the rat-finding trouble by choking on his own spit first. “But he—he—”

“Made it back to his own ship.”

“He couldn’t have,” Graves insisted. “He—he said his captain there threw him overboard!”

“I’m not his fucking captain,” Izzy said. “Come up with that name yet?”

Graves’s pulse was fluttering in his throat, rapid as a lady’s fan. Thinking so hard beads of sweat were popping out on his brow: the great innovator at work.

“J—John.”

“Reasonable gamble,” Izzy allowed. “Thing is—it’s not right by even a letter.”

He ran Graves through, pinning him to his fancy chair; rapped the hilt with two fingers and set it to quivering in Graves’s belly. The screams were easy enough to ignore. Just part of the mess, like the blood.

He’d intended to make Lucius Spriggs the last thing Graves ever heard, but it seemed like Lucius’s name deserved better than being dragged back into this room with all its filth. Stupid thought, but there it was.

Instead, he said, “S’pose it doesn’t matter. Saw a dead rat right outside—seems a shame to waste it.” He hadn’t, but he figured Graves deserved to die with that thought in his head. And one more for good measure: “I’m not much for imagination; save that for the captains of the world. But I do work out how to make the fucking plans happen, even yours. The way I see it, all I have to do is cut your hand off—” He tapped a dagger blade against each of Graves’s wrists. “And then I can shove it up your arse. Put on a puppet show just the way you like.”

“You can’t do this,” Graves said. Blood was already hitting his lips as he whined, which meant he was dying faster than Izzy would like, and the bastard was too fucking dimwitted to know it.

Aided in the fuckery, at least.

“Oh, you’ll squirm, but in it’ll go,” Izzy told him. “You said as much yourself. It’ll be slick enough with your own blood, that ought to make it easier.”

He let Graves wriggle and bleed for another few minutes, but there wasn’t any satisfaction to it once the man was well and truly out of his head. Nothing to be gained by hurting a dumb animal. Izzy cut his throat to finish him off.

He stood there a while, breathing in the scent of blood. (And shit. He bet Bonnet’s tales of piracy never talked about how often dying men shit themselves.) He hadn’t paid Graves back for even what the fucker had done to Lucius, but there was revenge and then there was fucking monstrosity. He’d had enough of the latter to last him a lifetime.

Mutilating a corpse, though—that was run-of-the-mill pirate shit, honestly.

“Not saying he’ll make you the centerpiece of the fucking wedding,” he said to Graves’s body, “because he’s still a bit too soft for it, even after what your lot did to him. Which is almost fucking impressive. But he is, God help me, enough of a pirate to appreciate a token.”

Not the head. You walked through port swinging a man’s severed head like a sack of fucking apples, you wound up having to talk about it. Hand wouldn’t attract nearly as much attention—stray hands were as common around here as the pox—but Lucius wouldn’t want one. Not with where Graves’s had been. Fucking reminder, not a proper keepsake. Foot? He glanced down at his hoof—smiled a bit—and then scoffed. Jesus Christ, if he took Graves’s foot, Twatty would never fucking shut up about how interesting it must be inside Izzy’s head. He’d grow old and die before he heard the end of it.

Ear, he decided. Graves had been thoughtful enough to wear some gaudy emeralds there, might as well make use of it.

He sawed off the left one; it had a bit missing off the top, tapering to a lump of scar tissue, so between that and the fucking jewels, it’d be plain enough who it belonged to.

He spat on Graves’s body, before he went.

***

Frenchie was playing his lute when Izzy got back, and he shot Izzy a shy smile and plucked the first few notes of the tune he’d somehow gotten in his head was Izzy’s favorite. He raised his eyebrows.

Izzy waved him off—don’t change it on my account—and Frenchie drifted back to the other song.

Unbefuckinglievable that he’d somehow wound up with a life where people cared what fucking music he wanted. Fucking smiles and moonlight.

And a man’s ear in his pocket. Couldn’t say he’d ever had that before either, strictly speaking. Not as such.

Sugar and blood, he thought.

He found Lucius tucked up in Black Pete’s arms, listening to the music. Little fucker had always been bold as brass when it came to lazing about, never one to spring into action, but this was a new development, this melting back into his boyfriend’s chest and fucking relaxing more as Izzy came close.

Lucius looked up at him through his eyelashes. “Joining us?”

“Oh, get up,” Izzy said, nudging at him with the toe of his boot. “I’ve got a … matelotage gift for you. Just you, not him.”

“Well, color me intrigued,” Lucius said. He twisted around enough to press a kiss to Black Pete’s lips. “Save my seat.”

“Of course! And if he’s giving you what I think he’s giving you, babe, you’re gonna have to let me know if he put a bow on it first.”

They made it around to a quiet side of the deck—as private as anything ever got, with a ship this unwholesomely chummy—and Lucius flicked his gaze downwards and says, “Does it have a bow on it? I’ve always liked unwrapping presents.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Izzy reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief-swaddled ear. It still felt warm. “Here.”

“I swear,” Lucius murmured, “the number of otherwise lovely gifts I get with blood all over them ….” He unfolded the handkerchief and his breath caught in his throat. He stared down at it. “This is—his.”

Izzy nodded.

“That’s what you did tonight. You went out and cut a man’s ear off for me.”

“Killed him too,” Izzy said. “And the first mate.”

“Killed. You walked onto another pirate ship, killed its officers, and brought me back an ear.” Lucius tugged roughly at the earring, like he was half-tempted to tear through the earlobe and yank it free. “How did you even get away with that alive?”

Izzy shrugged. “They’d given the crew shore leave. Otherwise I would’ve had to settle for just the captain, and it would’ve been trickier. Easy enough as it was.”

Lucius wrapped the handkerchief up again. His fingers were shaking. “And here I had this whole vastly symbolic shark telling me I had to move on.”

“You are moving on,” Izzy said. “Or did you miss where it was a fucking wedding present? You’ve got Pete. You’re not sulking about the ship anymore, letting your whole life fester. You fucking talked it out, like you’re Bonnet Jr. You’ve just got some bastard’s ear now too, little piece for the mantel.”

Lucius took a deep breath and then said, “Don’t stab me, because it will so ruin the moment,” and leaned in fast and pressed his lips to Izzy’s cheek. The touch was light and warm. “This is honestly one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy said, even if it took a moment or two too long. His face felt hot. “It’s a severed ear, not a bunch of flowers.”

“I love it.”

“Yeah.” There was more open appreciation in his voice than he’d meant to put there. “Figured you were enough of a bloodthirsty little shit for it.”

“Speaking of which—you’re not … expecting me to cut off Blackbeard’s ear for you, are you?”

“You couldn’t give him so much as a fucking haircut,” Izzy said.

“I know that, but I figured I should, you know, offer.”

“Mm. You didn’t quite, though.”

“I said that I knew I should,” Lucius said. “That’s almost the same thing. I’m self-aware.”

Izzy snorted, and Lucius smiled—victorious and alive and prettier than fucking Graves could have ever fucking hoped to be.

“Don’t tell me you commit glorious, bloody acts of heroism for all the boys,” he said, slipping the bundled-up handkerchief into his pocket. “I don’t need to be a one-and-only, but I still like to feel special.”

He wasn’t quite a one-and-only, Izzy thought, looking over towards the stern, where the ship’s captains and her company was lounging about listening to their moonlit music and probably fiddling with their own beloved severed ears. But he was one of just a few. And special wasn’t the worst word for it, if Izzy were going to talk about it, which he absolutely fucking wasn’t.

“Oh,” Lucius said quietly, following his gaze. “I can certainly work with that.” He kissed Izzy again, on the mouth this time, even more softly than before. It hit Izzy like a kind of slow lightning strike and left him tingling. “Come and sit with us? God, that would be something. One valiant defender of my honor on either side. And Frenchie will play that song he’s absolutely convinced you like.”

“Don’t know why he thinks that,” Izzy said, following Lucius, “but I might be coming around on it.”

#izzy hands #lucius spriggs #izzy/lucius #hints of izzy/crew #tw: noncon references

[moorishflower]

"This one is a special case," Burgess says. "He is a war hero. Do you understand? You will be on your best behavior. You know what happens when you are not." Two years into his imprisonment, and Dream of the Endless has not given Roderick Burgess what he wants. Yet if he cannot have back his son, then he will have whatever else Dream has to give, and sell it to the highest bidder: body, powers, and all. Hob Gadling, newly back from the Western Front, has barely slept since 1889, and is desperate for any sort of relief, even that peddled by mad old men claiming to be warlocks.

PLEASE MIND THE TAGS.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream/hob gadling #the sandman #the sandman fanfic #the sandman fic #my fic #tw noncon references #tw dubcon #tw enslavement #tw ptsd #tw warfare

[syncopein3d]

Belated Instructions

Dungeon Meshi this week had me remembering my love of characters finding out late or never what's happening to them. The fatal one is at the end, for those who are uncomfortable with temporary D&D style character death.

"This tastes a little odd." "Huh. Let me have it. Sit down, will you?" "Sure. Why?" "So you don't hit your head when the drug kicks in." "What are you... Taaaaa..." "There you go." "My stomach hurts." "Which bottle did you take?" "The blue one." "Shit. Quick, put your hair back and face that way. I'll help you." "What, why? BLAAARGH." "...Because you're going to throw up." "How did I - where am I?" "You're in a medical facility. Here, take a deep breath of this." "Okay. What's... next..." "Now you can go to sleep." "Wait. Wait... Ssssfffhh..." "Okay, they're under. Start the procedure." "The sending has begun, go ahead." "I killed that lich, but there's a - there's a spell that hit me. It hurts like Hell. I can't feel my toes." "What color was it?" "Black." "This is very important. I need you to find a landmark down there, can you do that? Something easy to find." "Hnn - getting harder to walk. How about this statue?" "Describe it, quickly." "Looks like a centaur with an elf on his back."

"That'll do. Get behind it and lie down. Hurry." "Right. Gods, this hurts. I can't feel my - arms either -" "I know. I know. But I'm going to come get you, all right? Now in a second everything's going to get gray and then the pain will stop. Don't be afraid. Don't worry. I'm coming." "Oh. Good. It doesn't. It doesn't hurt any more..." "Can you hear me - ? No, the sending's over. Listen, listen! They're dead. We have about ten hours to get to the body before our resurrection window closes and we can spend NO power on the way. Get moving!"

#whump #loss of consciousness whump #syncopein3d future reference #tw vomiting #noncon drugging #death #death temporary #fantasy resurrection #medical whump

[snarkythewoecrow]

a little dented (but definitely not broken) (4538 words) by snarkymuch

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Characters: Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley Additional Tags: Established Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Past Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evan "Buck" Buckley Has Issues, Evan "Buck" Buckley Has PTSD, Eddie Diaz is Bad at Feelings (9-1-1 TV), Worried Eddie Diaz, Soft Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Late Night Conversations, Rape Recovery, abuse recovery, Dissociation, Alcohol, Secrets, Buck revealing some key points about his past, no descriptions of rape or abuse, Buck was a victim but isn’t one now, and Eddie struggles to make sense of that, POV Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), no quick fix but a soft ending, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary:

A wet laugh bubbled up from Buck's chest. His bloodshot eyes met Eddie's. "You know why I don't want to tell you? Because you'll try and make it better—because you’ll treat me like I’m broken… who am I kidding? Shit at the junkyard’s in better shape than me.” “You know, growing up, nearly every appliance we had came from the scratch and dent store or even the dump, just saying.” And the bitter-sounding laugh that pulled from Buck didn’t lighten the mood. Though, after a moment, the corner of his mouth did tug slightly upward. “Are you comparing me to an ugly fridge right now, Diaz?” He shrugged. “Or a dryer—actually, the dishwasher we had was pretty fucked up, but still ran great—the door was warped to shit, but it didn’t leak—and it was avocado green.”

XXX

Too many times, Eddie has seen Buck freeze up and check out, eyes turning dull as he goes somewhere else, which happens more often than not when they are between the sheets.

But when he can't ignore it any longer, he does what he should've done from the start and confronts him.

Old wounds are exposed, a few metaphors about appliances are said, and some difficult conversations are had, and yet somehow, it brings them even closer together

#buddie #buddie 911 #911 abc #tw: noncon #there is no descriptions of assault or abuse in story #only vague references #soft and angsty and complicated #snark writes

[fellowshipofthefics]

Scars of Silver and Gold

NiennaWept

Summary:

Palariel has been a healer in the Southlands since the aftermath of the War of Wrath and the sinking of Beleriand nearly a millennia ago. When an uruk is gravely wounded, she must hold to her oaths and heal the speaking peoples of Middle-earth—including him. But as she gets to know these battle-hardened people, an understanding of the depth of their suffering and their need for a healer grows. And all the while, her regard for their enigmatic leader, Adar, deepens. At the site of every disaster, there are those who stay to help rebuild, but what will it cost?

#rings of power #adar #adar x oc #rings of power fic #niennawept #tw: noncon reference

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 7 ~ Trust

Hidden Depths AU

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Genre: Fantasy whump

CWs: captivity, lady whump, nudity, dead bodies, shoulder dislocation, setting of said shoulder... painfully, blood, threats of harm and death, knife to throat, panic attack(s), mildly scrambled memories causing confusion and distress, very brief recounting of noncon (piecing memories together, non explicit)

WC: 2800

Taglist: @kixngiggles

A/N: BITCH CHAPTER I AM DONE WITH THEE

Seriously, I can't take any more of this chapter 😅 Can't say I'm entirely happy with it, but it's passable. I want to move on. I'm ready to move on. And the longer I have this thing, the more I'll change it and... no. I refuse. I KICKETH THEE TO THE CURB. Enjoy my insanity :D

Carr

It felt like waking from a dream. 

A really fucking awful dream. 

Her ears were no longer ringing, and her vision wasn’t fractured. She hurt, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as she remembered. 

Or thought she remembered. Carr blinked up at the white limestone ceiling. 

A pained cry split through the fuzzy feeling of unreality surrounding her, and she jerked up, only to bite her lip against the shock of injuries that turned out to be all too real. Her muscles felt like jelly, quivering with the strain of holding herself upright.

Propping herself on her elbow it would be, then. Had killing Marcus been a figment of her imagination? Had he finished with her and gone after Resh now? 

She scanned the room, heart thumping hard in her aching chest. Not Resh, she couldn’t… her eyes fell on the back of a man who should not be in this chamber. He was wearing dark brown breeches with a black jacket, and his not blond, not brown braid fell over his shoulder.  

He also had Resh pinned to the wall with a blade digging into his throat. Carr saw his arm tense, and a spike of terror turned her blood to ice. 

“Nykim, no!”  

A tremor passed through her when he paused. Oh gods, he’d almost slit Resh’s throat. What was he… why wasn’t he moving away? 

“Please, don’t kill him,” she whispered. 

Resh’s eyes flicked over to meet hers for a moment as Nykim slowly lowered his dagger. When he turned around, she thought she saw relief in his blue-gray eyes. Which confused her even more.  

“Did you just say please?” Nykim asked incredulously. 

Carr flushed. Surely she’d said please at least once before… 

“Why are you here?” she blurted. Like that was the most important question. Fuck, her brain felt scrambled. 

Nykim raised his eyebrows, and it was at that moment Carr remembered she was naked. She glanced down at herself. Yup, the coating of blood did nothing to disguise her breasts or the fact that she had nothing between her legs. Her next breath stuck in her throat, and she couldn’t quite meet Nykim’s eyes when she looked back up.   

“I…” Nothing would come out of her mouth. What could she say? I can explain? I’m sorry I deceived you for the last ten years? Please don’t kill me? She pressed her lips together instead. Her other arm crossed over her chest. Oh gods. 

Something like irritation crossed Nykim’s features, and she flinched when he moved. 

“For fuck’s sake, Carr,”–Nykim only shrugged out of his jacket–“Did you think I would leave you here indefinitely? I gave you time to get out yourself. I was tired of waiting.” He approached her, and she couldn’t stop herself. 

She flinched again. 

The corners of his mouth turned down, but all he did was drape the jacket over her. Carr clutched it to her chest.

“You should lay back down, Carr. You have a lot of injuries. I’ll get you out of here in a moment.” 

She did, and they hurt, but they didn’t seem quite right. Nothing seemed quite right. Where was Marcus? Why was Nykim saying nothing about her being a girl?  

I’ll get you out. His phrasing slammed into her, knocking any other worries to the wayside. She looked over Nykim’s shoulder at Resh, who was pressing a hand to his bleeding neck. His brows were pinched with pain, but the way he looked at her… it took her breath away. 

“Nykim–” 

“Carr.” He cut her off with a warning look. “The boy’s a liability. Are you seriously suggesting we leave him alive?” 

We? There was no way he was asking her opinion as a beta after finding out–feeling a bit woozy, she decided to lie down. Her vision swam, and when she blinked, tears fell free, trickling down her temples. She quickly wiped them away. 

A scuffle broke out. Carr turned her head to find Resh had tried to come to her, and Nykim too, based on how close they were. But Nykim was holding Resh back with an arm across his chest… and a dagger right over his heart. 

“Stay away from her,” Nykim said, his voice low and rough. “She doesn’t like people hovering.” 

“You think… I don’t know… that?” Resh forced out. He was obviously hurting. It was also obvious he didn’t care as he tried to shove past Nykim anyway. “Ah! Carr, you okay?” 

Her eyes stayed trained on that dagger. “Nykim, please! Don’t hurt him.” 

“The fuck is going on here, Carr?” Nykim grunted, shoving Resh back. 

It was too much. Her head swam with unanswered questions and fears she couldn’t assuage because of them. Nykim showing up here was undoubtedly good, but he was trying to kill Resh, which was bad. So, so bad. She couldn’t allow it but didn’t know if she held any sway over Nykim now. She certainly didn’t have the strength to stop him if she didn’t.

Carr covered her mouth to stifle her sob, but it didn’t completely mask the sound. Both men went still as statues. Oh gods. She threw her arm over her eyes, just in case any more tears decided to break free. 

“Did you miss something?” Resh asked, his tone accusatory. 

“She’s still going to be in some pain,” Nykim said, sounding confused. 

He probably was. She’d never once cried in front of him. 

There was the whisper of fabric over stone, and then Carr felt a presence at her side. She tensed and lowered her arm to see who had come to gawk at her. 

It was Resh. 

She couldn’t look away from him to check on where Nykim was. Resh kneeled just out of reach, the fingers of his left hand digging into his thigh. The positioning had to be painful after the way he’d been chained. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, the deformity of his shoulder obvious without his shirt. Both his wrists had deep grooves cut into them, and blood painted his forearms. 

“Get off your knees,” Carr mumbled. Her chest felt tight; gods, he’d tried so hard to get to her. 

He huffed a laugh while he shifted his weight, sitting beside her head. She finally summoned the nerve to meet his eyes. They were the same deep brown pools she’d allowed herself to drown in while… her brow wrinkled. 

She was pretty sure that had happened, that Marcus had been on top of her… that she had waited, held by Resh’s eyes until the… she shuddered. Until the right moment before wrenching the dagger from her shoulder and slitting Marcus’ throat. Not too deep. No, she’d needed a little time to… fuck. Had she really–had that actually happened? 

“Is he dead?” she whispered, tears clogging her throat. Her fingers dug into the leather of Nykim’s jacket. “Did he… did I… was that real?” 

Resh bowed his head, releasing her from his thrall. “Yeah, it was all real. I’m… I couldn’t… fuck.” His left hand clenched into a fist. 

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t, and yet he had never stopped trying. Carr remembered that much. He had begged and pleaded and offered himself up in her place, all while tearing himself apart–she looked at his arm–literally, in an attempt to help. He shouldn’t blame himself; it wasn’t his fault. She didn’t know how to say any of that, though. 

Instead, she steeled herself and said, “I need to see. Will you help me?” 

The shock on Resh’s face was painful to witness. His gaze drifted to the side before coming back to her. “Are you sure? Maybe it’d be better if Nykim helped you?”

She stared at him, trying to figure out if he didn’t want to touch her out of guilt or because of what had happened. More fucking tears pricked her eyes at the latter thought; fucking pits, none of her defenses were in place. They’d all been stripped away. 

Nykim cleared his throat, and they both looked over at him. “If she asked for your help, boy, she means it.” He wiped his bloody hands on his pants. “I’ve got some bodies to take care of. You can have a few minutes, then we need to get out of here.” 

“‘We’ includes Resh, Nykim,” Carr said harshly. Her heart beat wildly though, unsure if he would listen, uncertain if what she wanted still mattered–

He sighed heavily. “For now, yes. Further discussion can be held at the lair.” 

Nykim stood and took a few steps toward the door before he pivoted, changing course. He crouched at Resh’s side, his eyes taking on a stormy gray hue. “You do anything to hurt her, and I’ll strip the flesh from your bones. Then I’ll mount them in my office.” 

His hand shot forward, and a bolt of fear shot through her, stopping her heart, but he only grabbed Resh’s right arm and yanked. All color fled from Resh’s face. The pop of his shoulder sliding back into the socket was audible even over his scream.

“What the fuck, Nykim!” Carr shouted, struggling to push herself up. 

“Couldn’t have him tensing up, now could I?” Mischief danced in his eyes. 

He was up and out of reach before Carr could knock him on his ass as he so richly deserved. She was angry enough that she could’ve done it. Maybe.

To Resh, he said, “Hold that arm close to your body, and don’t fucking use it.” Then he swept out of the room. 

“Shit,” Resh gasped, clutching his arm to his chest. Perspiration dotted his forehead. “He’s… intense.” 

Carr glared at the door. “Yeah.” 

“So, uh, how would you like me to help you?” He looked nervous when Carr transferred her gaze back to him. “I… I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, is all.” 

Her skin prickled, and she suppressed a shudder at the thought of anyone touching her right now. But she was so weak, it couldn’t be helped. Besides, she trusted Resh... 

The thought rocked her to her core. When the fuck had that happened?

“Just help me sit up, and we can go from there,” she said, pushing that revelation away. 

He did as she asked, as best he could with only one arm. The warmth of his palm met the chilled, bare flesh of her shoulder, and Carr was shocked to find she didn’t mind the contact. Which had her thinking that maybe, from him, a hug would feel even better. 

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine how it might feel to be held, comforted. Resh’s warmth would soak into her, and she could listen to his heart beat, like she had when the tunnel collapsed. The steady rhythm would soothe the ache in her chest, that ever-present need she had to be seen, accepted.  

Anger–at herself–rose swiftly before plummeting just as fast into a hole of dark despair. Her breathing quickened as she mentally castigated herself; she fucking knew better. Gods, she could feel herself unraveling, thread by carefully woven thread. She bit her lip, forcing back that longing. 

Focus on the task at hand. That’s what she needed to do. Focus.     

With Resh’s support, she put Nykim’s jacket on properly, fastening it over makeshift bandages she only now noticed. Her chest warmed, and not from the nasty gash between her breasts. 

“Did you bandage me?” She caught Resh’s nod in her peripheral vision while she fastened the last button. 

Whatever else she intended to say vanished from her mind when she lifted her eyes and caught sight of the body lying not six feet away from them. 

Marcus. 

He was very fucking dead. 

Relief, along with a savage sense of satisfaction, filled her, and she clenched her fists while the holes in her memory filled in. He’d fucking deserved every moment of suffering. She wished it could’ve lasted longer. 

She had killed him and–

The heir to the godsdamned throne was dead. 

“Shit, this is bad,” Carr muttered. Gods, all those guards had seen her and Resh in here with the prince. And Resh–what was he thinking? He’d seen her kill Creve, but this… this was on another level. 

Stiffening, she jerked away from where she leaned against his chest. Shit, she had been leaning on him, had felt like he was… safe. A pit formed in her stomach. 

Safety was an illusion.

It was. She’d always known that, had never known any different. The only safety she’d ever known had been the safety she created, and even that wasn’t foolproof. 

The carnage blurring in front of her eyes proved that.

She pressed a hand to her chest and winced when her wound cracked open. Fresh blood slicked her palm while she tried to remember how to breathe.  

Distantly, she recognized she was falling apart. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t seem to stop it. After everything, the thing that broke her was feeling safe? She would’ve laughed if she could get any air in her lungs. 

Behind her sat the one person who had ever evoked that feeling in her. Gods, how she wanted to give in to it. But she didn’t know how. And there was–

There was blood all over her; Marcus had been all over her. Her skin crawled, and she tried to scramble away. 

He had seen it all. He couldn’t… she couldn’t…

Resh caught her before she could fall on her face. “Hey, what’s going on–” 

“Don’t touch me,” she shrieked, but he didn’t let go. 

He didn’t let go, he didn’t let go, he, he, he moved. In front of her. Her hand shot out on reflex, and Resh winced when her palm hit his chest. 

“You don’t want to touch me,” she sobbed, dropping her arm, but he pulled her closer. She didn’t fight it, didn’t want to fight it. 

Resh was warm, and she was so, so cold. She shivered against his chest, holding her breath in an attempt to stifle her crying. Hiccuping sobs rewarded her efforts. 

He wrapped his arm around her in a loose hold. Even as weak as she was, she could’ve pulled away if she wanted to. 

“Breathe, Carr,” Resh said softly, stroking her hair. 

She tried. 

“If you think I’ll judge you for what happened, you’re wrong. I’m glad you did what you did. I don’t care about any of that. But I understand if you truly don’t want to be touched.” He pulled his hand away from her head, loosened his hold even more. “I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself. Tell me what you want me to do. How can I help?” 

She whimpered, pressing herself closer to him. “Don’t stop.” 

His breath caught, and she melted into him when he resumed petting her hair. Just a few moments, she told herself. Then she had to pull herself together. 

“Mother fuck,” Nykim said. “What the fuck did you do?”

She hadn’t even heard him come in. Unacceptable. The tangled, swirling mess of her emotions stilled, and she stiffened at his tone. 

“He d…didn’t do.” Hiccup. “Didn’t do anything,” Carr mumbled. Godsdamned hiccups. Deep measured breaths. She knew how this worked. 

In. 

Out. 

Resh’s arms tightened protectively around her. 

Disbelief colored Nykim’s voice as he muttered a few more choice curses. 

All Carr could think about was how Resh shouldn’t be using his right arm to hold her like that. She squirmed, then thought better of it when he flinched. Instead, she tilted her head to look at Nykim, gauging how much trouble she was in.  

Nykim caught her eye and cocked his head, studying her silently. She could only imagine what she must look like. If being female hadn’t doomed her yet for some reason, Carr knew her behavior wasn’t exactly fitting for one of Nykim’s betas. Carr didn’t even breathe while she waited on his judgment. 

“Okay.” Nykim sighed, and she drew in a ragged breath. That was a sigh of resigned acceptance if she’d ever heard one, thank fuck. 

“I can’t wait to hear this story. But for now, let’s get the fuck out of here. You’re with me, Carr.” 

She nodded and pushed away from Resh. He wouldn’t be able to help her, not with how fucked up his shoulders must be. If she couldn’t get her legs to support her, Nykim would likely end up carrying her. Wonderful.

At least her hiccups were gone. Suppressing a groan, she reached out to take Nykim’s hand. 

Nykim may have questions, but she had some of her own now. Like why he kept shooting Resh those ‘keep your mouth shut’ glances she was so familiar with. 

She wondered if it had anything to do with how she was still alive. 

Next

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a sepia-colored version of the original blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths AU are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

#fantasy whump #lady whump #whump #whump writing #original writing #original characters #alternate universe #hidden depths au #captivity tw #blood tw #knife tw #dead body tw #nudity mention #panic attack tw #dislocated shoulder #reference to noncon #warnings above the cut

[dr3amofagame]

Prison Trio /sx but it's when Sam got put in there

if we're talking about canon, regardless of any c!awesamdreamity situationships during the prison arc, i doubt c!dream wants c!quackity Anywhere Near his daedalus therapy arc. c!awesamdream might fuck for Reasons and also might not fuck for Reasons--i can see c!Dream you know, deciding hey we're doing this power bottom time to prove that it's Normal (tm) and he has Autonomy and they are Consenting Adults about it and whatever. if sam tries a ohhhh i can't belieeeeve you're coercing me 🥺 spiel then he's not having that of course. and i think what probably fits how i see c!awesamdream (in this scenario, where they've fucked during the prison arc) the best MIGHT be a case where they don't fuck at all, but c!dream definitely does hint at it a lot and then leaves when c!sam is very very very turned on

(jmah scenario under the cut warning for dub/noncon)

in jmah but awesamdream canon then yes j!awesamdream r fucking during the quackity thing. bc they're normal like that and theyre locked in a room together for 2 weeks. they're also definitely fucking during daedalus--j!awesamdreamity is a bit harder. j!quackity assumes that they're fucking regardless if j!awesamdream actually have sex, bc What The Hell Is Wrong With Them you know the drill, so his actual decision when it comes to doing anything sexual during his visits is independent of j!awesamdream's actual relationship. i'd say that in most cases he's probably not going to do anything, but he definitely makes threats, specifically against dream to get to sam bc that riles him up a lot. definitely threatens cutting off j!sam's dick too lmao.

there's definitely like A World where he goes through with a threat just to prove himself to them both, tbh

#my asks !! #dsmpshipping #tw noncon #tw dubcon #suggestive #not super sure what u were referring to but hopefully i covered my bases

[quietwingsinthesky]

straight women get to have mafia boss romance novels. why dont i get to have lucifer seducing sam winchester. of course he’d never want to have gay sex with the devil, but if lucifer makes him-

#i need to shut up aksjfkksjakf #BUT IM RIGHT AND I- #the thing about supernatural. the thing about supernatural. is that it views queerness as inherently predatory and evil. and the thing is. #they see it that way and get scared. i see that and get horny. so im not sure im getting the message they wanted to send with repo man. #(hears lucifer reference nonconning sam in the cage) i think i hauve covid #tw noncon

[kim-poce]

(cw for pregnancy)

For romantic pets, I imagine a common modification would be sterilization, but there would inevitably be people who don't. With a non-zero chance of someone getting a pet pregnant, how do people handle that?

CW: noncon body modification, noncon talk, abortion, child death.

The chances are completely zero. That's one of the rules that WRU doesn't break. A pet having a child would make the child half-person, half-thing and this would shake the WRU system. Not only romantic pets but every pet is sterilized. If, if, for some reason, the whole sterilization failed they would abort the fetuses, and if somehow a child was born, well, WRU isn't really a law-follower system, and killing is always on the table.

#whump #pet whump #bbu #noncon body modification #noncon references #abortion tw #child death tw #asks #boonasaurusrex #pregnancy tw

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

Misery

CWs: bbu, ocd, anxiety, references to noncon, brief suicide ideation, forced to self harm, all hurt no comfort, intrusive thoughts, harm ocd, blood

Masterlist

-----------------------------------

Jesse had never been so miserable in his life. It was a hefty statement, with what he had gone through, but it was true.

Mr. Bakeman changed his schedule the day after Jesse’s … incident. Apparently he had been away by choice all that time, but now there was nothing making him want to leave. He worked a regular 9 - 5 and came home every night.

Every. Night.

Jesse closed his eyes and shook his head four times, twisting his collar. He’d washed the same dish going on sixteen times now, but it still didn’t feel right. He soaped it up again to do another four.

Everything was wrong. Jesse being alone, the house being empty, Mr. Bakeman coming home every day. Jesse thought the weird things he did were bad before? It was nothing compared to now. He didn’t cook because he couldn’t stop thinking about cutting or burning himself. He sang the girls’ favorite songs over and over. Yesterday he spent an hour unlocking and locking the front door. He wanted to go outside to go on a walk or something to distract himself but he was terrified that if he did then the girls would get sick. So he stayed in.

He dried the dish for the twentieth time. He wanted to be done but twenty was four divided by five and five was an ugly number. One more batch.

Mr. Bakeman hadn’t really spoken to him since that night, save to ask him when dinner would be ready. Jesse almost wished he would talk to him. He needed something, anything, to distract him from his thoughts. Even in the facility he’d had someone to talk to, to give him orders. Children to hug. He was never… alone. He wasn’t meant to be alone. He was meant to be a companion. He was meant to care for his children he loved and missed so much.

Jesse hissed in pain. His hands were so dry from washing and washing that the skin on his knuckles had split right open. But he was only at twenty three, and that was a very ugly number, so he did one more wash before setting the plate down and carefully drying his hands.

How were his girls? His chest was hot. He needed to know, but there was no way.

The front door opened. 5:23. Jesse had completely lost track of time. Tears burned behind his eyes, but he forced them back.

He heard Mr. Bakeman stomp up the stairs. He knew he was tossing his briefcase aside and changing out of his work clothes into something more casual. Jesse tried to keep listening to know when he was coming downstairs, while also quickly getting something ready for dinner.

What was the new nanny making the girls for dinner? Did she know that Harper hated chicken? And that Eva refused to drink milk unless it was with breakfast?

His stomach hurt.

“Where’s dinner?”

Jesse jumped. Mr. Bakeman was already back down, but he wasn’t in his regular t-shirt and jeans, instead he just changed into different work clothes, albeit more laid back than his usual suit.

“I’m sorry, Master. I haven’t started it yet.” He opened the fridge door and scanned through. There was leftover chili from two nights ago. He knew there was spaghetti noodles in the cupboard. Or he could try to cook up some chicken and rice…

The fridge door slammed shut, making Jesse jump back with the whoosh of cool air. His mind flashed back to the facility and he shook his head to make the thought go away.

“What have you been doing all day, if you haven’t done the one thing I require of you?”

Jesse swallowed. “I… I’m sorry. I got carried away cleaning.”

Mr. Bakeman glared as he rolled his sleeves up past his elbow. “Do not let it happen again.” Jesse nodded and got to work reheating the chili. “I have some colleagues coming over soon. Make yourself available.”

It felt like Jesse’s heart dropped out from his feet. He nodded numbly and closed his eyes as more tears sprung to them.

Jesse tried to calm himself down as he cooked. Maybe it would be one of those good times. Those times where they didn’t hurt him and they really just used him as a servant. It couldn’t be too bad, since it was a Thursday night and they all had work tomorrow. Right? He’d be okay.

“Yeah?”

Jesse spun around, worried he’d talked out loud. Mr. Bakeman glared briefly before focusing again on his phone conversation.

“She is? Did she miss school today? … I see. And Harper and Eva?”

Jesse froze. He must be talking to the nanny. What was her name? Peyton. Oh Jesse’s heart hurt thinking that someone else got to take care of his girls when he wasn’t there. Missing them was something physical, something tangible that he could feel taking him by the neck and strangling the life out of him. His hands shook, the split skin stinging.

“Hmm. Alright. Keep me posted. … She did? … Yeah put her on.”

Jesse forced himself to keep moving, to get a pot and pour the chili in it, reheating it properly. His breath seemed stuck in his throat.

Mr. Bakeman’s voice changed as he spoke. “Hey Abi! … You’re not feeling good?”

Jesse wanted to throw up. He needed to be with them. He needed to hold her, to keep her safe and healthy. He needed to. The tears in his eyes spilled over.

“I’m sorry baby. … I miss you too. Two days, baby. … Yeah. … How are your sisters?”

He wiped away his tears, breath catching in a sob he couldn’t let go. The stovetop sizzled under the pot.

Put your hand on it.

He shook the thought away. Maybe it was for the better they were gone… He thought it but it did nothing to stop him from drowning.

“Awww. Well tell them Daddy loves them. … Okay. … Hmm? Who?”

There was a long pause, and Jesse turned just a bit only to see Mr. Bakeman staring at him with a strange mixture of hate and confusion on his face. He quickly turned back to the stovetop.

“Uh. No, baby. … Because he’s busy.”

Jesse put his hand to his mouth as he sobbed out loud. It echoed through the silent kitchen, raw and ugly.

She asked for him. Abigail asked to talk to him and Mr. Bakeman… refused. Jesse felt that so deeply in his soul he almost wanted to die all over again. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the edge of the counter to hold himself steady. Tears streamed down his face and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop them.

“Yeah. Sorry. … Okay. … I love you too. … I will. Bye.”

The phone clicked on the countertop as he set it down. The chili sizzled on the stove. Jesse gasped for breath as his world continued to crash around him.

“Pet.”

He choked on a sob, forcing it down. He opened his eyes and looked back at his master.

“I need to eat before my colleagues arrive. Get a hold of yourself.”

Mr. Bakeman went back to his phone, clearly done with acknowledging his pet. The words slipped out before Jesse could think to stop them.

“Is she okay?”

His master didn’t even look up.

He swallowed, throat thick with tears, and spoke up again.

“Abigail. Is she alright?”

Mr. Bakeman sighed, glaring. “Stop.”

Jesse wished he could. “Please Master. I need to know. Is she alright?”

“I said stop.”

Jesse shook his head, pain blooming behind his eyes as he disobeyed his owner. But he needed to know. “Please,” he begged, throat thick with tears. “Just tell me if she’s okay. I need to know if they’re all okay, please!”

“Respect!”

Jesse fell to his knees so quickly his mind didn’t even register it until the pain shot up his legs.

He hadn’t had to do his positions in … he didn’t even know how long. The novelty of the thing had worn off on Mr. Bakeman pretty quickly. Jesse was thankful that Mrs. Bakeman never figured them out.

Mr. Bakeman’s loafers clicked as he stepped towards his pet, shaking with his head pressed against the tile. Jesse held his breath, chest seizing in choked back sobs.

“You have the audacity to be upset that you no longer get to see my children?” Jesse whined as one of his loafers pressed down on his neck. Not enough to cut off his air. Just so Jesse knew he could. “Who’s fault is that? There would have been no need for a divorce if you didn’t have to go whoring yourself out.”

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut. The weight on his neck increased a bit.

“You’re the reason my children will grow up in a broken home. If they really meant that much to you then maybe you shouldn’t have torn their family apart.”

He pressed down more. Jesse began to weeze. He wanted to move but knew it would only make the situation worse. Panic, different from what he had been feeling, sparked in his chest.

“You do not deserve – ” more pressure. Jesse gasped through a straw. “ – to speak to my children. You will see them when I do. Until then you will serve me, as you were meant to do.”

I was meant for them, Jesse thought. His eyes opened in a panic as the weight increased even more, cutting off his air completely.

Mr. Bakeman just stood there for a few long seconds, letting Jesse drown in panic. WIthout a word, he lifted his foot and walked away.

The doorbell rang.

-----------------------------------

New people. Only two of them, but still. New people Jesse didn’t know. He didn’t know how to please them, didn’t know their likes or limits or what they did or didn’t want.

It was past the girls’ bedtime. He hoped they were safely in bed. He hoped Abigail would get some sleep, that she was alright. He hoped it was just a 24 hour bug. Strep throat. A cold. And not something like appendicitis or flesh eating disease or leukemia.

He needed her to be okay.

Jesse sang her favorite song in his head, staring into space and trying to breathe through the smoke in the den. He knocked on the wall behind him four times.

Make them be okay, he thought to no one.

Mr. Bakeman and his ‘colleagues’, who’s names Jesse had determined to be Michaelson and TJ, were sitting around the table with alcohol and cigarettes in hand. They didn’t seem to be getting drunk. Just drinking socially.

If you have to drink to be social then you must not be a very sociable person.

Joshua shook his head, groaning so he didn’t accidentally laugh. “Dad –”

Jesse winced, closing his eyes at the flash of pain behind them. By the time he opened them again he’d forgotten what it was that made it happen.

“How’re the kids?” TJ asked.

Mr. Bakeman side-eyed Jesse before answering. “Fine. Heather has them until Saturday morning.”

“You still talk to her?”

MIchaelson chimed in. “I haven’t talked to the witch in charge of my kids since she left. If she has anything to say to me she can tell my secretary.”

“The secretary you’ve been banging in the conference room?”

Michaelson only raised his glass and smiled.

Mr. Bakeman took a drag on his cigarette before answering. “I try not to. It’s not hard since she’s never there. I usually talk to their nanny.”

“I thought that was him.”

The three of them turned and looked at Jesse. He tried to shrink further against the wall.

“He was. But Heather got the kids. I got him.”

Go back to ignoring me. Please.

“I’m glad,” TJ said. “That means we get to have fun.”

Jesse briefly closed his eyes in defeat.

“What did you have in mind?” Michaelson asked.

TJ shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I’ve got this.” Jesse paled when he pulled a knife from his pocket. He spun the thin blade around, gauging Jesse’s reaction. “You mind if we cut him up a little?”

Mr. Bakeman shook his head, taking a drink. “Long as he doesn’t die for now.”

Jesse’s breath picked up.

“He gonna stay still?” Michaelson asked.

Mr. Bakeman reached out an arm for his pet. “C’mere.”

Jesse’s legs moved on their own. He wanted nothing more than to stand in the corner all night long, totally and completely ignored. He should’ve figured he wouldn’t get to have that. He stood awkwardly in front of his master, eyes on the blade next to him.

He gasped in surprise as Mr. Bakeman grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto his lap, holding him flush against his hips.

Jesse’s heart stuttered in his chest. Tears stung his eyes and poured down his cheeks.

Oh please don’t do that please don’t do that PLEASE don’t do that –

Mr. Bakeman pressed Jesse’s right hand flat against the table and pinned down his wrist. He wrapped his other arm around Jesse’s torso, palm heavy over his quick heartbeat.

Sweat slid down Jesse’s forehead, mixing with his terrified tears and stinging his eyes. He didn’t dare close them though, instead training them on the blade that progressively got closer and closer to his hand. He pulled weakly against his master’s grip.

TJ swooped the knife closer and closer to Jesse’s splayed out hand like an airplane. 

It reminded Jesse of how he would feed the infants in the Facility daycare, or how he’d try to get Harper to take her medicine when she was really little. He missed when that was all he did.

The point brushed against his skin and he whimpered out loud.

“What’s this?” TJ asked. He circled the cigarette burn on Jesse’s hand with the blade. “I asked you a question, pet.”

Jesse managed to unclench his jaw. His voice shook. “Cigarette burn.”

“Oh? From dear old Brian here?”

He shook his head. Four times. “No, Sir.”

“Who then?” He removed the knife and Jesse sighed in hesitant relief.

Mr. Bakeman breathed softly against his neck. “The witch did it.”

Jesse screamed, bucking against his master’s grasp as TJ plunged the knife through his hand and into the table. Blood pooled around and under his hand, soaking the dark wood.

The men around him howled in laughter at his pain. Mr. Bakeman stood suddenly, sending Jesse to his knees. He screamed, vision going dark as the sudden movement jostled his hand in the worst way.

“Make him scream again,” Michaelson said. He reached out for the handle, but Mr. Bakeman stopped him.

“No, no. Watch this.” He smiled maliciously, turning toward his shivering, bleeding mess of a pet. “Pet,” he said slowly, “pull out the blade.”

Jesse sobbed, pressing his forehead against the edge of the table. He shook his head. “Master, please… Don’t make me –” 

“I am.” He stood back and folded his arms, taking a drag off his nearly forgotten cigarette. The ash was hanging off nearly an inch long.

If it fell, would that be enough to start a house fire?

“None of us are going to take it out. You could sit there all night long. It’s up to you.”

Bile rose in Jesse’s throat and he was again grateful that he had been too worried to eat all day. The smell of his own blood filled his nostrils and made his stomach flip over and over. Pain radiated in waves from his hand through what felt like his entire body.

He looked at the men through tear filled eyes, trying in vain to plead with them. He was only met with a strange, sickening, cold enthusiasm.

Why does it bring them this much joy to watch someone else in pain?

Jesse braced himself against the table and pushed off his heels. His arm throbbed with

the effort to keep as still as possible. His legs trembled beneath him, so violently that Jesse feared he would collapse and rip his hand through the knife. He focused on not doing that at all costs.

“If you take too long we can always add another…” Michaelson threatened idly.

The excitement on their faces was enough to make him sob.

Jesse took a deep breath and heaved himself to his feet. His eyes went dark again, the thought of ripping his hand flashing through his mind once more. His vision thankfully cleared and he leaned heavily on the table, knees locked.

The men jeered and taunted but Jesse tuned them out. He watched his left hand tentatively wrap around the blade, holding back a scream. Tears poured down his face and he tried one last time to beg the man with his eyes. He didn’t even know why he tried.

Jesse closed his eyes and tore the knife from his hand.

His scream was deafening. He held his injured hand close to his chest, soaking his sweater. There was so much blood. There aren’t any arteries in the hand, right? Could it be possible he hit one anyway? No. Maybe? Oh there was so much blood.

Mr. Bakeman patted him on the shoulder. He knelt next to his pet and whispered in his ear.

“Not too bad for your first time.”

Jesse thought he had never been more miserable. He knew now that it had only been the beginning.

-----------------------------------

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @boxboysandotherwhump @hold-him-down @winedark-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @castielamigos-whump-side-blog

#847481: jesse #bbu #box boy universe #whump #ocd tw #anxiety tw #harm ocd tw #forced to self harm #blood tw #noncon references #brief suicide ideation #intrusive thoughts tw

[cupcakes-and-pain]

Rat: Chapter 9

Okay I’m done (also Rat is like “yeah I’d hurt other prisoners for my own gain, but calling them by the correct pronouns instead of ‘it’ is a must”)

CW: dehumanization, mean whumpee, future starvation, future punishment, blink and you miss it noncon reference,

Masterlist

———

The Boss had brought Rat to a party today, but then a prisoner of one of the guests was also there, and she was getting all the attention.

Apparently, she was “cuter” than it. That meant she’d get fed while he starved. And even though it knew cuteness wasn’t its Boss’s thing, Rat had still been kicked out of the room and tied to the door handle so it could wait for the Boss. It would be punished later for not satisfying her guests well enough.

Rat’s blood boiled and it wondered if there was anything way it could get back at that stupid “cute” girl. Because of this, it was distracted and didn’t hear the person coming up behind it.

“Hi.”

Rat whipped around, terrified of who that might be.

It was the photographer, the new one. Rat didn’t know why they were here. The photographer never wore a uniform, so they weren’t an official worker. They didn’t go through the rigorous training. They weren’t forced to be here.

If they ever annoyed Rat, it would be harder to get away with revenge.

“Um, do you know where Virginia is?”

Rat blinked, the words unable to make their way through its mind. This person was talking to them. Actually talking. And they asked a question, meaning that Rat had to respond. But it was so dumb, how could it ever help a human?

What had they even said? Rat probably had forgotten. It tilted its head and looked up at the photographer with the sweetest eyes it could muster. This person didn’t seem overly cruel, so maybe they’d like it as a cute pet. Rat could be cute!

“Uhh… I’ll just go and find her myself, then.”

Oh right! They had asked where its Boss was. Rat actually could an answer this question.

It pointed to the door.

“Hmm? Oh, is she in there? Thank you, uh, your name is Rat, right?”

It nodded.

“Ah. Thank you, Rat.”

It did good. Once the photographer left, Rat allowed itself a small smile. A person was happy with it, without having to hurt it or use it.

It selfishly hoped that the photographer would stick around, but it knew no one ever did if they didn’t have to. It even suspected that the Boss’s friends needed her as an ally and wouldn’t be here if not for that.

Still, Rat could hope.

———

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