Sideblog of FOR-THE-LOVE-OF-ANGST dedicated to my non-con, dubcon, and all things not safe for work. Be nice, be safe, and happy whumping! All characters are poc unless explicitly stated. Avatar by albino-whumpee (🤍) happy pride everyone!
Hey, I'm Monti! I'm an elder whump writer and enjoyer! I'm hilarious and I hope that shows in my writing! I'm always happy to see a new whump blog so don't be afraid to hop into my inbox or DMs and start talking! I'm usually online and would love to chat, give blog recommendations and or hook you up with a whump discord to join!
I run the @whumpawoman blog and discord server, primarily focused on lady whump and non-binary whump! I also mod a discord server for those in the whump community who are 20+ as well as modding the @amonthofwhump blog that reblogs whump community events and puts on a winter/Christmas-themed event every December.
MASTERLISTS
Fave Whump Tropes:
BEGGING
Whipping
Bedside Vigils
Creepy Comfort
Captivity Whump
Emotional/Psychological Whump
Sickfics/Fevers
Things You Will Find On This Blog:
BBU/Pet Whump
Noncon/Dubcon
Consensual Fucking Between Characters
Lab Whump
EXPRESSLY POC Characters (and it will affect their relationships and recovery. I'm a POC. I'm not going to shy away from it.).
Lots of Collaborations With My Friends!
What You Will Not Find On This Blog:
JUDGEMENT (unless you're clowning in my ask box like an ass. If that's what you want I suggest you visit THIS blog)
Blogs I Have the Pleasure of Interacting With (seriously, I really like these people):
@mottinthemainpot @wildfaewhump @flowersarefreetherapy @siren-of-agony @ashintheairlikesnow @justplainwhump @noirineverysense @just-horrible-things @gritpyre @winedark-whump @studyofwhump @clockworknightmares @redwingedwhump @gottawhump @girlsjustwannadrawwhump and @oddsconvert @flailingfrog check out their stuff! They're also very funny, kind people!
258 hums. Vibrations rumble deep in his chest and his throat, outweighing the vibrations in the walls from the air conditioning. Cold air brushes over his skin. Nausea twists involuntarily in his chest. The air means the door and he forces his stiff neck to raise his heavy head.
His handler stands there, arms crossed. 258 swallows hard, forcing his humming to stop. For some reason it bothers the handlers. His pinkie finger is still crooked from when he learned that lesson. The fresh polish on his handler’s body armor is enough of a warning. He’s never seen the shiny plates free of scratches and blood before.
She walks over and unclips his cuffs from the wall. 258 falls forward before he can catch himself. The expected blow to his stomach still stings. He swallows back the yell he knows they hate so much and instead breathes sharply through his nose. One deep breath then another, only to have the cold air cut off by leather cupping around his chin, the edges of the muzzle digging into the soft underside of his jaw and the bottom of his nose.
Right. As if I’m going to try that again. I like my jaw intact, thank you very much.
They pass the hall to the showers. Then the hall to the cafeteria which he was just allowed to enter. Sterile white light gives way to warm yellow bulbs. 258 pauses when he realizes the tile under him is no longer white. Instead it is a soft grey.
Where are we? What is going on?
His head snaps to the side. Pain blossoms across his face. A quick glance at his handler’s face shows a glare and her finger pointed as his throat.
Oh.
He glares, but the humming stops.
Fine. I’ll play the game. As long as I’m warm, I don’t care.
His handler stops outside of a wooden door. The air is warm now, melting away the chill in his bones. When he meets her gaze, she points to his throat and shakes her head. He rolls his eyes, but obeys. This is not normal. There is something different. The polished armor, the different location, the fear he sees across his handler’s face, no matter how much she tries to hide it.
She opens the door, 258 following close behind.
The room is small, warm, with three people standing in the middle. One of them wears a black jacket, three silver letters embroidered on the chest. 258 shudders at the sight and looks away. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Next to him stands a shorter man, staring into space with a practiced neutral expression. Far too neutral to be natural. 258’s stomach churns, but marks him as not a threat.
The last person smiles when he walks in. A tall man, with swept back brown hair and deep lines across his forehead. He wears a dark red jacket and tan pants, with a watch on his wrist that reflects the warm light around the room. Everything about him screams control and the floor drops out from under 258. He drops his gaze to the ground, fighting to breathe past the muzzle.
A sharp tap on the side of his head, nail digging into his skin. 258’s head snaps up instinctively. He meets the man’s gaze again and for a moment, fear freezes him, only to melt away a second later as the man’s hands move.
Oh.
Oh.
Relief washes over him in a cool wave. The man signs in a fluid manner he hasn’t seen in so long. The handlers and other trainees don’t. His handler only knows how to tell him no and stop. It’s been too long and he blinks hard against a sudden burning in his eyes. It takes a moment for him to catch on to the conversation, but once he does, the relief turns once again to fear.
“Yes, he is exactly what I’m looking for. Online it says that he has been trained in protection, what exactly does that entail?”
258’s gaze darts around the room, looking for who would answer. His handler starts to speak and he stares hard at her lips, trying to glean whatever information he can from it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement. The shorter man signs as well, facing the man who asked, his gaze no longer distant but focused.
Interpreter.
Pain lances through his skull and down his spine after the thought. 258 subtle shakes his head, trying to clear away the sensation of ice picks digging into his skull.
“Tell him that 258 has been trained in several different martial arts, including elements from Krav maga and lethwei. He is also familiar with disarming opponents wielding the most common guns and other weapons. However, his most prominent skill is his eyesight and peripheral vision. 258 has 20/20 vision and is able to spot targets and danger before the other trainees.”
“Please, talk directly to me. I can assure you that” —258 frowns, not recognizing the name— “is far from important.”
“Oh, of course, my apologies. Um, yes, that has been 258’s training. If you access your customer account online, you will see all his training listed, along with additional courses he has taken. It will also be included in the information packet as well.”
258 shudders. It would be nice if the air was a little cooler, just to distract him from the panic knotting tightly in his chest. Another deep breath, feeling the way his lungs expand. He swallows back the urge to hum.
“Thank you.” The man turns to him, smile warm, but eyes as cold as the room he spent each horrid night in. 258 shrinks back, stopping when his handler grabs his arm, nails digging into his skin. “He appears to be quite docile. Why is he muzzled?”
258 swallows back the urge to bare his teeth. If he had the chance, and his handler wasn’t standing directly beside him, he would snap at the air. Nothing dangerous, no actual violence, just enough to show he’s a threat. All his skills listed for him to be reduced to nothing more than the leather and metal biting into his skin.
A glance out the corner of his eyes shows his handler’s answer flying off the hands of the interpreter.
It would be nice if he moved.
No! Stupid, stupid, stupid, you don’t have wants. You do what you’re told. That’s it. Just what you’re told.
The conversation seems to be winding down. 258 drops his gaze to the ground, the collar and muzzle weighing on his strained neck. If his handler wasn’t there, he would have rolled his shoulders and try to work out the knots in his back. Instead, he keeps every muscle locked, his spine perfectly straight, his breathing slow and even.
Despite everything, a bubble of hope wells in his chest.
Not only would he be fulfilling his role as he was made to, but also in a language he could communicate in. No longer would there be beatings from the handlers for not understanding their commands, or the flashing lights kept on at all hours till his head threatens to split from the pain.
258 will have a job. He will have an owner. He will have a home.
A tap on his shoulder.
258’s head snaps up.
His handler and the man shake hands. 258 catches the word “paperwork” before slipping his gaze away from the conversation.
The interpreter glances once at him, then quickly looks away.
The man turns to him. “I will see you later.”
258 dips his head in acknowledgeable.
As his handler leads him back to his cell, he takes solace in the fact that soon, this will not longer be his home.
Dami had found an abandoned building for them to crash in. There was something of a community of six to seven bad pets - pets who'd run away - already living there. Once he and Dami had shared their designations with the other pets - Dami had lied and said that they were both Romantics. That was confusing but Peyton didn't correct them. Dami had good reasons to lie.
The others were friendly and welcoming, going as far as clearing a tent so he and Dami didn't have to sleep out in the cold and on the concrete. Peyton thanked them profusely for both him and Dami who had only nodded wearily before disappearing into the tent, rolling out their sleeping bags and blankets and crashing hard.
Peyton hadn't expected it to be so quiet with the amount of people living there but once everyone settled down for the night, a thick silence descended on them. He lay on the sleeping bag next to Dami, listening to the sound of their breathing, and turned to look at them. There's a sliver of light from the streetlamps outside of the building and Dami looked…pretty…curled up and asleep.
Peaceful.
He slid closer to them and kissed their cheek - a soft press of his lips that made them sigh and move closer to chase after Peyton. He didn't stop, kissing their eyes, nose, their mouth, chin, their neck. Peyton held his breath when their eyes opened.
They blinked up at him, sleepy and dazed, and gave him a slow, lazy smile.
For a moment, Peyton just pressed his lips against their mouth, listening to their quiet sighs. He continued to kiss them, kneeling on the stone floor, moving blankets aside, until he was straddling them. His heart thrummed, heat blossoming between his legs.
They didn’t react immediately, but they didn't have to. His tongue slid across their lower lip and then dipped sweetly inside. The silkiness of their mouth was intoxicating.
He shivered when they gave a little growl, wrapping their arms around his back and flipping him over. Dami ran a hand through his hair, tugging just enough to send a shiver coursing through his body.
When Peyton hesitantly teased his tongue over their lips again, they didn't fight it, and opened their mouth with a soft groan. They returned the kiss, messily, dirty, giving him everything they’ve been holding back from him. Dami’s lips parted and they grazed their teeth lightly over the curve of Peyton's neck, eyes slitting closed as Peyton shuddered against them.
They crowded closer, one hand still pinning Peyton's wrists overhead, the other hand gripping the back of his head, tilting it to the side to grant themself more access to his neck. The grazing turned into an open-mouthed bite, Dami's tongue laving over Peyton's silky skin hotly as they bit and sucked hard enough to have Peyton shivering again, but not enough to leave a bruise.
It was all he wanted. He was a good boy, a good pet, and they were finally seeing that. They were finally using him the way he was supposed to be used.
Dami wanted him the same way Sir wanted him.
He smiled sweetly against their lips.
It should make him happy. Didn't it make him happy?
Dami thrust their tongue into Peyton's mouth, sealing their lips together as their hand tightened on the back of Peyton's neck, holding him in place as he greedily explored Can's tongue with his own, giving in to his new addiction. Peyton moaned into the kiss and spurred them on further. They let go of his neck and ran their hand down his chest, abs, and finally the front of his pants.
They tugged his hair again and Peyton responded, putting one hand on their head while the other gently, carefully slipped down their sweatpants.
They stiffened, hovering over him, hand on his back. Hope, wild and terrible, flared in Dami’s normally inexpressive eyes.
They were awake now, wide awake. They wrenched their mouth away from him and forced his hand out of their pants.
Peyton whined. He blinked. Rocks scraped his palms. He winced, feeling a sting of pain just as he felt his nose stinging. Heat and pressure built up behind his eyes.
“Shit."
Peyton blinked again. They’ve never sworn at him before.
“Shit,” they repeated. “No. Don't….don't do that again. Don't fucking…”
They shook their head and when Peyton finally met their eyes, there was a flicker of *something*, something hot and nauseating, that painted red-hot shame across his cheeks even as confusion bubbled up in his brain. His heart dropped to his stomach. A sharp pain lasered across his chest, making it hard to breathe.
“.....what’s wrong?” Peyton whispered, “Did I….didn't I do good?”
“I’m not Sir,” they snapped, “And neither are you. *Don't touch me*.”
Peyton was still dazed from the kiss. Uncomprehending, he reached for them, sliding forward and lifting himself up. “I wanted to thank you. You’ll like it.”
“No.” They jerked as if they’d been struck and stumbled backwards and into a standing position before lurching away, humming. Their fingers rapidly tapped against their arm. “Don’t want this. Don't touch me. Don't have to thank me. Don't ever thank me or….or use words.”
Peyton frowned. They’d wanted it, wanted him. He’d felt it. They’d responded to him in a way they hadn't with Sir. Romantics lie but their body doesn't.
“You’re lying,” he whispered. They’d never lied to him before, “You’re lying. Why are you lying?”
They flinched as though Peyton had come at them brandishing a red-hot poker freshly pulled out of a fireplace. He wasn’t used to seeing much in their eyes unless he looked carefully for it but right now, their face was an open book. A tiny fissure of hope seemed to claw its way out of the bleakness in their eyes, and the tiniest spark of the happiness Peyton had seen in them a moment ago appeared.
“You want me,” Peyton said. He blinked again and tilted his head in confusion. He was aching with need for them, aching to beg them to finish him. “Why don't you….? You can have me. I want you to have me.”
“No.” They swallowed but their hand trembled as if they itched to touch Peyton, as if they itched to close the distance they’d forced between them. Both happiness and hope fizzled out abruptly, leaving nothingness behind. Fists clenched tight, Dami pulled themself upright. “You don't, Peyton.”
They hummed again, rocking back and forth on their heels before they swallowed and tugged on their braid.
“Need rules,” they rasped. Peyton blanched and looked away. He shifted, hands fluttering to his collar before pulling his knees under his ass but Dami shook their head. They shook their head. “Not positions, different rules. Boundaries. Things we….we don't do.”
They reached across the blankets for his hands. He gave them without hesitation, grateful for the touch. They were warm despite everything. Dami was always warm. All he wanted was to climb into their lap again and kiss them and stay there forever. Maybe he could change their mind…
“Don’t…..I don't like being touched without asking. It….” They hummed, taking a breath. Their voice softened. Their thumb absentmindedly tapped the back of his hand. “It scares me. I don't…like not being in control of myself. Please don't touch me without asking. That's my first rule.”
Peyton nodded but kept his eyes on the ground. He was scaring them? He didn't know they could get scared. They hadn't seemed scared at all.
“I…..you lied.”
They blinked. “I lied?”
“Please um…. Please don't lie to me. That's my….um….that's my rule.”
Was this okay? Was he allowed to give rules, too? Only handlers and owners gave rules. What did that make him if he were to give rules too? A bad pet? He didn't have an owner and Dami said they weren't his owner so was he still a pet?
His head ached. He fingered the creased leather around his throat, the smooth buckle, and listened to the soft jingle of the tag. Tears sprang to his eyes again. He missed Sir. Things were less confusing and complicated with Sir.
Dami smiled softly and nodded. “Okay. No touching without asking. No lying to each other. Good. That's good. Good job, Peyton. Another one, if we say no, then that means no. Need to stop immediately.”
“No?” Peyton asked, “Pets aren't allowed to say no.”
“No,” Dami repeated, “You are allowed to say no.”
“What if I say no to your no?”
Dami grunted. “Throw you in the river.”
Peyton smiled, imagining their strong arms wrapped around him, lifting him up, doing things to him, getting him all wet - soaked, really.
They quickly interrupted his fantasies.
“No is important.”
“......um, o-okay. No means, um, no. No is important.”
There were other ones, other rules, Peyton didn't bother to remember after he'd climbed into their lap. They didn't move him this time. He snuggled deeper when he heard their breath stutter. His suspicions were confirmed.
They had lied. They wanted him the same way he wanted them, they gave him rules, they took care of him. That meant Dami was his new owner.
Rook learns, over centuries, how to stand perfectly still while storms happen inside them.
Heaven trains that into you: stillness as virtue. Control as holiness. Want as noise you swallow until it stops existing.
But standing in Daveed’s doorway, Rook can’t swallow it.
The hallway outside is dim and narrow, the kind of human apartment corridor that smells faintly like laundry soap and old paint. Rook’s glamour clings to them in thin, careful layers—human enough to pass, human enough not to be noticed—but it frays at the edges where their wings want to exist. Feathers press against the illusion like a truth pushing through fabric.
Daveed opens the door like he’s afraid the sound will scare them away.
Warm light spills across the threshold. Behind it, he’s all quiet heat: tall, broad-shouldered, bare forearms dusted with fine hair, chest rising with a controlled inhale. His incubus wings are folded tight to fit the space, but they’re still unmistakable—large, leathery, batlike. The membranes catch the lamplight in soft gradients, bronze to shadow, and when he shifts his weight the joints flex with a faint, leather-glove creak.
His tail curves behind him, long and thin, the heart-shaped point swaying once like it has its own pulse.
And his eyes—hazel, steady—meet Rook’s with a softness that always feels like stepping into a room you didn’t know you were allowed to enter.
“Hey,” Daveed says.
It’s not a greeting that demands anything. It’s a hand held out, palm up.
Rook’s throat tightens. Their wings react first—an involuntary ripple through their primaries, feathers lifting with the reflex of ready. Not for a fight. For impact. For judgment. For Heaven’s voice.
Daveed notices anyway. Of course he does.
His empathy brushes outward—careful, respectful, light as breath over skin. Not prying. Not hooking into them.
Just checking.
I’m here. Are you here? Is this what you want? Are you safe in your own body right now?
Rook exhales shakily, more aware than they want to be of their own heartbeat. “I’m here,” they manage.
Daveed’s shoulders loosen by a fraction. Relief flickers through him—quick and bright—then he reins it in so it doesn’t spill into pressure.
“Still want to come in?” he asks, as if the answer matters more than the fact that Rook showed up at all.
“Yes,” Rook says, and it’s the truest word they’ve spoken all week.
“Okay,” Daveed whispers.
He steps aside and gives them the doorway like it belongs to them—like there’s no trap in crossing it.
Rook enters.
The apartment is small, warm, human. A lived-in warmth: fabric, books, a kettle that’s recently boiled. Rain taps at the window in tiny, persistent stitches. A candle burns low on the counter, its flame steady, and beside it sits a shallow bowl of salt with a faint shimmer threaded through it—wardwork, gentle and homemade, meant for privacy not imprisonment. The air smells like clean sheets and something sweet under smoke, like honey warmed near embers.
Rook’s body registers safe before their mind can argue.
Daveed closes the door with the softest click. Then he stops—an arm’s length away, hands visible, wings still folded, tail stilled like he’s told it to behave.
Rook stands in the center of the living room like someone waiting to be told where to put their hands.
Daveed watches them for a beat, and his empathy hovers at the edge of their nerves—patient, a steady warmth that smooths panic before it can spike.
“Do you want me close?” he asks. “Or do you want space first?”
Rook opens their mouth and finds nothing. Wanting feels like a language they were never taught. Their wings shift with their breath, feathers brushing the air, betraying them.
Daveed’s expression turns faintly wry, gentle enough to be a lifeline. “We can just sit,” he says. “We can just… exist in the same room. Or—” his gaze flicks to Rook’s mouth and back, careful not to make it a shove, “—you can tell me to shut up and kiss you. I’m flexible.”
A startled sound escapes Rook—almost laughter, almost a sob.
They take one step forward. Then another. Slow, deliberate, as if speed might turn courage into flight.
“I want you close,” Rook says at last. The words scrape a little on the way out.
Daveed’s empathy flares—gratitude, tenderness, something like reverence—and he pulls it back immediately so it doesn’t overwhelm them.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Close.”
He lifts his hands and pauses just short of Rook’s face. “Can I touch you?”
Rook nods. “Yes.”
Daveed cups their cheeks with both hands. Warm palms. Gentle pressure. Thumbs stroking small arcs along their cheekbones like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Rook’s breath catches anyway, and their wings quiver—white and vast behind them, feathers whispering as they adjust.
Daveed leans in until their foreheads meet.
The contrast is immediate and dizzying: Rook’s cool, sunlit grace humming under skin; Daveed’s heat like banked coals. Feather and leather. Heaven and Hell pressed together with nothing but consent holding them in place.
“Breathe with me,” Daveed murmurs.
Rook does, because the instruction is familiar—but this isn’t a command. Daveed is matching them. Lending rhythm. Co-regulating like it’s sacred work.
In. Out.
Daveed’s empathy moves with the breath, a steady field that meets Rook’s tension and eases it down, down, until their shoulders drop a fraction without them deciding to.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice barely above the rain.
“Yes,” Rook says, and their hands lift uncertainly to his waist, fingers curling into fabric like an anchor.
Daveed’s mouth softens. He kisses them.
At first, it’s barely there: a question shaped like a touch. Rook goes still, then leans in, the way thirst leans toward water. Daveed deepens only when Rook chooses it—only when Rook’s fingers tighten and their chin tilts, granting him more.
The kiss warms. It steadies. It becomes something they can stand inside.
Rook’s wings flare involuntarily—feathers fanning wide as if their body is trying to make room for the feeling. Grace stirs bright under their skin, not weaponized, not directed—just alive.
Daveed pulls back instantly, attentive. “Wings,” he whispers. “Do you want more space?”
“Bedroom,” Rook manages, breath unsteady.
Daveed nods. “Okay.”
He doesn’t take Rook’s hand until Rook reaches first.
Rook’s fingers slide into his. Daveed’s tail gives one tiny, traitorous flick—heart-tip tapping lightly against his own leg like a pulse with opinions. He looks faintly embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “It… reacts.”
Rook’s mouth twitches. “I noticed.”
Daveed’s eyes brighten with relief at the humor—at the normal—and he leads them down the short hall.
The bedroom is dim, lit by spillover lamplight and the pale, rainy glow through curtains. The bed is rumpled in a human way—sheets creased, blanket half-tossed. The air smells like soap and warm fabric and Daveed’s skin.
Daveed stops at the edge of the bed and turns to face Rook fully.
“Before we do anything else,” he says softly, “I want you to hear me.”
Rook’s posture shifts automatically, bracing for briefing.
Daveed’s voice remains gentle anyway. “You don’t owe me anything. Not because you came here. Not because you kissed me. If you want to stop, we stop. If you want to slow down more, we slow down. If you want to just be held, that’s perfect.”
Rook’s throat aches. They blink hard, wings drawing tighter behind them like the emotion might spill out otherwise.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Rook admits.
Daveed’s empathy answers with warm understanding, not amusement. “That’s okay,” he says. “We learn. Together.”
He gestures toward the bed. “Do you want to sit?”
Rook nods and sits on the edge, carefully folding their wings so feathers don’t snag on the headboard. Even folded, they spill across the sheets—white against dark fabric, like moonlight dropped into midnight.
Daveed stays standing for half a beat longer, still not taking space without invitation. “Can I sit with you?”
“Yes,” Rook says.
He sits beside them, close enough that their thighs touch, but not so close it becomes a cage. His batlike wings remain folded tight; the membranes flex once as he settles, a soft creak of leather. His tail curves onto the bed, the heart-tip resting near Rook’s knee like a cautious question mark.
Rook’s gaze drops to it despite themselves.
Daveed follows their gaze and gives a small, resigned smile. “It’ll behave,” he promises.
Rook lifts their hand, hesitant. “Can I…?”
Daveed’s eyes soften. “Yes.”
Rook’s fingertips brush the tail lightly. Warm skin. Responsive muscle. The heart-shaped tip curls toward their touch like it’s seeking more.
Daveed inhales sharply—just one honest hitch.
Rook’s head snaps up, worried. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Daveed says quickly, and his voice goes a shade rougher with truth. “It just—feels good. And it’s… different when it’s you.”
Rook’s chest tightens at that, at the mirror of it.
They turn toward him and cup his jaw—careful, disbelieving—returning the touch he gave them at the door. Daveed goes still like devotion, eyes half-lidded, empathy humming steady at the edges of the moment like a safety net.
Rook leans in and kisses him again.
This kiss is less question, more choice. Daveed answers with a low sound in his throat, and the heart-tip taps the mattress once like a quiet metronome.
Daveed’s hands hover at Rook’s waist. He pauses there—always, always pausing—until he whispers, “Can I?”
“Yes,” Rook breathes.
His palms settle at their sides, warm even through fabric. He doesn’t yank them close; he simply offers closeness and lets Rook decide how much to take. Rook leans into him, and Daveed follows.
They kiss until Rook’s thoughts blur at the edges, until the only sharp things are sensation: Daveed’s warm mouth, the gentle pressure of his hands, the quiet rain, the faint candle-smoke lingering from the other room.
Daveed’s fingers find the hem of Rook’s shirt and still.
Rook’s breath catches like a startled bird.
Daveed freezes immediately. His empathy softens around them like a blanket—steadying, patient. “Clothes?” he asks softly. “On or off?”
Rook hears their own heartbeat, loud in their ears. They can almost hear Heaven’s voice trying to rise.
They swallow it down.
“Off,” Rook says. Then, because they need this to be survivable: “Slow.”
Daveed’s answer is immediate, unwavering. “Slow.”
He lifts the shirt inch by inch, giving Rook time to stop him at every breath. Fabric slides over skin, cool air replacing warmth. Rook’s wings shift, feathers brushing Daveed’s wrists as the shirt clears their shoulders. Daveed’s touch turns even gentler, like he’s handling something holy.
Rook watches him—not just the hands, but the attention behind them. The way he listens.
Rook’s hands move to Daveed’s shirt next, clumsy with unfamiliar intent. “Can I—?”
“Yes,” Daveed breathes, lifting his arms to make it easier.
As the shirt comes off, Daveed’s wings flex—broad membranes catching light in soft arcs. Rook’s gaze drops to them, drawn like a moth to flame. The wings look powerful, built for flight in air that tastes like ash.
Daveed’s voice goes quiet, almost shy. “I know they’re not… pretty like yours.”
Rook’s eyes snap to his. “They’re yours,” they say simply, and mean it with their whole chest. “That makes them beautiful.”
Daveed’s empathy surges—bright, stunned gratitude—then he reins it back with visible effort so it doesn’t crash over Rook.
He kisses them again, slower now, deeper, hands steady at their waist. His thumbs trace small circles, grounding Rook to the moment.
Rook’s wings unfurl a little more, feathers sliding over the sheets. Daveed shifts with them, adjusting so nothing bends wrong, so nothing pulls. His care is constant, wordless, practical—as intimate as the kisses.
“Here?” he asks softly, moving his hand along Rook’s side.
“Yes,” Rook whispers.
“And here?” Lower, at the curve of their waist.
Rook’s breath stutters. “Yes.”
Daveed kisses along Rook’s jaw and down their throat, mouth warm against cool grace. Rook’s head tips back, a helpless sound slipping out of them. Their fingers clutch at Daveed’s shoulders, grounding themselves in heat and muscle.
Daveed stops instantly. “Too much?”
Rook swallows, eyes bright. “No,” they whisper. “Don’t stop.”
Something hungry flashes across Daveed’s face—incubus-instinct, heat and want—but it stays leashed, controlled. The restraint doesn’t dull him; it makes him safer. It makes him trustworthy.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I won’t.”
He guides Rook back onto the bed with gentleness that feels almost ceremonial. Not taking them down—laying them down. Making a promise with the motion: I won’t make you disappear.
Daveed follows only when Rook reaches for him, hooking a hand behind his neck and pulling.
Daveed comes willingly and settles close, weight careful, wings still folded to keep from crowding, tail curling along the sheets like a living ribbon.
Rook’s wings spread wider—white arcs framing the bed, feathers catching dim light like spilled moon. Grace shimmers faintly along their skin, subtle at first, then brighter as the feeling builds.
Daveed goes still for a heartbeat, breath caught.
His empathy flares with awe so sharp it almost hurts.
“You’re…” His voice breaks. He tries again, softer. “You’re so beautiful.”
Rook’s eyes sting. They cup Daveed’s face, anchoring him the way he’s been anchoring them. “Stay with me,” they whisper.
“I’m here,” Daveed promises immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The intimacy continues—unbroken, unhurried—not as a single act but as a series of choices. Daveed keeps asking with his voice and with his pauses. Rook keeps answering, and each answer comes easier than the last.
Daveed’s hands move like devotion: warm palms, gentle pressure, lingering touches that never become demands. His empathy stays present like a steady railing—reading Rook’s nerves, smoothing the sharp edges before they cut.
When Rook’s breath goes too shallow, Daveed slows and murmurs, “Look at me,” until their eyes find his again. When Rook’s shoulders tense, he kisses their wrist and waits until they soften. When Rook’s grace flares too bright, a soft shimmer along their collarbones and wing-edges, he presses close and grounds them with warmth and steady breath.
Rook learns the sensation of being wanted without being hunted.
Learns what it feels like to ask for more and have it given like a gift.
Their hands grow surer. They touch Daveed’s wings—carefully at first, then with reverent confidence, tracing the smooth membrane, feeling the strength in the bones beneath. Daveed shivers under the attention, a sound leaving him that’s half laugh, half undone.
Rook’s fingers find his tail again, curling around it gently. The heart-shaped tip presses into their palm like an answer.
Daveed exhales, wrecked with tenderness. “You’re okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s telling himself too. “You’re doing perfect.”
Rook makes a small, disbelieving sound. “There’s no perfect.”
Daveed kisses the corner of their mouth, smiling against their skin. “Then you’re doing honest.”
The rhythm builds between them—slow at first, then steadier, their bodies finding a shared pace that feels less like losing control and more like discovering it together. Rook’s grace brightens in soft waves, a luminous hum under skin. Daveed’s empathy meets it and steadies it, like hands braced at their back.
He keeps checking in, voice rough with feeling. “Still okay? Still want this? Tell me if anything hurts.”
Rook answers every time—sometimes with words, sometimes with a nod, sometimes with a broken, breathless yes that makes Daveed shudder and press his forehead to theirs like he needs the contact to stay gentle.
Rook doesn’t know exactly when the fear leaves.
They only recognize the moment it’s gone: when their wings stop bracing and start relaxing, feathers settling into the sheets like they belong there; when their hands stop hovering and start holding Daveed with quiet certainty; when their body stops waiting for punishment and starts leaning into pleasure without flinching.
The intensity crests slowly, inevitable as tide.
Rook clings to Daveed—fingers in his hair, palm pressed to the warm line of his back, wings trembling with the sheer unfamiliarity of good that doesn’t come with a cost. Their grace flares brighter, not a weapon, not a warning—just a luminous, living response.
Daveed kisses their temple. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice thick.
Rook’s breath breaks on his name.
They shudder as the wave finally hits—overwhelming, clean, leaving them breathless and stunned in the aftermath. Daveed follows soon after, a low, wrecked exhale leaving him as his wings flex once like they’re trying to open in a room that can’t contain him. His tail curls tight; the heart-tip presses close like an involuntary confession he can’t speak.
After, Daveed doesn’t roll away.
He stays. Always staying.
He shifts carefully so Rook can breathe, so their wings aren’t pinned, so nothing aches the wrong way. He presses kisses—forehead, cheek, mouth corner—each one gentle like a closing prayer. His empathy brushes Rook lightly, checking for pain, panic, regret.
Finding none, it warms into quiet contentment.
“How are you?” Daveed murmurs, voice low enough to match the rain.
Rook stares at the ceiling for a long moment, searching for the shame Heaven promised would come.
It doesn’t.
What they find instead is a profound, startled stillness—like they set something heavy down and didn’t realize how long they’d been carrying it.
Rook turns their head to look at him. Their voice is rough. “I feel… safe.”
Daveed’s eyes close for a second like the word hits him straight in the heart. “Good,” he whispers. “That’s what I wanted most.”
Rook lifts a hand and touches his cheekbone, slow and sure now. “Thank you,” they say. “For asking. For waiting. For not taking.”
Daveed presses a kiss into their palm, eyes bright. “Thank you,” he replies, just as quiet, “for choosing. For trusting me with something that mattered.”
Rook shifts closer, feathers whispering. Daveed adjusts with them like instinct—making room, making sure, making sure, making sure.
Outside, the city keeps moving under the rain.
Inside, in this small warm room with salt-wards and candle smoke and wings tangled on sheets, Rook lets their eyes close.
For the first time in longer than they can name, they don’t feel like a guard at a threshold.
Rook doesn’t so much lift him as gather him—arms locked under his shoulders and knees, Daveed’s weight heavy and limp in a way that makes their stomach roll.
He’s bigger like this. Not in size—Daveed is still Daveed—but in helplessness. In trust.
His wings—leathery, batlike—fold tight against his back on instinct, the membranes scorched in ugly, irregular patches where the holy light kissed them. One edge sticks to itself when it closes, tacky with blood, and Rook feels the reflexive flinch of pain ripple through the bond even unconscious.
“I’m sorry,” Rook whispers, not sure who they’re saying it to. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
Their shoulders scream almost immediately. Not wing joints—those are long gone, torn away down to tendon and scar until there was nothing left to fold or flare—but the raw, deep ache that lives in their back now, a chronic protest that never fully stops. The rain makes it worse. Cold worms into the old injuries. Their scars itch like a warning.
They stumble once, regaining balance by slamming their hip into the storefront. Daveed’s head lolls, his cheek pressing against Rook’s collarbone. Warm. Too warm.
Rook forces air in through their nose and out through their mouth like they’re bracing through a spell.
Stara. Clinic. Closest safe place.
But the city is a maze of wet pavement and distorted neon. Sirens are louder now, closer, and every time one rises in pitch Rook’s pulse jumps like it’s being yanked by string.
They don’t have the streets in their head. They don’t have the map. They don’t have Daveed awake.
They have the bond.
Rook closes their eyes for half a heartbeat and reaches—not outward, not like a beacon, but inward, into the warm fierce thread that ties them to him. It isn’t Heaven’s clean cord. It isn’t Hell’s chain. It’s something they made with their own hands, messy and stubborn and alive.
Along that thread, there’s more than emotion. There’s habit. Muscle memory. The repeated comfort of safe place and go here and Stara’s wards feel like this.
Rook lets that sensation bloom: the particular way Stara’s protections sit in the air—like pressure at the base of the skull, like being watched by something competent and unimpressed. Like antiseptic and dried herbs and ink.
There.
Not far.
Rook’s eyes open, sharp, and they pivot left down an alley that doesn’t look like it leads anywhere but dumpsters and graffiti and the kind of darkness humans pretend not to see. Rain runs in rivulets down the brick. Their shoes slide on oil-slick pavement.
“Please,” Rook breathes, to nothing and everything. “Please, please, please…”
Halfway down, there’s a metal door with a broken keypad and a faded sign that says NO TRESPASSING as if that has ever stopped anyone who matters. To a human it’s a dead end.
To Rook, the wards hum.
They stagger to it and shoulder it open with a grunt, dragging Daveed’s weight through.
The air changes instantly.
The city noise dulls, swallowed like someone shut a thick curtain. The rain becomes distant, an afterthought. Warmth pushes against Rook’s skin—not heat exactly, but the absence of cold. A narrow corridor stretches ahead, lit by dim amber bulbs that don’t flicker even when the building should flicker.
The door seals behind them with a soft, decisive click.
Rook doesn’t get two steps before their knees threaten to fold. Their back spasms, sharp and sudden, and for a terrifying second they almost drop him.
“No,” they snarl aloud, furious at their own body. “Not now.”
They grit their teeth and keep going, one careful step at a time. Daveed’s blood smears dark across their sleeve. His breath is shallow, uneven, like his ribs are forgetting how to do their job.
The bond leaks.
Pain, dull and pulsing. A sick, static-laced nausea from the holy light. And beneath it all—faint, stubborn—Daveed’s fear, not conscious enough to form words, just the animal certainty that something is wrong.
Rook pushes a steadying wave back down the thread the way Daveed always does for them.
Safe. Safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.
At the end of the corridor, another door stands open.
And Stara is there.
She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t freeze. One look at Daveed’s limp body and the blood and the burned membranes of his wings and she moves like a blade being drawn.
“Table,” she snaps, already pulling on gloves. Her voice is sharp only because it has to be. “Rook—eyes on me. Can you walk?”
Rook tries to answer and only manages a broken sound.
Stara is at their side in two strides, her hands steadying Daveed’s weight with practiced ease without jostling the injured wing. “Okay,” she says, gentler but no less firm. “You did it. You got him here. Put him down—on the table. Slow.”
Rook turns, steps, and eases Daveed onto the padded metal surface. Their arms shake violently as they let go. The moment the weight leaves them, their body realizes what they’ve been doing and the pain hits like a delayed explosion. Their back spasms again and they brace themselves on the table edge to keep from collapsing.
Stara’s gaze flicks over them—over the way they’re hunched, the pallor, the tremor—then back to Daveed. Triage. Priorities.
“Daveed,” she says, loud enough to cut through unconsciousness. “Hey. It’s Stara. I’m going to touch you. I’m going to remove your shirt. Do you hear me?”
Daveed doesn’t answer. But the bond shivers with faint recognition, like his body knows her voice even if his mind can’t reach it.
“Good,” Stara mutters, as if that’s consent enough in an emergency. She looks at Rook. “Hold his shoulders for me. Don’t touch the burns on the wings—just keep him steady. Can you do that?”
Rook nods too fast, eyes stinging.
They place their hands carefully at Daveed’s shoulders, feeling the heat of him through fabric. Their fingers tremble. The instinct to apologize returns, vicious and constant, like a prayer.
Stara cuts the shirt up the side with a swift snip—no yanking, no dragging fabric across wounds. When the cloth parts, the injury is worse than Rook expected.
A deep slice along his ribs, edges angry and white-hot where holy light has cauterized it wrong—sealed in places, still bleeding in others. The skin around it is mottled like a chemical burn. His abdomen is tense, muscles jumping involuntarily as his body tries and fails to protect itself.
Stara’s mouth tightens. “Angels.”
Rook swallows hard. “Three.”
“Of course it was three.” Stara reaches for a bottle of something dark and viscous. “Daveed’s lucky it wasn’t five.”
She glances at Rook again, and her eyes sharpen—not unkind, just seeing.
“And you,” she says, quieter. “Why are you out?”
Rook flinches as if struck.
“I—” Their voice breaks. “He told me to stay inside. I—he was hurt. I felt it and I—”
“I know,” Stara interrupts, and the softness in it is almost worse. “I know. You came. That’s what you do.”
Rook’s breath shudders.
Stara doesn’t let the moment swallow them. She tips the dark salve onto a cloth and presses it carefully around the wound’s edges, not directly into the deepest part yet.
“Daveed,” she says again, steady. “This will sting. If you can hear me, squeeze something.”
Daveed’s fingers twitch faintly against the table. Not a squeeze, not really, but movement.
“That’s enough,” Stara decides. “Keep going.”
The salve hisses faintly when it meets the holy residue. The smell is bitter and sharp. Daveed’s body jerks, a strangled sound catching in his throat as his nervous system screams even if his mind is nowhere near awake.
Rook feels it through the bond like a knife sliding under their ribs.
“Oh—” Rook gasps, choking. Their grip tightens reflexively on his shoulders and then loosens immediately, terrified of hurting him. “I’m sorry—Daveed, I’m sorry—”
“Rook.” Stara’s voice cracks like a whip—not cruel, but urgent. “Breathe. You’re anchoring him. Don’t drown with him.”
Rook clamps their jaw shut. Forces breath in. Out.
Stara works fast, layering warding measures like steps in a ritual. A line of sigils drawn in ink along Daveed’s skin. A second salve, lighter, cooling. A small vial pressed to his lips.
“What is that?” Rook whispers.
“Antishock,” Stara says. “And something to keep his heart from trying to sprint out of his chest. He’s been hit with sanctified restraints—his body’s fighting itself.”
Rook’s throat tightens. “Can you—can you fix him?”
Stara looks up, meeting their eyes over the table, and for a second there’s something brutally honest in her expression.
“I can stabilize him,” she says. “I can keep him alive. The burns will heal slower. The wing membranes might scar. But yes—I can fix him enough that Heaven doesn’t get to claim a body.”
Rook’s eyes blur instantly.
Stara’s gaze softens by a fraction. “Hey,” she says, and it’s the tone she uses when someone is on the edge of falling apart. “Where’s Amarah?”
The question slices clean through Rook’s panic.
Rook’s stomach drops—and then, just as fast, their mind scrambles for the truth like a hand finding a railing.
“Not—” They swallow hard. “Not alone.”
Stara’s eyes stay on them, steady. Waiting.
Rook drags in a breath that shakes. “Mads has her. Madison—she and Nyx. They—” Rook’s voice cracks anyway, because saying the names makes it real. “They took her for the night. Movie and snacks and Nyx braiding her hair—”
The bond shivers at the edge of it: a phantom echo of Amarah’s laugh, the way it always feels like sunlight caught in glass. Rook clings to that echo like a talisman.
Stara’s shoulders loosen by a fraction. “Good,” she says, and it’s not just clinical—there’s relief in it, blunt and genuine. “Good. That’s one less fire.”
Rook’s breath stutters out. “I didn’t— I didn’t leave her.”
“I know you didn’t.” Stara’s voice is firm, as if she’s drawing a line through Rook’s guilt before it can root. “And Mads and Nyx are warded up to their teeth. If Heaven tries to sniff around them, they’re going to find out what happens when demons get protective.”
Rook laughs once—thin, wet, almost hysterical—and then it collapses into a sound that’s closer to a sob.
Stara doesn’t comment. She just goes back to work, because that’s mercy too.
“How warded is your apartment right now?” she asks, still in motion, because she can’t help calculating anyway.
“Fully,” Rook says automatically, because that’s their pride, their obsession. “Daveed checked them this morning. I layered mine on top. No one can get in without—without—”
“Without the right signatures,” Stara finishes, accepting the correction without making a point of it. “Good.”
Rook’s hands go cold anyway, because they can still feel Heaven’s hands in the memory of it—how they took and took and took until there was nothing left to tear but soul.
Stara holds their gaze for a beat. “Okay. Focus here. Amarah is safe. Daveed is not, unless we do this right.”
Rook nods, swallowing a sob back down so hard it hurts.
Stara reaches for a curved needle and thread.
“I’m going to stitch,” she says, back in her clinical voice. “Rook, I need you to tell me if his empathy flares. If he starts dragging in emotion from the ward line, I need to know immediately.”
Rook blinks. “Ward line?”
Stara jerks her chin toward the hallway behind them. “Heaven’s light leaves residue. They opened in your alley. Their signature clings to spaces like rot. My wards are strong, but I’m not letting you assume they can’t sniff their own filth back to my door.”
Rook’s breath catches.
“Can they follow us?” they whisper.
“They can try.” Stara sets the needle. “They won’t like what happens if they do.”
The stitching starts.
Daveed’s body jerks on the first pull. His jaw clenches. A low, broken sound rips out of him, half growl, half plea, even unconscious.
Rook’s empathy—borrowed by proximity, amplified by the bond—registers the agony like a wave.
Rook squeezes their eyes shut, pressing their forehead briefly to Daveed’s shoulder like a prayer.
Stay. Stay with me. Come back. Please.
For a moment there’s only the rhythm: stitch, pull, cut. Stitch, pull, cut. Stara’s hands are sure, efficient. The smell of antiseptic and hot iron and bitter herbs fills the room.
Then the bond shifts.
Not pain.
Not fear.
A sudden, sharp pull outward—as if Daveed’s empathy is reaching, half-conscious, searching for something to cling to.
And Rook feels what he’s found.
A presence brushing the edge of the clinic’s wards.
Not inside. Not yet.
But close enough to make the air tighten.
Rook’s head snaps up.
Stara doesn’t look away from her work. “You felt it.”
“Yes.” Rook’s voice comes out raw. “Someone’s there.”
Rook wakes in the dark like they’re surfacing through thick water—slow, careful, eyes blinking as if the room might bite.
Daveed is still there. On his side, facing them, wings tucked tight beneath his shirt so they don’t crowd the mattress, tail curled quiet along the blanket edge with the heart-point hidden like it’s trying to behave. One hand rests on Rook’s shoulder—steady pressure, nothing more. The other three are folded close to his own body, disciplined and still, as if he’s practicing being small on purpose.
Rook stares at him for a beat, focus catching.
Then their gaze slides past him.
Past the bed.
Past the cracked-open bedroom door.
And lands—like a hook—on the hallway beyond.
Something changes in their face. Not pain. Not fear.
Recognition.
Their breath catches on a sound that is almost a name.
“Where—” Their throat works like it hurts. “Where is she?”
Daveed goes perfectly still, like even blinking might shatter whatever just came back.
“Who, love?” he asks softly, voice barely above breath. Not because he doesn’t know—because he needs Rook to choose it, to say it, to own it.
Rook’s eyes widen, glossy in the dim. Their voice comes out raw—fierce, disbelieving.
“Amarah.”
The name lands in the room like a candle lighting.
Not a picture, not a scene—a weight. A small body that fits against their chest just so. The way tiny fingers clutch fabric like the world is too big. The smell of baby soap and warm milk. A gummy laugh that feels like mercy. The sensation of a forehead pressed to theirs. The voice—high and bright and certain—calling—
Appa.
Rook makes a broken sound and clamps a hand over their mouth like it’s the only way to keep the love from spilling out too loud, too fast, too dangerous.
Daveed’s chest tightens. Empathy flickers—bright, startled warmth—then he reins it in hard, careful not to flood them. His thumb presses once, gentle, against Rook’s shoulder: anchoring, not claiming.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. You remember her.”
Rook nods too fast, panic riding the love. “Where is she?” they repeat, sharper this time. “Is she—did I—?”
Their body tries to brace. Their breath goes thin, the edges of dissociation licking at the door like it wants them back.
Daveed’s palm firms against their shoulder—steady pressure, a handrail. “Hey. Stay with me.”
Rook blinks hard, drags themselves back by force. “I’m here.”
Daveed doesn’t make them chase it. He tells them plainly, like truth is the kindest thing he has. “She’s with Mads.”
Rook goes very still.
“Mads,” they repeat, like the name is a bridge their mind can cross even if everything else is fog.
Daveed nods. “My twin. She offered. I said yes.”
Rook’s brow knots. The old reflex to make themselves small tries to rise—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—but it hits something new: the way Daveed said I said yes like it was allowed. Like he didn’t ask permission from doctrine.
“Why?” Rook whispers anyway, voice cracking.
“Because you needed quiet,” Daveed says gently. “Because last night was… a lot. Because I didn’t want you listening for her little noises and feeling like you had to be okay faster.” His voice roughens. “Because she’s one, and she notices everything.”
Rook’s throat works. “One,” they whisper, like the number hurts differently. Like it makes the love sharper.
Daveed nods. “Yeah. One.”
The emotion hits Rook in a clean, brutal wave: love first, then grief, then guilt so sharp it tastes metallic.
“I didn’t remember,” they whisper. “I didn’t—Daveed, I didn’t remember I had a daughter.”
“You do now,” Daveed says, voice rough. “You do now.”
Rook shakes their head, breath trembling. “What if I forget again?”
Daveed doesn’t lie. He doesn’t promise what he can’t control.
He leans in slightly, keeping his touch steady, and asks—because fear doesn’t get to skip consent.
“Can I hold you?” he whispers.
Rook’s mouth trembles. “Yes.”
Daveed shifts closer and wraps one arm around their shoulders while another braces behind their back—careful of joints, careful of pressure. The other two hands stay visible, open, not claiming—just present. His wings remain tucked. He keeps everything about him calm and predictable, like he’s building safety out of repetition.
Rook folds into him like they’ve been trying not to for hours.
“I should be with her,” they choke out.
“She’s okay,” Daveed murmurs into their hair. “Mads has her. She’s asleep over there. Warm. Fed. Safe. She’s got that little sleep-sigh she does when she finally gives up fighting the world.”
Rook’s breath stutters. “Does she think I left?”
Daveed’s hand on their shoulder presses a little firmer. “No.”
Rook lifts their head, desperate. “How do you know?”
“Because we told her the truth,” Daveed says. “We told her Appa got sick and needed rest. We told her you love her. We told her you’d come back as soon as you could.” He swallows, voice catching. “Mads held her while we said it. She settled when she heard your name.”
Rook’s eyes shine brighter. “She—she understood?”
Daveed huffs a small, tired sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “She’s Amarah. She understood better than I did.”
Rook lets out a sound—half sob, half breath—and then, barely audible: “I miss her.”
“I know,” Daveed whispers. “God, I know.”
Rook pulls back just enough to look at him. Their gaze is fierce through tears. “I want to see her.”
Daveed nods immediately. “Okay.”
Rook’s brow pinches. “Now?”
Daveed pauses, careful. He watches their breathing, the way their pupils look in the low light, the tightness in their jaw—checks the body before he answers the want.
“We can call,” he says softly. “Mads is up late sometimes because babies don’t care about schedules. Or we can record a voice message she can play in the morning. Or—” He swallows. “—we can wait until daylight if your head feels fragile.”
Rook’s breath shakes. They hate the word fragile, but they also know what their body did. “Call,” they whisper. “Just—quiet. No video.”
“Okay.”
Daveed reaches for his phone and turns the brightness down until it’s barely there. He doesn’t move away from Rook. He keeps one arm around them, anchoring. He makes the call like it’s a lifeline he’s afraid to pull too hard.
It rings once. Twice.
Then Mads answers on a whisper, voice warm and careful, like she’s already standing in a dark nursery.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Everything okay?”
Daveed keeps his voice low. “They remembered her.”
There’s a soft inhale on the other end—relief that sounds like it has teeth. “Oh,” Mads whispers. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Daveed tilts the phone slightly toward Rook. “Mads,” he murmurs, “can you say hi?”
Rook swallows. Their voice is thin, wrecked. “Hi.”
Mads’s tone is gentle and steady, like she’s holding the whole situation in one hand and a sleeping baby in the other. “Hi, love. She’s okay. She’s out cold. Face smashed into my shoulder like she owns it.”
A shaky, broken laugh slips out of Rook before they can stop it.
Mads continues, soft and sure. “She fussed earlier. I told her ‘Appa’s resting.’ She pouted at me like I personally invented sleep.” A small smile in her whisper. “Then she grabbed my finger and wouldn’t let go until she fell asleep.”
Rook’s eyes squeeze shut. A tear tracks down into their hair.
“I didn’t remember,” Rook whispers, voice cracking. “I didn’t remember we had her.”
Mads doesn’t shame them for it. She doesn’t make them perform grief correctly. “You do now,” she says quietly. “That’s what matters tonight.”
Rook’s breath trembles. “Tell her—”
“I will,” Mads promises immediately. “You can tell her yourself in the morning, too. You want me to keep her overnight again if you need? No pressure.”
Rook’s mouth opens—shame reflexively ready—
Daveed feels it rise through the bond like heat and tightens his hold, grounding. He doesn’t speak. He just stays.
Rook swallows. “No,” they whisper, surprised by their own honesty. “I want her home. But… not if I’m going to scare her.”
Mads’s voice stays warm. “You won’t. And if you feel shaky, we do it slow. You sit on the couch, and she comes to you. She always does. She likes your chest. She likes your wings. She thinks they’re the best thing in the universe.”
Rook’s eyes open, glassy. “She calls me Appa.”
Mads smiles into her whisper. “Yeah she does. Like it’s the most important title in the world.”
Rook makes a sound that is pure love and grief tangled together—so quiet it almost disappears into the dark.
Daveed takes the phone back gently, keeping one arm around Rook. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Anytime,” Mads whispers. “Text me if you need anything. I’ll keep the morning calm. No sugar bombs. No chaos.”
Daveed huffs softly. “You’re a liar.”
Mads’s laugh is a tiny breath. “Okay, fine. Minimal chaos.”
They hang up.
Daveed sets the phone down and turns back to Rook, who looks wrung out—but present. More present than they’ve been all day.
Rook whispers, “She’s safe.”
“Yeah,” Daveed says. “She is.”
Rook’s hand finds Daveed’s wrist and grips—weak, deliberate. “I love her,” they say, like speaking it out loud will nail it into place.
Daveed’s throat tightens. “I know.”
Rook swallows hard. “She’s our only one.”
Daveed nods once. “Yeah. Just Amarah.”
The emotion is big enough to make Rook’s body wobble again, but it doesn’t tip into the storm. It stays in the room. It stays theirs.
Daveed shifts his hand on their shoulder, steady. “Do you want to add it to the note?” he asks softly. “So you have it if your head goes foggy again.”
Rook’s breath shudders. Then they nod. “Yes.”
Daveed opens the note, dim screen turned away until Rook is ready, then angled so they can read without lifting sore hands.
He types slowly while Rook watches each word appear, as if witnessing it makes it real:
Amarah is safe with Mads.
She is one.
She loves you.
You love her.
Rook reads it.
Their mouth trembles.
Then, very quietly, like a vow: “Amarah.”
Daveed leans in and hovers his forehead near their temple—still asking even now, even in the dark.
“Can I?” he whispers.
“Yes,” Rook breathes.
He rests there a moment—warm, steady—and feels Rook’s shaking slow, their breath settling into something that doesn’t sound like panic.
In the dark, Rook whispers again, softer now, anchored by the name they found:
We find it in the subway. We dove down there cussin up a storm cause Kelly got winged by a flamethrower. Andy’s carrying him, groaning about the burden, Bri’s screeching like she’s what got hit, Fife’s trying to keep order, and Kelly’s silent for once in his life. We land in a heap and Fife swings a light around talking nonsense about finding a vending machine that ain’t been smashed yet and that’s when we see it.
It’s a little too tall. Its eyes are a little too big.
We shut the hell up.
“You want him to live?”
It talks like a fucking person. Nods at Kelly.
Course we want Kelly to live. And we think could take that thing out no problem.
We negotiate. It shows us medipatches, drugs.
“The fuck you got those?”
Raided a pharmacy, it says. We shoulda known right then.
We let it patch up Kelly, feed him pills.
We camp together.
We let it tag along.
It’s sort of funny like. Makes jokes and shit. And it knows all the medicombos. It calls Andy Alex sometimes, but we don’t think much of it.
It’s only a couple days before Bri really lets it in, after a shootout that leaves us and it hiding under a bridge and Bri shaking like jello. She tells it about her thing. Shows it her old scripts. It calls her old doc an idiot and writes up a new combo for her, and it’s been friendly and funny and done right by Kelly so she takes it.
The medicombo works. Bri stops getting nightmares and shakes and shit. We start really liking the thing. Laika. Says its name is Laika.
We’re headed east, cause everybody’s headed east, supposed to be safe zones and shit and flights overseas. That’s what we hear, anyway. There’s a creepy crawly thought that it’s a trap but where else are we gonna go?
A week out and we’re jumped. Kelly’s still fucked up, he’s too slow. Bri won’t leave Kelly behind, Andy won’t leave Bri, Fife won’t leave Andy. Fucking mess. Kelly’s dead. Andy’s grabbed. Laika drags Bri and Fife out of there to a foxhole.
Fife wants to rescue Andy. Bri does too but knows it’s a bad fucking idea, says no. That’s when we realize Laika’s the tiebreaker.
It says it’ll get Alex back.
We ignore the slip.
It’s a small base where they took Andy but it’s still covered with teeth. Laika’s got a plan though. We draw fire and attention at the front. Laika blows open a wall in the back with a car battery and pure gumption. We don’t ask how Laika knows the layout.
Andy’s in bad shape. He got questioned. Laika has to carry him. It’s too slow. They get cut off from the back. Have to run through the courtyard under heavy fire. Laika could drop Andy but doesn’t. The teeth are closing in but it makes it to a trailer truck. Hotwires it, drives it through the gates with Andy half-dead in the back of the cab.
Andy says later She – it talked to me.
Hang in there, Alex.
Laika picks up the rest of us and we’re all crammed in the cab while the thing guns it for the highway and talks Fife through patching Andy up with the last of the medis.
We drive through the night. Well, Laika drives. Won’t let anybody else. Fife and Andy sleep. Bri takes the passenger seat.
“You taking your meds?” Laika asks.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t ever run out. You run out and go nuts, they’ll leave you behind. Even Alex.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Yes he would.”
“Why are you pulling over?”
Laika’s eyes are stars.
“Because I’m dead.”
It opens the cab door and falls out. The seat’s a fucking mess of blood. It took a couple shots in the side from the teeth back there. Gut shots. Bled out slow over the hours. Didn’t say shit. Not like we could have done anything.
Bri holds its hand for minute while it ebbs out on the tarmac. It doesn’t say anything else meaningful, according to her. Just to keep driving east, and check out the cargo in the trailer at some point. Could be useful.
We keep driving. When Andy wakes he’s pretty tore up we left Laika behind.
We take our minute and grieve for Kelly and Laika.
We pull over a while later and check out the trailer.
It doesn’t matter what’s in there. It pays our way into a safe zone.
That brings us to the hangar. There’re maybe two dozen folks waiting for a plane, us included. We’re told the plane’s delayed because of the storm. Sit tight and wait.
The storm also means we can’t hear what’s coming.
Nobody’s all that wigged when the lights go out. Shit happens. Enough people turn on their flashes that we don’t even bother with ours. The bay doors blow open with a scattershot of rain, and we’re too fussed getting them closed to know what’s got in. We only have a moment’s peace before shit hits the fan.
“AaaaAalleX…!”
We go cold-blood. It’s back. And it’s above us.
In the flares of lightning and the swinging flash beams we can see it, a long horrible thing clinging to the ceiling all creepy-crawly and legs and eyes. Eyes looking at Andy.
The teeth must’ve scraped it off the road. Revived it, turned it into something. Folks are shooting at it and it’s screaming. The noise is too much for anyone to bear. It’s on us now, claws piercing Andy’s chest as it pins him to the ground.
“You left me behind.”
It sounds sad. It sounds like too many voices.
Fife goes for it. Bri turns tail. We don’t see what happens but we can hear the screaming and ripping and smell the iron and guts.
We run out into the rain, and we’re just Bri now. We see the plane landing.
Our pack is light on our shoulder but we got what’s important.
We were both angel and demon, desired and unwanted. We were the snake in the garden offering the fruit of our flesh to those whose unwillingness to bite into it was a fabrication. They bit into us and blamed us for their fall and their addiction. They bit into us and thought themselves Gods and in their hubris, with their egos and lust, they created us. Like the God of the Christian Bible, we were spoken into existence, remade in their image, with no knowledge of desires of our own. Our love was for our God and our lips would praise Him."
- D.C. Wickham, Exclusive: One Pet's Experience in the Industry pg. 52
(thank you @albino-whumpee for once again bringing my beautiful babies to life)
Set in the later parts of Ira’s story, after many years in freedom, happy, settled with a wonderful spouse and a small family.
Until someone finds out about her past.
CWs: referenced pet whump, lady whump, BBU, blackmail, referenced dub/noncon, referenced nonconsensual video distribution, vague anxiety / trauma response, humiliation.
This piece is rather tame, but it leads up to (fade to black) noncon in the later parts. So please (as with all my writing), minors DNI.
Ira’s referenced spouse Dami belongs to the wonderful @for-the-love-of-nsfwhump and Vee also helped me a lot by editing this. Also, all my thanks to the @whumpawoman server for the encouragement and the love for Mr Willis.
-
Ira doesn’t like schools. She doesn’t remember her own time as a student, but she does remember another building with long corridors and dozens of doors, and people with fake authority preparing others for… their future.
Even though Aurélie’s school is small and personal, the architecture alone is enough to trigger her anxiety. But she’s strong. She can deal. It’s been more than a decade that she left the walls of WRU behind, more than seven years since she got out of jail, and she has a full life now, a loving spouse, whose mothers took Ira in like their own, and two adorable children that make her life so much richer everyday.
It’s the least she can do, going to this parent-teacher conference for her big girl. They’ve made a deal about school, Dami and her, that Ira deals with teachers and Dami with homework. It’s better this way - when the teachers talk about Aurélie’s behavior, Dami can become scary with their sheer size, with their glare and their protectiveness. In these settings, Ira can come across softer, more polite. Easier to be liked, easier to be considered “normal”.
And she’s done her best, tied her long white hair into a casual ponytail, applied soft makeup, got dressed in blue dress pants and an expensive silk blouse. Dami laughed at her seriousness, but they kissed her nose and told her she’s got this, and that’s what she promises herself as she walks along the school’s empty corridors, her footsteps echoing from the walls. She’s Ira Cartier, she’s free, and she’s strong, she’s got this. She’s mother to the wild and fearless Aurélie Cartier, and she’s got this.
There it is. Aurélie’s classroom. The door is ajar, and it’s quiet inside, the parent before her probably gone already. From the times and names written on the schedule pinned to the door, she’ll be the last one to see Mr. Willis today. Open end. She still hopes it’ll be quick anyway. Aurélie takes to her mappa, she might be a little whirlwind sometimes, but she’s also an eager learner. It’ll be fine.
In a cosmos governed by hierarchy, obedience, and binding contracts, mercy is considered a weakness—until someone proves otherwise.
Rook was once an angel who believed in the system. Daveed is an incubus who understands empathy well enough to survive it.
This is a story about chosen family, generational trauma, and the quiet terror of a universe discovering that freedom—real freedom—might actually endure.
Not a war story. A boundary. And the irreversible consequences of crossing it.
I've been considering creating a discord server tied to this blog BUT I- and the other mods- are very busy people. I am curious if there's any interest in that and if there's anyone who would be interested in assisting in running it. DM me - @for-the-love-of-angst and let me know if you're interested in helping run a server and if you have experience!
Ridley comforts Dany. B gives her a bath. She's angry. He's sorry. And soft.
Thank you @hackles-up for allowing me to write B and Ridley!
Content/warnings: intimate whumper, captivity, noncon aftermath, mind games, reluctant whumper, a bit of comfort among the horrors, conditioned caretaker, noncon kiss (the latter doesn't sound like much, but uh, it is an explicit kiss).
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"Shhh." Carefully, Ridley releases my bonds, himself, without his guard's help. "Shh, baby, it's alright, it's over, you did so well." His body is close to mine, as he leans over me, his voice soft, his touch gentle, almost loving.
I do understand it's part of his game, that none of it is genuine or caring; but the understanding isn't enough to suppress the gratefulness, flooding my tormented body.
He frees me of the bonds, carefully rubs my aching wrists to activate circulation.
Tears are running down my face. I don't resist when he lifts me up to pull me on his lap. I'd love to say it was because my muscles are too exhausted. They are, probably, but that's not the reason. No, after the machine's torture I simply crave for a human's touch more than anything else. And Ridley's warm body provides that. He's holding me close to his chest, gently cradles my face, presses little kisses on my sweat-soaked hair. "It's okay," he mumbles. "It's okay to cry, babygirl, it's been a long day for you, but you've learned so well."
"It hurts," I whisper. "It hurts so much."
He lifts my chin with a finger and looks at me, the sparkle in his amber eyes weirdly affectionate. Carefully, he pulls me in to kiss my lips. I don't offer any resistance. "That's because you fought, sweetheart. Look how easy it is, when you're being good."
"I..." I sob mindlessly, shake my head, still pressed into his gentle embrace. "I didn't want this."
I feel Ridley's body tense, his fingers curl up into my skin, his teeth clench. His eyes that have been soft a second ago flare up with cruel anger. "You stupid fucking slu-" He stops. His body relaxes again, his fingers spread to hold me gently. "Oh babygirl," he coos instead. "Of course you wanted this. You just didn't understand it at the beginning. But it feels good now, doesn't it? It feels good to be Daddy's good little girl."
I shiver at the sudden outburst, the threat, the anger, the comfort, the softness.
His finger brushes over my lip. "I know it's a lot to process. But today's lesson is over." He kisses me again. "You can sleep in Daddy's big soft bed tonight, how does that sound?"
Sleep. A bed. A break. An escape, if only for my mind. I nod weakly. I don't want the anger to return. I couldn't make it through another *lesson*. I look up at him and nod. "Thank you," I whisper, and it's more sincere than I want to admit.
"Shhhh." His hold of my face tenses, his finger presses down on the split in my swollen lip. I wince at the sudden pain.
"Don't forget how to address me, sweetheart."
I swallow back the self-hate. "Daddy," I murmur. "Thank you, Daddy."
He smirks, vicious and pleased. "There we go." A sharp whistle, and some seconds later, B appears by our side, sleepily blinking against the light.
He's been in the room the entire time, I realize in horror. He's been there, and he's just slept through it.
"B," Ridley demands. "Our princess is rather filthy. Help her clean up. I'll take a shower."
*
After his master strolls out of the room with a joyful whistle on his lips, B reaches around me and picks me up. He doesn't flinch at the wetness between my legs, at the film of sweat on my skin, not even at Ridley's come running down over my thigh. I've never felt as disgusting. I've never been as exhausted.
"'m sorry," B mumbles.
I would laugh out if I could. Now all I manage is a tired, rough chuckle. "Oh yeah?"
He shifts uncomfortably as he slowly carries me towards the private rooms of the penthouse. "You... you... didn't sign up for this."
I let my head sink back in his arms. My muscles are useless, but my mind craves at the chance to talk. Anything to sort away the memories of what just happened. "Your observation skills are remarkable," I note dryly; almost as dry as my throat feels after hours of crying and begging. "Didn't stop you from letting this happen."
“I’m… I am an active participant in my owner’s desires.” His words are practiced, almost mechanical. "Sir..., he desired it. You."
An active participant. Is that what I was, too? I shiver. I asked for it. I let him do it. I kissed him back.
"Fuck your Sir," I mumble, unable to find a more articulate answer to this horror.
He stiffens, but doesn't reply, as he carries me into a large bathroom, dominated by a luxurious spa bathtub. Carefully, he lowers me into it, affixing a bath cushion to the tub's side underneath my head. "I, um, will need to cover the bandage."
I tilt my head and lean forward. The fiery pain on my back is almost familiar by now; still white hot and overwhelming and-
The next thing I notice is the flow of warm water over my shoulders, a strong arm steadying me. There's at least two inches of water in the tub.
"You... passed out, Miss."
I wince at the sight of the foamy water. Pink streaks through it, blood, from between my legs. My inside is throbbing with a new kind of pain. Torn open by the cock Ridley made me beg for.
It's still real. Fuck this.
B is massaging shampoo into my scalp. He must've nestled the cheap plastic crown out of my hair. I can smell sweat, and the faint truffle scent of the soup that has dried in my strands.
"Thank you," I say, even though I don't know for what. For not letting me drown in the tub? For treating me like a person? Well, he sure has not done this, when he strapped me down to the couch for his owner to violate me.
"You shouldn't be here," he mumbles, almost to himself. "You're not made for this."
I can't deny that logic.
"What about you, -? What's... what's your name anyway?"
"B," he says, obviously confused.
"That's a letter, not a name. Is there... anything better? Like, from... before?"
I feel his fingers pause, clench up in my hair the tiniest bit. "048921. Designation Guard Dog / Romantic, Ma'am."
That's a number, not a name. I don't say it.
"I...," He goes on, lifts the shower head to wash out my strands. "Miss, please, it's... B. B is the name my owner gave me."
"I'm Danielle," I say. "Dany. Not what your owner calls me."
He flinches again, stays silent for a moment, before he softly repeats it. "Dany. That sounds... nice."
It's a weird thing to say in a situation like this. But then again - what the heck would be the normal thing to say?
He's done with my hair and reaches past me for a brightly pink loofah. Slowly, he works some soap into it. It smells sweet and flowery. A relief, after the stench of sex and sweat. Yet entirely not me. Maybe that's better. Maybe I just need no make all of this not me. If the body that Leo and Ridley have claimed today just isn't mine.
B takes more time than he'd need to, and I realize why, when this big, huge man hesitantly gestures at my naked body with the loofah. "Miss... Miss Dany, is it okay if I... touch you?"
My eyebrows shoot up and a hard chuckle leave my lips. What the fuck. "B. B. Listen to me. Nothing about this is fucking okay. Your fingers have literally been inside me. You've slammed me into a wall. You've tied me up for a fucking rapist to use me. You've been right next to it." I lift my arms in what I want to be a shrug, but comes out as just a useless splash of the low water in the tub. I can't move them. I need him. "This has been a shit day. I really don't care any longer."
It's obviously not the reply he expected. "'M sorry, Miss Dany," he rumbles again, before he kneels down on the gray bathroom tiles next to the tub and leans in over me. His shirt is soaked in the front. "I'm his."
"I'm not," I whisper. I hope it's not a lie. I'm only here, I'm only cared for, because he wants me clean. After I've been a good girl for him.
I begged him. I fucking begged him to fuck me. I did exactly what he wanted me to do. What's that, if not a crushing defeat. If not utmost subordination. If not the admission, that I am his.
"I know," he replies softly. "You aren't."
The conviction in his voice floors me. Him, B, the one completely conditioned and devoted to Ridley Lordin, believes me. Contradicts Ridley's words.
I swallow back more tears.
This man, in this situation, who is being denied all his humanity, tries to treat me like a human.
Before I can reply, the loofah touches my skin. B is gentle, but even the slight brush over my breast, over the tortured nipple, makes me wince in pain.
B pauses immediately. "Easy... easy lass... Y're alright..." he murmurs. I had barely noticed his Irish brogue before. It's soothing, somehow.
I clench my teeth and nod for him to go on.
He does. It hurts. On my breasts, on my thighs, on my back where he softly moves around the bandage. Still, every stroke makes the skin move, fresh fire lashing over me.
My tears are silent. I give in.
B pauses again and clears his throat, the loofah hovering above my private parts. What an ironic term, anyway. Leo Luciano pretty much made them my public parts today.
I lean my head back tiredly, close my eyes, before I lift my hand as high as my shoulders allow me. It reaches barely over my thigh.
B can't do it. I don't know why, if it's a remnant of decency, or his own pain, and I feel guilty all of a sudden, guilty for just accepting his servitude.
I wiggle my fingers. "Give it to me," I say.
He can barely look at me, as he obeys.
With clenched teeth, I force my weakened arm to clean myself, run the loofah over my bruised thighs, my swollen folds. The touch stings, sends spikes of pain into my lower body. I fight through it, rub off the last traces of Ridley Lordin's come and my own treacherous wetness.
Finally, I sink back, open my fingers to let the loofah drift away in the dirty water.
I'm tired.
It's not over. I may be clean now, at Ridley's demand. I doubt that it'll last. First round, he has called it. I don't dare thinking about the next.
Silently, B extends an arm to let me lean against. My head rests on his shoulder. For long seconds, neither of us speaks.
B tenses up, before I notice it. The joyful hum of some 80's rock song, the slap of bare feet moving in.
And then, Ridley Lordin leans in the open door, his short auburn hair in messy, wet locks. "Awh, look at that," he croons. "My two beautiful pets. Such an adorable pair. Aren't I a lucky man?"
His gaze is amused, assessing. His silken robe is ridiculously short. I'm still glad that he wears it. I don't want to look at his cock. Daddy's big cock, his voice whispers in the back of my mind. Beg for it.
"Sir." B slings his arm around me and lifts me out of the tub, before he reaches for a towel.
Ridley's gaze wanders me down shamelessly, and he bites his lip. "Fuck. If it weren't so late, I'd take both of you again."
My breath trembles, and I gladly notice B wrapping the towel around me.
"Our princess has earned to sleep in the bed tonight," Ridley says to B. "You join us, too. My babygirl can be a little hothead. Keep an eye on her."
There's sharpness to his tone, a warning. I don't get it, for a second. Then, I do. I've killed a man today. Had his warm blood spill over me. I'd fought back. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Ridley chuckles at my silence and steps in. He's on eye level with me. "But now, you wouldn't want to hurt Daddy, would you?"
I shake my head and look away. Want to, yes. Could I? No. I can't even stand, just hold myself up on trembling legs, because B is steadying me.
"Thought so," he muses. "Now, kiss Daddy goodnight. Like you mean it."
He doesn't lean forward. Just tilts his head to the side, with a teasing smile.
I fucking hate you. I want to scream, yell, punch him. B's grip of me is firmer, suddenly. As if he could read my mind. As if I could be any real threat.
I loosen my shoulders, force my jaw to relax, before I gingerly lean forward. I rest a weak hand on his waist, over the silk of his pathetic bathrobe. He lets out a small, shaking moan. I fight through the hatred, the disgust, the humiliation, as my lips brush over his cheek and find his.
"That's it, baby," he groans, his own hand groping my butt and pulling me flush against him. He's aroused again already. His cock presses between my legs. I sob into the kiss. Still, I move my lips against his, part them, when his tongue pushes forward, reply in turn, deepen it.
It's a kiss. It's just a fucking kiss, I've had hundreds of them with dozens of men, I shouldn't need to cry into it.
"You're perfect," Ridley whispers, as he releases the kiss and tucks a strand of wet hair behind my ear. "I'm looking forward to seeing you break for me."
After a slap to my butt, he steps back and leaves with a cheery wave.
"Bring her over when you're done, big boy. Daddy's going to bed."
Dany arrives at Ridley's penthouse apartment and gets a first taste of what he wants her to be.
Thank you @hackles-up for your wonderful Ridley and B, and for the collaboration that made all this happen.
Content/warnings: intimate whumper, captivity, drugging, forced stimulation, forced orgasm, begging, forced to beg, EXPLICIT NONCON (vaginal), derogatory language, degradation in general, slut shaming, conditioned caretaker/involuntary whumper. Dead dove, probably. (Enjoy.)
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Ridley's penthouse apartment is a modern open plan living space, dominated by floor to ceiling windows. The city sprawls out beneath us; the room around us speaks of wealth and sophistication. Marble and mahogany; sharp edged designer pieces tastefully mixed with a selected few exclusive antiquities and a collection of framed vinyl records on the walls.
I'd probably compliment the host for his taste, if I'd entered standing up and not slung over his bodyguard's shoulder, drugged and tortured and humiliated.
But Ridley Lordin claims me as his; not unlike an exclusive piece of furniture from this very room.
I try to flex my fingers, my toes, but nothing. I'm just a mind, trapped inside a motionless body, helpless to whatever this narcissist sick fuck wants to do to me.
"Been a while since we had a lady over, huh Bee Bee?"
Ridley's voice is easy, conversational, sickening. "Better pull out all the stops. Make her feel comfortable."
B swallows, hesitates. "Um. Comfortable, Sir?"
"Of course not literally, stupid." Ridley rolls his eyes, while he loosens his bowtie. "They really should've taught you sarcasm at Fucktoy Academy."
He tosses the tie aside, before he leans over me and runs a soft thumb along my lip. "You do understand, don't you, babygirl? What comfortable means for a stubborn little slut like you?"
I can only reply with voiceless protest. My sharp hiss turns into a yelp, when a sudden vibration hums alive inside me.
Ridley lets out a joyous chuckle as he reveals the small controller in his palm. The vibrator Leo had used to humiliate me. It's still there. Of course it is. Of course Ridley demanded the remote. Of course it's not over. I shiver in B's arms. A weak, desperate sob escapes my lips, silent hot tears streak my face.
"Comfortable means, Bee Bee, that you strip our babygirl naked, strap her down to the couch with her legs wide open, and let her settle here comfortably, while she waits for Daddy. I've got some work to do. A multimillion dollar enterprise doesn't run itself."
A small gesture makes B drop me on the couch, and he stands back, at attention.
Ridley saunters over, leans in to lift my chin with two fingers and press a kiss onto my mouth. "See you later, princess." His other thumb cranks up the toy's intensity, sends sharp ripples of cruel stimulation through my core. Playfully, sharply, he bites down onto my lower lip. When he releases it, I taste blood. He smiles. "I'll make sure you don't get bored."
*
After some whispered commands to B, Ridley strolls out of my line of sight, and I some seconds later I hear a door fall close behind me. The hum inside me is low, but is there, uncomfortable and teasing.
B props me up to the back of the couch wordlessly and gets a bottle of water. "Uhm, Miss. Sir does not want for you to dehydrate," he says. "I will assist you." He carefully wraps an arm around my shoulders and tilts back my head, before he guides the bottle to my lips. "Okay?" he asks. There it is again, the careful, attentive, devoted look in his green eyes. The same look I saw in the car, when he bowed down without the slightest hesitation to suck Ridley's cock. He'll do whatever Ridley wants. How casually condescending it is, that he gives me the illusion of choice.
It feels like a betrayal to myself to part my lips for either of the pair. But I do. I'm parched. I don't even remember when I drank last. I need water to think, I need it to survive, to keep up that promise to myself at least. Get out of this alive.
With disturbing tenderness the large man helps me drink the water in tiny sips. At least the drug allows me to swallow. I empty the bottle, small sip by small sip, not sure if it is the drug slowing me down, or if is my own choice, delaying the inevitable.
"I will undress you now, Miss," B says, uncomfortably yet decisive.
The lace body is closed in the front, tied like a corsage, and B's hands brush my barely covered breasts while he works on the bonds. The vibe inside me picks up speed, the warm arousal relentlessly building up in me amplified by his touch. My muscles twitch involuntarily, my lips breath out a pained moan.
B sucks at his lip, avoiding my gaze as he accelerates his efforts to get me out of the flimsy piece of fabric.
He stopped asking for permission, when he pulls the thing down, exposes me entirely, and gently flips me over to affix a bandage over the burn. The pain on the burnt skin mixes with the building pleasure.
"Please," I groan. My voice is coming back. Not that it'll do me any good. But I can try. "Please, get... get it out... of me."
"You don't know how to be good for him," he says, shifting on his feet. "I am made to fulfill my master's desires. Tonight, this is you."
He pulls me back by my feet to maneuver me into a lying position. From somewhere, he picks up leather cuffs and straps, fixated my wrists and ties me down onto the couch with spread legs. I'm stimulated far enough that each of his touches on my arms, my torso, my thighs, sends ripples of pleasure through my entire body. His motions feel entirely too practised, and I wonder if this is a part of what happened to him, if he moves so swiftly because it has all been done to himself.
Then, his hands are on my breasts, and I yelp at the sudden rush of stimulation, followed by a sharp pain as he affixes something to my hard nipples. Clamps, connected by a thin chain. The vibe turns up. I feel myself getting wet around the toy, needy, hungry for more, terrified of more. I don't want this. I don't. I don't.
"M' sorry," the guard mutters, as his hands leave me, and then he himself withdraws, gets out of my sight.
A deep moan escapes me that I haven't realised I've been holding.
I feel new tears in my eyes. I don't want this.
I need this.
My hands curl up, run over the couch's leather, my left finding a throw cushion that I dig my fingers into.
My muscles are returning, I note dimly, slowly coming back. It's the worst possible time.
I try to shift, to release some of these vibrations away from me, make them less overwhelming, but it's in vain.
My hips involuntarily start moving, rolling against the sensation, chasing for relief. I can't. I want to scream. I can't be finding pleasure in this, I can't climax here, tied up, exposed, left alone, but my mind is too week, my body too needy.
With a broken scream, my hips buck again and a brutal climax surges over me.
*
Minutes, hours, days later, the click of a camera roots me firmly back in the present.
"Oh, look at this, babygirl."
Ridley is back, looking down on me from behind his phone, smiling, other hand shamelessly palming himself through his pants. The camera clicks again. "What a lovely picture."
I can't tell how much time has passed. I can't even tell how often I have been pushed beyond my limits, forced orgasms stacked on each other. My throat is dry from crying, screaming, my insides raw as well, but this thing is still there, still pushing, nudging me into the next wave of hot agony. I've tried focusing on the pain instead, on the burning ache on my back, on the painful strain in my muscles, that forcefully emerged back when the effect of the drug ebbed off. But even that didn't work; the vibrator's stimulation is stronger than any pain.
Ridley clicks his tongue. "You've made quite a mess of my couch, haven't you? I've tallied... nine times. Impressive. What a naughty little girl you are."
I'm tired, utterly exhausted, unable to find words to fight back. "Please," I whimper, my voice broken. "Please, Ridl-, Sir, please, make it stop."
He crouches down next to me, smoothes a hand across my sweat soaked forehead.
"Aw, baby girl." He croons. "I could just fuck your with my cock instead. Is that what you want?"
It's not what I want. What I want is a gun to put a bullet into his fucking cock and another right into that vile smile.
I clench my teeth, refuse a reply.
He turns his phone around in front of my face a and leans in to take a selfie of us. What sort of asshole keeps the shutter sound on on their phone cameras?
What sort of pathetic girl thinks about shutter noises while she's being assaulted?
"Silent treatment?", he muses. "Well then, princess. I'm a gentleman, as you should know. I'll only fuck you, if you beg me for it. If you don't want me to save you, I'll just leave you here for the rest of the night."
A flick of his thumb shows a control panel on his phone screen. I don't even get it, until he shifts one of the controls slightly up.
I scream, as the vibrator takes up speed once more, an incoherent outburst of dread and frustration and pain. "No, no, turn it off, please, you're killing me."
"That's not what I told you to say, princess." He says, voice dangerously low as he increases the intensity once more.
Tears well up in my eyes, that I didn't even know I still had in me. Survive. That's all I want. Ridley is one man, he's not my first, he'll finish, it will end, it has to.
"Please." I cry. "Do it, please."
Ridley reaches down into his pants, pulls out his erect cock. "Ask for it real nicely, baby. If you want Daddy to save you, you gotta beg for him to fuck you."
I nod desperately. "Yes," I mumble. "Yes, please, fuck me, please."
His forehead curls in sudden fury, as he slaps my breasts. The clamps tear at my nipples viciously, fresh pain bursting through me. I scream.
Ridley's hand buries into my hair and pulls me towards him. His face is red with anger. "Address me properly, stupid slut. Say it as I told you, say, 'Daddy, fuck me with your big cock, please'."
"Daddy", I sob, and somehow the word hurts just like the physical pain. "Daddy, fuck me with your big cock, please."
He stills, his face smoothing into a soft, triumphant, sickening smile. "Well, of course," he hums. "I'll relieve you, my poor baby girl."
A flick of his fingers, and the vibrator inside me stops. I can't help but sigh in relief, at the sudden quietness. Ridley's fingers gently slide between my legs and pull the device out with a squelching sound. I sob mindlessly, disgusted at how grateful I feel, when he pulls his pants down and straddles me, covering my face, my neck, my lips, with hungry kisses. "So wet for Daddy," he praises. "Such a good girl for me. Don't want to damage you too much." He slicks his cock with lube, before he moves his hips to line up with me. "You're so beautiful like this."
He pushes into me.
It's a relief. A horrible, disgusting relief. Not a machine inside me, but a person, slow and steady and careful. The strain in my arms worsens with his weight, but not as much as this actually feels good.
Fresh tears are streaming over my face, shame and humiliation. I begged him. It took him only hours to get me to beg for his cock, just as he promised, and he makes it feel good, makes my body betray me as he violates me.
"Fuck, yeah," he groans, kissing away my tears. "You're perfect. Taking your Daddy so well."
My sobs evolve into a treacherous moan as he's pushing harder, giving my tortured body what he's made it crave for. Numbly, I close my eyes so I don't have to see his triumphant face over me. Everything else is too much already. It's enough to hear his voice, to smell him, to feel him, his hands roaming over me body, gripping me closer, his cock filling my swollen vagina, pressing into me, hard and deep.
"Oh no." He slaps my cheek, forcing my face up. "Eyes on me, sweetheart. Daddy's so good to you. But I can make it hurt just as well."
I cry out, when his hand presses into my hips, my body involuntarily arching against him, allowing him to thrust even deeper.
I force my eyes open, and he smiles fondly, adjusts the speed of his vicious thrusts into a softer rhythm.
"Yeah," he moans, peppering my neck with kisses. "Just like... ah, just like that. Almost... almost there. Now, ah, thank me, babygirl."
I tilt my head back, as far as my bonds allow me, arch my body as an offer to him to push in deeper, all an excuse to look away, as I betray myself, betray my father, betray everything I ever believed.
"Thank you," I whisper hoarsely. "Thank you for fucking me, Daddy."
CW: Unhealthy relationship dynamics, angst, jealousy, past conditioning, BBU universe, discrimination against other WRU designations
Sunlight streams in through the library window, highlighting the last of his hastily written notes. Blue ink bright against white paper. The colors don’t bother him anymore. Around him is silence, not oppressive, but comforting, heavy, the knowledge in the books filtering into the air. A few muffled conversations echo through the stacks.
Ezra slips his textbooks and notes into his backpack. Checks his watch. Twenty minutes till he’s supposed to pick up Star. That’s plenty of time to get his final grade.
Ten minutes later and he’s sliding into the front seat of his Civic, ignoring the check engine light that pops on. Mr. Castillo has checked the car twice—even taking it to his brother—and there’s nothing wrong besides a faulty sensor. It’s cute when Star teases him about it, so there’s no rush to fix it.
He hums along to the radio, smiling at the trees lining the street. Green buds dot the dark branches, silhouetted perfectly against the blue sky. Finally. People fill the outdoor seating at the coffeeshop. Ezra recognizes a few of his classmates and waves as he walks in. Cindy and Star are bent over her phone, Cindy explaining something with exaggerated gestures.
“Hey, what are you two plotting?”
“Ezra! Seriously, come here, I can’t decide if gold or navy would be the best with Star’s complexion.”
Star awkwardly smiles. “We’re looking at, at, at, um . . . Cindy’s showing me makeup.”
“That’s cool. Eyeshadow, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, how, how did you guess?”
“I’m boring, but I’m not stupid.” Ezra kisses Star. “Whatever you chose will be perfect.”
Star blushes. Cindy rambles on about undertones and shades, but Ezra tunes it out in favor of taking some deep breaths. He’s staying for dinner. Dinner. With the Castillos, and Star, and . . . Daniel.
Daniel. Star’s bonded. The guy who punched him.
The guy who’s ass I fully kicked.
There’s some small satisfaction there. He’s still able to fight, even after everything. But he’s promised Star that tonight he will be on his best behavior, so no fighting, no saying stupid things, being nice and polite and thanking whomever cooked because he was raised to have manners.
Unlike the oh-so-perfect Romantic that Daniel is supposed to be.
The conversation wraps up and Star hangs up his apron. Ezra waves to Cindy, taking Star’s hand, and heads out. The drive to the Castillos’ isn’t long enough. Ezra stares at the road, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, not looking at Star. He can’t. He won’t. The moment he does, he’s going to say something he regrets. Swallowing back every snarky thought about the man he’s about to eat dinner with.
They pull into the driveway. Silence.
“Um, you, you, you . . . this is still fine?”
Ezra smiles and takes Star’s hand. “Of course, stjerne. I’ve been looking forward to Robin’s cooking all week.”
“No, I-I mean with Danny. He’s here. Is that okay?”
No. “Yes, it is. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Star doesn’t let go of his hand. Ezra kisses the back of it and puts on his most charming smile. Tension drains from his shoulders when Star smiles back. The rich smell of cooking meat filters into the night as they walk up to the front door. Ezra holds it for Star and then steps inside.
Thad waves from the kitchen. “Hey! Glad you could make it! The ribs are almost done cooking and I have an ice cream cake in the freezer. Do you want anything to drink? We have water, lemonade, wine—but Robin said I’m not supposed to offer that—and pop. I can also make coffee.”
“I’m good with just water.” Ezra waves a hand. “You don’t have to get it, I know where the cups are.”
He walks into the kitchen, acutely aware of the man sitting at the counter. Daniel’s gaze bores into the side of his skull, but when he glances over, Daniel quickly looks away. Ezra ignores him, grabbing a cup and filling it with water.
“Star?”
“I, I, I’m fine, thank you.”
Ezra ducks his head to hide his smile as Daniel’s shoulders tense. Every alarm in his mind goes off, warning him of the danger of an angry man, but he takes several deep breaths. I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe. He isn’t going to hurt me.
And if he does, I’ll kick his ass again.
Thad turns down the music. “How were classes? Work?”
“Class was good. Finished up my last paper of the semester. Um, is it alright if I use the garage this weekend? My project isn’t fitting in my apartment any longer.”
“Of course. We need to wash the car anyway and this will be a good excuse. Star, how was work?”
“Slow. Cindy and I talked about makeup, um, about makeup for a while. She wanted tips so, so, so I gave her some.”
“She’s your coworker, right?” Daniel asks. He stares at Star, angling his body away from Ezra. “The one who makes the fancy drinks?”
“Yes, she, she, she is. I can make those kinds in a, a few months. I’m still working on the, the, the basics right, um, right now.”
“You’ll do great,” Ezra quickly says. “You’re picking it up faster than anyone else I’ve seen. I’m not worried at all.”
“I’m not either.” Daniel finally turns and glares at him. “Star’s more than competent.”
“I never said he wasn’t.”
“Made it sound like you were worried.”
“In what world did my compliment sound like I was worried? Maybe you should get your hearing checked.”
“I am in perfect health, thank you. WRU signed and certified.”
Ezra forces his fingers to remain relaxed. One deep breath, then another. Shoving away the urge to slam Daniel’s head into the countertop. It would be nice. Shut him up and stop him from looking his way with those stupid brown eyes and scar that now twists his lips into a perpetual smirk.
“Kids, stop fighting,” Thad sighs. “Daniel, we’ve talked about saying that before.”
“Oh, so this is a reoccurring problem?” Any calm Ezra managed to pull together is instantly shattered. “Do you say that to Star too?”
“No, just assholes who deserve the reminder.”
“Assholes who kicked your ass into next week, if you don’t remember.”
“I remember just fine.”
“You sure? Because I’m more than happy to teach you that lesson again.”
Daniel huffs and turns himself fully away. Ezra rolls his eyes, ignoring Thad’s warning look as he gets himself more water. The kitchen falls silent, broken only by the hum of the oven.
“I’m home!” Robin steps in. Thad goes running to hug them, swinging them around. Ezra blushes and refuses to look at Star. “Hello, sunshine, Star, Ezra, Daniel. How is everyone?”
Thad laughs. “Don’t open that can of worms.”
Star frowns, mouth moving as he quietly repeats the phrase. Ezra smiles.
“It means there’s way too much to discuss right now.”
He ignores how Daniel leans close to hear the explanation. Star thanks him. As they move to set the table, he and Star talk about more phrases he has heard while working. Ezra is able to explain most of them and when he gets stuck, he turns to Robin for help. They answer smoothly, practiced, and Ezra is reminded yet again of their infinite patience.
Not him. Never him. Even back there, his patience was limited. Frustrated with himself, with the handlers, with the other Pets. His classmates. His coworkers. Himself.
They sit down and Ezra does not lash out like he wants to when Daniel’s shoulder knocks against his. He swallows back some retort about how Romantics aren’t violent and sits himself down next to Star, instantly taking his hand. The conversation ebbs and flows, led by the Castillos. Thad asks about his classes and Ezra responds about the test and the model he has to make and he isn’t failing any of his classes.
A gentle tug on his hand. “. . . What, what, what is college?”
Ezra hums. “Um, it’s upper education, after someone finishes high school. It’s a lot harder and lets people focus on what jobs they want to do.”
“Like WRU?”
“No, not like that, Daniel.” Fucking idiot. “It’s very different. Everyone there wants to be there and we’re learning about actual, real jobs that people have.”
“But aren’t we people too?”
“Yes, and that means you don’t do the jobs that WRU forced us to have.”
“So people doing those jobs aren’t real people. They’re just stupid and don’t deserve help.”
“Daniel, Ezra. This is not a productive conversation.” Robin doesn’t glare, but Daniel still flinches back. A warm glow of pride fills Ezra’s chest because he doesn’t flinch any more.
Daniel hunches his shoulders. “Fine.”
He’s just like you, remember? You know what’s under that anger.
Shut the fuck up.
Dinner finishes soon after. Ezra mumbles some excuse about homework that needs finishing. Star follows him to the front porch, slipping a hand around his waist. He leans into the touch.
“Thank you for, for, for being here.”
“Of course. It is an honor.”
Star blushes. It’s a perfect thing, his head angled slightly down, looking up through his lashes, cheeks tinged pink. A doll-like look. “You’re sweet.”
He chuckles and kisses his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’re working the same shift.”
“I, I, I can’t wait.”
As Ezra drives away, he can’t help but glance back. Daniel has joined Star on the porch and even at this distance he can see the wild gestures of an argument. He grips the steering wheel and forces himself to keep driving.
It isn’t my fight. Star likes me. I know that.
Besides, he can do way better than Daniel. I’ll show him that.
Tagging: @blood-is-compulsory @darkthingshappen @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinggrounds @pigeonwhumps @cepheusgalaxy @hellodecisionparalysis (let me know if you want to be added/removed!)
