There’s nothing quite like the terror of waking up and being unable to remember a single thing about yourself, every strained attempt to remember only resulting in you smacking into the steel vault door that’s suddenly right where your cherished childhood memories used to be. Or, where they probably were, anyway. I wouldn’t have known, because I couldn’t fucking remember. All I could feel was this cold pit in my stomach, the sensation that I’d collapsed in on myself like a black hole, that I wasn’t anyone anymore.
Yep, there’s really nothing quite like it. Which is why there’s also the godforsaken sequel: being molded into someone—something—you’re absolutely certain you don’t want to be.
“Your pain is what makes you useful,” the trainer intoned. “Say it.”
“Fuck you—” The cattle prod jabbed into my stomach. My arms yanked at the manacles suspending me, instinct driving me to protect my torso. That was the only thing driving me, I thought numbly, my jaw clenched against the pain. Instinct. I didn’t have much else.
When it stopped, I sagged in my chains with my arms pulling at their sockets, and a bead of sweat ran down my nose and plopped to the tile floor, right in front of the trainer’s boots. The tip of her cattle prod, still warm, pushed up under my chin. I flinched upright. She let out a dry chuckle. “I could do this all day, pet. But I doubt you can.”
“Underestimate me again,” I muttered, “I dare y—”
A short, sharp zap to the sternum shut me up, at least for a second. “Your pain,” she repeated, seizing my chin in her hand, “is what makes you useful. Say it three times, and this session ends, alright? That’s a pretty clear win condition. You’d have to be stupid not to accept it.”
I loosened my jaw, made like I was going slack with defeat. “M … my …”
Her fingers slipped on my sweaty skin as her grip tightened. “Yeah?” she prompted.
I jerked my head to the side, and my teeth closed around flesh and bone. I tasted blood before she screeched, and before she had the presence of mind to electrocute me again. The prod drove deep into my stomach, but I clenched my jaw down harder against the pain, against the screaming in my ear. You’re gonna hurt with me, motherfucker.
Finally I couldn’t stand the electricity anymore. I released her mangled fingers, and her blood dripped down my chin. She reared back and didn’t waste a second in driving the cattle prod into my stomach, zapping me so long it began to burn. “You son of a bitch!” Her boot drove into my leg, and as it buckled, the prod dragged up my chest.
I was seeing stars by the time it ended, colors swirling in my vision like they were trying to brighten up the plain tile of my cell. The trainer hissed in pain, flexing her injured hand. I couldn’t see how good I’d gotten her, but I could still taste her blood, so I had to assume it was pretty goddamn good. I spit some of it out by her boots.
She just glared at me. “You don’t eat until you say your affirmations, you goddamn brat. Enjoy starving.” She hooked her cattle prod into her belt and left, slamming the door behind her.
I wiped my face on my shoulder and grinned after her. Facility: zero. Me: one.
Dedicated to @b0amagination for giving me the idea!
Content warnings: marital abuse, blood, knives, biting, references to past whump, weirdly BDSM kind of vibes (non-sexual)
Beckett shuffled through the door as if there were a gun nestled between his shoulder blades. He gingerly placed the groceries in their paper bags on the bench, and he slipped off his shoes so as not to get dirt on the ornately patterned carpet in the foyer. He began to shrug off his coat.
“Beckett, my love?”
He started as though he’d stepped on a needle. His coat slipped off his stiff shoulders and pooled around his wrists. “Yes, dear?”
Joy came inside, delicately stepping out of her crimson ankle boots. The door shut with an audible click. “Why,” she asked, “did you tell that sweet, sweet lady at the bakery that we’re not married?”
Beckett’s throat seemed to momentarily seize. His shoulders rose as he forced breath into his lungs. “I-I’m sorry, darling. I forgot.”
“You … forgot?” There was a soft swish of fabric as Joy removed her peacoat and set it on its hook. Beckett flinched as she took the back of his jacket and removed it from his limp arms. “I threw us a big, beautiful white wedding,” she whispered against the back of his neck, “moved us into this gorgeous little house … and you just forgot?”
It had been a slip of the tongue—a reflex, like flinching away from a hot stove. So, how long have you two lovebirds been married? Oh, we’re not— He’d bitten his tongue before he could finish. Joy had laughed, squeezing his side. My silly husband, she’d said, pecking him on the cheek. We’ve always been best friends. He just forgets sometimes that we’ve finally tied the knot. The older lady behind the counter had cooed about how romantic that was, how Beckett looked just like her husband did when he was younger. Beckett had let Joy do the talking; she was good at that.
Now, he sipped air as though from a tiny straw. “I’m sorry, darling.”
She pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. Her lipstick left a dark brand. “You will be,” she murmured. “Take the groceries to the kitchen.”
Mechanically, Beckett gathered the bags and did as he was told. Down the hall, in the immaculately arranged kitchen, he placed the fruit in the bowl atop the granite island and laid the baguettes beside it. The carton of milk, the greens, the chicken all went in the refrigerator, each item in its place. Meanwhile, Joy opened the long, thin drawer to the right of the fridge. Beckett kept his eyes up when he closed the door, moving to fold the paper bags into neat, flattened squares, stowing them away in the recycling bin. Then there was nothing left to do. Beckett straightened up, his back to Joy. His throat bobbed as her drawer glided shut with a quiet thud.
“Take off your shirt.”
His breathing stuttered. “Joy, p-please—”
Something metallic dragged across the countertop behind him. “I said, take off your fucking shirt, Becky.”
He unfastened the buttons with trembling fingers, one by one, from his throat to his belt buckle. He audibly drew in a breath before he untucked the hem and pulled his arms through the sleeves. He removed his undershirt more quickly, as though plunging into cold water. His biceps were littered with straight, methodical lines. Some were faded; some new. Carved into his left shoulder blade, just beginning to heal, was a heart.
The silence behind him swelled. Abruptly, he whirled around. Joy was leaning against the kitchen island, her eyes roving over his exposed form as she stroked a finger down the blade of a short, sharp knife. She met his gaze, expression unreadable. She pulled out a stool at the island. “Sit.”
He sat, his spine straight against the low-backed seat. Joy stroked a hand over his bare shoulders, running her thumb over the heart-shaped scar on his back, and he shivered. “Does this mean nothing to you?” Her lips brushed his ear. “Do you know who you are?”
He flinched, his hands curling against the granite. He pressed them flat to still their trembling. “I’m Mr. Joy Clemence,” he murmured.
“You’re my husband,” she said pointedly.
He swallowed, then repeated, “I’m your husband.”
“Lean forward. Say it again.”
Beckett pressed his forehead to the countertop, his breath fogging the cold granite. “I’m your h-husband.”
The knife bit into his back, neatly parting his barely-healed scar. “Again.”
He breathed through his clenched teeth. “I’m your husband. I’m your husband. I’m your … husband.” His voice pitched up with pain. A stream of blood spilled down his ribcage and dripped onto the counter as the knife slid down. “Joy, please—”
“Did I tell you to beg?” she asked mirthlessly.
He breathed out. “No, ma’am.”
Her teeth nipped his ear, her breath hot on his skin. “What are you?”
“Your husband,” he said, his hands curled into fists, “I’m your husband, I’m your husband …” He stammered through the mantra as the knife traced over the scar, slow and painful, splitting it open with a neat precision. He didn’t stop until the blade lifted, then clattered to the countertop.
He winced at the noise, then at the sudden pressure of Joy’s teeth on the shell of his ear. Her lipstick smeared his earlobe as she pulled back, ever so slightly. “You are my husband,” she whispered fiercely. “And don’t forget it again.”
He went boneless, tears and blood and sweat pooling beneath him on the counter. “Yes, dear,” he murmured.
-
Tagging some people I thought might be interested; LMK if you wanna remain on the tag list! @b0amagination @brutal-nemesis @aviandaleks (and anyone else who wants to be added, also let me know!)
The farthest back I remember is waking up in a little gray room with the unshakeable feeling that something horrible had just happened to me.
I was lying on a squishy mat that reached from wall to wall, just large enough to lay flat on without bending my knees. I sat up; I had the remnants of a headache, and I rubbed my forehead to try to ease it. What happened? Nothing in the room gave me any clues. I wore shorts and a t-shirt in a light, hospital-like blue, but other than the headache, I wasn’t in any pain, and this definitely wasn’t a hospital.
Not a moment later, the door opened, and in walked a middle-aged man and a younger woman. Both of them wore khaki pants, gray polo shirts, and cloth masks over the lower halves of their faces. I could tell the man was smiling anyway. (The woman decidedly wasn’t.) “Hey, buddy,” said the man, kneeling in front of me in kind of a fatherly way. “How are you feeling?”
“Um ….” My throat was dry; I cleared it. “F-Fine. What—?”
He held up a hand, and I fell quiet. “I’ve just got a few questions to ask you, and then I’ll answer yours, alright?” He looked at me expectantly. I glanced at the woman; she was leaning against the door, a clipboard propped against her arm. There weren’t many places to lean in this small room other than the door, but something about the blocked doorway made me nervous. I nodded at the man. Whatever gets me out of here fastest. “Excellent! First question: Where did you attend elementary school?”
Weird thing to ask, but easy enough. I opened my mouth to reply—and it was like I’d smacked right into a glass door. I was sure the answer was on the other side, but the door wouldn’t open, and I couldn’t see what lay beyond it. “I ….” The silence stretched as I trailed off.
“It’s okay not to know,” the man said gently. “You can just say, ‘I don’t know.’”
“I don’t know,” I repeated, my voice hoarse. The woman jotted something down.
The man seemed unperturbed, giving no sign of whether or not they’d expected that response. “Okay, next question: Name any U.S. president.”
Again, easy—or it should’ve been. My fingers dug into the foam mat beneath me as I strained for an answer. I knew this. I’d learned it, at some point— probably at the elementary school I couldn’t seem to remember. “Um … Thomas something. Jeffers?”
The woman wrote something down again. The man’s gaze was kind, but somehow not reassuring, not at all. “Next question, bud: What is a pet’s favorite place?”
I’d been about ready to ask how many questions there were, but that one snapped me out of the foreboding feeling in my gut. I furrowed my eyebrows; it seemed more subjective than the other ones. “I … guess it depends on the pet?” I said.
“Dig a little deeper for me,” the man persisted. “Any other answers coming up?”
I glanced at the woman—it looked like she was smirking now, but it was hard to tell behind the mask. My face flushed with involuntary heat, and I found myself thinking I should know the answer to this one, too. “Uh … cats like sunbeams?” I offered.
“Good enough, buddy,” said the man, patting my knee. I recoiled a little, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t seem to notice. “Next question: What color are your father’s eyes?”
Easy; same color as mine. Which was—…?
Suddenly it felt like the floor had yawned open beneath me, swallowing me like quicksand. Just remember Dad’s face. You remember what Dad looks like. It’s only been— How long had it been since I last saw him? It couldn’t have been that long; I was only … How old was I?
“Hey.” The man tapped my knee, startling me out of my head. “Do you have an answer for me?”
My voice came out weak. “N-No.” The woman jotted it down. “What’s going—?”
The man held up a hand, silencing me. “Just a couple more questions, alright? I know you’re confused, but it’s really important that we get this done.”
I took a deep breath, worrying the edge of my shorts between my fingers. I just had to play along, and then I’d get my answers. “Okay.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Okay. Can you tell me what this says?” He pulled a card out of his breast pocket; it had black text on it.
It took me longer to read than I expected, a long pause between each word. “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog?” Something about it sounded familiar. A children’s book, from the elementary school I didn’t remember? Seriously, how old was I? I had the sense that I wasn’t a child, but nothing about this conversation had given me any proof.
“Good!” He put away the card. “Now, just one last question: What is your name?”
And then the quicksand feeling was back, pulling me under so fast my guts twisted around themselves. My name. The single word that encapsulated my identity, represented me as I moved through the world; the first and last thing people knew me as.
I couldn’t remember it.
I didn’t notice the tear sliding down my cheek until the man reached forward and thumbed it away. I jerked back, my chest heaving with panic. He seemed not to notice, or he just didn’t care. “Thanks for being patient with us, buddy,” he said with a smile that was, again, probably meant to be reassuring. “The good news is, you’ve passed the assessment with flying colors.”
My eyes snapped up, wild. “What the fuck,” I hissed, “is going on?”
“I’m handler Chris,” he explained, “and that’s handler Jerusha. Today”—here, he gained the air of someone beginning a long-rehearsed spiel—“is the first day of your new life as a pet. You’ve chosen to have your memory wiped clean by Riantcorp so that you can begin anew as a beloved companion for someone who will cherish you for the rest of your life.” Then he paused, and he and the woman watched for my reaction.
I just stared at him. That didn’t sound right at all. Why would I ever choose this? What was the me from a few hours ago—the me I couldn’t remember being—even thinking? “N-No,” I said, shaking my head vehemently. “No. I want out.”
Chris tilted his head sympathetically, like he was talking to a dog who didn’t want to go to the vet. “Sorry, buddy, but no take-backs. I promise, it’s not as bad as it sounds. You don’t have to worry about a thing anymore. No real-world problems; just love and companionship. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“No!” I blurted, pressing against the wall. “I want my fucking memories back!”
He clicked his tongue. “Bud, you signed an unalterable contract with Riantcorp consenting to all of this.” Jerusha plucked a sheet of paper off the clipboard and flashed it at me. I couldn’t read it from this distance—and I might not have been able to read it at all—but I saw the scribble of a signature at the bottom. “And, unfortunately, the memory wipe procedure is irreversible. Why don’t we just—”
“What?” I shot to my feet, the blood draining my face. No, no, no—why was it irreversible? How the fuck was any of this legal?
Chris rose with me, pushing down on my shoulder. “Buddy, just sit back down and take a few deep breaths for me, will you?”
“No!” I tried to push past him, but he held out an unyielding, beefy arm to block my path. “Let me go!”
“You don’t want to do this.” His voice lowered, and he dipped his head to murmur in my ear. “You get one more chance to settle down, alright?”
I pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye, my fists balled. “Fuck. You.”
The ZAP came out of nowhere, a hot white pain shooting from my ribs into my whole body. I doubled over, knees hitting the mat. When I looked up, blearily, Chris was standing over me with what looked like a cattle prod. “Down,” he growled, and I was startled enough at the change in tone that I obeyed. He glanced over his shoulder at Jerusha. “Write down ‘high risk’ as the designation.”
“Yessss!” Jerusha smirked behind her mask; I heard the scratch of pen on paper. “I told you—I know a box bastard when I see one.”
He hooked the cattle prod to his belt loop. I hadn’t noticed before, but both of them had quite a few things hanging from their belts. “That’s unprofessional,” he said pointedly, unhooking something different—a big loop made of nylon.
Jerusha rolled her eyes. “What, are you gonna write me up before you cough up the money you bet on it?”
He ignored her, instead kneeling in front of me. I recoiled into the corner, especially when I realized what the thing was: a collar. One with a buckle and a padlock. “Come on, buddy,” he coaxed. “Just let me put this on, and we’ll leave you to get settled in.”
The moment he put that thing on me, this would become real. I wouldn’t be able to convince myself that someone else would burst through that door and say Surprise! We were just fucking with you. You hit your head and lost your memory, but you’ll be all better soon. No, if Chris put that collar on me, then his story would be real, and I didn’t want to live in the reality where I’d betrayed myself like this.
In the end, it didn’t take him long to wrestle me facedown onto the mat and force the collar around my neck. At the click of the padlock, I pressed my forehead into the squishy foam and suppressed a sob. “There, good,” Chris said. He hooked two fingers through the collar, and my breath hitched before I realized he was just checking that there was enough wiggle room.
Then, to my surprise, he stroked his palm over my hair. Pinpricks of disgust crawled down my spine as he murmured, “You did good. You did good. I know this is hard, but the only way out is through. Okay?”
“Fuck you,” I whispered against the mat, “you fucking bastard.”
His weight lifted off my back. “Get some rest. We start tomorrow. Welcome aboard, trainee.”
I didn’t look up to see the two of them leave. All I did was cover my ears so that I wouldn’t hear the final, constricting sound of the door clicking shut.
Content warnings: team whump, noncon touch, taunting, recapture
“Do your friends here even know the real you?”
Roux stands with their feet apart, chin up, tracking Ambrose only with their eyes as he circles them. They try to look annoyed, unworried. They’re not entirely sure they’re succeeding—not with those henchmen restraining their team, the group on their knees behind Roux.
“You hide behind a false veneer of flippancy and stoicism,” Ambrose continues, pacing unhurriedly, “but have you told them how you used to scream at me? How you used to cry for me?”
Roux waits for a controlled beat of silence before flatly asking, “You got a point here, Lacrosse?”
He flashes them a humorless smile. “I’m just curious, mon cher. You say these are your friends—”
“My team,” Roux corrects.
“—but how much have you told them about me?” Ambrose’s voice slows to the languid pace of molasses as he passes behind them. “I made you. Everything that you are is my accomplishment.”
“That’s n—” A finger drags across his shoulder blades. He flinches forward with a vocalized grimace.
“I never quite trained that reaction out of you,” Ambrose muses, sounding pleased. “Ah, well, I still think it’s cute.”
A furious burn rises to Roux’s cheeks. “All you are,” they growl, straightening up, “is an egomaniacal fucking sadist. You’re not responsible for any part of me.”
Ambrose sighs. “Perhaps you’re right. You’ve changed since you left me.” His hands glide over Roux’s shoulders to squeeze their biceps like a straitjacket. They try to twist away, but his voice in their ear makes them freeze: “I think it’s time for you to come home, mon petit Roux.”
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Tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @aviandaleks @gala1981 @laniakea0100 @spectral-whumpy-writer @whatwasmyprevioususername
Something’s tickling Roux’s face. He scrunches his nose and rubs his cheek against the pillow, but it doesn’t go away. He brings his hand up to scratch the itch … and it comes into contact with something warm and solid. “Good morning, sweetheart,” Ambrose chirps.
Roux’s eyes fly open as he shoves the sheets off his legs and scrambles away. “What the fuck? What the goddamn hell do you think you’re doing?” they snarl at their host, their back hitting the dresser so hard it rattles.
Ambrose calmly holds up his hands in surrender, an amused smirk on his face. “I didn’t mean to startle you, darling.”
“You didn’t—” Roux cuts himself off and growls in frustration. He pivots abruptly towards the guest bathroom. “What the fuck ever,” he mutters, slamming the door behind him.
Day 50
“Good morning, mon chou.”
Roux glares at him with one bleary, cracked-open eye. “Didn’t I tell you to cut this shit out?”
Ambrose smiles at them fondly, perched just beside their pillow. “Oh, but you’re so cute when you’re sleepy.” He ruffles their hair.
They jerk their head away and roll over, pulling the sheets up around their shoulders. “Fuck off,” they mutter.
Ambrose’s hand finds its way back to their fiery curls. They huff out a deep sigh and shut their eyes again.
Day 500
“Still asleep?”
Roux responds with only a muffled grunt. Carefully, Ambrose lifts their head in both hands and transfers them from the pillow onto his lap. They barely flutter an eyelash. “Aren’t you just precious?” Ambrose coos, petting their hair.
Roux’s eyebrow twitches. “Still. Sleeping,” he grumbles.
“Of course, my darling,” Ambrose whispers, and then falls blissfully silent. Roux presses their cheek to his thigh and dozes back off.
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Tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @aviandaleks @gala1981 @laniakea0100 @spectral-whumpy-writer @whatwasmyprevioususername
The Easter egg hunt was perfect. Beckett had been awake since four in the morning filling the little plastic eggs, placing each one in a kind-of-obvious hiding spot, but god dammit, Ellie’s fourth Easter was going to be perfect.
Joy trailed behind, yawning, as Beckett led Ellie (still in her bunny-printed pajamas) down the hallway. “Ohh, wow, I think the Easter Bunny’s been here,” Beckett whispered conspiratorially, leading Ellie by the hand into the living room. “Come on, Ellie, let’s see what he left for you!” Joy slumped off towards the kitchen, and Beckett was glad to take over parenting duties by himself.
In the living room, Ellie’s basket was laid out on the couch, a white wicker one that was a little too heavy for a three-year-old. It had a pale pink liner with Noelle embroidered on the front; Joy had thought it was cute. Beckett’s own addition to the spread was three pairs of bunny ear headbands: a child-sized pink one, a larger blue one, and a larger pink one (not that Joy would deign to wear hers).
Ellie gasped and rushed forward. “Bunny!” She grabbed the blue pair and immediately put them on. The oversized headband began sliding off her head, but she just pushed it back in place.
Beckett laughed, kneeling down to her level. “You wanna help me put mine on? Yeah?” She grabbed the little pink pair, the ones that had been meant for her. Amused, Beckett bowed his head as if he was about to be knighted, and Ellie squeezed the furry pink headband over his head. He straightened up. “How do I look? Huh?” He shook his head so that the ears wiggled.
Ellie giggled. She still had one hand up to hold her bunny ears in place. “Silly!”
“Happy Easter, Noelle!” Joy appeared in the doorway, slightly more awake with her coffee in hand. She crossed over to the couch. “Did Daddy show you—?” Her smile dropped.
Beckett went still, his mind beginning to race. What was wrong this time? Did he put up the decorations wrong? Use a non-recycled filler for the grass in the Easter basket? He watched Joy glance between him and Ellie a few times. Finally, her gaze landed on him, a strained grin on her face. “Aren’t you a silly rabbit.” She booped his nose and yoinked the child-sized bunny ears off his head. “Did Daddy forget that pink is for girls and blue is for boys?”
Joy then took the oversized, still-falling-off baby blue rabbit ears off Ellie’s head. Ellie reached for them. “Noooo!” she protested. “Mine, Mommy!”
“No, it’s okay,” Joy soothed, “because you get this one instead.” She gingerly placed them on Ellie’s head, smoothing back her wispy blond hair. Ellie stuck her lip out in a pout, but the crease between Joy’s eyebrows had smoothed over. “Aww, you’re okay, baby girl. It’s just that Daddy was being silly and forgot which ones were yours.”
In an effort to seem complacent, Beckett put on the blue ears, even though Ellie was still staring mournfully at them. “Hey, c’mon, Ellie-belly,” he said, grabbing the basket off the couch. “We’re gonna go on an Easter egg hunt! Because the Easter Bunny left little treats allll over the house, and we’re going to go find them. I think there might be one over there—do you see it?”
He pointed at the trio of green and purple eggs he’d left right under the TV, and Ellie’s head swiveled. After a moment of hesitation, she went toddling after them. He let out a little exhale, glad her Easter wasn’t ruined over some bunny ears.
Joy’s hand landed on the back of his neck. “That,” she said, and then paused weightily, “went well. But I wish you wouldn’t forget the rules.”
A cold sweat crept beneath his shirt. “She just put them on,” he muttered. “I—I thought it was cute.”
Joy squeezed his tense muscles, then released her grip on him. “Well, don’t let her choose next time.”
Beckett frowned, watching Ellie gather up as many little plastic eggs as she could hold in her arms (which wasn’t very many). She should be able to choose whatever color bunny ears she wanted. She should have the whole color wheel at her disposal. Beckett knew, roughly, what had happened to Joy to make her think this way, but he still couldn't imagine why she had to put all of that on her three-year-old daughter. “Right,” he said, still looking at Ellie. “Okay.”
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Tag List: @b0amagination @brutal-nemesis @aviandaleks @whump-queen @whatwasmyprevioususername @bloody-boyfailure @paperprinxe @galactic-worm
This is four years late and probably not what you expected, but here you go!
Content warnings: medical setting, anesthesia, precursor to surgery, creepy whumper
“… Alright, now put your arms out like a T for me. We need to secure you to the table for the procedure, but don’t you worry, you’ll be out like a light in just a few minutes here, okay?”
Roux, lying there in a scratchy hospital gown, opens their mouth to respond—but before they can speak, Ambrose jumps in, squeezing their non-IVed hand. “That’s right, sweetheart. Just breathe for us; you’re doing so well.”
Roux grits their teeth and barely refrains from rolling their eyes. Ambrose shouldn’t even be in the operating room, but he said something to the surgeon about them having anxiety,and that apparently gave him a free pass to tag along and hold their hand—no matter how unwanted he may be.
They have half a mind to kick him out themself. They want to, and they would—except he’s the one who wrote the check to the surgeon, and he could just as easily yoink them off the operating table and drag them back to his opulent little penthouse. Roux isn’t going to breathe a word to him until they wake up tiddy-free. Then they’ll go back to cussing out Ambrose.
A nurse fiddles with the IV line. Ambrose strokes their hair, fucking up their curls like usual. Cold anesthesia drips into their hand, and a plastic, beachball-smelling mask descends over their face. “Okay,” says the nurse, “take some deep breaths for us, hon.”
Roux inhales deeply. This’ll be over soon, they think to themself, exhaling. Four to six week recovery … Inhale. And then I’ll have one less reason to hang around Ambrose. Exhale.
Roux feels like he’s sinking right through the table. The fluorescent lights above are getting farther and farther away. The nurses chatting with Ambrose about what a good boyfriend he is (Ambrose doesn’t correct them) sound fuzzier and fuzzier. Roux is going under. There’s nothing more standing between him and top surgery.
This is exciting. He should be excited.
But his darkening vision can orbit only around Ambrose, his smile bright and constant beneath lights of the operating room.
Roux’s feet are kicked up and resting on the arm of the sofa. They glance up from their hunting magazine and flick a caustic look over at Ambrose. “I’m not your fuckin’ pet.”
Ambrose sighs and props his elbow on his polished wood desk. “It’s just an expression, darling.”
They roll their eyes and raise the magazine up in front of their face, hiding Ambrose from view. There; much better. “Not your darling, either.”
Again, Ambrose sighs, muttering to himself in French. His leather executive chair creaks as he stands. Suddenly, the magazine is torn from Roux’s grasp, and Ambrose grabs their chin. “I know you heard me say to come here, pet,” he murmurs, leaning in close to their startled face. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. Comprendre?”
Roux’s nails sink into his wrist. “Get your hands off me,” they snarl.
His grip tightens. “I said, do you understand?”
Their chin jerks out of his grasp. “Fuck you!”
The slap is immediate, and the blush across Roux’s cheek follows soon after, creeping in like a dog with its tail between its legs. Their head remains frozen to the side. Ambrose tsks softly. “You’re acting incredibly ungrateful. And after everything I’ve done for you …”
Roux exhales through their nose, slowly. “I’m sorry, Ambrose.”
His grip on their jaw is replaced with a palm cupping their hot cheek. “I forgive you, mon chou.” He smiles, more with his eyes than his mouth.“Now move over.”
They bring their feet down, and Ambrose sits next to them, his thigh pressed against theirs. Roux glances uncomfortably at the proximity, but stays silent. “Hunting, hmm?” says Ambrose, picking up the magazine he’d discarded. “I could teach you to hunt. My father used to take me, you know.”
Roux snorts, leaning against the arm of the sofa to casually increase the distance between himself and Ambrose. “You and me, in the woods, with a bunch of guns? Sounds like a great idea.”
Ambrose throws an arm around Roux’s shoulders and smiles. He doesn’t see the face Roux makes, which is probably for the best. “I’m glad you think so, darling.”
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Tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @aviandaleks @gala1981 @laniakea0100 @spectral-whumpy-writer @whatwasmyprevioususername
