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!)
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
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
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.
Lipstick, saliva, apply pressure, mouth noises, hold for ten—no, she said twelve this time—and break away slowly, with a loving gaze, and fix her hair gently—
Joy frowned and tilted her head, leaning back into Beckett’s embrace. “Didn’t feel passionate enough,” she decided. “Kiss me again. Like you mean it.”
Beckett deflated, but only on the inside; she didn’t like it when he showed it on his face. “Can I please have a break first?” He tried not to sound like he was begging.
She smirked and leaned in with a hand on his chest. “What, are you tired of kissing your fiancée?” she teased. “You don’t want our wedding kiss to be absolutely perfect?” He stumbled back, and she caught him around the waist and steadied him, clearly amused.
“O-Of course I do,” he said placatingly. She wasn’t angry with him yet, but that could always change; best to act in a placating manner anyway. “I just want to sit down for a minute, that’s all.”
“Alright, then.” She hooked her fingers in his shirt collar and dragged him over to the bed, then pushed him down and straddled his lap with an evil grin. “Let’s sit, then.”
His face flushed as he leaned back. “Joy …”
She used his shirt collar to reel him back in. “Beckyyy,” she mocked his tone. “You haven’t kissed anyone since high school. You have a lot to make up for before the wedding. So pucker up.” She grabbed his jaw, forcing his lips into a fishlike pout. “And look happy about it, for goodness’ sake. You’re getting married!”
He gave her a weary stare. His mouth felt vaguely damp and waxy with her lipstick; his feet hurt from standing across from her with perfect wedding posture for much longer than the real ceremony would go on. He knew she wouldn’t let him off the hook until he perfected the kiss, but he had no idea how to do that. Kissing was just kissing. There wasn’t anything special about it, was there? Except for that mystical “chemistry” people talked about, but he and Joy would never have that, so what was she even looking for here?
Joy laughed at his expression and patted his cheek, so rough it was almost a slap. “You’re adorable, Becky, but you really need to become a better actor.”
Then why didn’t you get engaged to an actor, he didn’t say. Instead, just wanting to get this over with, he surged forward and kissed her as hard as he could.
It was a fumble from the start. He landed to the side of her lips and had to turn his head awkwardly; he felt his teeth scrape her skin. He didn’t know what to do with his mouth, so he just kind of started moving it and hoped it would work out. He felt disgusted—both at the act and at himself for making such an impulsive, shoddy effort at ending this. Joy would punish him for sure.
To his surprise, he felt her grin. She latched onto his lower lip with her teeth, sucking painfully hard. His heartbeat stuttered; he felt like the side character about to be massacred in a horror movie. Before he could escape, she grabbed the back of his head and laced her fingers through his hair, trapping him. She moved her lips against his, and without anywhere to run to, he resigned himself to mirroring her movements, revulsion churning his stomach.
After much longer than twelve seconds, she broke away, breathless and grinning. She shoved him back against the bed and pinned him by the shoulders, her eyes sparkling. He stared up at her with abject horror as she whispered, “Again.”
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