Carlisle

CW/TW: pet whump, BbU/WRU, dubcon, conditioned responses, sickness and death mentions.

“Being a Domestic isn’t a ‘pre-existing condition’”, Carlisle says, after ending the call with the insurance representative. “Dammit.”

He slumps down into a comfortable chair, closing his eyes. At least his parents had pet insurance for the household. It just didn’t go far enough. It would not cover what his sick people need now.

It would cover quick and merciful euthanasia.

He understands, now, why the faces in the household changed so often. Easier to just burn through lives and replace them.

He doesn’t want to do that. He wants to save them. If he can.

Someone brushes the back of his hand, before putting a hot cup in it. He smells the fresh coffee, and opens his eyes so he can guide it to his mouth and inhale a mouthful.

Diamanté smiles at him, and kneels gracefully at his feet. Blond haired, blue eyed Diamanté. Beautiful even in severely cut mourning black. His parents’ Romantic.

“You’re tense,” he says, almost purrs. “Let me make you feel better.”

He nearly chokes on his coffee when Dia undoes his pants and takes his cock into his mouth. Christ, it feels good for a minute. Then he recoils, this is his parents’ Romantic, this is wrong on so many levels.

“Dia, no. Stop.”

The Romantic draws back. “Am I doing something wrong? I can do better, I promise, yo-Master.”

Carlisle takes a moment to put his cock away. “You’re perfect, Dia. But I don’t want that from you. I will never want that from you. You don’t need to do that for me.”

Tears fill up the crystal blue eyes, spilling artfully down sculpted cheekbones. Pain just cracks the pure tenor voice. “You don’t want me? Then you’re going to return me for-for refurbishment?”

“No, no. You’re staying here. I’m trying not to break up the household, Dia, and that includes you. Just-not as my lover, my Romantic.”

He watches Diamanté work through this. The Romantic has lasted several years, he’s not stupid. This is just a new idea to process.

“Then-what do I do?”

Carlisle sips at the coffee, feeling it revive him, taking the edge off his nerves. “What do you want to do, Dia?’

“I want whatever my owner wants.”

“As your owner, I want you to have your own wants and desires outside of mine.” It’s a good counter to the conditioned response, he hopes. “Is there something you’ve always wanted to do?”

“Can I-could I learn to read?”

“Yes. I’ll ask Ellis to help you.”

“And may I massage your shoulders? Master, I need to touch someone. It’s been days.”

“All right.”

It’s a good first step, he thinks. For both of them.

"Whumpee, why don't you go change and we can go to dinner? Hmm?" Caretaker have Whumpee an encouraging smile.

"Y... yes, Master." Whumpee have a quick bow and ducked out of the room.

Caretaker's smile dissapeared as Whumpee left the room. "I wish you wouldn't call me that..."

Whumpee slipped out of their shirt and pulled on a white tee, buttoning an overshirt on top. They went to take off their belt, but it was stuck. Whumpee took a shaky breath and tried again. Still stuck.

Caretaker heard a whimper from Whumpee’s room. Were they hurt? Caretaker went to investigate.

"Whumpee??"

Whumpee was sitting on the floor, hyperventilating and crying as they struggled with their belt. They flinched as Caretaker sat next to them and pulled them closer. They pushed back, trying to get away. Caretaker caught their hands.

"Please—" Whumpee gasped, still struggling. "Please— want it off!"

"Hey, hey, calm down. I'll get it off you, okay?"

Reluctantly, Whumpee stopped trying to get away. Caretaker had the belt undone in a moment.

Whumpee quickly pulled it off, slowly starting to calm down. They relaxed as Caretaker pulled them close again.

"There we go... you're alright. Can you tell me what happened? What made you panic like that?" Caretaker brushed their fingers through Whumpee’s hair— that always seemed to calm them.

"St‐stuck... I was s-stuck... Scared... D-don't like it..." Whumpee subconsciously leaned into Caretaker’s touch.

"You got scared because the belt got stuck?"

Whumpee nodded. "Trapped, trapped trapped, tra—"

"Shhh..."

"S-sorry, Master."

"No..." Caretaker’s voice was gentle— so gentle. "No, you did nothing wrong. Please don't call me that..."

Whumpee looked up at Caretaker, who was crying. "Not... not master..? Your tears..." Whumpee brushed a thumb across Caretaker’s cheek. "I u-upset you..?" But Caretaker didn't sound upset.

"No... I'm not upset..." Caretaker sniffled. "Just... Please call me Caretaker— like you used to."

"C... Caretaker..?"

"Yes! Yes— please. Don't call me master anymore."

"Okay..." Whumpee brushed a strand of hair or of Caretaker's face. "Why are you sad..? D-did I..?"

"No, Love— it's not your fault..." Caretaker pointlessly dried their tears— more flooded their eyes in a moment. "I just miss the way things used to be."

"A-are we going to dinner..?" Whumpee wasn't hungry, but they didn't know how to stop Caretaker's crying.

"Ah... no... no, I'll cook something here. I don't think you're ready to go out. I just wanted things to be normal..." Caretaker stood, letting Whumpee go. "I'll start it now."

"Wait—" Whumpee grabbed Caretaker's sleeve as they turned to go, then immediately pulled back, shocked at their audacity.

"What is it?" Caretaker didn't seem angry.

"C-can... will you h-help me unbutton my shirt..?"

Ink mars the paper in a scattering of dots and minuscule streaks where the pen taps out an agitated rhythm. The dim circle of lamplight subtly yellowing the pages of a notebook lying open on Ian’s desk. His elbow rests atop it, partially obscuring the untidy breakdown of a budget three times rewritten.

It’s too thin, even with his own contribution bolstering it, and not for the first time does he suspect Olivia of withholding funds meant for the rescues. If he could see for himself the bank statements and not the cash she presses into his hands each month…

A patch of floor squeaks its protest as wandering feet tread the hall, and with no other rooms on the west side of the second floor the sound is a herald of an interruption. It’ll be the third that night. Ian sighs as he drops his head into the support of his hand, eyes flicking to the morose glow of the digital clock. 1:13am. Proper sleep always evades him on the nights he spends at the safehouse.

The lower hinge of the study door gives a plaintive creak under the tentative touch that swings it inward. The noise spikes his ire—nothing in this house is capable of being used in silence. But he forces his expression smooth and his back straight as he turns eyes on the rescue who pokes his head into the room.

A little of the frustration melts from him as he looks over August. The easy one. The pretty one. With short waves of auburn hair and eyes the color of polished emeralds.

“Yes?”

“Ian?” August eases a step inside, shoulders tense and hands twisting in that habitual way of his that betrays fraying nerves. “C-can I… I can’t sleep, can I sit with you?”

Ian dips his gaze to the pen in his hand as the request sets to fluttering something eager beneath his breastbone. He runs his thumb over the ballpoint, and watches the ink that marks his skin to give himself a thing to look at that isn't the allure of the rescue. Averting his eyes does nothing to diminish the temptation that comes alive in him when the rescues - particularly this rescue - come to him, with their hearts in their eyes and begging for praise.

In his peripheral, August takes a tentative step. “Sir?”

Ian tries to stifle the gratification that rushes through him each time a rescue projects that title onto him. In the beginning he dissuaded it, now though- “Yeah. Yeah, you can.” The words taste of impropriety. But there August stands unmoored, with unfilled hours between them and the dawn that will bring the safehouse out of slumber. If nothing else Ian can play the anchor… and garner his own pleasure from its role.

Tossing the pen atop the notebook he rises, the muscles along his spine aching their displeasure after too long spent in the chair. With a hand he beckons August to him, and the rescue steps into his arms like a moth to the flame. Smaller body tucking neatly against his and shivering beneath the soft touch of fingers that Ian trails down his back.

When the tips of them come up against August’s waistband he hesitates to retrace the path they’ve taken. Lingering there in a conflict of morals that kicks up the pace of his heart. That washes through him a warm wave that carries away the traces of his tiredness. All at once he’s wide awake and hyper aware of their proximity. He considers withdrawing. The thought is fleeting.

“Were you dreaming again?” Ian pitches his voice low, sweeping a hand between August’s shoulder blades to try to soothe the tension there.

“Yes.” August curls a hand to clutch at Ian’s shirt. “I was-“ A hitch of breath cuts him off as Ian slides under fabric. Fingers questing over a hip and tracing contours shaped just for them.

August stiffens in his embrace and Ian touches lips to his hair, thumb rubbing circles over a soft spot on his upper pelvis. A whine, beautiful and small, slips from August as instinctively he tips his head up to brush his face against Ian’s neck. The contact births a burst of tingles that swoop and sail through Ian’s abdomen, and it’s all he can do to keep from pressing himself more suggestively to the rescue. If this is wrong, then why does it have to feel so right?

“What were you dreaming?” It’s more husky than he means it to be, and August loops arms around his waist in response. Does what Ian is reluctant to and presses their bodies flush together.

“I was dreaming of you,” August says, and it’s a lie. A string of empty words meant to play for his appeasement. A conditioned response that Ian recognizes but does not wholly dislike.

“Was I good to you in it?” He whispers it to try and temper the desire so plain in his voice.

“You’re always good to me, Sir.”

Again, that pleasure, the one that comes with these broken people so desperately searching for authority in a world now alien to them. And Ian can give them that much, can’t he? Can soothe their worries with murmured words of want, of praise, can help them find their footing by keeping them in his grip.

August shifts, and later Ian will tell himself it was belatedly that he recognized the reasoning. But in the moment he knows immediately that August is going to kiss him, and he does nothing to stymie the warm press of lips to his.

-

@ashintheairlikesnow

Warnings: whump recovery, conditioned responses, traumatized whumpee, vague references to past noncon, brief thoughts of noncon happening again, isolation, fears of rejection, food mention, dehydration

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

There was a room put aside as a bedroom for him and Zach paced the floor of it until he knew the layout well enough that he could do it with his eyes closed. Not that he would—he might as well save that for if, or when, he was left blindfolded and had to fend for himself without his senses.

It was nothing special. It should have been a small office, but it now contained a bed, a set of shelves, one upright chair, and thick paper over the window in the door to give him privacy. Privacy from people he remembered with crystal clarity but who felt like strangers to him now.

Archer less so, but the others were like dream-blurry visions, waving mirages looking at him with hope like he was someone they used to know. He was almost relieved to see a handful of unfamiliar faces amongst the old, new hires who wouldn’t know him as he wouldn’t know them, and others like Tom who he knew less well and might keep out of his way, and Sasha who seemed to be avoiding him and wasn’t that a surprise she was, she was supposed to be--

He cut off the thought with the texture of the paint on the wall, running his fingers over the uneven cover of grey-ish mauve. His booted feet shuffled over the carpet tiles again and he noticed, not for the first time, that it was scratchy, and he knew it would itch and rub cruelly on his knees if he had to kneel on it.

Very fleeting and vague mention of @ashintheairlikesnow’s gross politician Oliver Branch. Right there, at the top, that’s it. Sorry for the tag, Ash.

-

A news show spools out across the flatscreen. A background murmur of voices discussing the circumstances of some politician found drowned in a river states away. It stands as the sole source of light, and with each shift of perspective the shadows crowding the living room jump and dance.

The Stray follows them with his eyes, tries to trace their dark contours before they leap into a new position. But the pressure of a palm skating up his bare thigh recaptures his attention, and he blinks at the unpleasant reality of his situation. The hand stops just short of his boxers and gives a squeeze, and sitting across from him his host chuckles.

“Don’t look so unhappy.” Jeremy leans in, presses a kiss to Stray’s neck that has him tipping his head away on instinct. On a command gone unspoken. “You said you wanted to.” Another kiss. “I think you missed me.”

“I missed your couch.” Arousal robs Stray’s voice of the disinterest he aims for, turns it low, husky. Betraying the way his body craves the touch of flesh to his while his soul screams for distance. “And I never said I wanted to, I just said I’d do it.”

Jeremy laughs. “My couch can’t pleasure you like I can.” With a splayed hand he pushes Stray back against the armrest, and holds him there as he drops his eyes. With a smirk they flick back up. “It looks to me like you want it.”

Fingers glide over his waistband and Stray looks to the side. Stares at the clothes scattered across the floor as lips brush his ear, and he wonders why he ever agreed to take his off. A park bench would have suited him just fine, and he wouldn’t have had to fuck for it.

But he knows why.

A fresh heat flushes through him as the boxers are slid from his hips. An abhorrent wildfire that burns down his reservations and stokes him to an unwilling readiness.

When Jeremy whispers, make some noise for me baby, Stray does. Gives him whimpers and whines in all the right places as hands and lips roam his skin. A flawless moan pulls from him as something else pushes in, filling his body with a pleasure that poisons his heart.

When they finish they’re sweat slick and panting. Jeremy withdraws, crawling off to sit opposite him with a lazy smile just shy of patronizing. Stray doesn’t return it. Half expecting a protest he stands, but all that pursues him is a sense of self-loathing as he makes for the bathroom.

Closing the door, he leans against it. Shutting himself in to be alone with that familiar sting, the one that comes in the aftermath of having wrecked himself for someone else.

The park was an option, but he belongs here. On a bed, a couch, a floor, with the weight of a man buried in him to give him a purpose. It’s what he was trained for. What he signed up for.

A prickle starts behind his eyes, and he presses fingers to them to stop it from turning to something else. A fist squeezes his chest, and he measures his breath to keep it from hitching.

(Reminder, and for those who missed it, I changed Eli’s name to Zach from here on out and retroactively by editing the other pieces. Same character, same backstory, new name ^.^)

Warnings: brief derogatory language, victim blaming, guilt, feelings of betrayal, hurt by someone that should be trustworthy, abusive tactics, blackmail set up, slapping, conditioned behaviour/trauma response, brief allusions to past NSFW/noncon acts

[Previous] [Other parts] [Backstory]

Zach was shattered. There were always more questions to answer and more they wanted to debrief him about and he’d also been assigned to have a session with a counsellor three mornings a week. It was hours at a time of dredging up just enough to let them know he was serious about his recovery, while keeping enough of his shame hidden where no-one would ever have to see it.

He spent every other moment that he wasn’t being interrogated one way or another either hiding in the bedroom he’d been provided or sitting in the break room hoping to go unnoticed. More often than not if one of the team saw him they would ask if he wanted something to do. He nearly always said yes, wanting to be helpful and polite. They asked him to describe locations or remember the names of people or had him look through dossiers to see if anything dredged up memories of things that he’d overheard and could give them information on.

It didn’t matter that he told them he wasn’t allowed to be privy to anything important, or that he was always in some back room and often blindfolded—they wanted him to feel useful. He was good at being useful, just not in the way they remembered.

There were other jobs on the books that he wasn’t part of and wasn’t allowed to know anything about. People bustled back and forth, computer screens were on all the time, voices talked continuously in low undertones. The fridge in the break room hummed loudly and the water cooler bubbled annoyingly often and all of it was too much stimulation.

He found, one afternoon, that the interrogation room was blissfully quiet. With it’s dark grey soundproof walls and uncomfortable seating, it wasn’t somewhere anyone else chose to spend time. It was a haven of quiet and he laid on the hard floor hoping that no-one would find him there.

He was wrong.