#zipwrites

Based on @victimeyez 's pet whump prompts

Content warnings: BBU adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized whump, electrocution, biting, finger whump, blood

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—”

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?”

Febuwhump Day 16 | The New Roux masterpost

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.”

-

The New Roux masterpost

Content warnings: intimate whumper, blatantly ignored boundaries, conditioning

Day 5

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.

The Ol' Ball and Chain masterpost

Content warnings: domestic abuse (implied), gender roles

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.

The New Roux masterpost

“Come here, pet.”

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.”

-

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.

Febuwhump Day 13 | The Ol’ Ball and Chain masterpost

Content warnings: noncon kissing, female whumper, domestic abuse

“Again.”

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.”