Tw: dubcon, brief mention of noncon, stepcest, possessive, manipulation, gaslighting, mention of murder, decryphilia, 3-4 years age gap but both are 18+ when anything sexual happened, Bonten!Ran
A/N:This was supposed to be a drabble for this thirst and I got carried away
@jozhenji — Stepbrother!Ran who intimidates and threatens anyone who comes to take you out cuz he loves the adorably angry little pout you give him when yet another boy doesn’t make it past the first date after meeting your big brother he’d prefer if you were whining and screaming his name for a different reason, but he’ll take what he can get for now
Requested by Anonymous. I hope this meets your expectations, it took me a bit to work out what you meant. Noncon / Dubcon and controlling themes apply, up to you for interpretation.
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said don’t move.”
“I said open your mouth, and if you bite me, I’ll punish you again.”
“Don’t cum yet.”
“If you didn’t keep squirming I wouldn’t have to tie you down.”
“Put your arms over your head, we’re using the shackles tonight.”
“I want you to ‘forget’ your underwear on our date.”
“You don’t cum until I say you can.”
“Don’t bother wearing clothes when you’re at home.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing, send a picture right now.”
“These toys are mine, not yours.”
“It’s so hot, knowing you have (that harness/those ropes/those lingerie) under your clothes.”
“Did you take your collar off?”
“Just for that, we’re using the numbing lube tonight.”
“Put this on.”
“No, no, we aren’t doing that yet.”
“I didn’t say stop.”
“Put your hands back where they belong.”
“Close your mouth, you’re making too much noise.”
“Assume the position and get comfortable, it’s going to be a long night.”
There were chains in the Facility. Gleaming silver things reserved for pets who needed more correction than a brief round of discipline. 651 has hazy memories, somewhere in the white light that swallows early training, of posture correction, a chain linking her hands to the floor, her collar to the wall.
The chains in the Facility were cold and hard and unforgiving, but they were always clean. Bethany imagines a handler scrubbing the shining links with the same meticulous thoroughness that they use to scrub the pets clean.
The chain round her ankle now is black with filth – gritty, sticky, clinging oil that has left stubborn smears all over her skin and her clothes despite her best efforts not to touch it. She hatesit, with a depth of loathing that she hasn’t felt for anything since they took the shock collar away and swapped it for the one that is meant to be safe.
The other end of the chain is locked around the pipe under the sink. Bethany can reach the toilet easily, but not the shower. She can reach the door, but she knows she isn’t allowed to open it. Mostly she sits on the floor, and lets the hours slip away from her.
The decision to keep her in the bathroom wasn’t unanimous. Miss Mosley wanted to keep her in the kitchen, so that she could do the washing up and Miss Mosley wouldn’t have to unlock the pet every time she wants to use the bathroom. Mr Stefan said that she couldn’t be trusted in the kitchen, because of the back door.
Sometimes Bethany cleans the floor or the sink or the pipes – although she only has her hands and the soap, like a naughty pet who has had the cleaning cloth taken away for misusing it – just to give her something to do that isn’t losing herself in memories of training.
Sometimes she peers at her reflection in the mirror.
Sometimes it makes her cry.
No one has given her makeup since she was bought. She didn’t need it to be Handler Smith, and she didn’t need it at Johann’s place either. His hungry gaze made her feel beautiful without it, just like the handlers told her she was gorgeouslong before they started having her paint her face.
Now, though, for the first time she can remember, she feels ugly, and she wishes she had makeup to try and hide the damage.
Her lip is split and swollen. Her cheeks are always blotchy from tears. Bruising has gathered in the hollows under her eyes and trickled down the side of her nose in hideous shades of blue and green and violet.
She cries when Kyle fucks her, rough and greedy, against the lino floor.
“For fuck’s sakes, Beth, stop snivelling,” he scolds her. “You could be in my bed right now if you hadn’t run off.”
She should be glad to be used. It’s what she’s for. But she’s not glad at all. She hates it. She wants her real owner back. She wants Liv, and Johann, and even Mr. Green. Mr. Green is cold and terrifying but he let her sleep in a real bed and shower with hot water every day and wear clean clothes and feed herself out of the fridge. Here she’s lucky if they remember to bring her a sandwich a day.
“For fuck’s sakes, Beth,” she whispers to the ugly, ungrateful, miserable pet in the mirror. “Stop snivelling.”
The first day that she thinks might be the fourteenth, she is hopeful. She fidgets and paces all day, even though good pets sit still when they’re not needed. Bethany, she is starting to think, might not be a good pet after all.
Liv said two weeks at most. Liv is coming back for her.
But the light outside the grimy frosted window dims and gives way to black, and Miss Mosley drags Bethany out so she can use the bathroom and then drags her back in and locks her ankle back to the filthy, hateful chain, and the house goes quiet, and no one has come for Bethany.
She’s not sure it’s been fourteen days. It might only have been twelve. It could have been fifteen already.
“Stupid pet,” she hisses at her reflection. “Can’t even count to fourteen. Empty-headed slut.”
She doesn’t feel like Bethany, saying those words. She feels like a handler. Angry. Aggressive.
It feels better than crying on the floor.
The second day that might be the fourteenth comes and goes.
So does the third.
Where is Liv? Did she forget about her pet? Did something happen to her? Does she not want Bethany?
Looking at the weepy, ugly, misbehaving pet in the mirror, she can’t see why anyone would want Bethany. Anyone but Kyle, who just wants a warm body to fuck and doesn’t care at all if she’s pretty or well behaved.
On the first day that definitely isn’t the fourteenth any more, the pet doesn’t cry. She washes her face and her tangled, greasy hair in the sink, and she looks herself dead in the eye.
“Stupid pet,” she says. “What are you crying about?” Her voice is cold and mocking. She watches her lip curl with contempt, and for a shocking second the woman in the mirror doesn’t look like a pet at all.
Warnings: Some dark subjects here. Suicide (minor character), self harm, blood, nudity, navigating some extremely fucked up power dynamics, implied noncon, severe panic attacks, BBU/BBU-adjacent
The shower in the staff locker room can’t get hot enough.
Sebastian stands there long after his skin is pink beneath the spray, lost in his own head. His skin may be scrubbed clean after the first few minutes, but he is confident his body will never forget the memory of this stain.
Okay, so I did end up splitting the chapter in half. Sometimes my little typing fingers go out of control and the word count spirals. Will try not to keep you waiting too long for the follow up :)
WARNINGS: Blood (lots of it), non-graphic noncon, very minor character death, thoughts of death in general, BBU/BBU-adjacent, medical setting, panic attack
Things at the clinic are going… Surprisingly okay? Sebastian is cautious with his optimism, and he’s hesitant to use any stronger descriptors than that for the time being. But on the better days, despite his better judgment, Sebastian almost wants to call this thing that they have going… good.
Something begins to happen, so naturally and so subtly that Sebastian doesn’t catch onto it until the feeling is settled: he’s getting used to Jaime’s presence. Both in the clinic and, because his job doesn’t allow for much personal time outside of it, his life. After only a week and a half of forbidden lunches and stolen smiles and fragile, private exchanges of honesty, this arrangement he was so scared of implementing in the beginning has become the best part of his day.
The day after Jaime agreed to eat the sandwiches he bought for them, Sebastian got a little more adventurous. He brought something different every day of the week: bagels from his favorite shop, coffee from a drive-thru instead of the break room, and on a particularly cold day in February, two thermoses of hot soup. It quickly became part of his routine the night before work to think about what Jaime might like to eat the next day. Different ways he could surprise him. Make him happy, if just for a moment.
One Tuesday night, Sebastian finds himself elbow-deep in a real life, grown-up, honest-to-god grocery haul for the first time in… well, a while. Fruits and vegetables and actual ingredients crowd his countertops instead of frozen foods and ready-made meals from the refrigerated section of the store. All because of a sudden impulse that struck earlier in the day to cook something for Jaime instead of picking it up.
Becausethat is apparently something he does now. He’s not sure what has happened to him. But as he turns to put the peppers away, he catches a flash of his reflection in the microwave door and finds a smile twisted along the bottom of his expression.
(Part of the “Shattered Diamonds”- (formerly: “happy”)AU with @ocean-blue-whump, where Dany and her trophy husband Lorenzo have been abducted together. This is written for @whumpawoman Angstpril, “Begging” and “Self-Sacrifice”)
CW: explicit noncon (oral), multiple whumpers, caretaker x whumpee, caretaker whump in a way?, humiliation, insults, referenced dissociation, forced to watch.
“I’m done,” Dany says, after what seems like hours, but according to the little digits in the corner of Ian’s computer it has been less than one. 51 minutes of frantically searching for matching boats, of writing messages that seem professional despite the panic clawing at her, of calling in favors she’s saved for something important. Nothing could ever be more important than this.
51 minutes of obsessive work.
51 minutes of not daring to look at her husband on the ground, trembling and whimpering.
She’s been so good. So efficient. Excellent work ethic, everyone had always said. She just hopes it’s enough.
“Done?”, Kauffmann says and idly steps in, looking at the screen over her shoulder. She can feel his breath against her neck, and all she wants to do is slam a fist into his face.
“Yes.” Her voice is surprisingly steady. “There’s others working now. They’ll do what they’re told, they’ll report in, and then I can go on. But I’m done for now.”
“Hm,” Kauffmann muses, and steps back with a grand gesture. “Well then.”
Dany is next to her husband within a heartbeat. She reaches out, but her hand freezes midair. She can’t. She can’t touch him. Not after what happened to him; what happened because of her. She’s trembling, has to close her eyes and inhale for a moment before she can speak. “Enzo,” she whispers. “Enzo, my love.“
Enzo doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just moans in pain, whimpers, cradling his dislocated arm. Dany blinks back tears. It’s on her. It’s all on her.
CW: pet whump, BBU, EXPLICIT NONCON, MINORS DNI, NSFWHUMP, derogatory language, dehumanisation, guns, Rhys is his own content warning, lady whump
***
Rhys is on her in a second, slamming her head against the headboard and wrapping his strong hands around her throat. “You fucking bitch,” he hisses. “You stupid fucking animal.”
A bruise is forming on his cheek, sharp and angry and swollen.
Star laughs. “That hurt, bitch?”
She hates his fucking accent, hates how rough it is in her ear as he growls, “Not as bad as you’re going to be hurting.”
“Isn’t the punishment supposed to fit the crime?”
He slams her into the headboard again. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Didn’t…fucking…do anything, you Irish bastard.”
Rhys starts putting pressure, cutting off her air. “Bitches don’t talk. Bitches get fucked, you cunt.”
Star has given up on surviving this, her bonded is safe and she wants this bastard far, far away from her. “Gonna kill you,” she chokes out.
“No. You’re going to take my cock like the fucked up Romantic you are. Understand?” His grip tightens.
She smirks up at him, her face turning red. “The fuck are you going to do if I don’t listen? Fuck me? Hurt me? You’re going to do that anyways.”
“I’ll take your bonded,” he hisses into her ear. “I’ll take him and I’ll ruin him and I’ll give him back once he’s a fucking shell of who he used to be. I’ll make sure when you look into his pretty eyes, there’s nothing there. He’ll just be a walking corpse.”
Star’s mouth goes dry. “Sir wouldn’t…”
“I wouldn’t test that theory. He gave me you for the night, didn’t he?” Rhys lets go of her throat, roughly grabbing her breast. “I think there’s a lot your Sir is willing to do to have my protection.”
“Your protection doesn’t mean shit, seeing how you got punched by a pet.” She makes a pouty face. “Can’t even protect yourself from a whore like me?”
“That’s right. You are a whore. At least you know that much, you stupid bitch.” Rhys takes his hands off her throat to tie her hands to the headboard and pull out a knife. “I’ll take your bonded. I’ll make him mine. Wipe any thought of you out of his head. Because you’re not actually in love. You’ve just got all those stupid programmed thoughts in your head. I’ll wipe them out. I’ll make him love me.”
“You can’t,” she hisses, fear overtaking her senses.
Rhys begins slicing apart her shirt, baring her skin to him. “Pretty tits.”
“Fuck off.”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll give you something good to do with it.” He pulls the shredded pieces of her shirt away and starts teasing her waistband with the knife. “Let’s see if you’re worth all the stress you cause Hunter, hmmm? If you’re a good Romantic slut. Because you’re sure not a worthy one.”
She spits in his face. “Your definition of worthy is fucked.”
Pure rage shoots through his eyes, and he reaches up to wipe the spit off his cheek. “Stick your fucking tongue out, cunt,” he growls. “Or I’ll fuck you with my knife and make your bonded watch.”
Star can barely comprehend the terror rushing through her, but shakily, she sticks her tongue out.
Rhys sets the knife down, pulling out a gun and turning the safety off. “Go ahead. Lick the gun.” He puts it out, rubbing it against Star’s tongue.
The bitter taste of the metal makes her gag, but she gives the gun kitten licks. Her gaze is angry and defiant, and she looks at Rhys, trying to let him see that she won’t break.
Rhys laughs. “Good cunt.” With no warning, he shoves the gun into her mouth. “Hold it. If you drop, your bonded is mine.”
Star gags at the intrusion, but closes her lips around the metal obediently. She doesn’t want to die, and even more, she doesn’t want Sunny to break.
Rhys roughly yanks her panties down, picking his knife back up to trace the crease of her thigh. “Now I see why you’re a Romantic.”
She glares at him. She can take this, it’s what she’s meant for.
Rhys undoes his pants, lining himself up with her entrance. “Don’t drop the gun. Or…”
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence.
Rhys thrusts in and Star bites down on the gun, metal scraping her teeth. Fulfilling her purpose for Sir. Like she’s meant for.
***
“Was she good?” Mr. Bianchi asks Rhys.
Rhys shrugs. “Tight. Defiant, but I fixed that.”
“What’d you do?”
“Put a gun in her mouth.”
“That’ll shut the whore up.” Mr. Bianchi finally looks over at the corner of the living room, where Rhys had discarded Star after using her. “Time to go home, puppy. Your bonded is in the car.”
Sunny. Star perks up at that, dragging herself to her feet, her inner thighs still sticky with Rhys’s spend.
Mr. Bianchi clips a leash to her collar. “Call me about our business deal tomorrow morning.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Mr. Bianchi nods and pulls Star out the door. “Finally, you didn’t get a bad report.”
“Because he’s fucking terrifying,” she whispers, voice hoarse from the gun.
He slaps her across the face. “Dumb bitch.”
Star is tossed backwards by the hit, and he takes the chance to throw her into the car and climb in after her. He taps on the slide to let the driver to start going.
Star grabs onto Sunny, holding him tightly. “Don’t ever leave me,” she whispers. He’s here. He’s okay. She was good enough to save him this time.
“I, I won’t,” he responds, gently rubbing her back.
She did it. She kept him safe, no matter how ruined it made her. Star tightens her grip, trying to ignore the watchful, lustful gaze of Mr. Bianchi.
They all know what’s going to happen when they get home.
CW: EXPLICIT NONCON, NSFWHUMP, MINORS DNI, lady whump, BBU, former pet whumpees, dehumanization, derogatory language, degradation, self-hatred, defiant whumpee, this is fairly intense so let me know if I missed anything!
***
“Excuse me.”
Star turns around, one hand on her hip, the other holding an empty glass. Tonight’s been slammed, she’s barely had a minute to breathe, let alone go pop an Advil for the pain creeping into her bones. “Give me one moment, I’m making a drink.”
The man across the bar, the one who interrupted her, sheepishly smiles. He’s not unattractive, in his late twenties. His friends have been by the pool tables for the last thirty minutes, all playing horribly. “I’m afraid it can’t exactly wait. Someone’s in the bathroom, he seems really sick and I don’t know what to do.”
“Fine.” She sets the glass down and wipes her hands off. She looks around for her knife, better safe than sorry, but swears internally when she remembers that Cas took it because he thought she was in a bad mood this morning.
Damn you, Cassiel. She glares over at the kitchen, but all he does is wave eagerly at her.
Star steps out from around the counter. “Alright. Let’s go. The sick dude, he one of your friends?”
There’s a slight pause before the man answers, something off about his voice. “No. I just went in to…you know.” His laughter sounds forced, and Star doesn’t like how close he’s standing. Her fingers twitch, wishing she had her knife.
“Actually, you know what?” She says, stopping in her tracks. “Let me go grab the bouncer, if this guy’s really that drunk, I could use the help.”
The man puts his hand on her upper back. “I’m sure he’s busy. I’ll help you out if he gets too rowdy.”
Star looks over her shoulder, but she can see Andy busy checking people in at the door and watching over the crowd. “Yeah. Okay.”
They make it to the bathroom, and the man opens the door. “After you.”
She nods at him and steps in. The lights are off, and she fumbles for the light switch, but not before she hears the door lock behind her.
Starr finds the light switch, and her heart sinks at what she sees. There’s no sick man in sight. Instead, there are three other men standing there, one holding a switchblade.
“What the fuck!” Star yells, turning around to escape, but the man from before blocks her.
“Not so fast.” He steps forward, crowding her into the center of the room. “Don’t make a sound, little boxie, or Owen will slit your throat.”
They want her to fight. They want to take her back to WRU and make her into a good Guard Dog. They want to get the pretty finder’s fee on runaway pets.
Star stares defiantly at the man, a growl escaping her throat. “Let me out and I won’t shatter your skull.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Star whips around, seeing that each man has stepped even farther forward, boxing her in. Her heart pounds into her chest. Think. Be reasonable. If they want to take her to WRU, they probably have some drugs or something to knock her out. She just has to fight her way out of here.
She was always one hell of a fighting mutt.
Star shakes her head and takes up a defensive stance, slowly stepping around to make eye contact with each of the men. “I’ll kill you before I go back.”
“Go back where?” One of the men asks, a sadistic grin on his face.
Star stares at him. “You know where.” There’s a single beat, one half moment of silence before she lunges forward, aiming a kick at the man’s chest. It lands, and he goes stumbling backwards, but someone is grabbing Star from behind, pinning her arms behind her back.
She snarls, thrashing in the grip and shooting her leg out behind her.
Greco taught her well, she’s lucky for that, lucky she caught onto the training so quickly. She catches her attacker in the sensitive spot just above the knee and wrenches herself from his grasp. She doesn’t wait a moment before she attacks the next person, trying to land a flurry of punches and drive the man away so she can get to the door.
Get to the door. She knows this drill, she’s done it before. Get to the door and protect your owner. She always was such a good fighter, but these days, her body is breaking down.
Pain shoots through her back, and Star winces, her rhythm thrown off by the sudden flash of agony. She stumbles backwards, hitting the far wall, and one of the men takes the chance to jump on her and start punching.
Star’s vision blurs, her ears ring as the blows rain down on her face, blood dripping from her nose and mouth and cheek. She puts her hands up to protect her head, knowing her only option is to try to protect herself
The first man walks up to her, grabbing her by the hair and twisting her head back to look at him. “You fucking bitch.”
One of the other men slams his fist into her stomach, and Star doubles over, gasping for breath. “Who’s she going with first?”
So they’re going to take turns carting her back to WRU, back to the white walls. Star whimpers. She has to get out of here, she can’t go back but her body is being torn apart by pain.
“You take her first,” the man with the switchblade says, gesturing at the first man. “You were the one who got the dumb bitch in here.”
He smirks. “With pleasure.” He twists his hand further into Star’s hair and pushes her forwards.
She kicks and screams and scratches at his arms, but she knows no one can hear her. No one can save her. It’s just her with no chance to say goodbye.
The man bends her over the sink and lets go of her hair, only to grab her hands and roughly zip tie them behind her back. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he hisses into her ear.
What’s that supposed to mean? Star stares down at the sink, still trying to kick her legs to get the man off of her.
“Stop fucking moving,” the man with the switchblade says, grabbing a fistful of Star’s hair and yanking her head back, forcing her to look at herself in the mirror.
Star sees her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, she sees her green eyes full of pain and fear, she sees her pale skin underneath the bathroom lighting with her hands tied behind her back and she sees her face bloody and bruised and broken. She sees the man behind her run his hands down her back because she doesn’t want to feelit.
Star goes still. “How are you going to take me back without people seeing?” she asks.
“Take you back?” The man with the switchblade laughs and presses the knife to her neck. “Oh, you dumb bitch. You’re not going anywhere.”
“What do you–”
Star is cut off when the first man hooks his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and slowly starts pulling them down.
Aren’t you lucky to be here, 501? Not down the hall with the Romantics?
The pieces click together as soon as the man has pulled Star’s jeans and underwear all the way down. “I’m not a–” She can’t think, she can’t process what’s happening. “I’m not trained for this, Sir.”
“You don’t need to be trained,” the man hisses. “You just need to stay right there and don’t fucking scream.”
Star’s eyes dart to the side, panic clouding her brain, her breath coming in quick pants. This can’t be real, this can’t be happening, she doesn’t know what to do, how to react.
The man with the switchblade digs the knife into her throat, drawing a bead of blood and sharp pain with it. “Look at yourself. Go on. Watch yourself.”
Star looks at the mirror, her heart shattering as she sees her eyes. No longer human and brave and defiant and everything she liked about herself, everything she had gotten back from WRU. Just afraid.
The man runs a finger across her slit, and Star whimpers, sick to her stomach and disgusted with herself. “I’ll go back,” she whispers. “I don’t want this.”
The man hushes her. “You don’t need to talk. Just take it, bitch.”
The other two men walk to stand by the door, both staring at Star, staring between her legs at what’s now bared to them.
Star can’t close her eyes, can’t look away. She can’t do this. Greco might have drugged her and beat her and broke her down but he never did this to her. She’s never had sex before, not even in her false memories. She doesn’t even want to have sex. “Please,” she whispers at her reflection.
Her reflection doesn’t answer.
“Going to prep her?” one of the men asks.
“Nope.”
Star feels something press against her entrance. She’s dry and scared and she doesn’t want this, please, she doesn’t want this. She twists around, trying to free herself.
The man with the switchblade tightens his grip on her hair and presses the knife further into Star’s throat. “Keep moving and you’ll bleed out.”
She doesn’t want to have sex with this man. She doesn’t want to die like this, she wants to die in the hospital like she’s supposed to in a few years.
She stays still and hates herself for it.
“She’s nervous,” the man with the switchblade says, smirking. “I don’t think she’s done this before.”
“Good. She’ll be tight.”
Tight? What does that mean…oh. Oh. No, absolutely not, she can’t, she doesn’t want this, she can’t even think about it.
There’s no fighting this, no way out.
So Star screams, hoping someone, anyone will hear her and come in and save her from this…this thing that Star can’t name, even if it’s just having sex.
Greco had protected her from this for so long.
Maybe it’s not a good thing that she left him, because now…this can happen. Without Greco, she has to have sex.
Her scream is short-lived by the man with the switchblade putting his hand over her mouth and snapping, “Hand me her panties.”
There’s a brief rustle of movement before she sees her gray underwear being passed to the man with the switchblade. He pries her mouth open and shoves the fabric in there. “Finally. Now you can fuck her.”
Star chokes on her underwear, her eyes filling with tears. No. She can’t cry, it has to be fine, it’s just sex, right?
“Hold her head up,” the man behind her says. “I want her to watch herself get used.”
Get used? Maybe that’s what this is. She’s getting used. There’s not a difference between that and sex.
The man with the switchblade yanks Star’s head back up, and she’s forced to confront her dead green eyes again, the underwear distorting her face and making her look disgusting. Worthless. Like a piece of shit, useless bitch who deserves to die.
Maybe it’s a good thing she’s gagged so Cas doesn’t have to see the worthless mutt he rescued being…used like this.
She holds her gaze at her reflection and her reflection stares back as she hears a bottle cap opening and a clumsy hand spreading something gelatinous and cold across her vagina. “Don’t want her to tear, knowing the three of you are going after me?”
There’s *more?*
The man with the switchblade grabs at Star’s thin black t-shirt, and with one strong pull, he rips it off of her and slices her bra off with his knife.
She’s naked and she hates this so much and Handler Greco was supposed to keep her safe from this.
It’s what she gets for leaving him behind.
“Perfect tits.” The man behind her runs the back of his hand down her back, stopping at her bound wrists. “Let me show you how a real man fucks a whore, gentlemen.”
A whore. That’s the word she was looking for, the word to describe what she really is. She’s a whore.
“Gonna fill this useless bitch up with my cock.” The man thrusts in.
More of Star’s hope vanishes.
He pulls out. Thrusts in again.
Any light left in Star’s eyes is gone.
He pulls out again. Thrusts in again.
Star, the whore mutt, doesn’t want to be here anymore.
Pulls out, thrusts in, over and over and over.
All Star can do is look at her bruised, bloody, pathetic face in the mirror and hold back her tears and watch herself shatter. She should have stayed with Handler Greco. She should have done something different.
But instead she takes a stranger’s cock like a good whore with her underwear in her mouth and she’s breaking. The reflection in the mirror moans around the gag. The reflection’s cheeks are streaked with tears, the reflection’s body rocks with each thrust. The reflection reacts, moves like a good pet.
Caution for: BBU, pet whump, conditioning and associated tropes, “romantic” pet, noncon
Just Acting - Reflection [First | Prev| All | tbc]
There were chains in the Facility. Gleaming silver things reserved for pets who needed more correction than a brief round of discipline. 651 has hazy memories, somewhere in the white light that swallows early training, of posture correction, a chain linking her hands to the floor, her collar to the wall.
The chains in the Facility were cold and hard and unforgiving, but they were always clean. Bethany imagines a handler scrubbing the shining links with the same meticulous thoroughness that they use to scrub the pets clean.
The chain round her ankle now is black with filth – gritty, sticky, clinging oil that has left stubborn smears all over her skin and her clothes despite her best efforts not to touch it. She hatesit, with a depth of loathing that she hasn’t felt for anything since they took the shock collar away and swapped it for the one that is meant to be safe.
Content - lady whump, intimate whumper, dubcon kiss, noncon touch, murder mention (of a loved one), referenced noncon, derogatory language, implied noncon (fade to black).
Ridley came home from work early today, and he’s in a weird mood. From the living room, I can see him in the kitchen, see and hear him. He has turned on the radio and is singing along, like he does in the shower. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him this cheerful. He’s dancing with himself, as he takes a bottle of champagne from the fridge and nudges the door close with a sway of his hip. He’s not a bad dancer, his movements are easy and confident, with little accents on just the right beats.
His hands are fumbling with the tinfoil around the cork, when he notices me staring, and his smile seems to grow even wider.
A journalist is captured by the mafia after she learns too much about their leader. This takes place on the second night of her captivity
-
Sam tiptoed through the darkness of the mansion, daring not to breathe in case it woke her captor.
Her clothes were miserably torn off her, fabric hanging in useless strips. She had no time to worry about that, she could deal with that later. She needed to get out of here.
But where was ‘out’?
It didn’t matter, she would find a back door. She could figure this out. She set her teeth together, bunching her fists to stop them trembling as she moved through the house.
She eyed a coat draped over a door and hastily snatched it up. It was too big for her, but it would keep out the biting cold on her bare skin. She winced as the ache between her legs throbbed.
She refused to think about it. Couldn’t think about it without feeling sick. Her feet touch smooth cold marble and she sees countertops, a stove and an oven loom out of the darkness. Modern and sleek, only the best for these mafia bastards.
She spied a knife block on the bench.
She pressed her teeth even tighter together, an inferno raging inside her as she ran over to it and yanked on the handle of one. A serrated bread knife.
She grimaced. She’d never stabbed anyone before. But after tonight, something had changed in her. Something feral that made her grip the handle tighter and imagine the blade ripping through flesh. Hot blood gushing from a gaping wound-
CW: Whumper POV. Explicit noncon. Broken bones. Restraints. Sexism. Slut shaming. Hate sex. Drowning. Strangulation
_____________
The bitch had gone quiet. Those shrill whimpers had finally died down, and now she was panting silently on the bed, staring at the ceiling in a daze. Maybe he’d really fucked the life out of her. Maybe she’d finally realized that no one was coming to save her. That he owned her now. That whining wasn’t garnering a lick of sympathy.
CW: References to violent noncon, internal injuries, dehumanization, pet whump, abduction and hostage-taking, Nanda is a possessive creep, guns, intimate whumpers, sadistic whumpers
It also has the distinction of being the only place the pet can remember ever sleeping that is evenlesscomfortable than the WRU facility room floors.
Still blindfolded, all he has is smell, taste, sound, and touch. The lumpy mattress is scratchy, stiff with stains he can’t see and refuses to think too much about, some of which must be his own dried blood. His heels hang off the edge, where the concrete floor is, his fingers tingle with near-numbness.
All he can smell is concrete, blood, some faint sick-sweet smell of old decay, and the remnants of cigarette smoke and french fries. The taste of the cheap cheeseburger they fed him lingers on his tongue, as does the bitter and salt of what they fed him after that, laughing and gripping him by his newly-cleaned damp hair until his scalp ached and his jaw burned from how they forced it open.
He shifts, slowly sliding himself up on the mattress until his feet are on it again and off the floor. The motion flares sharp pain deep inside of him, and he whimpers, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep the sound to a whisper.
It has never hurt this badly, afterward. Not even when there were multiple handlers.No, they took their time and took care, knowing he was going to a buyer who wouldn’t stand for pre-existing damage. These men… They’ve torn something, reallytorn it. This is all he’s even good for, and if he’s too broken for it…
The pet tries to push down the panic, to ignore what the pain is trying to tell him.
Even if he comes for you, you won’t live long if he can’t have you. If you can’t do what he wants. After that, it’s back to WRU, you’ll be refurbished. No one will want you, they’ll wipe you and start clean with someone new, with-
He has to stop thinking like this. The panic is cycling, and his chest has gone tight and sharp with every gasping, shallow breath. He can’t be afraid of that, not yet. He has to deal with the rest of the things he’s afraid of first.
CW: EXPLICIT sexual dubcon, pet whump, bbu universe, explicit noncon elements, toys, double penetration, overstimulation, begging to stop (the overstimulation, not the sex) spitting in mouth, alcohol, three on one, everyone has a turn holding Zee’s head
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Zee didn’t know what to expect, and that had left him nervous all day. He was scrubbed clean, shaved to softness in places— and nervously clacking a fireball around his teeth. It mixed strangely with the toothpaste aftertaste in his mouth.
Cam was being nice. He kept saying mean things to Alex, giving Alex a hard time, but he wasn’t taking it out on him, and that’s all Zee cared about.
When Ben came by they acted painfully casual for a while, as if they had really gotten together just to drink Corona and watch a football game on TV.
on a less eloquent note: it really does suck ass that we victims of violent sex crimes are then forced to carry the burden of healing, dealing, and “being the bigger person” in learning to live with life-long trauma in a society that actively looks down on us for showing any sign / symptom of our trauma when all i actually want to do is hit my assaulters / rapists with an 18-wheeler at 75 mph
for those who might not know, april here is sexual assault awareness month. as a survivor of repeated counts of it, i wanted to pass that along to everyone else who’s been traumatized by people who just didn’t want to hear the word “no”. you’re not broken. you’re not dirty. you’re not at fault for anything that happened to you. anyone who says you are deserves a swift kick to the shins and a drop off a pier. i’m sorry for what happened to you. i hope you’re given the space and time you need to heal. i hope those that did it to you face justice, or at least, some serious karmic retribution. you’re brilliant. you’re gorgeous. you’re deserving of so much love. i’m proud of you for coming this far, for fighting through the aftermath.
in my own journey, i’ve finally opened up to people about what happened to me. i’ve shared the most basic details with my therapist, my husband…. and with my mom, as she knows one of the people who hurt me. this is something i couldn’t have done a year, even 6 months, ago. but, i’ve done it, now. healing takes time. working up the courage to talk about it takes time. don’t be hard on yourself if you aren’t at that point, yet. i’m truly wishing the best for you. i’m sending you all the love and hugs ( provided consent is given ), and showering you in all the best vibes i can that you’re able to find people who’ll listen, someone you can rely on when the trauma hits hard, and that you’ll be able to talk to someone and work through this.
“What is this?” Leo holds the object as a sort of eerie calm settles over him. He isn’t sure what he expected when Parker handed him the box, wrapped in fancy green paper with a black bow. “Parker, what isthis?”
Parker moves to sit next to him on the floor, taking it from him. His excitement rolls off of him in waves, his smile is easy and he wraps his hand around Leo’s. Leo can’t help but think about how picturesque this moment would look from the outside. They sit in front of a pristinely decorated tree, sipping expensive champagne in their perfectly coordinated Christmas attire. Parker’s sweater is patterned, and paired with his slacks, probably costs the equivalent of an average person’s paycheck. Leo’s sweater is black, hugging his frame in the way Parker likes, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His legs are crossed under him, and his focus is wholly on keeping the anxiety off of his face.
