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ashintheairlikesnow · 6 months

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All We Have Is Each Other

CW: Intimate whumper, captivity, defiant whumpee, biting, creepy whumper, obsessive whumper, noncon kiss, vague noncon references, drugging. For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 1: Duel

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

Takes place during Jax’s second captivity. As always, Jax is used with oversight and permission from @comfy-whumpee)

Savvie rolls dice every time she uses the mortar and pestle in the kitchen to grind up one of her collections of pills and mix it into Jax’s drink.

She’s always gambling with the drugs. The first part of the game is seeing whether he’ll drink it before he realizes there’s something in it. If she doesn’t mix it well enough, he’ll see the cloudy bits floating around in the glass and look at her with terrible sad eyes. Sometimes she can’t take it. She just takes the drink right back out of his hand and pours it out, makes him a new one.

Other the other hand, sometimes his sad voice and sad eyes piss her off worse than anything else could, and she just tips it up until he chokes and makes him finish it anyway. Or shocks him, pressing the button to the remote and watching his muscles lock up, knowing he’ll look sweeter once he’s fighting the way his muscles jerk afterward, the unconscious twitches he can’t quite get rid of as the aftermath works its way through him.

Sometimes he even looks scared. Those nights are some of her favorites. Savvie never loves Jax as much as she does when he is scared of her.

But... she can’t keep him scared all the time. What kind of marriage would they have if she did that? No, the drinks aren’t to scare him, they’re just to make… to make things easier. And she doesn’t always do it! She doesn’t always drug him, but it’s enough that he never trusts her. She knows that. He doesn’t… trust easily.

That’s okay.

Their relationship got off to a rough start, that’s all, what with Jax starting off as one of the staff, bought and paid for. Plus, Jax’s dad convinced him Savvie was evil, once upon a time when he ran away from her. Taught him to hate her. She had to have her uncle fly all the way to England to bring Jax back, and it’s taking years to undo all the damage that stupid old man did.

That’s okay. He’s getting better, he’s definitely getting better. He is. He has to be getting better.

Still… he’s not an easy man to be married to. Not with having to keep an eye on the remote to his shock collar so he can’t take it off and try to run away again, not with the way he watches her sometimes like he wants to dunk her head into the toilet and hold it there until she drowns. Putting stuff in his drink just lets Savvie be able to relax.

She doesn’t have to worry about what he might do when he’s so high he can’t do much of anything. Besides, it’s only like one out of every ten nights, sometimes twenty, sometimes she even goes for a month or two without doing it.

She really doesn’t even want to. If he would just learn to be happy without it, she wouldn’t have to keep drugging him, would she? If he’d just stop being so difficult about being her husband… but that isn’t fair. He can’t be any better than he is, not really. Jax just… isn’t wired that way.

So she has to help him a little, to make it so he can have nights when he can’t stay mad at her. Or at least nights when his anger isn’t able to simmer in there behind his eyes while he says Yes, Miss Savvie or No, Miss Savvie like there’s a gun to his head.

Still. Trying to give him these evenings where both of them just relax… it’s always a gamble.

Even if he drinks whatever she makes without realizing it’s spiked, he doesn’t always react the same way. If she’s lucky - if her dice rolls well - the drugs make Jax… softer. He’ll lean against her when some of his strength slides away, not seek out touch but loathe it less. Those are the nights she can coax a sound out of him that isn’t clipped or tense. She still thinks about the night she gave him a back rub and he genuinely fell asleep sitting on the floor between her knees, his head drifting until it rested on her leg, the knots of tension slowly loosening beneath her kneading hands until she got distracted by the movie and forgot what she was doing.

Sometimes he smiles, when he’s blurry and unfocused. Smiles, enough to show teeth even… God, sometimes he even laughs at some of Savvie’s jokes. It’s rare, but it happens. She loves those nights the best. Those are the nights that their marriage almost feels normal… if she just ignores the dilated pupils and the way he can’t stand up on his own.

Sometimes he gets so foggy he can’t stop laughing, which is irritating but at least adorable to watch and take videos of to make him look at later on the next day when he sobers up again. Sometimes the side effects make him too scared to smile, his eyes darting nervously everywhere watching the movements of shadows he swears are watching him. She… tries not to give him those pills anymore.

The nights tend to end with her telling him to take off his shirt so she can enjoy the view, or even his pants, too. She usually waits on that, though, because it doesn’t matter how good the drugs are - he always hesitates when it comes to taking off his pants, as soon as his fingers touch the boxers with their oddly rolled waistband.

It reminds him he doesn’t want to be here. Makes his addled mind come back to the collar he wears around his neck, to the reality of the life they’re living, the marriage Savvie has built all by herself whether he wanted to or not.

And he… he didn’t want to.

So normally she waits on the getting naked bit until they’re in the bedroom and what he wants matters so much less that neither of them think about it any longer. The drugs, at least, make it harder for him to slow her down in there.

Savvie tries not to think about that, because she doesn’t remember it that way. She likes the nights best where he doesn’t even try to fight, just lets her pull him upstairs and she gets to bury her hands in his hair and tell him what to do and have him, languid and loose-limbed, follow every command without the tension and misery he usually carries into their bed.

She doesn’t always roll well.

Sometimes, she rolls snake eyes… and she gets this, instead.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jax groans, words slurring around the edges, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He pushes clumsily away from her, nearly falling off the couch before he manages to catch himself. “For… f’r fuck’s sake, Savvie, what the fuck.”

His wedding ring glints, light from the TV bouncing off the deceptively plain platinum band. She’s hit all over again with a wave of love for him, for the life she’s built after he was brought back home to be hers forever, just like he always should have been. She’d been an idiot not to see it, not until he was gone and she spent years in prison dreaming about getting him back.

“Fuck’s sake what?” She asks, voice light, smiling at him and poking him in the shoulder where they sit on the couch.

He doesn’t slap her hand away, but she sees him look at her and… he wants to. His expression is dark. The light is bouncing off his hazel eyes, too, giving them a strange sheen of white that wipes out the color, obscures even his dilated pupils slowly taking over the iris. “What the fuck was it?”

“What was what?”

“What the fuck did you give me?” He goes to push himself to standing only to have his knees buckle beneath him, crashing him to the floor, barely catching himself on his hands. Savvie’s mouth waters, and she swallows, trying to ignore the flutter of fascinated interest in watching his fingernails scrape the rug as he tries to steady himself. “What the fuck is it, Savvie?”

“It doesn’t matter,” She answers, without changing her own tone, leaning forward with her arms resting on her thighs. Her hair falls in heavy waves down her back and over her shoulders. “It’s not anything that could hurt you.”

This time, he doesn't say Miss Savvie or try out the sad eyes. Instead, he looks away. She can nearly hear his teeth grinding. “Yeah, but once I’m all fucked up, you will.”

“Don’t be rude,” Savvie chides him, but she doesn’t move. He looks good, on his hands and knees on the floor. Well, he looks good all the time, really, but he looks even better on his hands and knees. She knows the physique he’s built with the workout routine she makes him do, knows the muscles there hidden beneath the green sweater and jeans he’s wearing. “You’ve been stressed all week. I’m just trying to help-”

“Fucking shit, the hell you are!” He manages to sit back on his knees, then collapses back until his back hits the edge of the couch cushions, upright through sheer force of will and a bit of good luck. His hands lay limp at his sides, now. When he turns to look at her, his eyes don’t focus quite right - but the fury in them is clear.

Well.

Tonight’s not going to be the best night for them, then, she supposes. She feels the edge of a headache starting up, and sighs, looking mournfully at the movie she’d pulled up for them to watch. Another night, then. A night when the gamble pays off and doesn’t backfire. A night when he can’t remember how to be angry at her.

“Fine,” She says, heavily. “I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to help me.”Her own voice changes - drops almost a full octave from her usual carefully constructed diction and sweetness to something sharper. “I’m making tonight easier on me. Making you less… less-” She can't think of a good way to end the sentence, so she just lets it hang there between them.

Jax snorts, looking away again. His head keeps lolling forward until his chin nearly touches his chest before he jerks it back again. “Yeah, I fucking know,” He manages, but his slurring is getting worse. “Shit f’r brains.”

Savvie sniffs, but the fake tears aren't coming as easily as they usually do. She probably accidentally gave him too much again. It’s just sometimes so hard to remember exactly how much the dose is supposed to be…

“I don’t enjoy you being cruel to me any more than you enjoy it when I do it to you, you know,” She says, suddenly… so tired. She spends so much time and effort creating a marriage herself out of a man her uncle bought for her once and abducted for her the second time, and she’s doing this all on her own - no one helps her, not really. And Jax never gives up.

She’d been sure he’d start to settle in and understand by now, but he just… he just doesn’t. And she’s so tired. Her fingers toy with the little black remote to his shock collar. Maybe she should just… just give up on having a good night and punish him for the cursing until he just bites off his stupid tongue.

No, wait.

She likes what he does with his tongue, when she gives the order. He’s so good with it now. Maybe… maybe just a small shock. Just to remind him he's hers. She takes a deep breath. “Jax… get on your-”

“On m’knees f’r discipline?” He starts laughing before she can finish, cutting her off, letting his head fall totally back against the arm of the couch until he’s staring at the ceiling. He sounds wild, almost like an animal. Her quiet watchful husband is feral, and Savvie resolves never to give him the pill she gave him tonight ever again. “Yeah, fucking… fuckin’ do it. Second I don’t play along, there y’go. Bzzzt.” He cackles, a cracked bark of laughter she’s never heard him make before. “Shut me up so you don’t hear me say it.”

Savvie’s heart twists. “Say what?”

The laughter dies in him as suddenly as it appeared. He turns his head, or tries to - it mostly just falls to one side until he’s looking at her. Their eyes meet, his all black pupil and hers with nearly no pupil at all. “How much I fucking hate your fucking guts.”

“You don’t hate me.” She says it firmly, as if he’s being ridiculous. “Don’t be mean, Jax. You don’t hate me at all.”

She takes a deep breath. Married couples have fights, even ugly ones sometimes, and they work it out-

“Yeah. I… I really do.” Disgusted, that’s the tone in his voice. Disgusted with her. “I do. I hate you.”

“Why do you hate me?”

The look he gives her is such a blatant are you a complete fucking moron that she can hear his voice even though he doesn’t say a word.

“No, hold on.” She waves one hand, dismissing her own question. His eyes briefly follow the movements of her fingers, distracted by whatever the drugs make him see there. Trails of light, maybe. It’s probably beautiful. “Hold on. I know why-”

“Do you?” His question is sharp, snapped, even as his every muscle can barely tense enough to move. “Do you fuckin’ really?”

“Yes. I do.” Savvie’s too tired to talk him in a circle tonight. She’s just… too exhausted by her bad gamble, bringing neither the snuggly Jax or the scared one, but this angry, vengeful animal instead.

Her headache is getting worse.

She grabs her glass of wine off the coffee table and chugs it so fast a little drip escapes the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. She has to wipe it away, wincing at the… at the idea of how that looks. Her mother would have had a fit about it. If she hadn’t died years ago. “Because I had you kidnapped.”

Jax is silent, for a beat. He squints at her. “Fuck… what’d you say? Might be hearin’ shit.”

She laughs, softly. Not her usual laughter, crafted to fill up a room and put all eyes on her. This laugh is barely there, but far more genuine. “No. You're not hallucinating, that shouldn't happen with what I gave you tonight.”

“Oh, good, not this fucking drugging, then, jussss-” His head falls too far to one side and he forces it back up, groaning. “Jusss… others.”

“Only one of the pills does that. And you were cute when you thought there were monsters in the bathroom.” She gets that flat stare from him again and this time she can't hold eye contact, looking down and away, still fiddling with the remote to his collar. “I just. I do know what I did, Jax.”

“Yeah, I fucking know you know-”

“I had you kidnapped.” She takes a deep breath. It feels oddly good to say, like a scene in a movie confessing to a priest. A foul-mouthed priest she’s been sleeping with for over a year. The thought makes her smile, just a little. “My uncle had people watching you, and when I was ready, he knew where you’d be and he abducted you for me. I know that. I know that you’d run, if you could. I’d take your collar off right now if I thought you’d stay without wearing it.”

Jax is silent for so long she briefly wonders if he's flat out forgotten how to talk. Then he shrugs - or tries to, his arms don't quite follow his commands. “You’d find somethin’ else, some other reason for shit ‘round my neck. You fuckin’ like it.”

For the first time, she doesn't deny it. “I do.” She laughs at the way he looks almost comically surprised, unable to keep his usual closed-off expressions in place with the drug coursing through his veins. “What? Can't a girl have a kink?”

“Sure fuckin’ can, but you… you don' have a kink, you got… goddamn victims.”

“... I… yeah. But it-... that's not my point. It isn't about the collar, Jax. Your wedding ring does it for me, too. I could barely wait to get you home after we signed the marriage certificate.”

The glare is back. His hatred is blistering her skin. She watches him try to stand, making it nearly upright before he falls back down again with a heavy thump.

Her mouth twitches. “You want help, sweetie?”

“Ffffuck you.”

“Well, I mean, if you’re asking so nicely.” She giggles at her own joke.

He mumbles something she can't quite hear, trying to stand one more time but quickly giving up. He makes it onto the couch, at least. Savvie stands, turning to grab his ankles, shifting so he’s lying on his back, head and feet each cushioned by the arms of the comfortable, overstuffed couch. He struggles weakly, and it's hard work, but she gets him where she wants him. She barely breathes, taking in his chest rising and falling under his sweater, how his inhales are coming more sharply.

She can't help herself.

Savvie climbs on top of him, like she’s done a hundred times. She straddles him, sitting on his hips and leaning down to kiss his neck, nosing under his jaw. At first, his head tips back in resignation - but then he curses and pushes at her weakly instead. “Don’t.”

She grabs his wrists and shoves them above his head. He’s so weak, the drugs have taken all that muscle and made them… useless at holding her off. There’s a shiver of excitement down her spine. “Uh-uh, sweetie. You’re the one who said to fuck you, remember?”

She feels a thrill at saying fuck, like she’s still a kid sneaking swears in her room when her parents won’t overhear.

“Don't,” He groans. “Sav-... Savvie, stop. G’t off me. I hate you.”

“I know.” She smiles down at him. His eyes meet hers, tired and bleary. Furious and almost resigned. “I know you hate me, Jax… but I love you.”

She leans down, her hair a waterfall curtain, blocking them both off from the world. She can smell the cologne she buys for him, blended with her own pricey perfume. His wrists jerk against her grip and she digs her nails in until he grunts in pain and the skin gives beneath.

“Savvie,” he whispers.

“Sssshhh.” She lets go with one hand, shifting both his wrists to her other one, and presses a finger against his lips. “I love you so much,” She whispers. “And I don't need you to love me back, sweetie, I don’t. I just need you to lie for me.”

She kisses him, then, pressing her lips firmly to his. For half a second, his mouth is slack and unresisting even as his body shudders with disgust. He’s warm, his skin burning up beneath her. Her mouth moves against his, trying to get him to answer her, to open up.

His lips gently part. For a brief moment, Savvie feels the rush of victory.

Then he bites.

Pain blooms in a sudden flare as his teeth bury themselves into her lower lip and he jerks his head to the side, sensitive skin tearing.

“Shit!” Savvie jerks backwards, staring down at him wide-eyed. She can taste her own blood in her mouth. It’s smeared on his lips and his teeth like badly-done lipstick as he gives her a smile that's really a snarl. “Oh my God, Jax-... how dare you-”

“Fuck you! Don't fucking touch me!” He gets his arms more or less under his own control and shoves her off of him. She crashes into the coffee table, the legs giving out, tumbling her to the floor. Pain spikes hot and demanding along her hip where she hits the hard angle of the corner and she finds herself the one lying on the floor, while Jax slowly sits up, wiping blood off his lips.

Her blood.

Savvie pulls her fingers from her mouth and gasps. There’s a smear of red, bright and vibrant, the unmistakable sense of blood trickling down over her chin. She tongues at the wound, then winces as the pain flares bright, like he’s bitten her all over again. She considers tears - looks at the loathing in his eyes, the absolute rage written in the lines of his face - and then decides they’re wasted on him tonight. Instead, she just shakes her head. “That hurt.”

“Good. Don' like bein’ the one fucking bleeding for once, huh?” His eyes drift closed. He struggles to open them again, to keep his eyes on her. “Shit feelin’, isn't it?”

“God.” She swallows. Blood on her tongue is making her feel nauseous and she gets to her feet carefully. Her mouth and hip throb. She’s going to be so bruised tomorrow, going to ache so much. “You’re awful sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He grins. He hasn't bothered to try and get the red off his teeth. “I know. So… so fffffuckin’ get rid of me, then.”

Savvie snorts, limping a little as she moves to pick up the spilled wine bottle from the floor. She could shock him now - that’s what she would usually do. Or call Isaac and have him carted off to spend another month locked in the kennels with the dogs. He… probably doesn’t care about that, though. Anything to get away from her. Anything is better than her, to him.

“Get rid of you?” She drinks the last swallow in the bottle, washing blood down her throat with the wine. “Then what, Jax? I should just… live here alone, without you, for the rest of my life?”

“Fucking-... yes, or go fucking die. I don't fucking care.” The flush of hot anger bleeds away, his voice softening a little. “I don't… don' care, Savvie. I don’t care about you.”

“No. You do.” She feels a burst of desperation to make him understand. “You hate me, right? That’s caring about me, still.”

“Savvie-”

“No. I love you. You are mine, and I am keeping you. This is love, Jax. What I feel for you is true love.”

He shakes his head, swaying a little where he sits. He tries to push her away again as she takes him by the arm but his burst of energy seems to have used him up. He lets her, in the end, get him onto his feet. She leads him on his unsteady legs out of the room, and he stumbles along with her.

“S'not love,” He mumbles. She keeps an arm around his waist to help him balance. “Fucking… fuck you. Let me leave, Savvie.”

He doesn't have the strength to push her away, not anymore. He has to use her to stay up as they take the stairs one at a time, although after three or four he jerks away again and uses the railing, leaning heavily against it as he drags himself upwards, inch by inch, step by step.

She lets him pull away, watching his determination to not need her, how badly he doesn’t even want her. There’s a canyon inside of her, something dark and deep that hurts so much worse than her hip or her torn open lower lip, threatening to claw its way out as she watches the man she has forced to play the role of her husband do anything he can to avoid her touch.

Her jaw sets. “It is. It is love, and you know what? It’s all the love you’re going to get. Ever. No one else will ever love you.” Savvie’s voice stays low. “You’re not… you’re not lovable, Jax, but I don’t care, I love you anyway. Nobody else would. No one is ever going to even want to love you but me.”

He slumps. The fight’s all gone out of him, for now. Her gamble failed tonight and Jax is buckling under the weight of what runs through his veins, the heavy expectations in her eyes and her smile and her devotion.

“Fuck,” is all he says, barely a whisper under his breath.

Savvie sighs, touching her fingers to her lip again. The bleeding has slowed but there’s still a spot of red. “Goes both ways, though, I think.”

He doesn't look at her. “What?”

“This… how much you hate me… how I had to kidnap you, and put that thing on your neck to keep you here, how you wish you were anywhere but here with me… you know, I, I get it.”

He has to stop at the landing and lean over, resting his forehead against the wall.

She lays a hand on his back, leaning over to speak right against his ear. “I get that your hate is all the love I’m going to get, too, Jax. Nobody else will ever love me, either.”

Her throat feels tight, and she can’t tell if she really feels the twisting nerves in her stomach, the sense of dread, or if it’s part of her act for Jax. Sometimes even Savvie isn’t sure when she means the things she says. Sometimes, even worse, she really does.

“All we’re ever going to have is each other.”

He doesn’t answer her. But when she takes his arm in her hand, he allows himself to be dragged along towards her bedroom. The fight might be gone, but so is the feeling. There’s nothing in his eyes that shows he even heard her.

That’s okay. She can be honest, in the dark, in the middle of the night, knowing that he’s too drugged to remember anything she said when he wakes up again. She’ll lie to herself again by morning. So will he.

She just needs him to lie.

@whumpyourdamnpears consider this my evil savvie gift to you

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whumble-beeee · 3 months

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Nah Sister, You Ain't Gettin' Me to No Third-endary Location!

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 12

Content: mentioned past attempted noncon, noncon drugging, needles, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, defiant whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), tied up/handcuffs, past captivity references, begging

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[Drugging! What a wonderful thing! Drugs are an essential, if not the most important tool in your villain or bounty hunter toolbox.

Their utility is truly endless; You can use a truth serum to gather information that your hero definitely doesn't want you to know. Or maybe you're drugging them to make them nice and sweet, pliant, bending them to your will. Just to show them how powerless they truly are in your possession. Or maybe you just want to go with the classic drugging to knock your hero out as the very method to capture them in the first place!

Truly, drugging is a jack-of-all-trades. But be warned: dosage is vitally important. Always make sure to consider the hero’s body weight, last time they ate, etc, lest you give them too much and irreparably damage them, or too little and they remain as strong-willed as always. You'll save yourself AND your hero so much trouble!]

* * * * * * * *

There was a certain bliss to the agony that Stan found himself in in those hours that Deeby was gone. Or was it minutes… Days?

After he calmed down from his initial freakout, all he felt was a bone-deep tiredness beckoning him to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. But he couldn't. You weren't supposed to sleep when you had concussions, right? Even so, every time he did feel the warm relief of sleep overwhelming the pain and nerves and paranoia, he snapped right back awake with an involuntary shot of adrenaline that made him shoot up to sitting and whip his head around breathlessly looking for the danger that awoke him.

But there was none.

Unless of course, you counted the chain hanging from the ceiling, where Deeby had threatened to string him up. Or the chair he'd woken up tied to the last time he was unconscious, still bearing the twine that had bound him. Or the collar that made him all but defenseless, that squeezed his throat just enough to constantly remind that he wasn’t free, nor would he ever be. He was claimed.

He was powerless.

He was owned. Again.

After a while, he didn't even try to sleep. He limped around everywhere the length of his ankle chain would allow, which admittedly wasn't very far. His leg shot little pangs of white hot lightning with every step as he kept walking, along with an occasional protestational buckle that made Stan to nearly fall on his face every time, but he didn’t care. He kept walking around the chain and the chair. He sat in the chair. Then immediately sat back down on the floor. He didn't want to be in the chair.

He clutched Deeby's stupid leather jacket around his half-naked body, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his ribs every time he breathed, the light cloudiness that blanketed the world, the dizziness every time he moved his head, the rope burn, his aching knee weak knee, the hunger, the thirst.

The collar.

The distinct lack of his power, or any way to defend himself.

God he hated the collar.

Ignore it all.

His binder felt like it suffocated him every time he tried to lay down. Made the sharp pains of his broken ribs into more of a dull, ongoing agony. He wanted to take it off, but there was no way. Not with the handcuffs, not without a shirt.

Had Deeby forgotten about him?

He may have fallen asleep at some point, he wasn't totally sure. But when the door slammed open, Stan cried out from the shock and slammed his head against the wall, turning the world around him a bright white before his vision returned hazier than ever, making it that much more burdensome just to think.

Great.

“You done with the mental breakdown?” Deeby asked absentmindedly, plastic bags in hand and ignoring the way Stan glared at him. Stan would retort back, but as soon as he tried, a small wave of nausea silenced the sound before it could even reach his tongue.

An amused eyebrow raised at him. “What, giving me the silent treatment again?” He set down the bags and grabbed something out of it, beginning a meandering prowl toward Stan.

Stan pulled his knees up to his chest. He was so tired of this game. “N–...” He could barely force out the response, the pressure of tears building up at the back of his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “No. Jus’… tired.”

Deeby dropped what looked to be a very large plain white shirt at Stan's feet.

“Understandable. I'm gonna need my jacket back now.”

Stan's heart skipped a beat. He clutched the jacket closed around his body.

“Dude,” Deeby held his hand out. “I got you a shirt so you don’t have to whine about only being in your crop top, put it on and hand over the jacket.”

Stan felt the heavy leather lifting away from him, and he grabbed the lapels and clutched it to his chest for dear life before he could even think about what he was actually doing. What was he even doing?

Deeby let out an exasperated huff. “Is this about your chest thing? I don't care if you used to be a girl or whatever, let go–”

“No, not–!” It was actually. But not only that. It was that and the nearly invisible brand that marred his right bicep. The one that all supers were forced to bear, marking a super as a ‘non-threat,’ or a ‘threat’. Like Stan. It was the tattoo on his shoulder blade, which told all about his powers, which marked him a criminal, which marked him a test subject, as someone else’s property. Even now. That let anyone who cared to look know that he was a state-sanctioned torture victim for ‘the greater good.’

“Ca-can't put the shirt on. Cuffs.” He held out his cuffed hands to illustrate his point.

A valid enough excuse.

The mercenary groaned, but thankfully stopped pulling at the jacket and knelt down in front of Stan, holding his hand out expectantly. Stan took the cue to tentatively plunk down his cuffed wrists and to his surprise, Deeby produced a hairpin from his spiked locks and slid it into the teeth of one of the cuffs, cinching it open with practiced ease.

Stan was free!

Ish.

“Fifteen seconds ‘til I recuff you, shirt on or not.”

“A h–... hairpin?” Stan questioned. Maybe stalling slightly for time. He relished the weightlessness his uncuffed wrists allowed, even if it was just a facsimile of true freedom.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“Stan, do you know how to use a handcuff key to undo handcuffs?”

Stan nodded slowly.

“And did you know how to use a hairpin to undo handcuffs?”

He almost nodded again, but paused. He could… probably figure it out. It didn’t look hard when the bounty hunter did it.

“There’s your answer, then. Five seconds”

Ah crap. Stan quickly shrugged the jacket off and grabbed the shirt. It was probably one of his Deeby’s extra undershirts, like the one Stan could see peeking up through the unbuttoned gap of his flannel–

Deeby grabbed his forearm and yanked it forward suddenly, twisting it to expose his inner arm, letting the jacket fall off the captive’s back and drop to the side. Stan screeched as he tipped forward off balance, then ice gripped his heart when he realized what Deeby was inspecting.

The super brand.

Supposedly only visible under black-light. Psh. The invisible ink they used always discolored the skin, easy to spot for anyone on the lookout for it.

“Deeby. Let-let go.” Stan whispered, tugging against the iron grip.

“I told you my name's Declan, didn't I?”

“‘m not calling you that.”

“I seem to remember you saying the same thing about calling me ‘DB’.”

The mercenary's gaze drifted up towards his face, searching. Stan looked away, tried to bury his head into his shoulder, but Deeby's other hand reached up and grasped his jaw, forcing his face back up for the bounty hunter to inspect.

“No. No. No. Get off,” Stan wheezed, grasping Deeby's forearm, trying to wrench it off of his face. The bounty hunter didn't even really seem to care, simply squeezing Stan's jaw harder. Stan's headache pounded, spreading slowly and thickly like molasses out from the pressure of the wall digging into his head.

Deeby's eyes crinkled. “I need to see your villain brand.”

“Fuck no,” Stan gritted immediately, kicking at Deeby’s legs.

His grip loosened slightly.

“Chiquito, you already know how this is gonna go. Why don't you just show it to me?”

“Because screw you and everything that you stand for!” Stan yelled.

“I don't care about your man tits, runt, but I'm going to see that brand–”

Stan threw a haphazard punch at Deeby's face, hard, erratic. Satisfaction flowed through Stan's chest like ichor when an explosion of pain in his knuckles signaled a fully connected hit.

Even more when he realized that the blunt teeth of the one open handcuff had also flung across his face, evident now by the pretty nasty looking gash at the seam where the burn scar met intact skin, smearing a small bit of quickly pooling blood across his cheek. Stan took the opportunity to squirm out from under Deeby, and immediately stumbled up into a wobbly fighting position, fists raised. God, the world around him wasn’t supposed to spin like that, was it?

Deeby turned to look up at him from his position crouched on the floor, stunned.

“Huh,” he whispered to himself, clutching at his face.A small tilt of the head when it came back covered in shining red blood. It dripped down his cheek and started tracing his jawline, as if he himself were a work of art.

Blazing-red eyes flitted over to the captive, fury of a darkening storm evident with each crease of his eye. The red-stained hand balled into a fist in front of his mouth.

Stan’s breath stuttered. He wasn't gonna win this fight.

Just like every other fight.

But he wouldn't stop trying, he wouldn't give in. Even if he did stumble and the edges of his vision were dark, unreceeding.

That’s fine.

Normal, even.

Deeby stood slowly, and Stan couldn’t help but shuffle back, heart racing ever-faster.

“Y'know what, Stan?” His shoulders relaxed as he let his fist fall to his side, taking a loud, deep heaving breath. “Fine.”

…

Wait…

What?

There was no way.

Deeby was just…

He–...

Giving up?

He wouldn't!

No way.

“... what?”

“I'm not fighting you on this,” Deeby said softly. “State you're in, it’d probably kill you anyway.”

Stan didn’t drop his stance. He waited for Deeby to pounce on him as he moved to the other side of the room, but all he did was grab the bags he'd first entered with, and sit in his own chair not far away. He was so close, unguarded, completely relaxed. Blood still pouring from the open wound.

Stan could go over and kick him if he wanted to.

“You just gonna stand there all day?” The mercenary asked as he pulled out a first aid kit and popped it open.

Stan stared straight ahead, processing through the wet cement that was his mind, before crossing his arms. “Yes.”

“Okay, whatever. You at least wanna put the shirt on?”

Uhh… Right. The shirt.

Stan crept over to where the shirt laid, where he’d been pinned not one minute ago. Just like he thought, the fabric consumed his figure. Definitely one of Deeby's.

A roll of gauze nearly pelted Stan in the face. “If you need to patch yourself up, do it now. We're leaving.”

Stan fumbled the gauze. It fell to the floor right next to his aching leg. “Leaving?!”

“That's what I said.”

“Where?”

Deeby snorted as he cleaned the blood off his face. Didn't even flinch as the alcohol wipe cleaned out his skinned cheek. “Nah, you gave up the right to that information when you started having a nervous breakdown.”

Ah. Right. Deeby was gonna tell him about a phone call. The one that left Stan alone with that psycho, the one that nearly got him–

Stan's heart dropped.

“You're– You're gonna give me over to that sweater-vest freak! I won't let you!”

“Wrong,” Derby laughed at Stan’s un-founded defiance, pressing some sort of gauze pad to his face. “Not yet anyway. I'm gonna have to keep you longer than we thought, actually. Lucky me…”

All the air left Stan’s lungs. “How long?!”

“Hours, weeks, years. Who’s to say, really? Boss-lady certainly won't.”

Stan could not deal with Deeby for weeks. He couldn't. Not that this mysterious Lana character would probably be any better… or the evil sweater-vest.

He needed to get out of here.

“You could… let me go instead…” Stan tried. “Wouldn’t have to ’keep me’.”

The bounty hunter chuckled. “Funny.”

“Well I'm– I'm not letting you take me to a secondary location!”

“Stan… buddy,” Deeby stood with a grunt and made his way over to where his jacket now laid abandoned on the floor. Stan countered as far away as he could from the man, all the way to the end of his ankle leash, pulling it taut with a clang. The mercenary paid the scramble no mind as he pulled on the jacket. “You're already at the secondary location.”

“We'll, I'm not letting you take me to a– a–... a third-endary location!”

Deeby searched around the various inside pockets of his jacket. “Tertiary?”

An irrational anger bubbled up through his stomach. “Whatever! You're not better than me because you know words!”

“Mm,” he murmured, amused.

This version of Deeby was almost worse than the one who didn't hesitate to use physical violence. Stan didn't have anywhere to let out his frustrations, and he was hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and hurting, he hurt so much, he just wanted to go home, tears started to form at the bottoms of his eyes for some reason– and he was really lightheaded, the room felt so dark, was the floor getting closer somehow?

“Woah, woah, hey, careful–!” Deeby yelled, suddenly halfway to his side.

Stan caught himself as he fell, shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He hadn't even realized he was falling. Why was Deeby holding him up?!

Stan lept away from him. A headache pounded at his skull, like a railroad spike through his head. When did that start?

“I'm fine, I'm fine! Don't touch me!”

“Christ, Stan–”

“No, no you fuckin! Don't!” He pushed the hand that Deeby extended away. He just wanted to go home! “You-you-you kidnapper! You're doing it again! You’re not my friend! Stay away!”

“Bud, did you eat anything while I was gone?”

“No!” The tears stung as they fell. “You probably poisoned those stupid protein bars anyway! How could you just leave me alone like that?!”

“Well there's your problem! You haven't eaten or drank anything in like two days!”

Two days?!

Stan stopped in his tracks. Blinked.

Two days, huh?

Two days…

He'd been kidnapped for two days.

Before he had the chance to glare at Deeby, a hand grabbed his wrist and shoved a protein bar into his hand.

“Eat it,” Deeby ordered. “It's also gonna calm you down for the trip.”

Stan narrowed his eyes at the mercenary. Apparently hungry, thirsty, concussed Stan had no sense of self preservation. Good.

“What, is it drugged or something?” Stan asked sarcastically.

“Yeah.”

“Wait, actually? I was just–”

“Yup. For the trip. Eat it.”

“No!”

“Eat the bar, Stan.”

His hand was involuntarily wrenched closer to his face, and Stan quite literally flopped to the side to avoid it.

“Why do you want to drug me!” Stan yelled. “What’re you gonna do to me?!”

“I don’t fucking trust you to not be a brat while I’m driving! Also, frankly, I’m tired of dealing with your shit!”

“You're gonna have to shove that thing down my throat if you want me to eat it!”

The grip on his wrist tightened and Stan let out an involuntary squeak. Deeby locked eyes with him. Stan paled. He wouldn't actually do that. Would he?

“Stan. Look at me,” He jerked Stan closer. “Either you eat the drugged protein bar willingly, or I use whatever-the-hell drug cocktail the bosses cooked up for exactly this scenario and inject you with that.”

Declan pulled out a small capped injection needle from his pocket, holding it up in front of Stan's face.

Stan froze.

Needle.

Injection.

The fire spread out through his leg, Soon he couldn’t even move his leg to kick out at the faceless doctors staring down at their clipboards.

“And trust me, the effects of that are worse than you could ever dream.”

Stan turned ghost pale. Eyes widened and tunneling on the glinting needle. Breathing turned to a shallow staccato.

“But I don't wanna do that to you,” Declan continued evenly. “Because you're freaking the fuck out about it even now. So eat the damn protein bar.”

Stan wrenched his gaze away to look at Deeby. To plead with him. Even when he wasn't looking at it, it was like the syringe took up his entire vision.

“Deeby. De-Dec-Declan. Please, I don't–”

Needle needle needle needle needle needle.

“Ca-can I just e-eat a regular one?”

“After the drugged one, sure. I don't think you'll have time after the shot though, you'll probably be writhing in pain on the floor–”

“No, no, no, no, no–!!” Stan gasped. He stumbled back and tripped over his stupid barely working leg and then clutching onto the sleeves of Deeby’s jacket with white-knuckled force when he snatched him up just before he completely tipped. Stan never thought he'd be reduced to a begging mess, grasping for comfort from the very man who administered the pain that caused the need for it.

Yet here he was.

Begging.

His terrified begging always fell on deaf ears.

No one cared about the pain of a lab rat.

No one cared if the next injection made the screams louder.

“Stop. Please. Please, please…”

He looked up into Deeby's eyes, pleading. Shrill. His voice broke like a knife broke through skin. Like a needle broke through flesh. “I don't wanna be drugged.”

Deeby’s gaze softened, just barely. He slid the syringe gracefully back into his pocket, pushing Stan's hand and the accompanying poison close to his mouth.

Stan’s didn't resist.

“And it's not that bad, really. Ya ever been roofied before?”

Stan shook his head.

“Ah… Well it’s not even as bad as that. You’ll be conscious. Mostly…”

Stan pursed his lips, squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head fervently.

“Uh. It's like weed, kinda. Except… more. It doesn't knock you out, just makes you a little more pliant. Easier to deal with. More relaxed, more okay with everything.”

Stan whined. “I-I don’t… None o-of this is okay.”

“Besides, you still need to eat something. We can get you some food and water, you’ll feel a lot better. Can't even imagine the trip the injection would give you after not eating for two days…”

Stan yanked his arm, then some sort of whine-sob fought its way out when his arm twisted back. Stan stared at the bar. Then back at Declan. The pit in his stomach begged for something to fill it, yet the thought of eating the thing he held in his hands made him want to swear off any morsel of sustenance ever again.

“I could… just eat a regular one…”

Deeby's face hardened and he sighed, hand reaching for the pocket.

Stan shrieked, “NONONONONONO WAIT WAIT DON'T, I’LL EAT IT!! I’LL EAT IT!”

“Then fucking do it already!” Deeby shouted, exasperated. “Christ, if I'd injected you we'd already be on the way by now!”

“Okay! Okay, okay-y, I'll–”

“No more stalling.”

Stan's vision tunneled on the protein bar. He'd only ever had that happen with injectors. Needles.

No needles. No injection. Only if you eat this. Right now.

It's just like weed. Except more. Except worse. Except it'd make him okay with and unable to fight back against whatever Deeby wanted to do to him.

Pliant.

A deafening roaring filled his ears.

At least he'd be conscious. supposedly.

Stan fumbled with the plastic wrapper for what felt like an eternity, time stretching out as an endless road before him.

This. Or injection. Needle piercing his skin. Easy choice.

Yes. Easy choice. So easy…

He bit into the bar. Swallowed it. Bit again. And again.

Swallowed it.

The bar was gone all too soon.

* * * * * * * *

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