#zipwrites

[ziptiesnfries]

Persuasion, part 1

(Loosely based off of this post by @whumpshaped)

CWs: mind control, whumper POV, kidnapping, restraints

Everyone loved Gianna Jennings. Her friends said she gave the best hugs. Her fans adored her makeup tutorials, and even her most vocal critics had to agree that she was charming in person. Gianna wasn’t sure how old she was when she first noticed it—really noticed it. All her life, her family had adored her, and even strangers would bend over backwards to please her. She’d always been affectionate, so maybe that was why it took so long to notice: it was her touch. Any skin-to-skin contact made the people around her much more agreeable. The effects only intensified the more she learned to control it.

Of course, she never let it get out of hand. But what was a talent like this for if not to be used? It served her well with getting sponsorships when she launched her career as a beauty guru. Most of her job happened online, but after years of building up her charisma, she knew how to work her audience. She didn’t need touch to draw people in, but when it came to in-person contact, it certainly gave her a boost.

Having the whole world at her fingertips was lovely, but it wasn’t very exciting. She wondered what it would feel like to make someone hate her—really, truly hate her—and what would happen if, then, she used her powers on them. The thought of it was more than a little alluring. It sounded complicated, interesting, real.

She decided to go hunting.

After visiting the same club a few weekends in a row, Gianna had finally found her target. They were smaller than Gianna, and always wore short skirts and tank tops—the kind of outfit that would give her ample opportunity to use her powers. Every weekend, without fail, the target arrived at the club with the same group of friends and spent the entire time sitting in a corner, texting. They seemed utterly disinterested in everything around them, even their friends—although, given the interactions she’d seen, Gianna was hesitant to label them as friends. Others who tried to approach the target had been met with either apathy or outright hostility.

They were perfect.

Gianna had already been at the club for an hour, chatting people up, when her target slouched in behind their usual group of three others. One of them, a tall girl with long brown hair, looked similar enough to be related to the target—a sister, maybe a cousin—and she interacted with them the most. The other two, another girl and a boy, hardly spoke to the target at all.

Gianna watched as the group claimed a table, and the boy went off to the bar. The two girls sat next to each other, chatting and laughing. The target was already slumped down in their chair, eyes glued to their phone, their bleached bangs obscuring half their face. When the boy came back with the drinks, he only brought three, depositing two in front of the girls and one in front of himself. The target didn’t seem to notice or care.

Gianna kept an eye out as she circled the room. The three friends took a while to drain their drinks before they finally headed for the dance floor. The brown haired girl hung back for a moment, tugging at the target’s arm. The target yanked away, and although Gianna couldn’t hear across the club, it looked like they’d snapped at the girl. The girl stormed off, and the target was left alone.

Gianna took her time, idly circling the club before she sidled up to the target’s table. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing?” 

They gave no indication that they’d heard her. The blue glow from their screen reflected in their bored eyes and highlighted glitter on their cheekbones. She could just barely hear their response over the music. “Who said I was trying to be?”

Instinctively, her wrist twitched to touch their shoulder, but she lowered her hand quickly. She was wearing lacy, elbow-length gloves to ensure that there weren’t any slip-ups. She didn’t want to use her powers—not yet, anyway. She laughed. “That’s cute.” She leaned on the table, tilting her head. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

The target’s eyes flicked up. They scanned her face for a moment before turning back to their phone.

“I’m Gianna.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Really, though, what’s someone as pretty as you doing by yourself?”

Finally, they lowered their phone and gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. “None of your business,” they said, enunciating each word.

It was like talking to a brick wall. Gianna could see why everyone who had spoken to them had given up. Even she was tempted to take off her glove and touch their hand, just to get them to open up a little. But she refrained; the whole point was for them to hate her, and it seemed like that was going well. She pouted. “Oh, come on. You don’t even have a drink. I’ll get you one, okay?”

As she headed for the bar, she thought she heard them mutter, “Don’t come back.” She grinned to herself. She couldn’t have chosen a better target.

When she returned, they hadn’t moved an inch. She slid their glass across the table, and they kept texting. “I don’t drink,” they said.

“It’s seltzer.” It wasn’t, and they’d know right away if they took a sip, but they didn’t even glance at the glass. She stirred her own drink with her finger and wondered how to provoke them. Clearly they weren’t interested in playing her game, and that was what she’d expected, but she needed the tables to turn in her favor a little if she wanted to take them home tonight.

“Don’t care,” they said dismissively. “I don’t take drinks from strangers.”

“That’s smart.” She smiled and rested her chin in her hand as she leaned forward. “But I think you deserve to have some fun. Don’t you?”

They shot her a scathing side-eye. “I’d be having a lot more fun if you weren’t—”

“Oh my god, Shelby!”

Their head jerked up, and Gianna turned to see the brown-haired girl from earlier approaching the table, her two friends in tow. All of them looked tipsy, but the brown-haired girl seemed just a tad more wasted than the others, casually gripping the table for balance. Gianna suppressed a grin as she turned to her target. “Friends of yours?” she asked innocently.

The girl didn’t seem to hear her. “Oh my god, Shelby,” she repeated, turning to the target. “Are you actually talking to someone for once? I never thought you’d—”

“Shut up,” they hissed, lowering their phone into their lap as they glared at the girl. “I’m not—”

“We were just having a little chat,” Gianna interrupted. She extended a hand over the table. “I’m Gianna.”

The girl shook her hand limply. “I’m Taylor.” She was talking too loud, even for the background noise of the club. “And that’s Anna and Tate. And of course you know my baby sibling, Shelby.” She squeezed their shoulder.

Shelby jerked away, their elbow missing their untouched drink by an inch. “Fuck off!”

Taylor pouted at them sarcastically. “Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?” She shot Gianna a suggestive grin.

“I said, fuck off!” They crossed their arms, their phone clutched tightly in their hand. “Can we just go already?”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “We just got here. Why don’t you go home with someone else for once? Loosen up, have a little fun!”

Shelby’s arms tightened around their chest, and they opened their mouth to protest. “I’d be more than happy to help with that,” Gianna cut in.

Blush rose to Shelby’s face. “Yeah, I’m sure you fucking would.” Their chair nearly toppled as they got to their feet. “Whatever, I’m calling an Uber.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “You’re such a killjoy.” They didn’t dignify her with a response before storming off across the club.

Taylor didn’t seem keen to go after her, and the other two hung back, exchanging uncomfortable glances. Gianna gave them all a sympathetic smile before she turned to pursue her prey.

She found Shelby near the entrance, tapping furiously at their phone screen. “Hey,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the noise. They stiffened, but they didn’t turn toward her. “I’m sorry if I was being too forward. Do you need a ride home?”

Their back was still turned, but she heard them snort. “Like that’s not the most forward thing I’ve ever heard. I’ll take an Uber, thanks.”

She approached casually, sliding an arm around their shoulders. They stiffened as she leaned in close and murmured, “Come on, let me drive you home. It’s the least I can do.”

Her lips brushed their ear, and that was all it took. The tension melted out of their shoulders, their phone lowering. They were quiet for a moment before they cleared their throat. “I … guess you could take me halfway there?”

She squeezed their shoulder before letting go. They’d feel the effects of her touch for another few minutes, and she’d sneak in another dose along the way. Of course, she’d prefer not to use it at all, but Shelby was a difficult target. A little persuasion would be necessary. “I’d be glad to,” she murmured.

Gianna took off her gloves to drive. Shelby was quiet in the passenger seat, their face turned out the window, their phone all but forgotten in their lap. “What’s your address?” she asked.

They didn’t turn their head, but their voice still sounded a little distant as they said, “You can drop me off at the corner of Fourth and Fremont. I’ll give you directions.”

“Oh, no worries. I know where that is.” Her house was that way, anyway—just a little farther down. Maybe Shelby actually lived near her; that was an interesting thought. “I really am sorry about earlier, by the way,” she added. “I know I can be a little pushy. And your sister … well, she didn’t seem very nice.”

They blew out a sigh that lifted their bleached bangs, propping their chin in their hand. “Fucking tell me about it. She’s a real asshole sometimes.”

Gianna suppressed a grin. “Oh? What’s she like?”

“She thinks I should worship the ground she walks on just because she’s letting me live with her.” They rolled their eyes. “I’d appreciate the favor more if it didn’t come with so many fucking strings attached.” They cut off abruptly and glanced at Gianna. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“That’s alright.” The car was rapidly approaching the corner Shelby wanted to be dropped at. Gianna leaned over and laid a hand on Shelby’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of her power flow through her palm. “Are you sure you want to go home, then? Maybe it would be nice to spend a night away from her. She sounds so overbearing.”

When she glanced over, Shelby’s lips were parted, their eyes halfway glazed as they gazed out the windshield. “I, um …” Gianna removed her hand, allowing the poor thing to think a little more easily. They blinked hard a few times. “She is overbearing,” they admitted.

Giddiness rose up in Gianna’s chest, but she couldn’t let it show. She rarely allowed herself to play with people like this, but god, it was fun. “Well,” she said, in her best logical, concerned tone, “take a break from her, then. It’ll be good for you.”

The intersection passed by, and Shelby blinked again as they realized. “Where are you …?”

“You can stay the night in my guest bedroom.” Gianna’s voice was pleasant and soothing, trained to perfection. Her powers may have only worked through touch, but people always responded well to her words, too. “You won’t have to see your sister again tonight.”

“Alright,” Shelby agreed quietly. Their hands rested in their lap, their eyes forward. “Thanks.” Gianna smiled.

It didn’t take much longer to get to Gianna’s house, a quaint two-story home in a quiet neighborhood. It was a bit big for one person, but Gianna had always liked it, and the extra space came in handy for guests. Shelby was quiet and pliant as Gianna led them inside, a gentle hand between their shoulder blades. The lightest touch was enough to keep them relaxed all the way up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

Once they were in the room, Shelby paused, trying to gather their wits. “Ah … thanks for letting me stay over.”

“Of course.” Gianna smiled, her heart thumping. “Could you come in here with me for a moment?” She nodded toward the guest bathroom, attached at one end of the room.

They looked confused, but with her thumb rubbing circles between their shoulder blades, they followed her into the bathroom. She flicked on the lights and casually grabbed the pair of handcuffs she’d left on the counter earlier. Shelby looked even more confused at the clink of metal, and when they spotted the cuffs, they stiffened.

They made to pull away, but Gianna grabbed their wrist, channeling her power into the touch. Their phone cracked against the floor as they dropped it. “It’s okay,” she murmured, like she was soothing a frightened animal. Her heart pounded. She’d never done this before—never tried to calm someone over anything truly objectionable. She wasn’t even sure whether it would work. Shelby’s wide, fearful eyes flicked from the handcuffs to Gianna’s face, and she smiled at them reassuringly as she gripped their wrist. “It’s alright; you’re okay.”

Their mouth was agape, struggling to protest, but their body was like putty in her hands. One cuff clicked around their wrist, and Gianna gently guided them closer to the towel bar before looping the chain around and securing their other wrist.

“Good.” She removed her hands and stepped back to admire them, feeling giddy that it had actually worked. They twisted their neck after her, their lips still slightly parted, distress in their eyes. She scooped their cracked phone off the ground and smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be back soon, okay?” Their bewildered gaze followed her as she shut them in the bathroom to wait for the effects to wear off.

Read part 2 here

[wribble]

zipwrites -> wribble

[zipquips]

i’m tossing muppet content onto my writing blog @zipwrites bc i already have a kermit tag over there lmao​

[mood2you]

I'm moving 3 of my blogs onto @zipwriting keep an eye out for it folks

[wiproaringreading]

OKAY

Oxym is going back in the trunk I'm working back on my first comic JPB and then my second comic Undermoon and then my third comic ABC (Another Baseball Comic) and THEN I get my freedom back. To write a comic with very stupid characters sorry

Those are @zipwriting so What is this blog for lol. Well, writing I guess but im a NaNoWriMo stan which Yknow amkea

me a fair weather friend

[codehunter]

error: command 'gcc' failed with exit status 1 while installing eventlet

I wanted to install eventlet on my system in order to have "Herd" for software deployment.. but the terminal is showing a gcc error:

root@agrover-OptiPlex-780:~# easy_install -U eventlet Searching for eventlet Reading http://pypi.python.org/simple/eventlet/ Reading http://wiki.secondlife.com/wiki/Eventlet Reading http://eventlet.net Best match: eventlet 0.9.16 Processing eventlet-0.9.16-py2.7.egg eventlet 0.9.16 is already the active version in easy-install.pth Using /usr/local/lib/python2.7/dist-packages/eventlet-0.9.16-py2.7.egg Processing dependencies for eventlet Searching for greenlet>=0.3Reading http://pypi.python.org/simple/greenlet/Reading https://github.com/python-greenlet/greenletReading http://bitbucket.org/ambroff/greenletBest match: greenlet 0.3.4Downloading http://pypi.python.org/packages/source/g/greenlet/greenlet- 0.3.4.zip#md5=530a69acebbb0d66eb5abd83523d8272Processing greenlet-0.3.4.zipWriting /tmp/easy_install-_aeHYm/greenlet-0.3.4/setup.cfgRunning greenlet-0.3.4/setup.py -q bdist_egg --dist-dir /tmp/easy_install-_aeHYm/greenlet-0.3.4/egg-dist-tmp-t9_gbWIn file included from greenlet.c:5:0:greenlet.h:8:20: fatal error: Python.h: No such file or directorycompilation terminated.error: Setup script exited with error: command 'gcc' failed with exit status 1`

Why can't Python.h be found?

https://codehunter.cc/a/python/error-command-gcc-failed-with-exit-status-1-while-installing-eventlet

[ziptiesnfries]

Persuasion, part 2

Read Part 1 here

CWs: whumper POV, kidnapping, mind control, gaslighting, belting/whipping with a belt, restraints, noncon touch

It only took ten minutes for the shouting to start. Gianna sat placidly on her couch and listened to the muffled curses coming from upstairs. It turned out that Shelby was very creative when pissed off; Gianna was excited to hear what they’d come up with under real duress.

Still, she didn’t rush it—she wanted to make sure her influence was well and truly out of Shelby’s system before she got started. She enjoyed the ebb and flow of their shouts for a while before she finally slipped her silk gloves back on, gathered her supplies, and headed upstairs.

At the sound of her approach, the shouts in the guest bathroom abruptly went quiet—only to explode when she opened the door. “What the fuck?!” Shelby demanded, twisting around as best they could in their restraints. With their hands cuffed to the towel bar, they had to crane their neck in order to face her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Gianna hummed as she deposited her supplies on the counter next to the sink. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” they hissed. The handcuffs rattled against the bar as they gestured. “What the fuck is this?”

It was so tempting to take off her gloves and soothe them again, but at the same time, her body thrummed with excitement at their anger. She could definitely get used to this—their defiant scowl, the hint of fear in their eyes … “We’re just having a little fun, that’s all.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Besides, I don’t remember forcing you to be here.”

She stepped back just in time to avoid their lunge, and the cuffs rattled and scraped against the towel bar. “I don’t want to be here!” they shouted. “I don’t know what the fuck you did to me, but—”

“How could I have done anything to you?” she asked innocently, hands clasped behind her back. “You didn’t even take the drink I offered you. You agreed to come here, didn’t you?”

Uncertainty flashed in their eyes, but it was quickly replaced by rage. “I agreed to spend the night, not—whatever this is.” They swallowed as they spotted the supplies on the counter. They took a deep, measured breath. “Just—just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. Now turn around.”

They backed up against the wall, still facing her with their arms twisted awkwardly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She picked up the kitchen scissors from the counter. “Turn around, or this is going to hurt much more than necessary.”

Their eyes widened, their breaths becoming shallow. “You wouldn’t—”

Without warning, she jabbed the scissors into their arm. They yelped and sucked in a breath. She smiled as she leaned forward. “I said, turn around, beautiful.”

Slowly, they complied, taking shaky breaths as they gripped the bar in front of them. In a way, Gianna did find it beautiful: the way their shoulders trembled, their knuckles turning white, their head bowing in anticipation. The bathroom mirror hung just across from them, so even with their back turned, she could see their eyes wrinkling around the edges as they squeezed them shut.

She snipped the scissors, delighting in the way Shelby flinched at the noise. “Now, stay still,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t want to cut you.”

She teased the blade against their exposed lower back before slicing up their thin, skimpy shirt. As they realized what was happening, they let out a gasp, but they stayed still, stiff and trembling. Gianna smiled; they were a quick learner.

Just for fun, she ran the scissors down the dip of their spine. This time, they flinched, arching their back away. “Careful,” Gianna murmured. She drew the scissors away and admired the expanse of their back, a blank canvas. Reverently, she ran her gloved hand over their bare skin.

They jerked away, pressing into the wall. For a moment, it startled her; she was used to being leaned into, not pulled away from. “Don’t touch me, you fucking creep!” Shelby snapped.

She just smiled. By the end of this, they’d be begging for her touch. She put down the scissors and picked up the belt, folding it over. “Well, if you really don’t want me touching you …”

They caught a glimpse of her in the mirror, and the blood drained from their face. “No. No, no, no—”

“Just relax. It’ll be over before you know it.”

The hard smack of leather against skin startled her, but the cry it drew from their lips was divine. She paused to admire the mark across their shoulder blade. Their muscles rippled as they panted, squeezing the bar tight. “Don’t—”

She hit them again, and again, and again. Power rushed through her—a more raw, exhilarating kind of power than anything her persuasion could give her. By the seventh strike, Shelby was crying. By the twelfth, their legs shook with the effort of keeping upright. Every whine and whimper and cut-off plea gave her chills; it was absolutely gorgeous.

Still, she couldn’t have fun forever, not if she wanted to keep her toy. She stopped precisely after the fifteenth strike, resting the belt in her hand. A thin sheen of sweat glistened over the welts on Shelby’s back. Gianna couldn’t help it; she put down the belt and ran her hand over their shoulder blades. They cried out, trembling as they arched away.

A thrill ran through her, and she grinned. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m about to make this so much better.” She pulled off her gloves and laid them on the counter.

Shelby cowered away. “Don’t.” Their voice was thick with tears. “Don’t touch me.” They flinched as her hand reached for their shoulder.

As soon as her skin made contact, they went limp—knees thudding against the ground, wrists yanking painfully upwards. A pitiful moan escaped their lips as their big, teary eyes gazed up at her.

A surprised laugh burst from her lips; she hadn’t expected it to work quite that well. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” They nodded eagerly, distressed and desperately leaning into her touch. She cupped their face with her other hand, and they melted against her, eyes slipping shut as she thumbed tears from their cheek. “Oh, you poor thing.” She laughed again, feeling giddy. The rude, defiant person she’d met back at the club was nowhere to be found. Shelby was like putty in her hands.

She let go long enough to unlock the handcuffs, and Shelby whined the whole time, as if they’d rather stay locked up for an eternity if it meant she’d never let them go. Their arms fell limply to their sides, and they winced at the pain, their chafed wrists twitching. The remains of their skimpy top slid down their arms, and they didn’t even seem to notice, still chasing Gianna’s touch. She grabbed the spare t-shirt off the counter and helped them into it. Each brush of her fingers against their skin made them sigh.

Seeing them like this was intoxicating. Of course, Gianna was used to people adoring her, wanting to be near her, but this was something else entirely. Shelby followed her movements like a moth drawn to a flame, desperate for her touch. It was incredible; she could easily get addicted to this.

“Come on, sweet thing, time for bed.” She helped them to their feet, and they clung to her side all the way to the bed. They flopped down like a ragdoll on top of the covers, head lolling on the pillow. God, they were just helpless—maybe she should have held her powers back a little … She caressed their cheek, restraining the flow of her powers as she did so. “God, you’re so stupid like this,” she murmured

To her surprise, there was a flicker of something in their eyes, a downward twitch of their mouth. “’M not …” They shook their head, then paused, as if worried Gianna would disapprove.

“Oh, of course not, beautiful.” She smiled as she climbed onto the bed next to them, sitting up against the headboard. She kept petting their hair. “You’re just so good for me.”

Again, there was that twitch in their face, like they were struggling to form a scowl. Their cheek nuzzled into her palm, muffling their words. “Fuck off.”

Gianna’s eyebrows shot up, and she paused in her caresses. “What did you just say to me, love?” she asked, wondering if she could get them to say it again—wondering how far her powers really extended into their psyche.

They sighed against her skin as their hands balled into fists. “I said, fuck off.”

And yet they curled closer to her, their cheek pressed into her hand. A slow grin spread across Gianna’s face. “Interesting,” she murmured. “Tell me, what does this feel like for you? If you have the capacity to explain, that is.”

Their eyes narrowed, and they finally seemed to break out of their stupor. “Asshole.”

She started petting their hair again, and their eyes fluttered shut with a sigh. “Answer my question, sweet thing.”

They exhaled deeply. “It’s like drugs,” they finally mumbled. A pause. “It’s better than drugs. No pain, just … bliss.”

She hummed thoughtfully. Few people knew about her powers, so she didn’t get many opportunities to experiment like this. “So when I take my hand away …”

She dragged her long, manicured fingernails across their back. “Fuck!” They recoiled, shuddering. “Stop!” As soon as she touched their forehead, they went limp again, swearing under their breath.

“Interesting.” She scratched their scalp absently. She never knew her powers could have a pain relieving effect … This could be interesting—in the future, of course. For now, her little toy needed a break. “You’ve been very good, pet.”

“I’m not—” They shivered with pleasure, leaning into her touch, their voice a low growl. “I’m not your pet. I’m gonna call the fucking cops on you.”

Gianna just hummed doubtfully. “And you really think they’ll believe you? You came here willingly. I didn’t force you to do anything.”

They lifted their head, starting to pull away. “You handcuffed me in your bathroom!”

She grabbed their hair and dragged their head back down against her leg. “You let me do that, pet.” She added just a smidge more persuasion as she massaged her fingers against their scalp. “You could leave, if you wanted to, but you’re lying here with me. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.” They didn’t budge an inch.

“You have such a hard time getting along with people, don’t you?” She kept her tone light, but from the way they flinched, she could tell she’d hit a nerve. “But it’s so nice that you’ve warmed up to me like this. Now you have someone aside from that awful sister of yours.”

Her persuasion didn’t linger for long after an encounter. In the long-term, she couldn’t convince someone of something they didn’t already believe. But if Shelby already believed they were unlikeable, if they felt deep down that no one would take their side in this … Well, if they thought that, then it wasn’t Gianna’s fault, was it?

Shelby shifted against her leg, but they didn’t respond. Gianna kept running her fingers through their hair. Their bangs were fried from bleach; maybe at some point she could help with their hair. After all, she couldn’t have her toy looking like they didn’t take care of themself. But that was a problem for later. “Well, you’ve had a long night,” she murmured. “Get some sleep, beautiful.”

They shook their head. “Don’t want to …” A yawn slipped out, and their eyelids drooped. Before long, their breathing grew deep and even. Gianna smiled and kept petting them, dreaming about what else she might do with her new plaything.

~

Tag list: @whumpshaped @paperprinxe @suspicious-whumping-egg @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @toyybox @mommymarichatfurever @cardboardarsonist

[ziptiesnfries]

The Party

Roux & Ambrose masterpost

tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @transgender-scout @gala1981 @laniakea0100 @spectral-whumpy-writer

Takes place later on in Roux's captivity

CWs: held at knifepoint, death threats, captivity

Roux tugs at the collar of their shirt, feeling suffocated by their stupid outfit and Ambrose’s arm wrapped around their waist. He gave them a choice of what to wear, but they didn’t trust his taste in dresses, so they went with a tux. Now, overheated beneath the layers of their outfit, they regret it. They’d feel much more exposed in a dress, but maybe they’d be able to breathe easier.

As the two of them cross the ballroom, Ambrose squeezes their waist, and Roux stiffens. “How are you doing, sweetheart?” he asks in a low voice.

If they tell him the truth—that they’re miserable and sweaty and they despise having to hang off his side while he makes conversation with his business associates—it won’t matter. He won’t head home early on their account. “I’m fine,” they say dismissively.

He smiles and pauses to tuck a loose curl behind their ear. By now, they’re beyond flinching at his touch, but there’s still an uncomfortable tingle left behind where his fingers brushed their skin. “It’s only a couple more hours,” he murmurs. “You can make it until then, can’t you?”

Well, they don’t really have a fucking choice, do they? They fake a smile back at him, and he doesn’t seem to mind their lack of verbal response as he leads them across the ballroom.

It really isn’t stately enough to be called a ballroom—more like a fancy conference room, scattered with tables and waiters serving hors d’oeuvres to rich, self-important people. Being among them makes Roux feel nauseated. Once upon a time, they would’ve only attended a function like this to do a job—rob someone, steal information, things like that. The thought makes their chest ache with longing. They miss working, and they miss being a person rather than a decoration.

They force themself to attention as Ambrose encounters a new cluster of people. He seems to know most of them, greeting them by names that Roux doesn’t quite catch and doesn’t care to remember. The inevitable question is asked by a woman with dark hair in a sophisticated dress, turning her eyes on Roux: “And who’s this?”

“This is Roux,” Ambrose says simply. That’s how he’s introduced them to everyone tonight, with no further elaboration. It’s starting to grate on Roux’s nerves.

The woman tilts her head, and Roux tries not to blush. They wish Ambrose would just come up with a lie to appease people, instead of drawing more attention to them. “And Roux is your …?” the woman begins, her voice trailing off. Business associate? Romantic partner? More like purse dog.

“My companion,” says Ambrose, giving their shoulder an affectionate pat.

Roux forces a smile as they make eye contact with the woman. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

The woman gives them a tentative smile back. “Likewise.” They’re relieved when she turns her attention back to Ambrose. “So we were just talking about …”

By that point, it feels safe for Roux to tune out, looking like they’re listening without really paying attention. Ambrose doesn’t expect them to participate, nor does he want them to. They nod at the right times, but otherwise lean against the wall and let their eyes wander.

The party isn’t very interesting, and their eyes start to glaze over as they scan the room. But, suddenly, a face across the room catches their attention—a very familiar face. They’re not even sure it’s him, but their heart starts racing anyway. They try not to get hopeful. It could be any tall guy with dark, slicked-back hair. Lots of guys look like that. But they’re almost sure …

The guy turns just right, giving Roux a clear look at his face, and their breath catches. His showy, bright smile falters as his dark eyes meet theirs. They almost can’t breathe. It’s Cruz.

Instinctively, their eyes dart over to Ambrose. He’s engrossed in a conversation, barely paying attention to Roux. When they glance back, Cruz is still standing across the room, staring at them. A surge of hope and anxiety flutters up in their chest. He tilts his head at them, probably dying to ask them where they’ve been all these months. But he doesn’t, and they immediately understand why: he’s on a job. He can’t blow his cover—and they can’t let on that they’ve recognized him, either.

Not knowing what else to do, they blink at him twice, hard, hoping he picks up the signal. That used to be kind of a joke on their team—blink twice if you need help—until they realized it was a useful way to send a message. They don’t use it often, but Roux hopes that Cruz understands.

Just to cover themself, Roux ducks their head and rubs their face, like they had something in their eye. When they look up, Cruz is gone.

They’re not sure what to make of it. But one thing is clear: they have to lose Ambrose.

When they turn back, he’s still invested in the conversation. They tug at his sleeve. “I’m going to use the bathroom,” they mutter. “It’s just over there.” They incline their head toward a side hallway they passed on the way in.

He frowns. Roux knows he doesn’t like the idea of letting them out of his sight, but it would be rude for him to abandon the group so abruptly. He keeps his voice low as he says, “You have three minutes.”

Three minutes. They’ve worked on worse time limits than that. They just hope the timing is a good enough excuse for how quickly they leave him.

They’re rushing, but a sense of relief washes over them as they step into that side hallway, out of Ambrose’s sight. How long has it been since they’ve been out in public without him breathing down their neck? It feels like they can finally breathe.

But they don’t have time to enjoy it. They move quickly, past the bathrooms, their eyes scanning the empty hall. They startle as a hand darts out of a darkened alcove and grabs their sleeve, pulling them in—and then they’re face-to-face with Cruz.

“Roux!” He looks elated to see them, gripping their shoulders like he’s afraid they’ll disappear. “I didn’t expect—where have you been?”

They want to hug him, but— “There’s no time,” they say. “He’ll start looking for me in two minutes. We have to get out of here.”

The look on his face hardens, all business, and he releases them. “I’m here on a job, but I’ll cut it short. The getaway is waiting out back.” A small, relieved grin sneaks onto his face. “The team will be so glad you’re okay.” Tentatively, they allow themself to smile back, hope bubbling up in their chest. God, they can’t wait to get back to their team.

Cruz checks both ways before leaving the alcove, and Roux follows close behind him. The hallway is deserted as the two of them make their way down it, their footsteps barely making a sound. Cruz turns a corner—

He lets out a choked noise, lurching forward and out of their sight. Roux’s stomach drops as they hurry after him, and they freeze.

Ambrose has an arm wrapped around Cruz’s chest and a knife pressed to his throat. Cruz stays perfectly still, his eyes wide—but Ambrose isn’t paying any attention to him. “Now,” Ambrose says quietly, pinning Roux with his gaze. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

Roux swallows, their eyes darting from Cruz’s panicked expression to Ambrose’s stony demeanor. They feel a surge of rage at Ambrose for ruining this so quickly. They want to swear at him, lunge and attack him—

But he would slit Cruz’s throat, and Roux would never forgive themself. A moment ago, all they could think about was getting the hell out of here. Now the only thought in their mind is how to save Cruz.

Ambrose raises an eyebrow, pressing the knife ever so slightly into Cruz’s throat. Cruz makes a small, choked noise, his eyes on Roux. He’s expecting them to attack, yell, threaten—act like themself.

They can’t. Not if they want him to live.

Tears spring up in Roux’s eyes, and they welcome it. Ambrose loves it when they cry; he says the tears bring out their eyes. Roux’s hands tremble, and they focus their watery gaze on Ambrose. “I’m—I’m sorry,” they choke out as the tears spill over their cheeks. “This is my fault, it was my idea—please, please don’t hurt him.”

They try to ignore the horror on Cruz’s face, try not to think about what must be running through his head, seeing them like this—because he’s never seen them like this. He’s seen them go through hell, but he’s never seen them cry and plead. They can’t help the shame that burns their cheeks at having to do this in front of him. They hope it makes them more convincing.

Ambrose’s gaze softens a fraction, but he keeps a tight grip on Cruz, the knife still pressed to his skin. “Tell me,” he says softly, “why I shouldn’t just slit his throat right now.”

Their stomach lurches, and the distress that surges through them isn’t an act. “Please don’t! It was my idea, I’m the one to blame, I’m sorry!”

Ambrose considers this, then says, “You wouldn’t have even tried to leave me if it wasn’t for him.” He presses the knife in deeper, drawing a bead of blood that trickles down Cruz’s neck. Roux gasps, but they force themself still.

Cruz flinches and takes a shuddery breath. “Bastard,” he breathes. “You fucking—”

The knife presses deeper, and Cruz shuts his mouth. Otherwise, it’s like he never spoke in the first place. Ambrose’s eyes remain glued to Roux. “Well?” he prompts.

“Please,” Roux whispers. “I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll—I’ll be so good. Just please, let him go.”

Ambrose hums thoughtfully, tilting his head. “I’m not sure if I believe you,” he says, dragging a thin red line across Cruz’s throat.

Before they can even think about it, their knees hit the floor. “Please!” they cry, tears streaming down their cheeks. “Please don’t hurt him!”

Ambrose’s eyes light up, and the knife goes still. He’s not smiling—of course he’s still angry at them; they’ll face the consequences later—but he’s pleased with their performance, and right now, that’s all that matters. He leans in to murmur in Cruz’s ear, “Why don’t you get back to the party, then. Before I change my mind.”

Ambrose releases him, and Cruz stumbles away, brushing a hand against his throat. But he’s not as worried about himself as he should be. “Roux?” he asks.

There’s a world of confusion and horror and pity in his voice, and they can’t stand it. They duck their head to hide their tear-stained face, burning with shame. “Go,” they whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

Cruz hesitates. “You heard them,” Ambrose says. He’s probably brandishing the knife, a silent threat. Roux doesn’t look up to check.

Cruz lets out a shaky exhale, and then they hear his footsteps retreating. A mix of relief and soul-crushing disappointment floods Roux’s chest. They didn’t escape. Cruz gets to walk away, but … they don’t.

They flinch as Ambrose approaches, but he only holds out his hand. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

They take his hand. Once they’re on their feet, they keep their head bowed, scared to even look at him. He wraps an arm tightly around their shoulders and leads them down the hallway, away from the ballroom. This must be the way he came when he cut Cruz off. Roux should have thought about alternate routes; they should have realized that Ambrose noticed them acting strange. They know better than to make mistakes like that. But maybe they’re rusty after spending all this time with Ambrose.

Ambrose squeezes their shoulder. “I need to keep you on a tighter leash.”

They nod as if they agree, feeling empty, and they let Ambrose lead them away.

[ziptiesnfries]

Mine

Roux and Ambrose masterpost

tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @transgender-scout @gala1981 @laniakea0100

CWs: captivity, branding/noncon body modification, vomiting

The fireplace crackles as Ambrose leads Roux into the sitting room. “I want you to meet someone,” he murmurs, squeezing their shoulder.

Anxiety spikes through Roux’s heart. All this time, they’ve been alone in Ambrose’s house. Except for a handful of bodyguards and housekeepers, who Roux isn’t allowed to talk to, the place is always empty. Someone who they’re allowed to talk to can’t be good news.

Ambrose steers them into the room, and a man with long, dark hair stands from one of the plush leather armchairs. A myriad of tattoos adorn his hands and neck, peeking out from beneath his long sleeves. “Roux, this is Len,” says Ambrose. “He’s a tattoo artist.”

Realization dawns on them. They step back. “No.”

Ambrose sighs, his hands planted firmly on their shoulders as he nudges them ahead. “See, this is exactly why this is necessary,” he murmurs. “You keep forgetting who you belong to.”

“I’m not getting a tattoo,” they snap. Disgust coils in their stomach at the idea of being marked like that—marked as his.

“Oh, come on, it won’t be so bad,” Ambrose says, as if the pain is the issue. “I got one too, see?” He pushes up his sleeve and turns his arm over, revealing a slightly-scabbed tattoo on the inside of his wrist: black cursive lettering that says Roux.

Now they feel like they’re going to be sick. “How long have you had that?” They want him to take it back, get it removed, however you get rid of those things. They don’t want their name permanently etched on his body.

He just laughs and rolls his sleeve back down. “I wanted it to be a surprise. But, anyway, if I can get one, so can you.”

“I won’t,” they say stubbornly. They glance over at Len, who looks unfazed by the interaction. They wonder how much Ambrose is paying him for this.

“Come on,” Ambrose says, “just a little one on your wrist.”

They cross their arms, pressing their wrists against their stomach. “No.”

Len makes eye contact with Ambrose. “I can’t tattoo someone who won’t sit still.”

A small, triumphant smile curls Roux’s lips. If they won’t sit still, they can’t get the tattoo. He can make them do a lot of things, but he can’t make them do this.

Ambrose circles around and kneels in front of them, his voice low. “Sweetheart, if you don’t sit nice for Len and get a little tattoo, you’re going to find your next option much less pleasant. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

They stiffen. Ambrose always follows through with his threats. But they can’t bear the thought of sitting still while his name is etched into their skin. “I’m not getting a fucking tattoo,” they say firmly.

He gives them a pitying look as he stands. “Len, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

Len shrugs, like he doesn’t care one way or another. Ambrose leads him out of the sitting room, money passing hands. Roux just watches, wary and silent in front of the crackling fireplace. They wonder if Ambrose will make good on his threat today or wait until later. They can’t decide which would be worse.

When Ambrose returns, he has four of his men in tow. Roux’s stomach drops, their blood running cold. Today, then, they think numbly. Definitely today.

The men stand at attention, blocking the exit. Roux takes a step back as Ambrose approaches, but he’s not heading for them. He stops in front of the fireplace, silhouetted by the flames. “Well,” he says, putting on a regretful grimace, “I guess we’re going with the backup plan.”

He grabs a long, metal rod leaned up against the fireplace. Roux’s first thought is that he’s going to beat them with it—but then they see that the end is disc-shaped, ridged with some kind of pattern. The blood drains from their face.

He grips the branding iron in both hands, a funeral-like solemness on his face. “I gave you another option, Roux. But you didn’t want to take it.”

“I …” Their mouth goes dry, hands trembling. He can’t be serious. He can’t really mean to … “Ambrose, please.” But he turns and pushes aside the fireplace grate, thrusting the iron into the flames.

Roux’s legs move on their own. They try to shove past Ambrose’s men, but the men wrestle them back into the sitting room, hands grabbing and shoving. Roux’s back hits the oriental carpet, and their wrists are pinned above their head, their ankles held down. They struggle, their breath coming in short gasps. Their voice pitches up in panic. “Ambrose, please, you don’t have to—”

Ambrose turns, the iron glowing red-hot in his hands. They suddenly realize the brand is far too big for their wrist, and their mouth goes dry as one of the men yanks up their shirt to expose their stomach. There’s a beat of stillness before they start struggling harder. “Ambrose, please!” they shout. “Please don’t—”

Even from a foot away, they can feel the heat radiating off the iron as it hovers over them. Their stomach tenses, a whimper escaping their lips There’s no sympathy on Ambrose’s face. “I warned you.” Then he presses the iron into their skin.

A scream tears from their throat. For a terrifying moment, their vision goes white, and they think they’re going to pass out. They hope they’re going to pass out. The pain is excruciating, burning into their side like their body is on fire. They writhe and scream, but the hands hold them steady, pinning them still as the brand burns into them.

Finally, the brand pulls away. They don’t feel lucid anymore, but they swear it takes a chunk of skin with it. The hands release them, and for a moment, they just go limp, gasping.

Then the scent of their own charred flesh hits their nostrils, and nausea roils in their stomach. They just barely make it to their knees before they retch onto the carpet. Keeling over just makes the pain worse, but they can’t stop the coughing. They wince at a clang behind them—the brand dropping onto the hearth—and then Ambrose kneels beside them, holding their hair back. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Finally, Roux sits back, panting. There’s a sour taste in their mouth, pain radiating up from their side, feeling raw where their shirt brushes against it. When they finally look up, they’re alone with Ambrose, none of his men in sight. For a brief, delirious moment, they wonder whether they imagined being pinned to the ground, because they don’t remember the men leaving. Maybe they just fainted, their stupid, feeble body giving out on them …

They retch a few more times before finally slumping over. Ambrose wraps an arm around their shoulders. “Here, c’mon, let’s get you up.” He gingerly helps them to their feet. Once they’re upright, their head spins, but he holds them steady, leading them back to the basement.

They barely make it through the bedroom door before collapsing. Somewhere along the way, they started crying, and they can’t tell if it’s from the pain burning in their side or the horrific violation of the whole ordeal. Their arms shake as they desperately try to hold themself up.

Ambrose gives up on trying to get them upright and instead scoops them up into his arms. They cry out as it jostles their burn. “Sorry, sweetheart, sorry,” he murmurs, crossing the room quickly to lay them on the bed.

He disappears for a moment, rummaging around in the bathroom. They stare at the ceiling and try to breathe. Despite the heat radiating from the burn, they’re shivering.

He returns quickly, putting the first-aid kit down on the nightstand. “How are you doing?”

They swallow and realize they still have that bile taste in their mouth, but they don’t have the energy to do anything about it. Slowly, they angle their head to face him, voicing the thought that’s been running through the back of their mind. “You did that on purpose.”

He pauses slightly as he’s rummaging through the first-aid kit. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

The fire was already lit when he brought them into the sitting room. Len seemed unfazed by the whole thing, and didn’t ask any questions when he was dismissed. And the house is normally empty, except for the two of them, but Ambrose had four of his men on standby today.

“You …” Roux’s hands claw into the comforter. “You were never going to fucking tattoo me. You knew I wouldn’t do it.” They squeeze their eyes shut, their head spinning. Bastard. Fucking sadistic bastard—

They hear a jar open and flinch as Ambrose lifts their shirt to check on the burn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is calm and level. “I warned you that the second option was less pleasant, yes, but you know I hate hurting you.”

Their eyes fly open, and they shove his hands away. A jar of ointment clatters to the floor. “You love hurting me,” they snap, their voice choked.

He gives them a wounded look, and the irony of it isn’t lost on them. He cups their cheek. “Roux, you know I’d never hurt you unless it’s absolutely necessary.” The bile-taste in their mouth is overwhelming, and they wrench their face away from him, squeezing their eyes shut. He sighs and retrieves the ointment from the ground. His hands are gentle as he applies it to the wound, but it still makes them wince. “I wish you’d make things easier on yourself,” he says. “I just want what’s best for you, sweetheart. I thought this would be a reminder of that.”

They turn their face away and let him tape gauze over the wound. They try not to think about what the mark will look like, burned into their skin forever.

Once he’s done, he kisses their forehead. “I love you,” he murmurs. They turn away and let the tears roll down their cheeks.

[ziptiesnfries]

A to Z Lab Whump Prompts

Amputation

Biopsy

Cloning

Defibrillation

Experiment

Forceps

Gurney

Hazmat

IV drip

Jump

Keel over

Lab coat

Mortality

Needles

Operating table

Plexiglas

Quarantine

Reanimation

Scalpel

Toxin

Unconscious

Vivisection

Withdrawal

X-ray

Yell

Zapped

Feel free to send combinations of words; make things interesting!

[ziptiesnfries]

Upstairs

kinda continued from here - Roux & Ambrose masterpost

tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @transgender-scout @gala1981

Takes place a week into Roux’s captivity

CWs: captivity, drugged food, creepy whumper, panic attack

The door creaks, and suddenly Roux is wide awake, bolting upright in bed. They blink the bleariness out of their eyes to see Ambrose standing in the doorway, the scent of bacon wafting in behind him. Despite themself, their mouth begins to water; he neglected to feed them yesterday, and now they’re sure it was on purpose. “Good morning,” he chirps. “I made you breakfast. Are you hungry?”

On cue, their stomach growls, and their face turns red. They shove the covers off their legs and hop to the floor, stumbling at the drop—they’re still not used to sleeping in a bed that’s so high off the ground.

Ambrose smiles at them, like he thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world that they’re too short to reach the floor. They want to strangle him. “Come on.” He motions them towards the door. “It’s going to get cold.”

Warily, they follow behind him. He hasn’t let them out of the bedroom yet, so they’re curious—and a little scared—to see what the rest of this place looks like.

Just beyond the door, there’s an open living room and kitchenette area, with small windows set high into the walls. Beyond the windows, all Roux can see is grass. So this is Ambrose’s basement. That explains why the bedroom—as nice and normal-looking as it is otherwise—doesn’t have any windows.

They want to keep looking around, get more familiar with their surroundings so that maybe they can find a way out, but Ambrose puts a hand on their back and guides them over to the kitchen table. There’s one place set, the plate heaped with pancakes and bacon, a glass of orange juice sitting next to it. Suddenly Roux is having a hard time concentrating on anything else.

But they’re not hungry enough to be stupid about it. They sit at the table, eyeing the plate warily. Ambrose takes the chair across from them, a perfectly innocent smile on his face. “Well?” he prompts.

Again, their stomach growls, reminding them that they can’t afford not to eat. They pick up their fork and take a small bite of bacon. That should be safe, right? It would be hard to subtly drug bacon. Unless it was cooked in something, their brain helpfully supplies. It tastes normal enough. They keep eating, trying to reassure themself that if Ambrose wanted to kill them, he would’ve done it already. But it’s not so comforting when they know that he could do a lot worse than kill them.

The way he’s watching them right now, for example, the same way he might watch a cute animal video, is a lot worse than death. “Do you have to stare at me like a fucking creep?” they ask, just before taking a tiny, tentative bite of pancake. It practically melts in their mouth; it might be the best pancake they’ve ever had. They swallow, still trying to decipher whether it tastes drugged.

Ambrose’s smile falls. “You’re very rude, sweetheart.” His expression clears quickly, though, and he rests his chin on his hand. “You’re lucky you’re so adorable.”

They glare at him, trying not to squirm under his invasive gaze. Another bite of pancake, larger this time. They wonder whether Ambrose really made this himself, but a glance behind him shows pans on the stove and utensils in the sink. Maybe the entitled rich boy does know how to cook.

They decide that the pancakes taste safe enough, and also that they’re too hungry to care. “I’m not adorable,” they finally reply as they eat another forkful of pancake. “You’re just deranged.”

It might be unwise for them to taunt their captor like that, but he just laughs. “Like I said, you’re very rude. We’ll have to work on that.” They don’t want to know what he means by that. Hopefully they’ll be out of here long before they find out.

They finally get around to the orange juice. One tiny sip, and they’re already sure it tastes wrong, something extra under the tanginess. But they keep their expression indifferent as they swallow, putting the glass down. They’re not drinking any more of that.

Then the first wave of dizziness washes over them, and they almost drop their fork. What the hell? They blink, trying to snap themself out of it, hoping desperately that it’s a fluke. Then they start feeling a little drowsy, their muscles weakening, and they know it’s not. But they only drank a tiny little bit of the orange juice—that wouldn’t be enough to do this to them. Would it?

A slow, pleased smile spreads across Ambrose’s face as he notices. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

They grip the edge of the table, partially out of rage, and partially to keep themself balanced. “What did you do?” they hiss.

“Oh, well, I did put a light sedative in those pancakes. Just something to keep you calm.” Right now, they feel anything but calm. Their vision is getting blurry, and they don’t even realize they’re listing to the side until Ambrose reaches across the table to steady them. He quickly gets up to help them out of their chair. “Careful, there. No need to panic; I’m not going to hurt you.”

They shove him away, but it makes them lose their balance. Suddenly they’re sitting on the floor with Ambrose looming over them. He scoops them up in his arms. “Let … let go of me.” They try to claw at him, but their muscles feel so weak.

“Shh, it’s okay.” He bounces them a little, like he’s trying to calm a baby, as he carries them across the basement. “I just wanted to take you upstairs with me, and I couldn’t have you running off. You don’t have to do anything, okay? Just relax.”

“Put me down,” they whine, but they’re already going limp in his arms, their head lolling against his chest.

Ambrose carries them to the back of the basement and up a flight of stairs. Part of them wants to just close their eyes, give into the drowsiness, but they force themself to pay attention. Maybe this is finally their chance to figure out how to get out of here … Ambrose nudges open a door at the top of the stairs, emerging into a hallway with dark wood paneling. Once he starts moving, though, all sense of clarity is lost. The space passes Roux by in blurs of dark wood, gilded paintings, brass light fixtures … It makes them dizzy, trying to watch it all blur by. Finally, the nausea forces them to close their eyes.

A door creaks, and a moment later, Ambrose sets Roux down on a soft surface. Their eyes crack open long enough to see him leaning over them, with the vague outline of a wall of bookshelves in the background. He gently lifts their head to slide a pillow underneath, and they feel like a ragdoll in his hands, too drugged up to move a muscle. “I’ll just be working at my desk.” He strokes their hair, and although it makes their skin crawl, they can’t find the strength to flinch away. “Let me know if you need anything, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you.” It’s hard to put any venom behind the words, but they try.

He pats their cheek as he stands up. “We’ll work on your attitude problem later.” Their eyes slip shut as his footsteps recede.

Without much else to do, they doze. Occasionally, briefly, they try to look around, but moving their eyes too much still makes their head spin. Judging by the bookshelves and the desk across from where they’re lying, they gather that this is some kind of office. Or, rather, a study; someone as pretentious as Ambrose would probably call it a study.

For a while, the only noises are typing and quiet sighs from Ambrose. Roux tries to sleep, tries not to think about the fact that he only brought them up here to stare at them. What a fucking creep. At least they know how to get out of the basement now, but the information isn’t doing them much good in this condition. Maybe another time, though, when Ambrose trusts them enough not to drug them … they don’t know how they’re going to build that trust. They don’t even want to be here long enough for that, really, but unless they get really lucky, they doubt they’ll get an opening. He’s had them locked in the basement for the past week; he’s being careful. But maybe they can find something to pick the lock with, and maybe there’s some other way out of the basement, like a cellar door …

The soft sound of rain against the window panes snaps Roux out of their sleepy ponderings. Their stomach jolts, and they take a deep, shaky breath. It’s just rain, they reassure themself. Nothing to worry about. It’s not like it’s—

A low rumble starts up in the distance, and the blood freezes in their veins. They squeeze their eyes shut and take another breath. Please, not here, not now. Not in front of—

The thunder gets louder, and they swear they hear the windows rattle. A whimper slips past their lips, and the show of weakness makes them wince, even with the panic setting in.

“Roux?” Ambrose’s chair creaks. “What’s wrong?” They open their mouth to respond, but another rumble of thunder cuts them off. Their breath hitches as they tighten their arms across their chest, like that’ll keep their heart from pounding out of control. “Oh.” He laughs a little. “It’s just thunder, sweetheart. It won’t hurt you.”

That’s what everyone says. That’s what people have been telling Roux since they were a little kid, hiding under the bed with their ears covered to escape a storm. But knowing that it won’t hurt them doesn’t stop their heart from pounding, their chest constricting, their head going fuzzy every time they hear thunder in the distance. It may be true that thunder is only a sound, that it can’t hurt them. But the lightning? That will hurt them. The fact that it never has before doesn’t stop the gut-churning certainty that it’s going to kill them.

As if on cue, right as they open their eyes, a flash of light illuminates the bookshelves. Their chest constricts, and they begin to sob.

“Oh, sweetheart …” They hear Ambrose hurrying over, but the sound is quickly muffled as they clamp their hands over their ears and curl into a ball. Part of them is mortified to be doing this in front of Ambrose, exposing a weakness he could use against them. They desperately want to stop crying, but their body won’t let them. Every flash of light they see from behind their eyelids—even if they know it’s just their eyes playing tricks on them—sends them into hysterics all over again.

Ambrose gently lifts them up to sit beside them, but even that doesn’t snap them out of it. He pets their hair, pulling their head into his lap, and they can vaguely hear him murmuring reassurances, but the low rumble of his voice just sounds like more thunder. They can’t stop crying, can’t even control their limbs enough to pull away. They feel mortified and pathetic as they sob into his shirt and let him hold them, even though all he’s doing is making them feel worse.

Finally, he scoops them up into his arms and carries them out of the room. It’s almost a relief to be out of the study, if only because it means they’re farther away from the windows—Although the lightning could always strike the house and burn it down, their brain helpfully adds in. They grit their teeth and bury their face in Ambrose’s shirt. It’s a relief when he takes them back the way they came, back down into the basement, with its lack of windows and relative sound insulation.

He sets them down on the bed, and they curl into a ball, tentatively removing their hands from their ears. Right now, they can’t hear any thunder, but they don’t think being in the basement would completely block out the sound anyway. They’re still tense, ready for it to start up again.

The bed dips as Ambrose sits beside them, rubbing their back. “So,” he says lightly, “you’re afraid of storms?”

They jerk away. “Shut up,” they hiss, their voice thick with tears. “Just shut the fuck up.”

His hand chases after them, and he continues rubbing their back. They grit their teeth and begrudgingly allow it—they’re too exhausted and drugged to keep squirming away from him. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Everyone’s afraid of something, aren’t they?”

“I said, shut up.” Their face burns with humiliation. This is why they didn’t want to do this in front of him—because he’s so goddamn smug about it, using it as an excuse to get closer to them, to baby them.

“I hate to tell you this,” he says, “but there are a few storms in the forecast for this week.” They know he’s just trying to get a reaction out of them, but still, their whole body goes rigid. “But don’t worry, sweetheart,” he continues, “you’re perfectly safe down here. Maybe we’ll hold off on having you hang out upstairs for a little while.”

They’re too exhausted to argue with him or to retort that they’re anything but safe down here. They bury their face in a pillow and let him pretend to comfort them.

[ziptiesnfries]

Do Not Open Before Christmas

Box Bastards Masterpost

tag list: @spectral-whumpy-writer @transgender-scout

CWs: pet whump, unconventional restraints

“Merry Christmas!”

Lynx jolts awake, groaning. Their body aches, and their cheek is smushed against the carpet. Something stiff digs into their arms and legs, and there’s more of it wrapped around their head, securing a gag in their mouth. What the fuck happened last night? They struggle to remember as they blink the grit out of their eyes.

Kennedy stands over them in his plaid pajama pants, wearing a Santa hat. “Look at you, all wrapped up and quiet,” he coos, kneeling down to admire his own handiwork. “This is the best present I could ask for.”

They try to say fuck off, but it comes out garbled from behind the gag. As they roll over onto their back, pine needles tickle their cheek. The lights of the Christmas tree twinkle above them. It makes their head ache in a familiar way. Right. Kennedy drugged them, and then …

They glance down and glimpse the shiny lengths of red ribbon crisscrossing their body. Now it’s coming back to them.

Kennedy hooks his fingers through the ribbons and, with a little effort, hauls them upright. Their head swims, but he holds them steady. “Aww, look at you!” He grins, and there’s a plasticky crinkle as he pats the top of their head—that’s when they remember the bow. “Should I keep you like this, or should I cut you loose? Hmm? Will you be nice for me if I untie you?” They growl at him through the gag, and he laughs. “Oh, come on, Spike. That can’t be comfortable.”

It isn’t. Their hands are numb, and the hard plastic edges of the ribbon are cutting into their skin. But they continue to glare at him, unwilling to back down.

Finally, Kennedy sighs. “Well, I probably shouldn’t keep you like this for too much longer, anyway.” He fishes something out of his pocket, and they flinch at the scrape of a switchblade flipping open. “Now, hold still.”

He works slowly, from bottom to top, peeling ribbon out of the deep grooves in their bare arms and untangling the knots around their legs. They stay as still as they can, their breath stuttering every time the blade gets too close.

Unfortunately, the gag is the last thing to go. They spit it out and rub at the sores left on their cheeks. “Fuck you.”

“Hey, that’s no way to talk on Christmas.” Kennedy sets aside his knife and stands up. “And to think, I actually got you a present.” They glare at him, but he holds out his hands innocently. “No, really. If you’re good this morning, I’ll give it to you.”

Their eyes narrow. “You’re fucking with me.” The present is probably … a shock collar, or a whip, or something equally awful. He’d never give them something they actually want.

Kennedy shrugs. “Well, if you’re good, you’ll find out, won’t you?”

They’re still wary, but their aching body and dizzy head don’t give them much of a choice. “Fine,” they mutter. “I’ll … be good.” Their tongue tastes bitter, and they can’t tell if it’s from their surrender or from the gag.

“That’s the spirit!” He ruffles their hair. They flinch and bat his hands away, but he’s already distracted again, kneeling by the wrapped boxes under the tree. “Now, let’s see what I got for Christmas …”

Lynx finds a spot by the couch and dozes as Kennedy opens gifts from his friends and family. How did a dick like Kennedy get so many gifts? Lynx didn’t even know that he knew so many people—but, then, they don’t get out of the house much. They half-listen to him murmuring his appreciation over new clothes, bags of fancy coffee beans, and other uninteresting human things. Mostly they’re just relieved that he’s distracted.

“Oh, look, Spike,” says Kennedy, rousing them from their sleep. “My parents sent you some treats! Do you want one?” He shakes the box at them. The image on the front has a biscuit with some kind of sugary, sprinkle-covered coating. Lynx’s mouth waters, but they press their lips together and shake their head. Right on cue, their stomach growls. “Alright, c’mere, Spike.”

Reluctantly, Lynx crawls over to him. It’s only slightly less humiliating that he’s sitting on the floor, too, but the smug look on his face doesn’t make it any better. He pulls a biscuit out of the box and holds it teasingly in front of them. “Open up,” he says with a grin.

“I have hands, you know,” they mutter.

They reach up to take the biscuit, but he catches their wrist and leans in. “I know,” he says. “But you’re being a good little pet so you can get your reward later, and you know how this goes. So open up.”

Their face burns, but they open their mouth. As soon as the biscuit is between their lips, they bite down and yank it away. Half of it falls into their lap, but they grab it and shove it in their mouth. The biscuit is as sweet as it looks, and they practically drool over it, devouring it with embarrassing speed.

Kennedy chuckles and scratches their head. They flinch away, licking the crumbs from their lips. “Good pet. Want another?”

Their stomach still feels hollow, and they can taste leftover sugar on their tongue. They cross their arms and open their mouth.

He looks delighted as he holds out another treat, and they grab it so fast that their teeth graze his fingers. “Hey,” he warns. But his tone softens as he scratches their head again. They’re too busy trying not to choke on the too-big bite to pull away this time. “Alright, no more treats for now. I’ll get you your breakfast in a little bit.”

Still burning with embarrassment, Lynx retreats back to their spot by the couch. The rest of Kennedy’s presents go quickly, and soon the floor is littered with red and green paper and lengths of ribbon that Lynx eyes warily. But Kennedy just tosses it all in a trash bag. Lynx’s sore wrists ache with relief.

Once everything’s cleaned up, there’s just one present left under the tree. With a smug grin, Kennedy brings it over and deposits it on Lynx’s lap. The box is bigger than they expected, but not particularly heavy. For a moment, they just stare. “Aren’t you going to open it?” Kennedy prompts.

They swallow down the dread and slowly rip open the package. They lift the lid and flinch automatically, because they were expecting something horrible, not … something red and fuzzy?

Hesitantly, they pull the thing out of the box, and it unfurls into a blanket. It’s thick, not like the flimsy little one they have on their bed now, and it looks big enough to cover their whole body. All they can do is blink at it, their fingers curling in the soft, plush material.

“Well?” Their stomach jolts at the sound of Kennedy’s voice. “Do you like it?”

When they look up, Kennedy is giving them an expectant look that they can’t read. Their voice jams in their throat. Are they supposed to like it? What’s the catch?

They pause for too long. Kennedy leans over them, and they flinch away, but all he does is remove the empty box from their lap. They’re still holding up the blanket in front of them like a curtain, unsure of what to do with it.

He gives them a teasing grin as he pulls it from their hands. Their stomach jolts in anticipation, but it’s almost a relief. Of course it’s not really theirs. He’s fucking with them, like usual.

Then the blanket settles over their lap, and he ruffles their hair. “You’re so slow,” he chuckles. “It’s yours. Go ahead, use it.”

They raise an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna … kick me in the ribs or something?”

He rolls his eyes and sits down on the couch, his hand tangled in their hair. They unsuccessfully try to squirm away. “It’s Christmas, Spike. I wanted to do something nice for you. But if you’re going to be an ungrateful little bastard about it …” His hand hovers over the edge of the blanket. They tighten their grip on it. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. What do you say?”

They pull the blanket up to their shoulders and lean against the side of the couch. The blanket is so soft, it doesn’t even chafe against the marks on their arms. “Thank you,” they mutter begrudgingly.

He sighs. “You know, I really thought your reaction would be more like those cute pet videos …” He scratches their scalp, making them shudder and duck their head away. “But you’re welcome. Merry Christmas.”

It’s warm under the blanket, and even sitting up, Lynx feels themself getting sleepy. They rest their head against the back of the couch, mostly convinced that Kennedy isn’t going to hurt them right now. “Merry Christmas,” they murmur back.

[ziptiesnfries]

Roux & Ambrose - Masterpost

Roux, a fiery criminal for hire, finds themself in the clutches of Ambrose Lacrosse, a shady businessman who thinks they're just the cutest little thing.

Common CWs: captivity, kidnapping, physical violence, dehumanization, creepy/affectionate whumper

The Story:

The Interrogation: Part 1 & Part 2

Captured

Upstairs

Mine

The Party

(Side note: Roux and Ambrose were also the stars of my previous series, The Apprentice, but I'm pretty much rebooting them. I'll leave The Apprentice posted for posterity, but it's not canon in terms of what I'm writing now, hence the new masterpost.)

[ziptiesnfries]

Captured

Roux & Ambrose masterpost

CWs: kidnapping, knives, creepy/affectionate whumper, drugging w/ needles, referenced past torture

It’s almost eight weeks before Roux is allowed out on a job again. It wasn’t supposed to be that long—they were just supposed to take enough time off for their finger to heal—but the team has been a little … over-protective. Sometimes it seems like they were more rattled by Roux’s torture than Roux was. Normally, it wouldn’t bother Roux that much; they know their team cares about them, and it’s nice to be cared about. But after what happened with Ambrose, Roux isn’t in the mood to be coddled. They just want to get back to work.

The job is to pass off a flash drive to a client. The location is a busy coffeehouse in broad daylight—very low-risk. Roux is a little irritated that Lyon is starting them off with something so easy, but they don’t complain about it. Soon he’ll be assigning them real missions again. For now, they’ll at least prove to him that they can handle this.

It goes off without a hitch. Roux meets the client, a dark-haired woman in a pantsuit, and slides the flash drive across the table. Aside from some bickering about their age—Are you old enough to be doing this?; Hey, listen, do you want the drive or not?—the client is respectful, checking the contents of the drive on her laptop before dismissing them. It takes five minutes. Easy.

They shoot off a text to Lyon on their way out: Done. I’ll be back in 20. Then they pocket their phone and head back to their car. Maybe after this, Lyon will give them a job that actually takes longer to do than it takes to get there …

As they cross the parking lot, a figure comes out of nowhere, wrapping an arm around them. Roux jumps, beginning to pull away—but they freeze as a cold blade slides under their shirt, pressing against their skin. “There you are,” purrs a low voice. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Roux’s blood runs cold as they recognize him: Ambrose. How the hell did he …?

Panic squeezes their chest, but they stay very still, eyes darting around. The parking lot is in the back of the coffee house. None of the windows face out this way, and there’s no one else out here. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Before they can gather their wits, Ambrose continues, “Do you have a phone on you, sweetheart?”

Roux can hear the blood rushing in their ears, and their own voice sounds far away when they respond, “No.”

The knife presses into their skin, threatening to draw blood, as Ambrose chuckles. “You little liar. Take it out and drop it.”

Feeling numb, they do as they’re told. The crack of their phone against the pavement makes them wince. Lyon should be able to track my phone, they think to themself, a ghost of hope. But they just told him they’d be back in twenty minutes. By the time Lyon realizes anything’s wrong, they could be anywhere. It would’ve been better to keep their phone on them, but with the knife pressed against their stomach, they’re not going to risk grabbing it.

“Good.” Ambrose’s breath brushes their ear, and they swallow down the bile crawling up their throat. “Now come with me.”

Briskly, with the blade still pressed against them, he walks them to the edge of the parking lot. Out of the corner of their eye, they see him fiddling with a key fob, and the trunk of a sleek black car pops open as the two of them approach. “Get in,” says Ambrose.

Their heart leaps into their throat, and they decide, in that moment, that they would rather die than get in Ambrose’s trunk. They grab his wrist and wrench the knife away as they twist away from him. He shoves them, and their back hits the tail light.

When they met him before, they were either sitting or kneeling, so they didn’t exactly have a concept of just how tall he is. He looms over them, his body pinning theirs in place, and suddenly the knife is against their neck. They swallow as he meets their eyes. “I’d really hate to hurt you, sweetheart,” he says, and he looks like he means it, even as he presses the knife into the soft, vulnerable skin of their throat. “But I will if I have to.”

“What do you want?” They wince at the feebleness of their own voice. Some distant part of their brain scolds them for not handling this better. They’ve been in more dangerous situations than this without panicking. But with Ambrose pressed up against them, staring at them like that …

“You,” he whispers. A violent chill runs down their spine, and they stare at him. He tilts his head and smiles, his gaze filled with affection. “I just want you.”

They hear a little pop, and they don’t have time to react before something sharp jabs into their shoulder. A moment later, Ambrose holds up an empty syringe and pulls the knife away from their throat. “There,” he says. “Now you’ll be a little more compliant, hm?”

Panic spikes through them, and they curse themself for letting Ambrose distract them like that. They shove him away, but they don’t get very far before he grabs the collar of their shirt, hauling them back to the car. “Let go of—mmph!”

His hand clamps down over their mouth. They desperately hope that someone heard them yelling, but it still doesn’t seem like there’s anyone else around. “Shh,” he murmurs, shoving them towards the trunk. “Just relax, you’ll be asleep soon.”

Their breath comes in short gasps through their nose as he manhandles them into the trunk, keeping his hand over their mouth until the last possible second. The moment he lets go, they scream as loud as they can—even though they’re already inside the trunk, even though their limbs are growing weak and their eyelids heavy—they scream. This time, Ambrose doesn’t even try to shut them up. He just nudges their limbs out of the way and slams the trunk shut.

They pound against the ceiling, their throat turning raw as the engine roars to life. They only stop to gasp for air. They’ve never been claustrophobic, so maybe it’s the drugs or the adrenaline coursing through them, but suddenly they feel like they can’t breathe. Spots dance in their vision, and they gulp in a lungful of air, feeling panicked and stupid and dizzy.

Slowly but surely, their struggles grow weaker. They’re clinging to consciousness by a thread, trying to pay attention to where the car might be going, but all they can feel is rocking, bumping motions as the car speeds along. Their hands fall limply to their chest, and their ragged breathing slows as everything finally fades away.

[ziptiesnfries]

The Interrogation, part 2

part 1 - tag list: @gala1981 - Roux & Ambrose masterpost

CWs: water torture, manhandling, previously broken finger, creepy/intimate whumper, minor character death, blood, knives

Roux gasps and splutters as the interrogator yanks their head out of the icy water. Immediately, they start coughing, water pouring out of their mouth. Once they’re able to drag in a full breath, they start, “I t-told you—I told you everything I know—”

After Ambrose left, the interrogator came back with a metal tub, and Roux had finally cracked. The details of the job they’d been given spilled from their lips, a desperate attempt at avoiding further pain.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Even after they talked, the interrogator dragged them to the tub and pushed them under. Over, and over, and over.

The interrogator drops them. With their hands tied behind their back, they’re in no position to catch themself, and they wince as the edge of the tub smacks their ribs. They can hear the indifferent shrug in the interrogator’s voice as he says, “Boss said to dunk you anyway.”

“Why?” they demand. Why would Ambrose want them to keep getting tortured if not for information? Punishment?

They try to struggle upright, but the interrogator keeps a firm grip on the back of their neck. Again, his voice is indifferent. “Not my business.” Then he shoves them back under.

It’s getting harder and harder to hold their breath long enough, and they start inhaling water a moment before the torturer lets them up again. They lean against the edge of the tub and shiver as they hack up what they just swallowed. Water drips down their shoulders, soaking their shirt. It didn’t feel cold in here before, but suddenly it’s like the AC is on full blast. They wonder if that’s something else Ambrose ordered.

Finally, the interrogator sighs, releasing his grip. “I think that’s enough,” he mutters. “It better be, anyway.” Roux feels pathetically grateful as his footsteps recede, relieved to hear the door shut behind him.

They try to shuffle away from the tub, but they lose their balance and land in the cold puddle next to it. Their shoulder hits the floor, the movement jostling their broken finger. Shit.

Roux squeezes their eyes shut and takes a deep, shuddering breath, wishing their team would just show up and rescue them already. How long have they been here? It’s hard to tell—it feels like a long time. Interrogations never feel short, even when they are. But this hardly counts as an interrogation anymore.

They startle as the door opens again, and they find the energy to struggle up to their knees. What now? they wonder desperately. Did the interrogator change his mind? They don’t think they can survive more waterboarding.

But when they finally get themself upright, they see Ambrose approaching. Dread fills their stomach as he grins at them. “Aw, look at you—you’re soaked.”

“Fuck you!” Roux snaps. The sudden effort triggers a coughing fit, and they double over, trying not to lose their balance. Ambrose patiently waits for them to finish, quiet as they straighten up and glare at him. “I told him everything you need to know—”

“I know.” He crouches down, and they realize he’s holding a towel under his arm. “Thank you for that, sweetheart, I really appreciate it. I thought you might want to be dried off.”

They narrow their eyes, trying to figure out what kind of sick game he’s playing. “I’m fine,” they mutter. They’re still shivering, kneeling in a puddle of cold water, but whatever he’s offering, they don’t want it.

“Oh, come on, you must be freezing.” He drapes the towel around their shoulders, rubbing it up and down their arms.

They flinch away. “Don’t touch me—ah, fuck!” Their back hits the tub, and their broken finger pushes up against it. They lurch away—and right into Ambrose’s waiting arms.

For a moment, they’re so startled that they can’t even move. He wraps his arms around them, pulling them into his lap, and suddenly their head is pressed against his chest as he rubs their back. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “Oh, you’re even lighter than I thought you were …”

Their face flushes a deep red. “What the hell are you doing?” they hiss. “Let go of me!”

“Aw, but you’re just so cute like—ow!” His jaw snaps shut as they headbutt him in the chin. They only get a small moment of satisfaction before he yanks their hair back, glaring at them sternly, the same way he might scold a dog. “Hey. Don’t be like that, sweetheart; I’m trying to help you.”

They scowl back at him, still uncomfortably aware that they’re sitting in his lap. “What the fuck?” they demand. “Are you—” Their stomach twists. “Are you trying to flirt with me or something?”

For a moment, he looks confused. Then he starts laughing—a deep, full laugh, like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Oh, no, no, of course not. That would be like—like flirting with a teddy bear. Or a puppy.”

Their face gets even redder, their thoughts going from relieved to offended. They get the urge to headbutt him again, but he’s still gripping their hair, keeping them from moving. “I’m a fucking adult, first of all,” they snap. They’re certainly mature enough to handle romance—they just don’t want it from him.

“Oh, I know.” He grins at them fondly, and their skin crawls as his fingers scratch against their scalp. “But you’re so adorable.”

Usually, when people call them cute, Roux either brushes it off or takes advantage. After all, it’s easier to be a criminal for hire when no one expects it—and, being under five feet tall, most people expect some kind of sweet, innocent demeanor from them. Roux works with it. But here, wrapped up in Ambrose’s arms, being seen as cute is starting to feel like a serious liability.

Roux shoves their shoulder against Ambrose’s chest, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect on him. “You’re a creep,” they mutter, wishing their hands were free so they could punch that stupid grin off his face. “Let go of me!”

But the stupid grin remains, and he continues rubbing the towel up and down their arms, keeping a tight grip on them. “If you keep squirming, I’ll dunk you in the tub,” he murmurs. “Then you’ll be really cold.” He looks pleased by the idea, like he’d love to see them shiver harder.

The same thought Roux had about him earlier floats up in the back of their mind: What a goddamn freak. What’s wrong with him?

Despite the threat, and despite their violent shivering, they can’t bring themself to stop squirming. They hate having his hands on them, and he seems like he’s getting annoyed with it. “Can’t you just sit still?” he mutters.

“No. Fuck off.”

He sighs, and their stomach drops as he hooks an arm under their legs and picks them up. “Well, the tub it is, then.”

“Wait!” they gasp. “Wait, no, I—” But he’s only a step away from the tub, and before they can protest further, he dumps them in.

Suddenly they’re submerged in icy water, soaking the rest of their clothes, sloshing into their boots. They gasp at the shock of it, open-mouthed as they stare up into Ambrose’s grinning face. “I warned you.”

A violent shiver runs through them as the cold sets in. “You fucking bastard.” They lean against the side of the tub, awkwardly scooting into a sitting position so they’re not so submerged. Not that it helps; they’re soaked all the way through, and not even Ambrose’s flimsy towel could do anything about it now.

Ambrose opens his mouth—but he’s cut off by a distant banging noise. His grin disappears. He narrows his eyes as he glances at the door. “I’ll be back.”

He leaves them alone, and it’s a relief not to have him watching as they struggle to their feet. Their legs tremble with the cold as they step out of the tub, dripping water all over the floor. The towel, which was still wrapped around them when Ambrose dumped them in the water, sinks to the bottom of the tub. It probably wouldn’t do them much good with their hands still tied, but it would be nice to have something to dry off with.

The noises outside are getting louder, and Roux lets themself feel a weary sense of hope. Sure enough, when the door bangs open, a familiar figure grins at them through a black ski mask, and relief floods through them. “Roux!” Cruz exclaims. Then his face falls as he takes in their condition, hurrying over to them. “Shit. Are you okay?”

Roux lets their shoulders relax, even though they’re still shivering. “I’m fine,” they say, even though it’s not strictly true. They turn around as Cruz pulls out his knife to cut their hands free. “How long was I …?”

Cruz saws through the rope quickly. “We lost contact for four hours.” Four hours? It felt like longer than that. “This place was higher security than the client let on—no wonder you got caught.” He shakes his head, like he has a longer rant in store about the client. Roux gets the feeling that whoever hired them is getting charged full price, despite the fact that Roux didn’t get the files they were sent here for. “Anyway,” Cruz continues, “don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. You got tortured.”

The torture wasn’t even the worst part, but Roux keeps their mouth shut. Thinking about how Ambrose acts around them sends a chill down their spine that has nothing to do with the cold, and all they want is to go home and forget about it. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Cruz gives them a look that says they’ll be discussing this later—a conversation they’re already dreading. But, for now, he just squeezes their shoulder and pockets his knife. “Right, let’s go.”

The scent of blood hits Roux as they step out into the hallway, making them slightly queasy. A familiar black-clad figure wipes her bloodstained knife on her pants. “Hallway’s clear,” Violet announces, casually stepping over a body. The face is turned away, but Roux is pretty sure it’s the guy who waterboarded them. Roux has never been quite comfortable with killing—it’s more Violet’s department than theirs—but they feel a sick sense of satisfaction that their torturer is dead now.

They don’t have time to feel guilty about it, though; they have a more pressing question. “Did you happen to see a tall, blond guy in a suit?” they ask Violet.

The same part of them that’s relieved to see the torturer dead is hoping she’ll say, Yep, the body’s just around the corner, wanna see? Roux isn’t usually one to wish death on others, but Ambrose was … unsettling. More than that—he was creepy, and it was laser-focused on them. They wouldn’t mind being rid of him for good.

But Violet shakes her head. “Nope, no one like that. We should go, before reinforcements show up.”

Roux tries to hide their disappointment, ignoring the way Cruz raises an eyebrow at them. “Right, yeah, let’s go.”

Violet leads the way, hopping over the scattering of dead bodies she left in her wake. Usually, Roux would feel a little more nauseated by that—they love Vi; they’ve never quite gotten used to her penchant for killing, though—but they’re distracted by the thought that neither Cruz nor Violet have seen Ambrose. Did he see the carnage and decide to bolt? Roux hopes so, because they can’t stomach the thought that he’s still lurking around here somewhere, waiting to pounce.

Relief washes over Roux when the team finally bursts out into the cool, early morning air, and Cruz hurries them toward the van. Roux collapses on their knees inside, and as soon as Cruz and Violet shut the doors, the van lurches into motion.

Lyon is in the driver’s seat, maneuvering away from Ambrose’s building as quickly as he can. “Status?” he asks, his voice tight with worry.

“Walking; breathing,” Roux replies, slumping against the wall.

Cruz rolls his eyes as he pulls off his ski mask. “They’ve got a broken finger, some blood on their face, and they got waterboarded.”

Lyon inhales sharply, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Jesus.”

Violet pulls off her mask, too, shaking out her long, purple hair. “I killed four guards—that’s as many as we saw. No sign of whoever was in charge.”

Roux’s chest tightens as Cruz turns his gaze on them. “Did you happen to find out who was in charge?”

They manage to keep a poker face as they nod. “He said his name was Ambrose Lacrosse. Tall, blond guy.” A real fuckin’ creep, they add in their head.

Lyon thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of him. That doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous, though.” His voice hardens. “I’ll have to chat with our client, because if they knew he was this dangerous and sent us after his stuff anyway …” His voice trails off, and he lets out another aggravated sigh before his eyes flicker over to the rearview mirror. “You okay, Roux?”

“I’ll recover.” And they will—physically, at least. They’ve had worse injuries than this before.

“We’ll have Sonny check you out when we get back,” Lyon says, referring to the team medic. “No more missions until they clear you.” Roux bites back a groan—they should’ve expected some recovery time, but they hate being idle. They briefly meet Lyon’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and his gaze softens. “I’m sorry this happened. I never would’ve sent you if I’d known …”

They wave a hand. “It’s not your fault.”

Cruz slides to the ground next to them and wraps an arm around their shoulders, despite the fact that they’re still soaking wet. “We’re just glad to have you back in one piece.”

They sigh, leaning into his warmth, and their anxiety about Ambrose melts away. Right now, they’re safe with their team, and that’s all that matters.

[ziptiesnfries]

The Interrogation, part 1

Ambrose and Roux are back! This isn't necessarily in-line with what I've written for them previously, but no context required - just that they've never met before in this one :)

CWs: torture, interrogation, broken fingers, nosebleed, blood, creepy whumper

It’s been hours, and Roux can feel their resolve starting to wane. Their body aches, their ears ringing with the questions they’ve been asked over and over: Who sent you? What was your mission? At first, they were creative with their answers, or at least snappy: Your mom, asshole. Who do you think? But now they barely have the energy to speak at all, their body limp in the chair they’re strapped to. Their head hangs, and they stare at the dried spots of blood their nosebleed left on their lap, regretting that they took this job in the first place.

The mission was supposed to be easy. Break in, steal a file, bring it to the client’s meeting place. Simple enough. Roux doesn’t even know who the client is—that’s not their business. They and their team just do what they’re hired for. There are risks, of course, and Roux knows that. Capture is one of them. And torture … well, that’s an inevitable follow-up to capture. But usually, they’d have some kind of warning about that. The client didn’t mention anything like this.

For now, their two torturers are leaving them alone—conferring, planning their next move, maybe—and it’s a welcome reprieve from the pain. Roux enjoys it while they can. They wonder if their team is on the way to rescue them yet. Roux certainly isn’t anywhere close to escaping. They flex their limbs against the restraints, their skin still raw from struggling. There’s no way they’re getting out of this chair on their own, much less this building.

They let out a shaky, measured breath. They’re sure the team is working on an extraction plan. All Roux has to do is survive until then.

A door creaks open, and Roux flinches, becoming alert. “Well? How’s it going?” asks a man’s voice, far too casual about the violence involved in this situation.

“They’re not talking,” one of the torturers replies, sounding annoyed. Roux counts that as a win.

“Really?” Roux tries to track the man’s footsteps by listening, unwilling to crane their neck and make it obvious that they care. “I thought you would’ve gotten something by now …”

His footsteps are getting closer, and Roux tenses, lifting their head. The man appears in the corner of their vision, an alarmingly tall figure in a navy blue suit. Roux assumes he’s the guy they were stealing from—he seems to be the one in charge here. A businessman, maybe? Someone vaguely important? Roux doesn’t keep track of that sort of thing. Besides his height, he doesn’t exactly look menacing—but looks can be deceiving. Of all people, Roux should know that.

He scans them over, his eyebrows shooting up into a swoop of blond hair. “This little thing?” he asks, glancing over at his men. “This is the intruder?”

Roux glares at him, but otherwise, they don’t react. They’re used to these kinds of comments. At 4’11”, with thin, freckly limbs, they don’t look like a threat. Hell, they hardly even look their age. Most people don’t take them seriously, and this man is no exception—despite the fact that they nearly got away with stealing from him.

He leans in with a smile, hands clasped behind his back, his face inches from theirs. “Tell me,” he says in a low voice. “What’s a little thing like you doing sneaking around in my buildings?”

They pause for a moment, as if they’re thinking about actually answering. Then they spit in his face, the glob of blood and saliva landing squarely on his chin. “Fuck you.”

His smile disappears as he flinches back, the glob dripping down his neck. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it off, regarding them with a calm, oddly blank expression.

They glare straight back at him, but the complete lack of reaction sends a chill down their spine. Still, they refuse to break eye contact, refuse to squirm, as he continues to stare at them.

Finally, without taking his gaze off Roux, he says, “Leave us.” The two torturers vacate without question, closing the door behind them. Despite themself, Roux tenses, bracing for pain.

The man tosses aside his handkerchief, still watching Roux. The edges of his lips quirk up, slowly widening into a smile—a genuine, warm-looking smile. Roux continues to glare, even as their shoulders tense up, their stomach twisting into knots. He looks almost friendly now, and the sheer unexpectedness of it makes it worse than any raging outburst. “I almost forgot to introduce myself,” he says, as if they were just having a casual conversation. “I’m Ambrose—Ambrose Lacrosse. What’s your name?”

That’s a pretentious fucking name, they think, and only their own instinct that something is very wrong here keeps them from saying it out loud. For hours, all they’ve been asked is what they came here for, and they thought the man they were robbing would want to know the same thing. Why does he want their name?

Still with that smile on his face, he steps forward, tracing his thumb across their knuckles. It’s so unexpected that they flinch, curling their hand into a fist, but that doesn’t deter him. “You look so delicate,” he murmurs, fascinated as he runs his thumb over the bony ridges on the back of their hand. Their skin crawls—both at the sensation and the feeling that he’s examining them like an insect pinned to a corkboard. His eyes dart to their face, his fingers grazing the crackly dried blood on their chin. They jerk their head away, and he lets his hand fall, unfazed. “Well, clearly you’re sturdier than you look,” he muses, going back to stroking their hand. “Regardless, I’d rather not have to break anything, so I suggest you answer my question.”

His tone is so casual, his touch so gentle, that it takes a moment for Roux to register it as a threat. Icy coldness creeps into their veins. “Why do you need my name?”

He shrugs as he continues to stroke their hand. “It’s only polite.”

They’re still glaring at him, trying not to let on that his touch is making their skin crawl. It almost feels worse than the beating they got earlier. Violence, they can handle—but what the hell is this? “I'm not polite,” they retort.

“I can see that.” He maintains his smile as he presses his hand into their curled fist, crushing their fingers against the arm of the chair. It’s not enough to hurt yet, but Roux can feel the small bones grating against each other. Ambrose lowers his voice, leaning in. “So don’t make me ask again, sweetheart.”

They feel a flare of anger at the casual pet name—like they know each other or something. Condescending ass. Like hell they’re giving him their name.

Suddenly, his fist slams down on top of theirs. They hiss, their hand uncurling. He pins it flat and grabs their pinky. Before they can react, he yanks it backwards.

Pain explodes in their hand, a choked scream escaping their throat. Their wrist jerks involuntarily against the restraint, but his hand is still wrapped around their broken pinky and the movement makes it worse. They fall still, panting through gritted teeth.

Still with that pleasant smile on his face, Ambrose leans in. “How about that name now?” he asks softly. They glare at him, opening their mouth to curse him out, but they stiffen as he caresses their ring finger. “Unless, of course, you want another broken bone? I’d rather not have to, but …”

They don’t want to give in, but the panic that seizes their chest makes their decision for them. “Roux!” they blurt out. “It’s … it’s Roux.”

He smiles, his hand dropping away. “Roux,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out, like he’s just as fascinated by their name as he is by their small hands. Suddenly his eyes light up. “Ah! I get it.” He ruffles their red curls, tucking a loose coil behind their ear. They flinch away, their skin crawling—they hate it when strangers touch their hair. He says something in French, and seems disappointed when they stare at him blankly. He shakes his head and switches back to English. “That’s very on the nose; you must have chosen it yourself. It suits you.”

It’s their code name, although by now, it might as well be their real name. They haven’t been called anything else in years. They like it well enough, but they hate hearing it in his mouth. “Fuck off,” they snarl.

He tilts his head, like he finds their swears endearing. Maybe he does; they can’t make sense of him. “Are all redheads this feisty, or are you just unique?”

Their hand throbs with pain, and they want to slump down in exhaustion. The torture took a lot out of them, but not quite as much as talking to him has. Still, they muster the energy to continue glaring at him. “I bet not all redheads would rip out your throat with their teeth.”

His eyes light up. “I’d love to see you try,” he says, like he’s truly curious to see what they’d do if he set them loose. What a goddamn freak.

They lean forward. “Why don’t you let me out of this chair, then?”

For a moment, he looks like he’s considering it. Then he laughs, roughly patting them on the cheek. “Nice try.” He leans in, head tilted, fondness in his eyes. His thumb brushes the dried blood on their chin, and before they can flinch away, he grips their jaw. “You’re lucky you’re cute, sweetheart, otherwise I’d just have my men kill you,” he says softly. “As it is, I’m not quite sure what I want to do with you yet.”

Their blood runs cold, and they find themself unable to pull away. If he wanted them dead, they could handle that. They could spit in his face again, curse at him, or at least stall until their team shows up to rescue them. But this? Him wanting them alive feels far more dangerous than that.

Before they can think of a response, he releases them, straightening up. “Well, I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” he says casually. “I’ll let you rest in the meantime. Poor thing, you look exhausted.” He gives them a sympathetic look, and they genuinely can’t tell whether or not he’s mocking them. But then he’s gone, patting them on the head on his way out the door.

For a moment, they’re frozen, still processing the interaction. Slowly, they slump down in the chair, dread settling over them. They’ve got to get the hell out of here—before he figures out what to do with them.

part 2 - Masterpost