bakerstreet | Forced proximity taken to a new extreme

Forced proximity taken to a new extreme

the mutual captivity dependency meme

No matter how hard you fought, how subtly or overtly you rebelled, or how many times you tried to escape, you ended up at this point all the same: you're a prisoner. Perhaps you're just a regular, run of the mill captive, perhaps a hostage, a science experience, a weapon to be used, yet, no matter what, you're not free.

But you're also not alone.

There's someone else confined along with you, who you met through your mutual imprisonment. The only thing you two may have in common is that you're both trapped here - and that's enough. The two of you grow close (it seems you're closer to them than you've ever been to anyone, but that could just be the situation); soon, something begins to start between you, tiny and delicate. You can't speak to what that something is, not in a place like this, but you know you want it to last. They are another reason to keep going.

Captivity, of course, has a way of stripping everything from you, including reasons to live. Surely, it is only a matter of time before this small - and still somehow world encompassing - comfort is taken from you...

...no. Not this time. They've taken all you have, right down to your freedom, and it stops now. You won't let the person who's become most precious to you in this hell be stolen away.

No matter what.

HOW TO PLAY

Comment with your character and preferences. Are you open to AUs and assumed CR? What are your limits? Given the subject of the meme, there's likely to be triggering material here. Do you prefer very dark fare or a light at the end of the tunnel scenario?
There's one prompt that could be smut, but feel free to play it in others if you're open to it. However, I'm going to be posting this as a smut meme on TLH later this week.
Reply to others. RNG.

PROMPTS

Prisoner of War: Who's side were you on? Or were you just an innocent civilian caught in the mire?

Hostage: Take heart. You're worth more alive than dead.

Scientific Experiment: What an interesting specimen you are. You will have to be tested.

False Charges: One or both of you are here because of lies told against you; eventually, though, you may begin to believe that your worth is truly that low.

Do the Dirty Work: Your powers are useful, maybe even enough to use you as an unwilling assassin.

For Different Reasons: You're imprisoned for different reasons, and you still draw close. After all, does it matter when you're both stuck?

Most Unforgivable Sin: One of you is a prisoner in the most basic of senses: hostage, slave, what have you. The other? Well, it's much more complicated. The other is a person forced against their will to be a lover, spouse, or sex slave of those in charge. What if that other does find someone they actually love? It could cost you both your heads.

Equalized: Maybe you were in different social strata before, but now, you're both common dirt.

Should Be in Charge: One of you has a higher ranking in the system. Will you use your power to manipulate them or to skew things in their favor.

Beneficial: You both have something the other wants. It's a mutually beneficial set-up, and that's all it needs to be. At least, that's how it starts.

Love at First Sight: You never thought you'd see someone like them here, and maybe it's because you've been cut off for some long, but you're feeling so smitten, even if that's usually not you.

Needy: You're not cut out for this. Almost immediately, you reach out for anyone who can offer to take you under their wing.

Won't Fall: To you, it's all to keep yourself sane. You won't actually fall in love, not in a million years.

Traumatized: It's hard to care for someone so broken, someone who's seen such terrible things, but you do it anyway.

Brainwashed: Before you met them, you never doubted your masters. But now...

Flower of Hell: Such a beautiful ray of light should not belong here in this darkness. Cruelty will snuff if out. You don't want that to happen.

Kindness: They showed you an unprecedented act of charity and selflessness. You feel drawn to them.

Tend to Wounds: It's easy to get hurt while captive. At least you don't have to wait for your wardens to fix you up. You have someone kind or dedicated enough to tend to you and you alone.

Anything to Protect You: They can't protect themselves, so you'll do it for them in any way you can.

Using Them: Really, you don't care for them. You just want their protection and their help. At least, that's what you keep thinking.

Burned Before: You had another prisoner before that you loved, and they were sent away or killed. You want let down your guard again.

Human Contact: You've been deprived for so long, you crave any attention.

Can't Touch: You're in cells, kept apart. You can never touch.

Barely See You: There kept away from you and everyone else for most of the day, but you still have feelings for them.

Separate: They're to be taken away, perhaps even to another outpost. What will you do?

Frustration: How long has it been since you've been with someone? You may take any opportunity to get some privacy.

Have Hope: You don't want your partner to lose faith, so despite your own beliefs, you'll stay positive.

Promises: You keep telling them things, swearing that you'll follow through and you'll both be okay. Inside, a part of you may fear it's all hollow words.

Escape: You're going to leave, but not without them.

Punishment: For your crimes, both of you will be punished. How much will your affections mean then?

Forced to Torture: Not only does your closest person have to be tortured, but you're the one who has to do it.

All a Sham: The truth is out. They were only playing you. In fact, they may

Turncoats: Your captors have pitted you against each other.

Fight: You may argue or even come to blows, yet soon enough, you'll be wanting to forgive and forget because there's no one else to look out for you.

Jealousy: They're all you have here, so you're not inclined to share.

Taken by Another: Someone else captured here with you all saw what you had and decided they would steal away your significant other.

Know How to Break You: Your tormenters know they can't hurt you with torture, but if they hurt the one you care for? That's another story.

Death: There's no need for prisoners who won't keep on the straight and narrow. You've pushed the envelope too many times, and now, execution is the easiest option for your captors.

Finally Free: The two of you have finally made it out alive. Suddenly, in the light of day, things seem different. Was all of this, all of these feelings...were they true or out of some desperate need?

WILDCARD

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[Prefer to start gen and build if we don't have past CR.

Ducky is a bit of a spy and strategist for a masked vigilante (and housemaid to an eccentric reclusive engineer and millionaire), so there are plenty of reasons someone might take her.]

[Lots of these can fit his bill, pick and choose one ^^ Can be plotted CR or just two randoms in a similar (horrible) situation. No smut and would prefer to keep torture on the “imply that this happened” side if possible. Feel free to hit up my DMs or under this for plotting]

[ooc: how would we like to play this? A sort of “oh, fancy seeing you here again” or some other situation! ^^]

[Hm, some sort of 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' scenario? Someone who both Sync/the Order and Lavender Jack are working against scoops up both these two and makes the mistake of not keeping them separate?]

[ ooc; 2, 14, 17, 18, 19, 21, 29, 31, 37, 39 are all of particular interest, but i'd be willing to hear out any ideas you have. if you don't want to fit your character into jesse's canon, i can probably fit him into yours, or we can come up with some kind of jamjar setting. i'm willing to write up a starter if you select a prompt you're interested in, or i'll reply if you would rather set the scene. i'm cool with brackets or prose. i'm also cool with assumed cr, castmates, crosscanon, ocs, aus, etc. ]

[I'm canonblind, but this shit is my jam. How would you feel about 18 with bonus 22? She's been in for a while, he just joined her and has been brutalized somewhat. Setting and everything is up to you, or we can work it out as we go.

I have a small preference for prose, but can work with brackets if you prefer.]

[Apologies, work tasks got dumped on me so might be scarce the next few hours, but this sounds Perfect :)

Sync might be a bit snippier than usual, as he hates failing, but I think this will make for a fun breakout!

Would you like to tackle the starter or have me do that? I’m fine either way ^^]

[I'm off work in a couple hours myself. Whoever gets to the starter first can put it up. :)]

[In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.

At least, that's how the story went. This particular hole in the ground held only one person who could be considered a hobbit, and that was simply due to her height and the lack of shoes. The other person in the hole wasn't fairing much better, either.

Nancy'd been there for a few weeks now, brought out periodically to be used by her captors when they were bored, then shoved back down into the pit to wait until they wanted her again. If she was "lucky" there was a night spent on the floor in the house. She wasn't sure what was better. In the house, she had to deal with Todd and all of his family. In the hole, well, she had Jesse, but no pillows, no blankets, nothing, even when the night drew in and plunged all of Albuquerque into the cold. They just had a fucking tarp to keep the cold out, and when it rained it would sink low with water, threatening to douse them completely.

She shouldn't have been here. She stuck out like a sore thumb with her Cockney accent, thrown to the wolves by a man she believed would marry her. A man she believed loved her, but sold her out for a meth debt to the worst humans she'd ever met, and she'd met bad ones.

Tonight, the tarp is pulled back so Nancy can be shoved back into the pit unceremoniously. In the dark, it's hard to tell but she's got a black eye and dark rings around her neck and wrists. She waits until the lock clicks back into place, the tarp returned, before she allows herself a moment to sink to the ground.

She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be here. But here she was.

At least she wasn't alone.]

[Sync was, decidedly, in a very bad mood. When he woke to a pounding headache - the result of the blow that had knocked him out and landed him… wherever this was - he knew he had screwed up.

On top of that, his mask had been taken, leaving his face bare to the world (and leaving him feeling more vulnerable than he would have liked. He had replacements back at headquarters, but this certainly didn’t help anything).

Either the Tempest had truly messed up in what was supposed to be a simple retrieval (the taste of failure sour in his mouth… or maybe that was blood), or…

“Someone must have caught wind of your favorite color.”

The sarcastic remark was directed at the woman across from him, and a familiar one at that. His already blunt propensity was veering into lashing hurt at their poor circumstances.

Ducky glances up at Sync, her expression mild. Opaque.

"When I was first brought in, I thought it might be you and yours who took me. However, seeing you on this side of the bars is hardly a relief."

She's holding onto an injured arm, sporting a black eye and curled up into a little ball protectively.

Sync takes longer than normal to assess her condition, noting her protective body language and injuries. Letting out a breath - more like a displeased huff - his eyes scan the bars nearby.

“If we had brought you in, better to bring your employer too. We’d have more tact about it.” OK, some of them would, but if Sync had any say in the fact, she would have been slightly less banged up. “Fonic bars. Looks like I can’t use any artes in here.”

Not that, with how he felt stifled in the cold air, he thought he could otherwise. What was this place built of? In fact, who had been devious to nab both of them?

A question that didn’t have an immediate answer, to his own frustration.

"Someone aware of your particular talents. Perhaps with talents of their own."

Her expression turns thoughtful. "We had been looking into some human trafficking, coming in from Armoria. It's possible this...detention...is related to that."

At this point, she isn't going to try to claim not to be involved with Lavender Jack. It doesn't serve either of them for her to do so.

[ Hell yeah! I'm also canonblind, but I'm down if you are :) 18/22 sounds great. Jesse's from Albuquerque, New Mexico and got wrapped up in the illegal drug trade, but he's very much not built for that life, as much as he doesn't want to admit that. Also (spoiler alert) being in captivity is canon for him at one point, so I can definitely work with this. If you would rather have a more jamjar setting, I can do that, too. I'm 100% good with prose! Is there anything else you want to iron out preferences-wise? If not, I can wing it and write up a starter for us. ]

[Here's a fun thing to build with: Ducky's family are proper Italian organized crime: smugglers, swindlers and thieves. She got out as a young adult, eschewing all her uncle's training to live as a housemaid and earn a...mostly...honest living. So, move her up into his time period and their trying to defect from a life of crime might be a reason to knock some sense into them both. If that's something you want to work with.

Otherwise, full steam ahead!]

[ Jesse hears them before he sees them. The footfall of heavy boots crunching on the gritty landscape, the scrape of the hatch being unlatched, the sick rhythm of Nancy’s return. It’s always the same; the way she gets dropped back in like she’s garbage they’re tired of dealing with. Like she isn’t a person. They aren't really, are they? How long being treated like this before you become something that's less human and more animal?

Jesse can feel it already. He shifts in the dark, heart climbing into his throat as the tarp rustles and curls of cold air spill into the oubliette. The faint moonlight that filters in from above hits Nancy just enough for him to see the new damage. His stomach turns, sick. He doesn’t speak until the lock clicks back into place. That’s the rule. You don’t talk when they’re looking. You don’t give them anything extra to take.

And when the sound comes, dull and final, Jesse moves. He scrambles across the dirt floor in seconds, trying to catch her before she crumples completely, but she’s already down when he gets there, folding in on herself like a puppet with the strings cut. His breath fogs in the cold as he crouches beside her, the chains he's bound with rattling quietly. Shackles and leg irons. Like the ones they use in prison. They learned not to leave his limbs free. He's careful when he approaches Nancy, like if he moves too quick, she’ll shatter. ]

Hey. [ His voice is low and hoarse, barely above a whisper. His eyes flick up to the tarp, quiet for a beat as he makes sure nobody is lingering above them. ] You’re okay. They're gone.

[ Jesse knows that’s bullshit. She’s not okay. Neither of them are. He’s got no food to offer her, no blankets, nothing but the same four cinderblock walls, a shitty excuse for a mattress, and his own shaking hands. But he says it anyway, because sometimes you say a thing enough and maybe it becomes real. Jesse doesn’t ask what they did. He already knows the shape of their cruelty. He wears it, too. On his ribs, across his face, under his skin where it doesn’t leave visible marks but festers all the same. He can feel the bruise blooming along his jaw from earlier, where Todd had pistol-whipped him for talking too much during a cook. It throbs with his heartbeat, but he doesn’t care.

Right now, all he sees is Nancy. Her black eye, the angry, red welts on her wrists, the way she’s shaking from something more than the cold. He holds a hand out, palm up, showing he means no harm. Like he's approaching an injured deer he's trying desperately not to spook. He doesn't touch her yet. He's waiting for some sign of permission. Of consent. He knows that none of them ask before touching her and he never wants it to be the same down here with him. His fingers brush her sleeve, close enough to feel the warmth coming off of her skin, but not quite touching her.

There's something dangerous growing in him these days. Feral. Not the kind of thing that explodes like it used to. No rage, no screaming. Just a slow-burning fuse, lit anew every time they throw her into this pit with him. Every time she comes back hurt, that fuse burns lower. Sooner or later, someone's going to set him off. ]

We’re gettin’ out of here, alright? We're not gonna die. Not in this fuckin' hole in the ground.

[ He isn't sure if he's trying to convince himself that they'll make it. This is the closest he has to freedom these days. Two broken people huddled under a sagging tarp, making promises in whispers, in warmth, in every tiny moment the world hasn’t stolen yet. ]

[ Shippy or gen, s'all good. ]

[She is not okay. She curls up in on herself, barefoot, shivering. She doesn't cry out-loud, they've beaten that out of her because if you're too loud you could draw attention and they didn't want that. But tears stream down her face.

She hates crying. It's most of what she's done since she got here, she feels. But she doesn't want to stop. If she stops, it means she's grown numb to what they do to her. And if she's numb they've won.

Feeling Jesse move closer, she shifts toward him, nods to tell him yes, please, touch her, hold her. She needs something solid and kind, anything he's willing to offer her. It's times like this that she thinks of her brothers, or the boys she considers as good as. She remembers how sweet Dodger always was to her, how he'd curl up in bed with her when she still lived in the den, each one claiming they were taking care of the other because they certainly didn't need the care themselves.

She'd give anything to see him again.]

They didn't give me anything, [she tells Jesse, her voice hoarse. One of the ways they kept her subservient was with the same meth Jesse cooked. She'd never wanted it. But they gave it to her, and then they would keep it from her, letting her body react and revolt, letting her beg for another hit. And they'd give it to her. Eventually.]

Oh, Jesse, [she whispers, wanting to tell him to just stop it. There's no use. They are going to die here, in the fucking Arizona heat, two skeletons in dirty clothes.] How? [She decides to reframe it. How could they, malnourished, weak, lost people take on however many they had in the house on any given day? She couldn't even locate Arizona on a map.]

[ Wesker was prepared for torture. He anticipated all the usual tactics: interrogation, intimidation, threats, violence. He can win any contest of wills, outlast his enemies until they make a fatal mistake. A facile little game, really. Beneath him.

Except the questions never come. There is no interrogation, only a long succession of tests and experiments that all blend together into a bleary haze of agony. How long has it been? Five days? A week? His inability to keep track of time is nearly as disturbing as the realization that strikes him quite at random: while he lies strapped to an examination table, trying not to bite through his tongue, it occurs to him that he isn't a prisoner at all. He is an asset.

As they half-lead, half-drag him back to his cell, he catches a brief glimpse of his reflection in one of the mirrored glass windows lining the hallway. His own appearance shocks him. His hair, unwashed and crusty with dried blood from a cut on his scalp, falls messily into his face, which days of undernourishment and lack of sleep have rendered alarmingly pale. If not for the fever-bright glow of his eyes, he might have mistaken himself for a corpse.

The guards dump him unceremoniously onto the floor of his cramped concrete cell, then depart. He struggles to a sitting position, noting with a strange mix of relief and disappointment that his cellmate is still alive. ]

You look awful. Why haven't they killed you yet?

They throw Jesse in like he weighs nothing. His body hits the ground with a sick, wet sound. Bruised flesh and blood-soaked clothing smacking packed earth or stone or concrete--he can't tell because he can't see. He can only feel that it's something unforgiving. He doesn’t cry out yet, but that's only because he’s too far gone for that now. Pain rolls through him in waves, blinding and absolute, until even the edges of the world begin to blur.

There’s blood everywhere. On his face, caked into his hair, seeping into the torn hem of his hoodie. One eye is swollen shut, and the other can't focus on anything. His lip is split. One arm hangs at an odd angle, possibly out of place, the other clutches around his middle. Breathing is a battle. Each inhale cuts through him like broken glass. His lungs rattle under the weight of it, catching on ribs that don't sit right anymore. He curls slightly on his side, half-conscious, dirt grinding into open wounds. The realization comes slowly, through the haze: he’s not alone. Not dead, either.

A whimper rattles loose from him. It's not loud enough to be intentional; just the sound a body makes when it forgets how to hold in pain. He tries to open his eyes again. To see. To understand the shape across from him. His vision stops swimming just enough for him to see her face. Soft, but not harmless. No one who survives shit like this is harmless.

"Yo." It’s barely audible. But it’s there. A spark of something human hanging on in the ruins of him. He swallows, the metallic tang of blood in his throat. Jesse grimaces as pain shoots through his side again, his gaze landing on her when he opens his one working eye again.

"So what are you in for?" It's a sad attempt at humor, a hoarse sound following that's half-laugh, half-cough, and all punishment against broken ribs. Serves him right. He doesn’t expect an answer. Doesn’t expect anything. But something about the fact that someone else is here makes the edges of panic soften just enough.

Jesse tries to sit up, but pain cuts through him like a white-hot knife through butter, fire searing deep into his bones. He manages to shift himself just a little, so his neck isn't straining quite so much to look at her. "You got a name?"

Ducky is in a little better shape. That is, her injuries are at the dull throbby stage instead of fresh and bloody. The black eye is pretty spectacular. At least two of the fingers on her left hand are broken. But she chose to act meek and compliant, in the hope it might spare her some pain. She didn't fight back, and so she's mostly alright, all things considered.

"Ducky. I'm called Ducky. I think your shoulder is dislocated." Time away from Corsica has worn down her Italian accent, but not enough to hide it completely, especially when she's not able to concentrate. "You must have made them quite angry. What did you do?"

Jesse grins, crimson threading between his teeth as he suppresses a laugh. He learned his lesson with that once already. Unfortunately, it turns into a cough and that's worse. It pulls a strangled sound from him that threatens to fold him in half. He calms after a moment, a stomp of his foot against the ground for distraction.

"Knocked one's teeth all over the ground and pretty sure I broke the other guy's nose. But then they got their, uh, their friends." Jesse had lost count after the third guy jumped him. Didn't matter how many there were. He'd been outnumbered. But this was never meant to be a fair fight.

"You know how to fix it? The arm. My hand's startin' to go numb." He observes aloud. He's pretty sure that's a bad sign and if he makes it out of here, he'd like it to be with all of his extremities intact if possible.

She slowly uncurls and sort of scuttles her way over to Jesse, trying to take a look at how bad the shoulder is.

"I can pop it back into the socket, but it's going to hurt like a firecracker exploding in the joint before it feels any better, if I do." It's not exactly poetry, but this isn't exactly rocket surgery, either. "And if you're just going to provoke them again immediately, it'll be a wasted effort."

[Good with any canon point! Mark spoilers for others though plz.]

[ Interested in a Celes? ]

(( Not interested in shippy or smut prompts here. ))

[ ummmm yesssss 👀. Any preference for setup? ]

[ Excellent~ I do not have any preferences to be honest, though I do like Brainwashed, Tend to Wounds, Should Be in Charge, and Prisoner of War. This meme is after all sort of made for them! ]

[ Jesse reaches down to untie his shoes. They're not much. Beat up sneakers that have seen better days, but it's something. It's something he can offer when he wants to offer the world, but can't. This is what he has. He sets them down by her bare feet, nodding his head towards them. He won't be offended if she declines. They probably stink. Long days working in the lab. Unlike her, he never sees the inside of a house. The best he gets is a cold spray-off with the hose, clothes and all. It's no comparison, though. He sees Nancy come back a little more broken every day, and he knows that he doesn't want whatever 'inside the house' entails.

He watches as Nancy nods, shifts towards him--gives him all of those minute signs that he picks up like breadcrumbs, following the trail. He reaches out to embrace her, but the chains around his wrists pull tight, reminding him that he's never free, even when he's not up there with them. He sighs, but finds a workaround. He lifts his arms up over her head, looping them around her, his shackles containing the both of them now. He pulls Nancy into his side like it’s the only thing he knows how to do anymore. Maybe it is. Maybe being something soft for her to lean against is the last good thing he’s got left. His hands tremble, but his hold is steady. Protective. Human.

They didn't give me anything. The words break something in him--the way she sounds disappointed. He knew before she told him because he knows what people are like when they're hopped up on crank. He knows what she's like. This isn't it, and he can't tell which version of her is more heartwrenching. He lets the silence sit for a second. Lets her cry if she needs to. Lets her be small and tired and broken in his arms, because he understands. God, does he understand. The way your soul starts peeling back when they keep stripping you of everything, piece by piece. The way you can feel yourself dissolving and aren't even sure you would recognize your own reflection in a mirror anymore.

When she says how, his jaw tightens. Not at her. Never at her. But at the weight of that word. How. Like it’s a puzzle anyone could solve with enough time and air in their lungs. Like they aren’t trapped under layers of concrete and cruelty and madness. Anger flares in his chest at the thought of what he would do to them if given the opportunity. Things that would give serial killers nightmares, he's sure. Does that not make him as bad as they are?

I don’t know. [ Jesse admits, voice low. Raw. Honest. ] I don’t have a fuckin’ clue.

[ He tilts his head until it rests against hers, hair matted with old, dried blood. Dirty. But warm. Close. ]

Know what I do know? [ A pause, as he struggles to find the words, brain working slow like rusted gears from the head injuries and the malnutrition. ] I see you. Every time they throw you in here, I see you. And as long as we’re still seeing each other, we’re not gone yet. That means I can't give up. Not 'til I figure a way out of this shit.

[ He huffs a breath through his nose. It’s the ghost of a laugh that died weeks ago. Almost bitter, almost a joke. ]

Besides, I still owe you a real meal. When we get out, you’re getting pancakes. Big fuckin’ stack of ‘em. With strawberries, and whipped cream. And coffee that doesn’t taste like dirt.

[ It’s a stupid promise, and it makes his stomach growl audibly. But it’s all he has to give. Something to hold onto in the dark, besides him. ]

[ Because Ashu is cheating, of course.

Not to his worldview, however. If these n'wahs are too stupid to realize he's capable of healing magic, that is on them. Mephala and Boethiah call for his children to use all tools at their disposal.

But it can't be that simple, can it? Ashu, an assassin who's done similar acts for similar reasons (torture is permissible in his line of work), knows damn well they're being watched 24/7. Perhaps their captors are allowing him to heal himself, either to test Ashu's abilities, or some other reason. Magnanimity, it makes him sick, the taste of old blood grown thicker in his dried up mouth. They're neither being fed nor watered. ] Where's the fun in that?

[ Against better instincts, Ashu too is both annoyed and relieved his cellmate has returned. Annoyed, because the blessed silence is now over, desperate prayers to Azura now liable to be heard. Relieved, because he can heckle this Imperial some more, bring a much needed distraction from the drudgery of experimentation then neglect. He almost wishes to be cut up some more to inject some excitement into his morning...afternoon? Who knows in these windowless cells. ] You look like shit too. [ His fingers, dry and skinny from dehydration, glow off-gold. There's a gentle twinkle as the magic dances shaped as ribbons, healing some of Wesker's split lip. ] They don't want to kill us. We'd be dead already. No, I think you and I are special. Probably trying to see if we can even die. [ Between agonies he'd caught some curious words. ] Are you blessed by any chance? Or diseased, depending on your point of view?

Jesse jerks instinctively as Ducky approaches. It’s no offense to her. It's just a twitch wired straight into the part of his brain that’s expecting pain before anything else. It’s in the way his good hand flinches halfway up, like he might block a hit that doesn’t come. The way his jaw tightens, blood crusting where it split earlier. Old reflexes are hard to kill.

Plus, she’s looking closely at his arm. He doesn’t like that, even if he wants her to fix it. Even if the numbness is spreading up from his fingertips past his wrist now, making his skin buzz in that sick TV static way that says something’s really wrong.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, not quite meeting her eyes. “I ain’t tryin’ to be anyone’s chew toy again, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

It’s the closest she'll get to a promise. Jesse's gaze flicks to her face, then down again. He doesn’t know Ducky from a hole in the ground. Doesn’t know if she’s just surviving here or if she’s planning something. Doesn't know how long she's even been here. But right now, she’s the only one who isn’t stomping his ribs in for breathing wrong, and, all considered, that counts for something here.

"You’re sure you know how?" Jesse asks, quieter this time. There's no challenge in the question. Just a thin ribbon of fear curled around the words. Not fear of her, though, really. Fear of the pain. Of his own body betraying him. Of what comes next if it doesn’t work. He breathes in deep and immediately regrets it. He grinds his teeth through the hurt and then forces a shaky nod in Ducky's direction.

“Fuck it. Let's do it.” He decides aloud, because this place is eating away at him already, and he can’t afford to lose a whole arm on top of it. Jesse braces himself as best he can on the floor, bending his knees up to dig the soles of his shoes into the ground. It won't help any if he slides around. Sweat slicks his temple despite the chill. He turns his head away from Ducky, jaw locked, eyes clenched shut, ready for the pain but still dreading it, like a kid waiting for a shot.

He doesn't ask her to count. Doesn't ask her to be gentle. There's only one request from him: “Please--just don’t stop 'til you get it in.” A 'that's what she said' joke lingers at the tip of his tongue, but he can't afford another shudder of his ribs. He's not sure if he'll regret that plea or not, but it's too late now.

Edited 2025-04-23 03:12 (UTC)

[His shoes. God- he offers his shoes because it's all he can do. It breaks her heart to see, and because of that, she takes them. She puts them on like they are armor, lets him arrange himself around her like a cloak. She's never asked him to protect her. But he does it just by being himself.

Nancy wraps her arms around him, too. If she needed this, so did he. He never had to say a word, but she knew.]

What? [she asks] What d'you know?

[She doesn't expect what comes next. She's not sure if she can even think enough to expect something like that. Regardless, Jesse speaks, and his words find their home inside of her. She holds them tightly to her, and starts to cry again, her chest shaking. He sees her. He knows she's a person. He doesn't want to hurt her. He wants to get out of here. With her. She can hold on to that.] Thank you.. I see you, too.

[The mention of pancakes, helps, too. She closes her eyes and nearly moans at the very thought.] Oh, and a proper cuppa. God, you must think I'm so stupid, moaning about tea. But I'd kill for some PG Tips. Loaded with sugar and milk. [She laughs at herself, tears still in her eyes.]

And after, I want to see a movie. Start to finish, big bowl of popcorn.

The skills Ducky learned in her youth are varied--first aid, wartime strategy, linguistics. Her uncle had intended her to be the next leader of family Desisto after him, and she had taken to the offered information like--well, like a duck in water. So, she's read plenty about things like tending to subluxations of ball-and-socket joints.

...but never performed the critical task herself.

Still, there's something to be said for the desperation evident in Jesse's final request. That makes her want, more than anything, to get it quickly. She moves to her knees, giving her a little height and leverage, and absolutely doesn't give him a countdown or any warning at all before she wrenches his arm back into the socket with a single sharp motion.

(Up close like this, the smell of her clothing might be one clue to how long she's been here, without a shower or a change of fresh clothes. The cell at least has a toilet, but the rest of the amenities leave much to be desired.)

[ HMMM. Couple thoughts:

Something circa Celes’ return to the Empire at Vector after “spying” on the Returners? Locke plays hero and makes sure the rest of the party escapes Vector, but ends up prisoner? Celes and Locke have to work through their trust issues in the worst possible setting?

I’m also down to revisit that first meeting somehow. An alternate scenario where Locke flubs his infiltration into South Figaro and gets locked up with Celes? May or may not get roughed up for intel on the Returners. Bad times for both of them. ]

[ Canonically imprisoned in a beautiful study/library. Come join him in his confinement, he'll love the company.

AUs into different types of imprisonment are a-ok though!

OTA for both gen and shipping. ]

“Highly likely.” He grumbled, gaze centered on the bars again. There would be no reason for something that expensive and specific to be installed otherwise, unless whoever had nabbed them dealt with Fonic artes users on a semi-regular basis.

That… actually might be more accurate. “These traffickers… did you figure out how far their operations extended?”

He wasn’t going to comment on the willing tidbit she had given him, filing it away for now. After all, nothing had been decided on the Lavender Jack case from the higher ups (not that he had been told), and getting out of here took precedence.

[ Okay so both options are SUPER good, but I really like the second one first; I'm a bit rusty with Celes to be honest and I saw a Locke and absolutely could not resist. That scenario would get me back on track I think! And also if we agree on that, then after you confirmation, I can write up a starter~ ]

"The victims are being taken from Armorial, drugged, and are being brought in on trains inside coffins, where they're being distributed to workhouses, primarily. Unless they're pretty, in which case..." Ducky trails off, shaking her head slightly. "Those girls disappear, likely to private buyers or, ah, establishments."

It's a fucking mess, and there's somebody up top in Gallery involved. They just haven't worked out who yet.

"As an immigrant to Gallery myself, the whole thing had me quite uncomfortable before I was taken off the board. I've been here for roughly a week." Which is concerning in its own way. They're keeping her alive, which means they foresee some utility to her.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Forced proximity taken to a new extreme

Ducky - Lavender Jack - OTA

Sync the Tempest | Tales of the Abyss | OTA

Hi, hi!

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Jesse Pinkman | Breaking Bad | OTA

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17, 18, 31, bring it all to me.

Annie Cresta | The Hunger Games | ota

Alicent Hightower | House of the Dragon | ota

Nerevarine | Elder Scrolls

Got it ^^ Let me know if you would like anything changed

I'm going to force you to use prose, suffer.

Suffer I shall XD (kidding, I switch between either)

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\o/ i'm so here for it

Locke Cole | FFVI

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let's a go!

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Matt Murdock | Daredevil

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The Medicine Seller/Kon | Mononoke Film Trilogy | OTA

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Medicine Pocket | Reverse: 1999

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More | Metaphor ReFantazio

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