#I wouldn't take so long if you just provided clean clothes and pads and a toothbrush

[thezombieprostitute]

So, there've been a few "cast your friends as your characters" going around. I was tagged in three of them:

@stargazingfangirl18 paired me with Mr. Freezy saying, "she’s a pure-hearted caretaker who is always looking out for and encouraging others."

@bigtreefest paired me with Curtis saying, "I can just see her loving the comfort Curtis provides and wanting to return the favor, paying attention to exactly what he needs."

And then @krirebr paired me with dark!Andy saying, "It's because I think if anyone could finally take down Andy, it's you. You're so strong and fierce that you'd leave that house in ashes behind you...He wouldn't stand a chance."

You can maybe see why I was laughing for so long over these. Apparently I'm quite the loving caretaker but I will shank a bitch. And I haven't been able to let go of this story idea based in Kris's Trapped AU that she assigned me to:

Normally Lloyd wouldn't care. Normally, someone yells at him for a defective girl, he tells them "caveat emptor" and blocks their number. But this was an unusual case.

Barber had asked for the most compliant girl in the group he'd been presented. Naturally Lloyd had recommended you. Surveillance indicated you were very polite, calm, quiet, all the shit Barber was looking for. Even after you'd been picked and kidnapped you were always well behaved, polite to the guards and other girls. You cried, sure, but so did all the girls. Hell, you even looked after the others. You were calm, quiet, compliant. But Barber was claiming you were hellion? A banshee? That couldn't be right. Lloyd needed to look into this.

He arrived at Barber's home. Took him a minute to make sure it was the right one, all the houses in this boring little suburb looked the same. He rang the doorbell and, thankfully, didn't have to wait long. His jaw almost dropped when he saw Barber, usually looking clean and crisp in his suits and button-ups, completely disheveled with bruises and scratch marks on him. Was that a bite mark as well?

Barber urges Lloyd inside quickly, "you sold me a defective product! I asked for quiet and compliant and you gave me a hellcat!"

Lloyd raises an eyebrow, "she did that to you?"

"Yes!" Barber takes a breath to steady himself. "I didn't think her being big and tall would be such a big deal. Just make her diet and she'd get that model-thin figure. But that's only if she behaves! She can, and does, fight back!"

Lloyd removes his sunglasses, "let me go talk to her. Where is she?"

Barber leads him downstairs to a door with a pad-key lock, "I'm lucky I thought to soundproof the damn basement. The neighbors definitely would've called the cops by now. Thank God there's no windows for them to see her, either."

The basement looks like a small, windowless apartment. There are dents in the walls and Lloyd's not sure if it was you or Barber who put them there. He sees you at a little table and whistles. As bad as Barber looked, you looked worse.

You look up at the sound of the whistle, expecting another fight, but actually smile when you see Lloyd. "Oh, hello Mr. Hansen," you chirp. "Does this mean I'm being returned to my preferred circle of hell?"

"What the hell happened? You were so well behaved when you were locked up, with a lot fewer niceties." Lloyd looks around the basement. "This place has heat, probably air conditioning. Looks nice, the food is probably better and you get much better clothes and blankets."

"Thank you!" Barber chimes in. He moves to speak more but between the rolling of your eyes and Lloyd's holding up a finger to stop him, he clams up.

"So why have you been so poorly behaved?" Lloyd cautiously moves closer to you but you're giving him no indication of lashing out.

"Because he makes no sense, Mr. Hansen," you tell him. "Your rules were easy to follow and made sense. His rules are incredibly stupid and whenever I asked for a reason for them he told me some bullshit about 'good wives don't question their husbands'. Which, quite frankly, is very dumb of him. A good wife calls you out on these things so you can become a better person."

"You need your rules to make sense?"

"Yes, Mr. Hansen. And, quite frankly, several of his rules and expectations are impossible for any human to really follow. I think he'd be better off with a robot wife or something."

Lloyd chuckles at that, "and you didn't take too well to being punished for not following the rules?"

Barber tries to speak but Lloyd, again, raises a finger at him, silently indicating he needs to shut up.

"It wasn't so bad, actually. The time-out room was nice and quiet and I didn't have to deal with him. So he tried to use the punishment room to get me to obey. Turns out, when I'm unable to fight back, I start laughing and can't stop. You can imagine how well that went over with Mr. I-Deserve-Only-The-Best-Things."

Lloyd chuckles, "you know, Sweetheart, when men buy their wives they're allowed to have expectations."

"Oh yes, of course, Mr. Hansen," you agree. "But requiring me to wake up over an hour before he does so I can do a makeup routine that he's set out for me and get my hair to look like how he wants it? Expecting me to be grateful I was kidnapped and sold? Expecting me to comfort him over his own ruined life when he's ruined mine?

And then there are the contradictory rules! I have to not lie to him but I have to tell him I love him? That I think he's handsome? That he's good to me? Directly contradictory!

Maybe any guy who buys me would want similar things but to insist it's my obligation because he thinks he deserves a good wife? Let's face it, Mr. Hansen, he's a semi-delusional, whiny bitch who just doesn't want to put in the work for an actual relationship."

Barber stomps towards you, clearly set to smack you and yell but Lloyd punches him in the stomach before he can. With the wind knocked out of him, Barber backs away and Lloyd moves over to you.

"You know, I normally don't give a shit what happens to my products after they're sold," he tells you. "But he is an unsatisfied customer. And a DA at that. That can be bad for business."

Your face contorts into a pout, "you're leaving me here with him? Can't you just kill me instead?"

"I've got other plans for you," Lloyd purrs. "You might not be good for Barber, but I think I've got someone else who would love you. But, I can't have an unhappy customer, either."

"I don't want anyone else to suffer because of him," you lower your head. "I'll behave, Mr. Hansen."

"Oh, no, no, you misunderstand," he chuckles. He pulls out his gun and shoots Barber, startling you. "We're gonna burn the place down and leave plenty of evidence that Mr. DA was dealing in human trafficking."

"Thank you, Mr. Hansen," you beam. "May I help with the burning down of this place? I could really use the therapy."

Lloyd laughs, "of course! And I'll go ahead and tell Everett I found him a girl who is kind, caring, attentive even, but can also defend herself from unwanted attention."

A million thanks to @krirebr for permission to write this!

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @ronearoundblindly

[spnexploration]

Collared part 4

Pairing: Dean x Reader eventually

Series summary: Sam and Dean save a woman from where she has been held as a slave by a witch. But things turn dark whenever they try to take her magic collar off, leaving them with a slave to look after and a curse to break.

Episode summary: Dean learns about being a slave's master.

Warnings: Slavery, some references to past mistreatment

Word count: 1.6k

Series masterlist | Supernatural writing masterlist

Part 3 <- -> Part 5

“Ok,” your master said to you, sounding uncomfortable. You continued to kneel, looking at the floor and awaiting your master’s orders. “So, uh, have that shower and then you can put these clothes on. Sorry that they'll be a bit big but they're the smallest we've got. I'll wait just outside, but uh the door probably won't close properly since Sam kicked it open. We’ll have to fix that. Ok, um, any questions?”

“No, sir.” You knew better than to question your master. Your last mistress had instilled that lesson well.

Trench coat and Sam had already left the room, and your master walked to the door and pulled it closed behind him.

You stood up, hesitantly looking around. It was far nicer and more spacious than any bathroom you could remember being in. You'd never been given privacy either, usually just hosed off and put back in your room.

You heard your master shuffle his feet outside the room. Right, you'd be in trouble if you took too long, you reminded yourself. You quickly stripped your tattered, wet, bloody and vomited on clothes and stepped into the shower.

You turned the tap to cold and braced yourself against the pain and shock of the water. Luxuries are not for slaves, you remembered that lesson well too. You shivered as you hastily scrubbed your body, and felt relief as you turned off the water.

Your master hadn’t mentioned a towel so you put on the clothes he’d provided, as per his order, while you were still dripping wet. You padded over to the door and pulled it open, dropping your eyes to the floor.

“Hey sweethea-” your master started to say as he turned around, but seemed to stop once he was looking at you. “Why are you wet?”

Crap, you'd done the wrong thing. “I'm sorry, sir.”

He touched your arm, “You're freezing!”

That wasn't a question, no response necessary.

He ran his hand through his hair. “This is my fault,” he muttered.

“OK, sorry Y/N,” he said in a normal volume again, “I should have been clearer. I want you to go and have another shower to warm up. I want you to make it as warm or hot as you would like. You can use any of the soaps, shampoo, conditioner, whatever else Sammy has in there, whatever you want. Then you can use as many towels as you'd like and dry yourself off. Then get dressed. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” What the hell?! You'd been expecting blows, not a hot shower. Perhaps he wanted to lull you into a false sense of security? It made you nervous.

You returned to the bathroom.

---

Once you were cleaned and dried to your master’s satisfaction, you followed him to the kitchen. He didn't tell you what to do once you got there, so you took the safe route of going to your knees next to the end of the bench and looking at the floor.

You heard a small sigh from him. Damn, this was wrong too. It was so hard to work out what he wanted, and you weren't used to having to second guess people. Your mistress, the handlers and even most of the clients had always been very clear.

“What do you want to eat?” Your master asked you.

“I eat at the pleasure of my master.”

“Uh, yeah. Ok, well, my pleasure right now is that I’d like you to tell me what you like.”

“I have no preference but what my master provides.”

Your master groaned. You flinched.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said hastily. Great, now you'd upset him.

“I'm sorry, sir. I will not do it again.”

“No, no, my fault. Um, ok. Do you eat eggs?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a slight pause. “You would say that to any food I mentioned, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

You stayed kneeling while your master cooked. Every so often you snuck a glance up at him, which you were able to do because he hadn't specifically ordered you into this position. If he had, you'd have had no choice but to obey, thanks to your collar.

It was strange to see a master cooking. Other slaves had done that with your mistress, not that you'd ever had much interaction with them or sat in the kitchen. But you'd seen them once or twice.

He carried over a plate to the table and sat down. You stayed where you were.

“Uh, come here, please,” he said. You hastily crossed to him, kneeling next to his seat.

“Please sit,” he said, gesturing to the seat next to him.

That was an order, but it clashed with one of your fundamental orders. You started to shake.

“Furniture is not for slaves, furniture is not for slaves, furniture is not for slaves,” you started to chant in a whisper. You clutched your head, the pain of the two orders clashing feeling like you are being ripped apart.

“Stop! Stop!” Your master yelled, panic in his voice. “Uh, belay that order! Don't worry about it! You can keep kneeling!”

You stopped chanting and slowly brought your hands away from your head. The pain was dissipating. Your master put his hands on your head, gently stroking your hair. “I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry sweetheart,” he gushed.

Sam came running into the room, “What happened?”

“Don't tell her to sit on the furniture,” your master said.

“I’m- I'm sorry, sir,” you said shakily.

“Not your fault,” your master said. “That's on me.”

You took some deep breaths. One of your master’s hands was cupping your cheek and again you felt yourself leaning into it. It was strange, normally you wanted to cringe away from the touch of clients, but then again, normally their touch was anything but gentle.

“I've got an idea,” Sam said and left the room.

“Ok, I think you do need some food,” your master said to you. “Umm, how about I put your plate on this chair,” he moved it as he spoke, “and then you can keep kneeling but you can reach it. That ok?”

“Yes, sir.”

You stayed still.

“Oh, umm, please eat. Only as much as you want to. And as slow as you want to. Umm, yep,” your master said awkwardly.

You had eaten your first forkfull of scrambled eggs when Sam returned, holding a cushion.

“You would kneel on whatever the floor was, right Y/N?” Your master asked you.

“Yes, sir.”

“So sometimes it's wood or tiles or concrete or... carpet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that's not using furniture, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Right, so I don't think a cushion is furniture either. It's just how I've chosen to decorate my floor. So if I put a cushion where you need to kneel, you’re just kneeling on the floor, same as if I'd chosen to put carpet there instead.”

It didn't ...feel... wrong. You gave a tiny nod.

“Stand up, Y/N,” your master ordered. Sam put the cushion down where you'd been kneeling. “Kneel here,” he pointed. You did so, the collar forcing your obedience. The cushion felt far nicer under your knees.

You could hear the smile in your master’s voice as he said, “Continue eating, Y/N, as much as you'd like.”

---

Your master took you to a bedroom. Finally, something you knew how to do.

“I'll just leave you for a minute to get ready for bed,” he said to you and stepped out of the room.

You quickly took off your clothes and climbed onto the bed, arranging yourself on all fours, facing your naked butt at the door. This didn't count as you using the furniture, clients could take you on a bed if they wanted to and your master had clearly said it.

Your master knocked on the door, “You ready, Y/N?”

“Yes, sir.”

He opened the door. You were facing away so you couldn't see his face, but you heard him stutter and turn back to the door. “Oh, God,” he muttered.

“Umm, Y/N, please get dressed in whatever clothes you would like to wear to go to sleep. We're, umm, we're not going to have sex.” He fled the room.

You were in trouble again.  Even his orders didn't mean proper things!

You put the oversized trackies and t-shirt you had on before back on, then knelt by the end of the bed. Your master knocked again and came back in.

“Sorry I umm, wasn't clear earlier,” your master said awkwardly. “You don't have to sleep with anyone, ever, while you're here.”

That didn't make any sense. Why else would he want you as his slave?

“Can you sleep in the bed?”

That was an easy question, “No, sir.”

“Ok, where do you normally sleep?”

“On the floor, sir.” He was testing you, you thought, checking you knew how to behave. Perhaps he wanted to see if you were a good slave before using you?

“Alright, let's take the blanket and pillows off the bed and you can arrange them how you want.”

“I do not require luxuries, sir,” you said hesitantly. You didn't want to have to earn them later.

“They're not luxuries, I'm just decorating my floor again,” he said in a tone that brokered no arguments. You swallowed and accepted your fate, adding to your mental tally of what you would have to earn back.

Once your master had arranged a bed for you on the floor and haltingly told you to go to sleep, but you could get up whenever you wanted and the toilet was down the hall and rambled about 5 other “if you want to” instructions, he left.

This was the strangest place you'd ever been.

---

“Please tell me you've found something about the curse,” Dean said to Sam as he walked in to the library. “I am not cut out for this ‘being a master’ shit.”

He paused.

“Or at least, not when they can't consent,” he said with a smirk.

Tag list:

@malindacath

@stoneyggirl2

@iprobablyshipit91

@minty-fresh-donkey

@tiggytaylor

@ellie-andthemachine

@muhahaha303

@nameslessismypricetowhateverend

@siospins2

@mrswhozeewhatsis