#noncon reference

[ashintheairlikesnow]

'I don't fucking care if you cry'

For Luke Petrus?

CW: referenced noncon, BBU, Luke is a piece of shit, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, captivity

"Go on."

Luke kicks up his feet, resting heavy boots on the table, crossed at the ankles. He should light a cigarette or something for the effect, but he doesn't have any on him and getting up to go get some would undermine it. Instead, he just smiles.

The trainee, backed up against a wall across the room, won't look at him. Those huge, gorgeous bright green eyes are focused off to one side. Eyebrows so pale they seem nearly invisible furrow. There's a little wrinkle in his forehead, showing his confusion. Cute, but they'll have to work on showing emotions he wasn't asking for.

"... Go on...?"

The trainee's voice is hoarse. He fucked up, a couple days ago. Luke ruined his throat, and he sure apologized until what was left of his voice was gone after. It's coming back, but there's something sweet about it now, raspy and every sound halfway a whisper. Makes Luke feel sentimental, a little sappy.

"Yeah. Go on. Do it."

The trainee, swimming in the plain white shirt and black shorts they all wear, hugs himself tightly, shivering in the chill. Luke normally keeps the room warm, but he wants this trainee desperate for the warmth another body can provide. And he'll be rewarded once he seeks it out.

Until then...

The trainee blinks - once, twice. Then, hesitantly, he rasps, "... Do, do what... Handler Petrus?"

Luke catches that stammer. They'll fix that, too. He smiles and tips his head to one side. "Cry. Go on, do it. I can tell you want to, that lower lip's been wobbling all day."

"But... t-tears are for... f-fucking, Handler." The words are carefully, slowly pronounced. Trainee doesn't want to say them, but he does it anyway.

Soon he'll forget he ever didn't want anything at all.

"I know, I know." Luke waves a hand in the air, dismissing the words. "Normally that's true. But today, I don't fucking care if you cry. Get it out of your system. We have a lot of work to do, today, and I don't want to deal with it when we're training. So. Cry now, and you can hug me after. Cry when I'm in you and I'll use that whip on the wall and make you cry harder. Thoughts?"

The trainee looks at him for a long pause. The little wrinkle in his forehead deepens.

"Well? Questions? Comments? Concerns?" Luke's smile stretches wider. He opens his hands, encompassing the room. "Anything to say at all?"

The trainee swallows - Luke watches him wince with delight. He mulls over whatever two brain cells still bounce around that emptied-out little head.

Then...

"... I can have... a hug?"

Luke laughs. "Yes, you needy fucking whore, you can have a fucking hug."

Sure enough, the pretty little thing drops to the floor, face beet red as Luke laughs until his sides are sore, and starts to cry.

Again.

#whump #pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #intimate whumper #chris the strawberry blond romantic #wru #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #implied noncon #noncon reference #touch starved

[deadsetobsessions]

Once more the hallucinations hit, and once more I am here writing it out.

My brain is fucking terrifying and I want out, so bad. This came to me in the form of a nightmare.

Also, please don’t take the timeline into consideration, because I have no idea what’s going on. Again, nightmares and dreams tend to not have the best coherency when it comes to plot and timelines. The reincarnation doesn’t have a name, I was too busy feeling terrified. Shit in parentheses was how I experienced the nightmare. Everything else is just me adding sprinkle sprinkle.

——

Ra’s al Ghul.

Talia al Ghul.

Two names that she had been aware of, in the peripherals of her hyper fixation. Two characters meant to enhance the story of the Dark Knight. Side characters, on a good day. Perhaps, a main antagonist on a better day.

On a bad day?

Main characters. Real, living people. Real, living, breathing assassins.

Unfortunately, they’re her new family. One she remembered coming into, bathed in a pool of blood and screams.

She was not a baby.

She is now, a baby. The first of Talia al Ghul’s children. The eldest, once Damian al Ghul was born.

Swaddled in emerald green and gold silks, she was presented to a man with silver streaked hair and a receding hairline. He too, was robed in green and golds.

“A daughter, Talia?” He rumbled, the smooth Arabic flowing out of his mouth failing to hide the acrid disappointment. The child, past the haze of confusion of suddenly being deported from her own adult body into one of a helpless child, felt a stirring of irritation. It’s good she learned the language, because now she knew exactly how Ra’s felt about her. The child grumbled a displeased sound. Not that she would have ignored the fact that her grandfather was Ra’s al Ghul. (He smelled like moth eaten fabric and blood- but I think that was because my cat accidentally scratched me.)

“My apologies, father.”

“Do not tell the young detective of this. Had it been a son, perhaps things would have been different. No, a daughter would only hinder him.”

Talia bowed, hands tightening on her daughter. “May I raise her, father?”

“A resource is still a resource. Go ahead, Talia.”

“Yes, father.” Talia took the dismissal and bowed before leaving.

On her way back to the room with the reincarnation’s crib, Talia al Ghul stroked her daughter’s head.

“I wish you were born a boy, my daughter. I am sorry my beloved will never know of you.”

The reincarnation looked at her new mother. She’s young, the woman-child realized. A teenager.

“You’ll have to be useful, my daughter. Your grandfather is not so kind as to keep the useless. I… do not wish for your death,” her mother muttered.

Great. She got new life and it’s already in danger.

——

She learned to swing a knife. Swords. She learned and devoured the teachings. She learned to be useful.

But then they asked her to take the life of a man who did her no wrong.

Her baby blues clashed with her grandfather’s Lazarus green.

She was still young. A child.

“No.”

“No?”

“He did no wrong.”

“He failed, granddaughter.” Ra’s smiled down at her, patronizing. Cruel. “Perhaps you possess your father’s heart, and you are foolishly sentimental, as women and children tend to be. But in the end, you are an al Ghul and you will obey. Plunge in your blade and I will reward you.”

The reincarnation looked at the man kneeling in front of her, resignation and a hint of pity in what little she could see of his face.

She’s already died before. What did she have to be afraid of?

“No.”

They tried to beat the weakness out of her. It didn’t work.

——

The reincarnation stared at the mirror, left alone in an opulent cage of gold and emeralds and precious stones that meant little to her now.

Her hands traced her back, small fingers finding purchase in soft skin. Her mouth opened fruitlessly, noise refusing to escape. She still felt the burning magic, the brand her own blood had carved into her skin and soul because she refused to kill. The chains her grandfather had shackled around her with magic and cruel amusement.

She had killed him, in the end. Obey, or be punished. Her body had moved without her permission, the reincarnation a prisoner in a body that refused to do as she commanded. The knife swung, a life taken, her hands dipped in red.

She learned a valuable lesson that day.

There were things worse than death.

“This is an order, granddaughter.”

The Magic had flared a searing heat at her neck, forcing her to kneel on broken legs. Ra’s loomed above, authority in his voice. She was bound to obey, regardless.

“You will never speak another word of affection, you will never speak another word to anyone unless I allow it. Perhaps this will teach you of your folly, and your place in this world.”

The loss of her freedom and the fear that came with it was a bitter and devastating lesson.

——

Ra’s al Ghul was so much worse than what little she knew of him.

She was right to be afraid for herself.

Her mother had worried, when she’d withdrawn and refused to speak to her. Even if she could, the reincarnation would not have wanted to. The reincarnation had felt furious, back then, when she thought of Talia. Her mother who refused to protect her. Her mother, who claimed she loved her but refused to see the chains Ra’s wrapped around her neck. She who plied the reincarnation with a supportive hand but forced her into the fighting pits.

But, as the reincarnation stumbled out on bruised and used legs from Ra’s al Ghul’s meeting chambers where he had allowed his business partners to partake in her, she realized that Ra’s was a monster in a human’s body and her mother was a victim of his making.

The lesson Ra’s taught her that day was that if she was not useful, if she did not kill, he would take what was left of her and make use of her.

Hate flared in her heart, and the beginning of Ra’s downfall began the day he let her go from the chambers alive. Injured, but alive. Injured and violated, but alive and furious.

——

She carved her hate and rage and helplessness and fear in the bodies of the people he bid her to kill. Her silenced screams were expressed in the way she splattered blood, the way she covered herself in it. A killing machine first, a stress reliever second, and a child… wasn’t on the list of things she was allowed to be.

His enemies were felled, one after another. He gave her his approval, something she detested.

But still, she continued, bodies racking upwards, tens turning to hundreds, hundreds edging into thousands.

The red in her ledger became ichor and guilt. Her language became violence and obedience.

“You have become a sharp tool, granddaughter.”

She was a genius, after all. And now, she could not disobey. A blade that Ra’s believed will never point towards him. She kneeled. She obeyed.

“Thank you, grandfather.” Her words were only allowed to come out- without searing, terrible pain- when she was thanking him. She tried not to do it as often as he wanted. He thought he broke her when he read the obedience she carved into her body language.

But she never bowed. Never. Not to him. Never.

——

“My weapon could learn much from your granddaughter,” David Cain sat across from Ra’s, wine in their stupid goblets. How she detested the green and blacks he’s seen fit to dress her with. She’s dressed provocatively, not of her own choice. She doesn’t have much of those- doesn’t have much in ways of choices- these days.

She was twelve, and Ra’s al Ghul deserved to die.

“Her combat is a higher form of what my daughter has achieved. How did you do it?”

When Ra’s began to reply, she slipped away.

She found the girl. She found… the cage- the black box- the child was placed in. The child flinched from her when she opened the metal box, fear only easing as the reincarnation kept her body language neutral and kind. (It was pitch black, and about the size of like, a closet. No light. Only from whatever door the box had.) (Cass’ hands hurt from banging on the walls to be let out)

David Cain’s daughter, her mind whispered, the memories of another life once more making itself known.

“Cassandra.” She whispered, regretting it immediately when pain wracked her body. She fell to her knees as the punishment for disobeying an order slammed into her.

The girl looked at her in concern, but did not move closer. The reincarnation stared at this girl and saw a reflection of herself.

David Cain would be here for a month. She will free Cassandra in those days.

——

The weapon stared at the girl in front of her, kneeling in pain.

She did not understand.

-

The girl came back. Water. Food. Kind.

The weapon felt warm. The girl was quiet. No sounds. Good. The weapon knew the girl understood. The weapon thinks that the girl is a weapon too.

-

The girl comes back, again. This time, she makes a sound. It hurt her, but she did it again. The weapon understands when the girl points at herself and repeats the sound. The sound means the girl. The girl expects something from the weapon.

The weapon makes the sound, flinching to see if the owner will come to punish it. The girl purposefully sits, relaxed but vigilant… and protective. Of the weapon?

The weapon relaxed. It repeated the sound, pointing at the girl.

The girl smiles, in pain. But approval. The weapon feels- the weapon is warm, like under the blanket. Approval.

The girl teaches her to make sounds but the weapon communicates without it. It does not like the sounds, does not need them, but the girl seems to think it’s important.

The weapon likes the girl, so the weapon learns. They still understand through no sounds, through reading each other.

-

The girl comes back, silently. Secretly. The weapon does not notify the owner. The weapon feels- does not want to.

The girl- the girl with the sound- she says a different sound. Her body tells the weapon that it’s important, this sound.

And when the girl points at herself and says her own sound, then points at the weapon and says that new sound again, the weapon begins to understand.

The girl had given the weapon her own sound.

“Cass—n- ra.”

“Cass,” the girl said, and Cassandra understood.

“Cass.” Cassandra pointed to herself.

-

The owner wanted- wanted Cassandra to end a life. Cassandra watched the owner kill and gesture to the dead thing.

Cassandra did not want to.

When Cassandra is placed back into the pitch black box, she waited for the girl.

The girl came.

“Don’t want.” Cassandra clung to her, reading the welcome and the sadness in the girl’s body. Cassandra tucked her face into the girl’s shoulder. She is cold. The girl is warm.

The girl hugged her back. The girl understood. Sadness hardened into lines of determination. Cassandra felt… light. Felt hope.

-

Cassandra slipped away from the place, water in her pack for the dessert and money to run from the country. The girl stayed behind, seeing her off. The girl tells her to never come back.

Cassandra did not want to leave the girl behind, but the girl could not go.

“Be free, Cass.” The girl had whispered through the pain. “For the both of us.”

——

Her grandfather knew. He allowed David Cain to break her, not kill because she was of use to him still, as a lesson. She found that she hated his lessons. But, she hated his attention more.

And still, she could not regret. How could she, when Cass trusted her with what fragile hope she had?

So, she lets him beat her, and provokes him with smirks and fearless eyes because the longer he’s focused on her, the more time Cass has to run.

Then, he gets too angry, and insults Ra’s, whose eyes grew cold. Her grandfather gestured and while she usually hated the command that followed that gesture, she could not feel that hatred now.

She got back up, legs broken and arms twisted once more, and attacked David Cain.

Ra’s would not follow Cass. Not when she was not his business to deal with, and not when David Carin’s fury amused him so.

David Cain would not follow Cass. Not while she still drew breath. The reincarnation stood, and threw herself at one of the best assassins of the century.

She tore his throat out with nothing but her teeth. She felt, for once, not like a monster. Not even when Ra’s nodded in approval and ordered for David Cain’s broken body to be cleaned up.

——

She’s been granted a mission in New Jersey, once her months of discipline- of torture- ended. She does not get ordered to find Cassandra. She’s fourteen now, and as silent as ever. Her mother had adjusted to her silence by then- long ago, actually, taking it as a quirk her daughter had developed. She hadn’t been a terribly vocal child, after all. Talia praised her for being useful even as a woman- the self degradation something the reincarnation had no doubt Ra’s had insidiously trained into Talia- and for being loyal to Ra’s.

Sometimes, she hates Talia for being- for-

Never mind. She couldn’t afford to hate anyone else.

She killed her targets early, determination and wistfulness urging her movements into sharp . Then, she made her way to Gotham and slipped into the city of darkness- where her father was.

She watched as he hid in the shadows almost as easily as she did. She watched as he flew and glided with the younger Robin. (He was younger than her by a year. She checked.) He was free. They were free.

She wished…

As she turned away, she saw a child tumbling from the edge of a roof. It was an instinct she’d thought Ra’s had managed to bury after the months he’d spent making sure she killed only children.

She hated him.

She caught him, swooping in and tucking him against her side as she plucked him from the air and plopped him back onto the crumbling roof of Gotham’s slums.

“Oh, thank you! So much- are you a vigilante?” The boy asked, looking at her masked face. It’s a good thing she wasn’t exactly dressed like a regular League operative.

She shook her head. Her eyes fell onto his camera, faint memories rising once more. She had an inkling-

“I’m- uh- Tim!” The boy introduced himself nervously, edging away from her silence. “Thank you for saving me…?”

She nodded. She pointed to the camera, tilting her head.

“Oh- you… want to see it?” He clutched his camera closer. Oh, he did have some sense of self preservation. She wondered why a seven year old was allowed to roam these streets… but she did worse at seven.

She held her hand up and back up. The boy hesitated, and then showed her the camera. “Uh- I took pictures of Robin and Batman!”

They sat on that roof for hours, and she let Tim Drake tell her stories about her father and his son. Ward. Son.

She could tell that Tim didn’t have anyone to listen to him.

She didn’t have long until she had to go back or risk severe punishment, but… she could make time for Tim, to listen to him.

She wondered if Cass managed to escape completely. She wondered if her sister all but in name and blood learned how to smile.

——

Tim had never had a friend before!

She listened to him! And gave him hugs the one time he was brave enough to ask! And she seemed to like Batman and Robin as much as he did! No one who didn’t like them would listen to his endless rambling otherwise, right? (Tim was super skinny, like ribs poking out skinny. He looked like a sickly Victorian child and he was kind of cold)

“And then, Robin went like this,” he pantomimed the awesome punch Dick Grayson did on a Joker goon. “And the guys got knocked out just like that!”

His new friend nodded, looking interested.

“Sorry, am I talking too much?” Tim asked anxiously. He didn’t want to make his friend hate him!

She shook her head, and gestured for him to continue.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

His new friend was so cool! She even taught him how to throw a punch and to fight!

——

When she had to leave, she prepared Tim for it.

“Do you have to go?”

She nodded and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Her other hand held a duffle bag with an assortment of weapons she carefully kept from him. (One of the blades still had guts on it, which, ew.)

“Try not to fall off anymore roofs, little photographer.” She said, smiling at his shocked look before leaping away.

“Wait, you can talk?!” He shouted at her back. She smiled a little wider.

——

“A son, this time.” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice echoed in his disgustingly flashy throne room. It rings of approval.

The reincarnation stood behind her mother, eyes cast downwards.

“Well done, Talia. I finally have a worthy heir.”

Damian al Ghul cooed.

The reincarnation was scared. But… she could not allow her younger brother to be trapped like she was. She’s fifteen now, a decade of slavery having worn her down and nearly broken her. But with her brother… no, she could not allow it.

She met her mother’s eyes and knew then that they agreed. Protect Damian, at all costs.

She ignored the sting of envy. So what her mother could not find it in herself to protect her daughter? So long as she protected Damian, it didn’t matter.

Maybe she didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t worth anything. Maybe- maybe- maybe.

She also ignored the seed of disgust she had for mother’s actions in conceiving Damian. She couldn’t do anything about it. Talia was also a victim.

A louder voice in her asked if she could really excuse that, when Talia had a choice and she chose to hurt and violate Bruce Wayne like that. She wondered if she could truly ever forgive Talia. She wondered if Bruce Wayne got therapy.

——

She stared at the tome in front of her, eyes blank. (Actually, she had no eyes. Like? Empty sockets, but then later she had eyes???)

The brand- the shackles- the chains could only be broken if Ra’s died. She wasn’t opposed to that. But if he died, so did she. She couldn’t even kill herself to get out, because the chains would be there even if she died. If she was revived- a high chance, thanks to the fucking pits- then the chains would still be there.

Perhaps… she could use the pits?

Her mind turned and turned.

——

“This is your ukht.” Her mother pointed at her. Damian stared up at her, and she melted. Her brother was too damn cute.

“Ukhti?”

She nodded as her mother smiled in joy. “Yes, habibi.”

She was better at hiding the pain, now. She was better at enduring it, too, that fucking burning feeling. She spoke more, but only to Damian.

It would not do for her brother to grow up not knowing how to receive verbal expressions of affection. Not like she did, in this life.

Still, it hurt to speak. But then, she had an idea, based on Cassandra.

She could not speak, but speaking wasn’t the only way of communication. She’ll teach Damian sign language- standard, as commanded- but also her own version. Yes, she could do it. It wouldn’t be hard.

She was a genius, after all, and creating languages wasn’t as hard as people seem to think.

——

Damian copied her, small fingers patting his hand four times.

She did it back to him. “I love you.” She tells him, with sounds and with motions.

He does it back, excitedly, because he had a secret with ukhti!

——

Sometimes, she dared not to touch Damian. She wants to ruffle his hair and give him hugs but the ichor on her hands reminds her to not get to greedy. She did not deserve it.

Not when her hands were stained with the lives of so many people.

——

Another mission.

She was twenty now, and not much closer to escaping her bonds. Though, once she hit her majority, Ra’s lost interest in her in that way. A blessing, even if she had to seduce his “business partners” into giving him better deals more often now.

She stops by Bludhaven. The Robin she watched so many years ago- six, by her count- had grown new wings and moved. She wanted to see if he could fly still.

He could. He flew as free- no, freer than his days as Robin.

She dipped away to complete her mission (nuclear weapon trading, really?) and swings back to see a spider trying to break the former Robin’s wings.

“No.” Nightwing whispered, staring upwards at the cloudy sky blankly. “Please, stop.”

She didn’t need to hear any more. She saw red, and dove feet first straight onto the spider’s head, knocking her out.

She picked up a near-catatonic Nightwing, and helped him to his apartment. She left Tarantula in the rain and felt zero guilt about it.

He changed mechanically, some kind of instinct keeping him from removing his domino, but it was a bit pointless considering she escorted him to his personal apartment.

She watched as Nightwing slipped into an exhausted sleep before leaving. She had a spider to squish, and traces to hide.

——

Dick wakes up, drained and exhausted. He… someone saved him.

He sees a scrawled note, handwriting impeccable enough to be a font, written with his pen. He picked it up from his table, and his eyes tiredly read the message.

“Don’t worry about Tarantula. Or your identity.”- A friend.

He remembered- the mask- the mask of the stranger that saved him vividly. He’d remember. And he’d thank them if they ever came back.

——

She was in charge of training assassins, these days. A year and a half later after Bludhaven, she was back in Nanda Parbat, and she’s devoured every magical tome she could get her hands on. They all say the same things.

Her assassins were trained well, and Ra’s praises her with more responsibilities as he followed the pit in his obsessions. Her mother began to splinter the group, not knowing that as Ra’s began his descent into madness, people looked towards her instead of Talia for leadership. They did not know that her unwavering presence by Ra’s side wasn’t voluntary but it is their true that she became his right hand out of pure skill. And flawless obedience, of course.

Then, someone new joins.

Someone with pit rage and empty eyes that goes rigid when she approaches.

Then again, most of the operatives freeze up when she walks towards them.

Her memories roar. A child.

He bowed, and her eyes followed the streak of white hair at the forefront of his skull.

She gestured at him to follow, and ignored the pitiful eyes the rest of the assassins gave to the kid- they act like her training was hard when she went easy on them (it was)- and led the kid towards the training rooms.

She knew who he was, even if her grandfather and mother didn’t think she knew.

Her… Bruce Wayne would probably appreciate his son being returned relatively sane.

But first, she had to beat the Pit out of him. Then, she could assign body guarding duties to him, in an attempt to protect him.

——

“Grandfather, I will take Damian’s punishment.”

“A whipping girl, granddaughter?” But he nodded anyways. He made Damian watch.

She kneeled and allowed the punishment. She couldn’t always protect him from Ra’s, but this she could do anytime. It’s not like she was unfamiliar with the torture. (The whip had barbs. Rusty. And they sprinkled salt.)

——

“I liked poetry….” Jason Todd tells her after a training session. “I think.”

“Sure. I’ll call you Grave, then.” Pain. But she was used to it.

He tilted his head, eyes going blank once more. She sighed. There went his memories again. (His eyes were blank and glazed. Like looking at someone you love and knowing they’re looking through you.)

——

“I would not trust her,” she says to the air, next to a Red Hood emerging from Talia al Ghul’s chambers. She could see it, the beginnings of Gotham’s new crime lord. But still, “Talia al Ghul is known for her lies.”

She pushed away from the wall. It was up to Grave if he listened. It was out of her hands now.

——

She’s twenty-five, and she’s helping Damian pack for his first meeting with Bruce Wayne.

“You must not tell him about me.” Because he’d come rushing here, and she had worked too hard to save Damian for her fool of a father to come and ruin all of that effort.

“I promise.” Her little brother said solemnly. Ukhti said it out loud, which meant it was important and she expected him to keep that promise.

The only other time he’d heard her speak was to tell him she loved him.

The reincarnation smiled and told him through their special sign language, to treat the current Robin with respect and to try his best to get the current Robin to pass down his title.

‘Robin is earned. They have different rules, over there. Try your best to learn those rules.’

Her brother was sheltered. She loved him, but he was spoilt and sheltered. Of course she was worried. Talia barely mothered him.

“I know. You do not have to remind me so often, ukhti.”

She smiled, and patted his head.

“Be safe,” she whispered. “I will miss you.”

Damian darted in for a hug. “Of course. Goodbye, sister. See you soon.”

She hoped not. It was hard enough to convince Ra’s that Damian would learn more under Bruce Wayne.

(She was locked in a small closet- like Cass- for about a week, because she brought up the idea first.)

——

She found it.

The answer to pit rage laid in an old, all but crumbling tome from Atlantis- answers “from a ghost.”

——

Bruce Wayne died. Months after Damian came to live with him. That- irritating- she sighed and worked with her mother to turn Ra’s al Ghul’s attention away from Gotham, lest he called Damian back in Bruce Wayne’s absence.

The little photographer caught grandfather’s attention. She stood vigil as he played chess with Ra’s. His interest in Damian wavered. Anticipation blurred in her veins.

She saved his friends. Her assassins. She let them go, telling them to wait for the little photographer’s plan. (Y’all miss girl had fucking bloody handprints on her pants like someone tried to grab it.)

The first few people who had an inking she might not be loyal to Ra’s… and it was them.

When her other assassins attacked Red Robin, she cut them down before they could touch him, helping him with a furious League of Spiders or whatever operative. She hated spiders.

“What…?”

“You’re a lot of trouble, little photographer.” She sighed. His jaw dropped.

“It’s you!”

“Go,” she cut him off. “Blow this place up. I left a surprise for you outside.”

——

“Owens?! Z?!” Tim trembled, exhaustion and shock and wonder hitting him at once.

“Heya, boss!” Z chirped. Owens helped Tim up while Z helped Tam. Pry walked around them, looking out for further threats. “The nightmare trainer let us go. She knew you, I think.”

Tim smiles, all shark teeth and zero hero. (In the background, the song zero to hero from Hercules 2, played in reverse.) “Tell me more.”

——

Damian grunted, bracing himself for the magical creature’s attack.

“Robin!” His father barked out, panicked. Damian hoped he’d survive-

Shhhlk!

He looked up and there stood his ukht. She bounded forwards, using the odd fauna of the magical plane to bolster her movements as she sliced the creatures apart with her swords, magic humming brightly as she cut through them… and the magicians attacking them.

“What- what are you doing here?” He asked. She greeted him, three fingers curled over her shoulder.

‘My question is,’ she signed. ��Why were you here without a magical weapon.’

Damian sighed as father stepped in between them.

“Who are you.”

“Batman. Cease your excessive worry. I trust her with my life,” Damian snapped. He stepped around a shocked Batman, looked him in the eyes, and unsheathed his katana. He handed it over to his ukht, who took it with amusement.

‘See?’ His eyes seemed to say. Father tensed when his sister unsheathed her own blade and handed it to him.

‘Are you here for a specific reason?’ His sister signed to him.

“Uh, you gonna introduce us, little man?”

Damian sent the Flash a derisive look and ignored him.

“We’re looking for a magician. He set a squadron of demons loose into D.C. last night. He has a tower.” Damian added.

“Robin,” Father growled. “Who is this.” Damian shot him a look and turned back to his sister.

The reincarnation tilted her head. ‘Tower… it’ll have to be that way.’

“Could you take us there?” Damian asked. Truthfully, he could find the way himself. But he wanted more time around his ukht. She nodded and Damian straightened.

“I feel like we should be concerned that Robin’s friend just murdered a bunch of people.”

His sister glanced back and ignored them.

“Silence, incompetents. Speak another word against her, and Batman’s no killing rule will be applied creatively.” He hissed. (The fucking surroundings hissed with him y’all what the fuck)

He turned when his sister ruffled his hair (Superman muttered a super shocked “what the fuck.”) and Damian allowed it. He had missed his sister.

——

#I have vivid nightmares #batman #oc in dc #dc #batman fic #idea for a fic I definitely don’t have the time to write #reincarnation #isekai #once more my brain has seen fit to fuck me over #tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #like holy shit what the fuck #brain what is wrong with you #tim drake #jason todd #Damian Wayne #Damian Wayne’s older sister #dp reference lol #couldn’t resist #oc gets Isekaid and proceeds to have a shit of a time #y’all there’s a second part to this shit #it’s a long ass dream

[unpretty]

I'm cackling at the person who reblogged your Karen from HR post and told you not to look at their blog bc it's full of weird porn. Someone clearly isn't familiar with your writing. 🤣

*kicks hungry thirsty roots under the bed*

#original #in fairness i have a pretty vanilla set of squicks #tentacle dick noncon is relatively basic. i think. #my frame of reference may be skewed

[hold-him-down]

One Day

Notes: Maybe like 9 months in?

CW: vague references to noncon, references to noncon drugging, all the typical CW for this story.

✥ ✥ ✥

Leo is shivering as he pulls off his sweatshirt; he feels another wave of dizziness wash over him and he swallows. It took three days of skull-splitting headaches and increasingly persistent nudging from Luke before he agreed to go visit Rob. They left with a prescription for antibiotics and a word of caution to take it easy for a few days. Leo waited in the car while Luke got the medicine, and, while his desperation for relief was palpable, the bottle of pills that he turns over and over and over has his stomach in knots.

The relief will be worth it, Leo tells himself, closing his eyes. It will be worth it. On the peripheries of his worry is the pain that constantly accompanies being drugged, the disorientation, the nausea. Further back is the feeling of hands on him, of not being able to lift his arms, of people looking down at him whispering that it’s okay while lower, his legs are prised apart. And then, the one where everything is dark, and everything hurts, and he doesn’t know what’s real. That one is even further, so far back that Leo blinks the thought– no, the memory– away as quickly as he can, as he swallows and puts the bottle down. Luke won’t hurt you. 

He wraps his arms around his stomach and sits on the edge of the tub, waiting for it to pass. He hears Luke’s footsteps down the hall. If he can act okay, he thinks, maybe Luke won’t make him take them. Maybe, if he can make himself feel better, or at minimum, if he can make Luke believe he’s feeling better, then Luke won’t be worried, and he won’t make him take them.

He swallows again, and his shivering fingers moving to grip to the side of the tub; he sucks in a deep breath through his nose and holds it. His vision swims as he blinks against the fluorescent light.

"Leo?" Luke knocks softly on the door before pushing it open.

Leo opens one eye, squinting in his general direction. His grip tightens on the ceramic, trying to keep himself both upright and still. He’s okay, he tries to say with an easy half smile, but his vision is a little blurry, and he’s distantly aware that unshed tears are the culprit. He can’t pinpoint when that happened, but it’s too late to do anything about it. He shakes his head, offering his best approximation of a smile.

Luke drops to a kneel in front of him, his hand brushing against Leo’s forehead.

"I'm really okay," he hears himself saying, his voice warbled in his ears. He knows he isn’t convincing– not to Luke, and not to himself– but his words come out ahead of his thoughts. “I’m feeling… I think a little better.” He swallows, pinching his eyes shut again. “I think I can… I think it’ll be okay without–” 

At Luke’s expression, he trails off. 

"Right.” Skepticism colors Luke’s tone, but he smiles warmly in spite of it. “You still dizzy?"

"Mhmm." Leo presses his head into Luke's palm, a half-hearted bid to ease the tension there, as Luke brushes the hair away from his too-warm flesh. It's Luke's favorite way to show concern, or, if he’s lucky, sometimes affection. It's become one of Leo's favorites, too. He lets his eyes close, even though he knows there’s danger there. His body, his mind, have been forced to accept this, and to find comfort in it, and to long for it. But he’s never been forced to let his guard down, and he’s never been forced to find safety in this. 

“You’re shivering,” Luke whispers, pressing his fingers into Leo’s palm and uncurling his fingers gently. When he withdraws, he places the plastic bottle in the void, then wraps Leo’s fingers around it.

“How bad is it?”

“Better than before,” Leo replies carefully. “I probably can just… sleep it off.” The bottle in his hand makes the shivering more noticeable.

No response immediately comes from Luke, but he squeezes Leo’s forearm. There’s a long silence, where Leo knows that Luke searches for the words to convince him without commanding him. 

“I don’t want to take them,” Leo eventually whispers, so soft that he’s not sure Luke even registered that he was speaking. He shrinks back automatically, his body readying itself for the pain that’s sure to follow. Slowly, he brings his eyes up to meet Luke’s.

Luke nods, but he’s not happy. 

It’ll help–You’ll feel better– Take these– It doesn’t matter if you want to or not– You can swallow them or I can force them down your throat– We gave you something to help calm you down– We gave you something that’ll make it difficult for you to eat for a few days– We gave you something that might make it hard for you to stand– Take them, Leo. 

Take them. 

Take them. 

Take them.

His head is pounding, the lights are too bright, the sounds too loud. His arms are wrapped around a bucket with doctors surrounding him, he hasn’t eaten in days. He wakes up restrained. He doesn’t know where he–

“Alright,” Luke says, wrapping his fingers around Leo’s, which are gripped tightly around the bottle. They both stare at it.

It doesn’t matter if you want to or not. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’ll– I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll take them, just… just give me a minute?”

Luke takes the medicine and sets it on the counter. The absence of the bottle in his hand is an immediate alarm bell, and he reaches out to Luke. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I want to take them.” He clears his throat, wincing as he does. He has more planned to say,  but Luke cuts him off.

“Hey.” Luke pushes his fingers into Leo’s hair. Something in Leo’s face, which, Leo suspects, is half a decade of anxiety manifesting itself in unshed tears, must have Luke on edge; he tries to fix his expression. “If you want to take them, take them. If you don’t, it’s fine. You’ll survive either way,” he says, his tone overtly lifting. He moves to sit on the ledge of the tub next to Leo, nudging his shoulder with his own. “Probably,” he amends, and Leo forces a smile. 

There’s a silence as they both stare at the pill bottle, innocent-enough looking but wreaking absolute havoc on Leo’s anxiety. 

“You don’t have to take them,” Luke says again. “Why don’t you lay down for a little bit, and once you’re in a better headspace we can reassess? I’ll grab dinner?”

Leo nods, and Luke squeezes his arm. And then, at the risk of unraveling every ounce of confidence he’s gained in the last six months, he says, “It used to be a whole thing.” He stares straight ahead, but he can feel Luke’s eyes on him. “They knew, I think. Early on, that it fre– That it scared me. So they–” He shakes his head. He swallows. His fingers tangle together in his lap. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Luke eventually responds, when it’s clear that Leo doesn’t plan to go further. “I hope you do, though. That one day, you’ll tell me what happened?”

Leo nods, taking a deep breath and blinking back the unshed tears, and stands. He picks up the bottle from the counter and turns to face Luke.

“One day,” he says, nodding. 

Luke trails behind him as he walks back toward his bedroom, and at the door, he says, “I mean that, Leo. I’ll help you, in any way that I can. But I need you to know that you can talk to me, and it won’t go anywhere you don’t want it to go.”

FIGHTER TAG LIST: @whump-cravings, @afabulousmrtake @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @pumpkin-spice-whump @distinctlywhumpthing @thecyrulik @highwaywhump @batfacedliar-yetagain @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup @skyhawkwolf @suspicious-whumping-egg @also-finder-of-rings @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @peachy-panic @melancholy-in-the-morning @urban-dark @nicolepascaline @quietly-by-myself @pigeonwhumps @whump-blog  @seasaltandcopper @angstyaches @i-msonotcreative @mylifeisonthebookshelf @anonintrovert @whump-world @squishablesunbeam @considerablecolors @whumpcereal @whumperfully @pirefyrelight @whumpsday@whumplr-reader@lonesome--hunter@darkthingshappen

#the fighter #references to noncon #references to noncon drugging #chaos post i didn't actually read through this SO if any paragraphs or sentences just trail to nowhere #plz lmk lol

[house-afire]

you can have a little revenge, as a treat (Izzy/Lucius)

(tw: references to noncon)

Izzy knew Lucius was tailing him back to his cabin. He didn’t stay so close it was stupid—more like a nervy cat’s way of following than a puppy’s—but he was still as subtle as a cannonball. He wasn’t surprised when there was a knock half-a-minute after he got inside.

“I’d say ‘fuck off,’ but you don’t like listening, do you?”

The door creaked open. “Did you know it was me, or is that just, like, how you greet people?”

“It can be both.”

“Fair.” Lucius slipped in and sat down, like he’d had a real invitation. He gave Izzy a fierce, almost angry look. “I asked Pete to be my matelot.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected this to be about, but it sure as fuck wasn’t this. “And you came to me for congratulations?”

“Uh, no. I can see why that would be weird, if I’d done that. No, I want to—” He pressed his lips together. Turned out that was one last bolstering-up of the dam before he kicked it to pieces. “Stede doesn’t want to listen to what happened to me after Blackbeard pushed me overboard, and he said I shouldn’t tell Pete every dark little detail, either. And he was right. It’s a lot, and I shouldn’t … track filth around. But if I don’t tell someone about it, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. You’re not squeamish, and you won’t cry over me.”

That glare of his, Izzy saw now, had just a hint of desperation to it.

He’d never talked about anything more than he’d had to—swallowed it all down like his fucking toes—but he had, as the whole cursed lot of them knew by now, sicked up enough before to know that it could help. And if you were going to spew, better to do it in private.

“Fine,” Izzy said.

Lucius boggled at him for a moment, like a fish pulled out of the water, and then said, “Right, I expected that to be a lot harder.”

He sat down on the other end of the bed, as far from Izzy as he could get. Crossed his legs and uncrossed them, scowling at his knees like they’d betrayed him. He fixed his gaze somewhere over Izzy’s shoulder.

“I went between a lot of ships, after I got picked up. Wasn’t really by choice, not after the first … first bad one. A good ship—a good ship will let you leave, and you don’t know until it’s too late that if they’ll let you go, you might be … might be better off staying. I should never have left the first berth I got. They only wanted me as a whore, but that’s not so bad, is it? I mean, you’d probably say that’s most of what I did around here anyway.”

His gaze flickered over to Izzy like he expected him to laugh or nod. Izzy didn’t do either: you didn’t fuck about when you could see there was a storm on the horizon.

“Okay. Fine. Be understanding, like that’s not creepy.” He shifted around again, fidgeting like his own skin wasn’t enough to keep together, like he had to hold on to himself. “The other ships were all worse. I thought most pirates were—”

“Like Bonnet?” Izzy said incredulously.

“Like you,” Lucius said. “I thought the worst I’d have to contend with would be a whole ship of Izzy Hands, and I’d just be annoyed and stressed or, fine, dead, but in a—normal way. But you never—you wouldn’t—”

He dug his fingers into his arms. He’d wind up with bruises from it.

“The worst ship was called Dead Man’s Folly. And they had a little dog named Pepper, and they liked having puppet shows in the evenings, and I just fucking need—somebody—to fucking listen.”

Izzy didn’t know the details yet, but the puppet shows were a cursed enough notion for him to tell the outline of it already. Nothing curdled like whimsy; nothing was worse when it turned dark.

He listened. And as Lucius told him all of it, he stowed away a few things in particular.

Dead Man’s Folly. Captain Graves.

***

It took another fortnight—and a through-gritted-teeth request about it to Bonnet, who was so shocked Izzy would ask him for a favor that he gave in at once—but Izzy saw to it that they made one of the Dead Man’s Folly’s regular ports of call.

“I never had the impression you were all that enamored of shore leave,” Bonnet said, watching as Izzy scanned the ships crowded into the bay. “Care to share your holiday plans?”

Izzy’s lips flexed, hard, as he found the flag he was looking for. “Not responsible for what you don’t know about,” he said. “Better to leave it.”

“If you’re looking for trouble, you ought to have company!”

“Not for this,” Izzy said. “You’d approve, at least in theory, but you won’t want to see it. It won’t be very … gentlemanly.”

Bonnet looked crestfallen, but he said, “Well, if that’s what you think, I suppose I agree. I—trust you, Izzy. God, never thought I’d be saying that.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Izzy said.

“It is a bit weird, yeah. Nice, though.”

Almost against his will, Izzy said, “Yeah, it’s nice.” He cleared his throat. “Keep Lucius and Black Pete on the ship, even if everyone else goes to shore for the night. I don’t know, throw them a fucking engagement party.”

Bonnet brightened. “I have been meaning to do that, you know. Of course, you can’t plan a proper celebration in one night, but—”

“Whatever,” Izzy said, putting his foot into the rigging and starting down. It took more presence of mind to do this these days, but it wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. “Just no cake.”

“Yes, I think we all learned our lessons on the cake front. Have no fear! Roach is a pastry virtuoso. There doesn’t exist a confection that he can’t master.”

Perfect. A night of sugar and blood. Captured their lives here pretty well, really.

***

It wasn’t hard to find the Dead Man’s Folly. Ships captained by assholes always made themselves known sooner or later.

Some of Bonnet’s luck must have rubbed off on him, because he got the sweetest of chances: all hands in port for the night, and just Graves and his first mate aboard.

Easiest thing in the world for Izzy to hail them, plain and simple, and get welcomed on. The first mate didn’t even ask him his business, though he found it out in a hurry. Izzy didn’t make a meal out of that one: it was Graves he’d come here for, Graves who had been the rotten core of Lucius’s story.

Graves, who was drinking the night away in his cabin.

He wasn’t completely soused yet, which was good. Izzy wasn’t going to give him a chance to retrieve his sword or pistol—he was here to murder, not raiding or dueling; the usual rules of the profession didn’t apply—but he wanted him sober. He wanted Graves to know what he was paying for.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Curious passerby,” Izzy said. “My ship dropped anchor here, same as yours, and I’d heard so many rumors about the fearsome Captain Graves that I had to come myself to see what was what.”

The fact that Graves didn’t immediately blink at him and ask if he was taking the piss was a marvel and a half. As far as Izzy was concerned, the only pirate worth that kind of slobbery adulation was Edward himself—and Edward had tired of it a long time ago.

“What rumors would those be?” Graves said, hungry for any morsel of a reputation.

“I heard,” Izzy said, “that you picked up a pretty little piece of one-time jetsam a while back.”

Graves earned himself an even slower death by not even being able to fucking remember at first, like he fished bitchy scribes out of the sea every week at least.

“Oh,” Graves said, comprehension finally dawning on him. “Rat Boy. I wouldn’t go as far as pretty.”

Fucking hell, at this rate, Izzy was going to have to spend most of the fucking year killing this prick.

“Rat Boy. That’s the one.” He gave Graves a smile that would’ve sent a smarter man running. “Heard something about a bit of puppetry too, I think. Sounded … inventive.”

Graves, not content with all previous acts of wanton fucking stupidity, took this compliment at face value too. “Keeps the crew entertained on the slow nights. Everybody loves a good show.”

“Yeah? You come up with that yourself, then?”

Graves spread out his hands. “I’m a great innovator, unrecognized in my time.”

“Oh, I bet recognition’s right on its way,” Izzy said. “Nipping at your heels. You really got your whole hand up his arsehole, then.”

“He squirmed, but in it went,” Graves said, wiggling his fingers.

“You like that, watching him squirm? Wouldn’t go so far as to call him pretty, no, but you liked how he looked with you wrist-deep in his arse and making a show of him? Liked having him catch rats with his teeth? You must have. Liked it so well you didn’t even call him by his right name. Do you know it?”

It was, to Izzy’s great pleasure, finally starting to dawn on Graves that Izzy hadn’t really come here to have a wank to his great ingenuity. He stared at Izzy, the damp whites of his eyes looking like Roach’s poached eggs.

“My first mate is right up on deck—”

“He is. All over the deck, you might say.” Izzy leaned back in his chair. “Now, him I didn’t have much of a conversation with, so he didn’t have a chance to make things worse for himself. Just as dead as you’re going to be, though. Had it coming too, because a first mate’s responsible for everything that happens on his ship.”

Graves stared up at the ceiling, like blood was going to start dripping down right on cue. Izzy hoped he had a vivid picture of what all over the deck could mean. He gave Graves time to think about it. Then some more time to think about how much worse Izzy might do to the man who’d just been running his mouth about being the brains behind the human fucking puppet.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Izzy said, drawing his sword and laying it across his knees. “If you can come up with his name, I won’t cram a fat bilge rat down your sorry throat until you choke on it. I don’t really want to go looking for one anyway. This is going to take enough time as it is.”

Graves was sputtering now, like he was trying to save Izzy the rat-finding trouble by choking on his own spit first. “But he—he—”

“Made it back to his own ship.”

“He couldn’t have,” Graves insisted. “He—he said his captain there threw him overboard!”

“I’m not his fucking captain,” Izzy said. “Come up with that name yet?”

Graves’s pulse was fluttering in his throat, rapid as a lady’s fan. Thinking so hard beads of sweat were popping out on his brow: the great innovator at work.

“J—John.”

“Reasonable gamble,” Izzy allowed. “Thing is—it’s not right by even a letter.”

He ran Graves through, pinning him to his fancy chair; rapped the hilt with two fingers and set it to quivering in Graves’s belly. The screams were easy enough to ignore. Just part of the mess, like the blood.

He’d intended to make Lucius Spriggs the last thing Graves ever heard, but it seemed like Lucius’s name deserved better than being dragged back into this room with all its filth. Stupid thought, but there it was.

Instead, he said, “S’pose it doesn’t matter. Saw a dead rat right outside—seems a shame to waste it.” He hadn’t, but he figured Graves deserved to die with that thought in his head. And one more for good measure: “I’m not much for imagination; save that for the captains of the world. But I do work out how to make the fucking plans happen, even yours. The way I see it, all I have to do is cut your hand off—” He tapped a dagger blade against each of Graves’s wrists. “And then I can shove it up your arse. Put on a puppet show just the way you like.”

“You can’t do this,” Graves said. Blood was already hitting his lips as he whined, which meant he was dying faster than Izzy would like, and the bastard was too fucking dimwitted to know it.

Aided in the fuckery, at least.

“Oh, you’ll squirm, but in it’ll go,” Izzy told him. “You said as much yourself. It’ll be slick enough with your own blood, that ought to make it easier.”

He let Graves wriggle and bleed for another few minutes, but there wasn’t any satisfaction to it once the man was well and truly out of his head. Nothing to be gained by hurting a dumb animal. Izzy cut his throat to finish him off.

He stood there a while, breathing in the scent of blood. (And shit. He bet Bonnet’s tales of piracy never talked about how often dying men shit themselves.) He hadn’t paid Graves back for even what the fucker had done to Lucius, but there was revenge and then there was fucking monstrosity. He’d had enough of the latter to last him a lifetime.

Mutilating a corpse, though—that was run-of-the-mill pirate shit, honestly.

“Not saying he’ll make you the centerpiece of the fucking wedding,” he said to Graves’s body, “because he’s still a bit too soft for it, even after what your lot did to him. Which is almost fucking impressive. But he is, God help me, enough of a pirate to appreciate a token.”

Not the head. You walked through port swinging a man’s severed head like a sack of fucking apples, you wound up having to talk about it. Hand wouldn’t attract nearly as much attention—stray hands were as common around here as the pox—but Lucius wouldn’t want one. Not with where Graves’s had been. Fucking reminder, not a proper keepsake. Foot? He glanced down at his hoof—smiled a bit—and then scoffed. Jesus Christ, if he took Graves’s foot, Twatty would never fucking shut up about how interesting it must be inside Izzy’s head. He’d grow old and die before he heard the end of it.

Ear, he decided. Graves had been thoughtful enough to wear some gaudy emeralds there, might as well make use of it.

He sawed off the left one; it had a bit missing off the top, tapering to a lump of scar tissue, so between that and the fucking jewels, it’d be plain enough who it belonged to.

He spat on Graves’s body, before he went.

***

Frenchie was playing his lute when Izzy got back, and he shot Izzy a shy smile and plucked the first few notes of the tune he’d somehow gotten in his head was Izzy’s favorite. He raised his eyebrows.

Izzy waved him off—don’t change it on my account—and Frenchie drifted back to the other song.

Unbefuckinglievable that he’d somehow wound up with a life where people cared what fucking music he wanted. Fucking smiles and moonlight.

And a man’s ear in his pocket. Couldn’t say he’d ever had that before either, strictly speaking. Not as such.

Sugar and blood, he thought.

He found Lucius tucked up in Black Pete’s arms, listening to the music. Little fucker had always been bold as brass when it came to lazing about, never one to spring into action, but this was a new development, this melting back into his boyfriend’s chest and fucking relaxing more as Izzy came close.

Lucius looked up at him through his eyelashes. “Joining us?”

“Oh, get up,” Izzy said, nudging at him with the toe of his boot. “I’ve got a … matelotage gift for you. Just you, not him.”

“Well, color me intrigued,” Lucius said. He twisted around enough to press a kiss to Black Pete’s lips. “Save my seat.”

“Of course! And if he’s giving you what I think he’s giving you, babe, you’re gonna have to let me know if he put a bow on it first.”

They made it around to a quiet side of the deck—as private as anything ever got, with a ship this unwholesomely chummy—and Lucius flicked his gaze downwards and says, “Does it have a bow on it? I’ve always liked unwrapping presents.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Izzy reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief-swaddled ear. It still felt warm. “Here.”

“I swear,” Lucius murmured, “the number of otherwise lovely gifts I get with blood all over them ….” He unfolded the handkerchief and his breath caught in his throat. He stared down at it. “This is—his.”

Izzy nodded.

“That’s what you did tonight. You went out and cut a man’s ear off for me.”

“Killed him too,” Izzy said. “And the first mate.”

“Killed. You walked onto another pirate ship, killed its officers, and brought me back an ear.” Lucius tugged roughly at the earring, like he was half-tempted to tear through the earlobe and yank it free. “How did you even get away with that alive?”

Izzy shrugged. “They’d given the crew shore leave. Otherwise I would’ve had to settle for just the captain, and it would’ve been trickier. Easy enough as it was.”

Lucius wrapped the handkerchief up again. His fingers were shaking. “And here I had this whole vastly symbolic shark telling me I had to move on.”

“You are moving on,” Izzy said. “Or did you miss where it was a fucking wedding present? You’ve got Pete. You’re not sulking about the ship anymore, letting your whole life fester. You fucking talked it out, like you’re Bonnet Jr. You’ve just got some bastard’s ear now too, little piece for the mantel.”

Lucius took a deep breath and then said, “Don’t stab me, because it will so ruin the moment,” and leaned in fast and pressed his lips to Izzy’s cheek. The touch was light and warm. “This is honestly one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy said, even if it took a moment or two too long. His face felt hot. “It’s a severed ear, not a bunch of flowers.”

“I love it.”

“Yeah.” There was more open appreciation in his voice than he’d meant to put there. “Figured you were enough of a bloodthirsty little shit for it.”

“Speaking of which—you’re not … expecting me to cut off Blackbeard’s ear for you, are you?”

“You couldn’t give him so much as a fucking haircut,” Izzy said.

“I know that, but I figured I should, you know, offer.”

“Mm. You didn’t quite, though.”

“I said that I knew I should,” Lucius said. “That’s almost the same thing. I’m self-aware.”

Izzy snorted, and Lucius smiled—victorious and alive and prettier than fucking Graves could have ever fucking hoped to be.

“Don’t tell me you commit glorious, bloody acts of heroism for all the boys,” he said, slipping the bundled-up handkerchief into his pocket. “I don’t need to be a one-and-only, but I still like to feel special.”

He wasn’t quite a one-and-only, Izzy thought, looking over towards the stern, where the ship’s captains and her company was lounging about listening to their moonlit music and probably fiddling with their own beloved severed ears. But he was one of just a few. And special wasn’t the worst word for it, if Izzy were going to talk about it, which he absolutely fucking wasn’t.

“Oh,” Lucius said quietly, following his gaze. “I can certainly work with that.” He kissed Izzy again, on the mouth this time, even more softly than before. It hit Izzy like a kind of slow lightning strike and left him tingling. “Come and sit with us? God, that would be something. One valiant defender of my honor on either side. And Frenchie will play that song he’s absolutely convinced you like.”

“Don’t know why he thinks that,” Izzy said, following Lucius, “but I might be coming around on it.”

#izzy hands #lucius spriggs #izzy/lucius #hints of izzy/crew #tw: noncon references

[abhainnwhump]

(Content warnings: Lab whump, gore, melting, a lot of melting, fusion, body horror, noncon body modification)

Lab whump where a Whumper takes two Whumpees and combines them together. Bonus points if the Whumpees hate each other and/or are mortal enemies.

They're both lab rats caught to be tested on a medicine designed to help heal, but it goes wrong. Or right, depending on Whumper's motives. Whumpee A looks at their skin dribbling off their hand, melting like ice cream on a hot day. Meanwhile Whumpee B is straight up panicking and grabs onto Whumpee for help, but their hand goes right through them. It becomes part of them. Through their desperate flailing to get away from each other, more of their bodies melt together into a monstrosity. Their voices mix and sound more like gurgling and howling instead of anything. And it hurts.

Whumper cackles like a mad scientist as they watch their new pet try to gain a sense of its surroundings.

#if anyone gets the reference I will love you forever #whump #whump tropes #whump prompt #whump writing #creepy whumper #noncon body modification #lab rat whumpee #lab whump #multiple whumpees #body horror #body horror whump #medical whump

[syncopein3d]

I don't know if this 100% falls under whump, or if it's just asexual somnophilia, but I love various types of guards being nonlethally taken down by sneaky figures in black. I'm going to describe two scenarios, one male and one female, and the male one is first because I know some of you are uncomfortable with female whumpees.

A dude's just strolling through the museum, thinking about his midnight lunch break, when there's a sudden sting in the side of his neck and he grabs at it only to come away with a red-fletched metal dart in his hand.*

He makes some kind of confused remark ("The Hell - ?") and grabs for his radio, but it slips out of fingers that suddenly feel fat and uncooperative. An arm slides around his waist as his knees give, and then the blast of euphoria hits his brain and everything feels great. He gapes at a blurry figure above him, heavy-eyed, as he starts to float.

"Everything is all right," a gentle voice tells him. "You can go to sleep."

He doesn't remember why anything would be wrong with that. He doesn't even remember to fight it. He slides off into a warm, happy dream as his entire body goes limp.

Another guard is patrolling some warehouse full of crates whose contents she knows nothing about when something clatters off to her left. She spins toward it, drawing her weapon, only to realize there's a canister spewing white smoke rolling toward her feet. She holds her breath as she turns to try and get out of range, then twitches and gasps at another noise from directly in front of her. It's another canister, and she's just taken a deep breath of something that burns slightly and smells like chemical roses.

She janks right and runs between the tall shelves, but her entire body feels heavy and odd. She realizes she forgot to try and hold her breath again. She can see the roses now, hovering all around like a magic thicket. Something hits her right side, and she realizes it's the shelf. Where'd the weapon go? She must have lost it in the thicket. The smell of roses is so strong and she feels so tired, suddenly. Something bumps into her knee. It's the floor. She fumbles at the shelving, but it's like she's being pulled toward the center of the earth, like gravity is so much stronger than before.

She slides over sideways. A hand catches her so she doesn't bang her head, lowering her to the floor. There's something dark above her, but she can't see it clearly.

"Thanks," she mumbles.

"You're welcome, dear. Shh, now." A hand strokes her hair. It feels lovely, lights up her whole head and spine like a rainbow with soft, sleepy tingling. She stretches her legs and shivers involuntarily, overpowered by the feeling, and as it fades, she fades with it. She's never slept as well as she will on that concrete floor tonight.

*There are no human trank darts irl. There's no consistent way to administer a correct dosage, and basically no substances knock a person all the way out for long without paralyzing breathing. With animals this is less of a concern because they don't have to be unconscious, just too groggy to resist being tagged, medicated, loaded into a truck, etc. And real trank darts are a very specific design that looks like an awkwardly long syringe to accommodate the rocker membrane that does the injection on contact. But I am willing to suspend disbelief on the fake metal movie dart with the little red feathers, because I like it. I'm willing to just make up fantasy meds.

#noncon drugging #whump #guard whumpee #unconscious whumpee #syncopein3d future reference #hallucination whump #whump loss of consciousness #loss of consciousness whump #male whumpee #female whumpee

[sclki-op]

#please don’t look at the errors i didn’t use any references this time- #smoker #smoker the white hunter #roronoa zoro #smozo #I have a strong urge to just draw these two snoozing. #// ​every once in a while I try to search for smozo content I haven’t seen yet #and this time I got punched in the face with noncon fics that didn’t have any content warnings #ough o)—< #sobbing over the only two sane drabbles with them #I might illustrate one of them when I have more time because I’m just thankful those tiny fics exist

[justplainwhump]

Job satisfaction

Tyler struggles to keep a facade in front of his colleagues and learns the whereabouts of Tara's informant.

Written for @whumptober 2022. Will be continued soon.

This is for Day 16, "no way out" and day 19, knees buckling.

A part of Tyler's arc.

Cw for BBU, institutionalised whump, facility whump, a bunch of professionally horrible people (WRU handlers and managers), referenced dehumanisation, (newly) reluctant whumper pov, shortly referenced noncon/dubcon (WRU romantic training), referenced torture

Tyler took the bus to work. He'd drunk too much vodka last night to be able to drive safely. He pressed his forehead to the window, greenish suburbs passing by the windows in a blur until the gray buildings of the industrial zone took over. Facility 002 was located far outside the city.

Hard to reach. Easy to control.

In his pocket, his fingers fiddled with his access card. It didn't say his name, didn't even say the company name, just a plain number, but still he had always kept it hidden. Odd, he realized. He'd told himself over and over again that he just did a job. People in his generation did what earned them money, and tried to be good at it. Nobody identified with what they did, or their employer, he was just like them, right?

Then why had he never told anyone? Even when it had all technically been legal, when he'd been working with voluntary acquisitions. Security, that's what he'd said when asked about his job. Corporate security for some high tech lab. Nobody had ever waited to know more.

The bus' doors opened with a hiss. "Industry Park South Entrance," the automated voice announced. "Last stop. This bus terminates here."

Tyler started, needed a second to find orientation, before he grabbed his backpack and got off. There were just a handful of other passengers left. All here for the same destination. A janitor, a receptionist. Did they tell others where they worked, he wondered.

Did it matter? They didn't do what he did. They weren't handlers. He remembered 238's screams last night, played to her over and over by him. He remembered the countless times he'd slept with her. He remembered her brown eyes, serious and solemn, when she'd told him 'I don't think I signed up for this'.

He'd taught her to never say it again.

Tyler wanted to scream. Instead, he put on an easy smile, nodded to the security officer at the entry, as he swiped his card. It hurt. The edges of the plastic card had cut into his palm, after clutching it too tightly. The pain felt oddly comforting.

"You're late."

Tyler looked up, meeting the gaze of Alex from Client Relations. Squinted dark eyes took him in critically, no doubt noticing the rings underneath Tyler's eyes, the slight trembling of his hands.

"Had a long shift yesterday," he mumbled. "Didn't sleep well."

"I know. Log out at 12.37 am," Alex said without even looking somewhere to check. They weirded him out. "No idea what you did that long, nor do I want to know, honestly. Anyway. Senior Handler Nguyen wants a word before you go in. He's in his office."

Shit.

Tyler nodded numbly. "Yeah. Uh. Thanks."

When he turned towards the office floor, Alex' hand stopped him. "I really don't care," they said. "But he didn't seem like he'd care much, either."

Tyler frowned at them, but they'd already pulled back their hand and were staring at their tablet.

"Oh. Important call. First product specification with Judge Nicholls." They rolled their eyes. "It's her fourth pet, and she's always such a diva. Anyway." Alex' looked Tyler down once again. "If you're sick, don't stay too close to me. There's a cabinet full of prescription drugs at Doctor Wood's office. She'll get you up to peak performance in no time."

"I'm goo-"

"Shhh." Alex was on the phone already, gesturing for him to shut up and pointing impatiently at Alan's office.

*

"238's a mess today," Alan said, without any preface. He didn't even look up from his papers. It felt odd, standing here still in civilian clothes and waiting for a uniformed handler to judge him. "You deviated from protocol, Parker. Why?"

Because it was easier to beat her and cause her pain than to fuck her while she pretended to enjoy it. Because like that, at least, they'd both known it was fucking wrong what was happening.

"Protocol for her current training phase is to simulate a domestic environment, Sir." Tyler crossed his hands in front of him and looked at the tips of his sneakers, hoping Alan wouldn't watch him too closely. His boss was insanely good at spotting a lie. Tyler could just hope that right now, he wasn't looking for one. "I've read her file and that on her prospective owner's other pet. He'd use pain in a domestic environment. So I prepared her for that."

"Huh." The rustling of paper indicated that Alan had put the file down. He hadn't been reading it anyway, Tyler wagered. Alan was playing mind games, always. And even though Tyler saw it happening, he usually got caught in them anyway. Alan was a master on his playing field.

He remembered, that on their first meeting, he had aspired to be like Alan one day. It felt ages ago. "I appreciate the initiative. Bold move though, to not discuss it with me beforehand." He paused. "Bold move especially, coming from you, Parker."

"I… I like to do things right. This, um. This didn't seem bold to me. It was within my scope of decision. I thought."

Alan chuckled quietly. "Well that does sound more like you for sure. Next time, write that reasoning down in your report, too."

Tyler nodded, trying to hide the relief in his voice. "Of course."

"I ordered solitary for her for two days or three. The uncomfortable kind. I think your intuition was right. She needs to take any attention her owner gives her as affection. So we lock her up, let her crave any human touch, and you'll get back to her the day after tomorrow and give her both. Fuck her and hurt her. Fuck her hard. And if she doesn't get it, she'll get one more day of solitary, and we'll try again."

Tyler felt a hard knot in his stomach. Fuck her and hurt her. Again and again and again. That was his job. In contrast to her, he had signed up for it.

Alan didn't seem to register his discomfort. "We have all the time, her prospective is overseas for the next six weeks."

"Good."

It wasn't enough, it seemed, because Alan paused for a moment. "Everything alright, Parker? I'm giving you praise, and a break for today. You're unusually passive about it."

Tyler cleared his throat. "Bad night. Personal, Sir."

"Huh. Don't let it interfere with your work." Alan tilted his head. "I was thinking about filling you in on one of my other cases today. But in that case, let's postpone it. You can go ask Handler Thompson if she's got some work for you while 238 is on hold. Heard her bragging about some special assignment."

Carly. Tyler had to hold back not to grimace. He'd tried to befriend her, in the beginning. Always important to be on good terms with the colleagues, after all. But she was… something else. Something he never wanted to be. He should've understood back then, already.

"Sir, maybe I should-"

"Her methods are very different from mine. I don't think highly of her. But you can learn from her nonetheless."

Tyler swallowed. "I… Sir, I thought I might just call in sick for the day."

"Huh." Alan raised an eyebrow. "Well. If it's that bad, I guess there's no better day than today either. Good work, in any case." Something fell on his shoulder, and Tyler flinched before he realized it was Alan's hand, in a rare gesture of reassurance. "You're on a good path, Parker. Keep that private life separate from work and vice versa, look closely at how things work in this facility, and your next career move won't take long to come. You have a lot of potential. Use it."

Tyler didn't feel like it.

*

He managed to pull himself together as he left the office. Still in his civilian clothes, he felt the weight of his phone in the pocket of his jeans. He'd go home and call Tara. He'd meet her and come clean with her and he'd convince her to be safe.

"Hey, T!"

Tyler almost flinched when he heard Carly's voice. She was sitting in Alex' office, lounging in the visitor chair with her feet on their desk, pointedly ignoring their eye roll. "Short day, or have you pulled an all nighter with that raunchy trainee of yours? She as flexible as she looks?"

"Very," Tyler said.

Carly grinned. "Too bad your boss doesn't let me touch her. I'd love to give her some... specialty training." She put two fingers to her mouth and finished the gesture with a slow flick of her tongue. As if they wouldn't have understood before.

"Not on her training plan," Alex' voice was flat, almost a little bored, but Tyler still noted some annoyance. "She's in the box today anyway. Tyler is off duty. In contrast to you."

Tyler raised his eyebrows, but didn't inquire, how the hell Alex managed to get their hands on information that quickly.

"Oh, I have plenty time." Carly smirked. "Got my pet lib bitch strung up in a nice little stress position. She's going to be soft as a kitten when I get back with her."

"Technically, she's not pet lib," Alex corrected coldly. "These potential sign-ups she made trouble about, they weren't pets. She's anti WRU. There's a distinction."

"She messed with our business. And she is working with pet lib, I'm sure about that. Two or three hours more with her, and I promise she'll spit out some names."

Tyler leaned to the door frame as casually as he could. He feared his legs would give out. "Who -?"

"002242. Our latest acquisition. Social worker. Seriously interfered with recruitment down town."

'My informant was arrested', Tara's voice echoed in his head. 'WRU recruiters all but hunting homeless kids. Tried to do something about it. Now she's gone.'

He didn't feel well.

"We...," Tyler cleared his throat. "I thought involuntary acquisitions meant custom orders."

"It is a custom order. Internal one. Director Fisher's. He's unhappy with pet lib and anti WRU sentiment in this town. Need to smother some voices, re-educate some others. Luckily, it's just a small number compared to the ones that actually bring us money. Financially, each of these trainees is a disaster. Can't offer them via our website, can't give them to anyone who keeps their pets in public - at least nobody local, and shipping pets overseas is such a hassle."

"Your perspective is so cold, Al." Carly rolled her eyes, ignoring Alex' quiet correction, "Alex."

"Talking like they're objects, not people, with real feelings." She swung her legs off the table to lean in. "Feelings, Al. Pain. Despair. Fucking bleak and hopeless sadness. And that little, devastating moment when they understand that this is it." She all but moaned. "Fuck, I could drink that in with a straw."

She checked her watch and got to her feet. "Time to work on that, I guess. Cheers, Al. T, you coming? I could need a hand."

"Actually, Tyler has signed o-"

"Sure." Tyler talked over Alex, feigning a grin of his own. "Yeah. I'm in."

Carly bumped her fist into his shoulder. "Great, buddy. I promise, working with these assholes before the Drip, it's even better than fucking them later." She let out a chuckle. "And doing it both? Man, that's the real thing. Fuck, I love my job."

I don't, Tyler thought, with the dawning realisation it was far too late for that.

#whumptober2022 #no way out #knees buckling #no.19 #no.16 #oc #bbu #facility whump #reluctant whumper #noncon reference #tylers story #handler tyler parker #Alex Nadler #Alan Nguyen #tyler parker

[ashintheairlikesnow]

idk if this has been asked before (ignore this if it has!) but what would chris be like if he had in fact stayed with branch until he was thrown out?

Nearly silent even after Oliver abandons him on the street. Very still, and watchful, rarely speaking. Prone to wincing or flinching back from unexpected movements. Prone to offering his body as payment for whatever anyone will do for him, and completely dissociated during the act itself. Frightened of nearly everyone.

#chris asks #noncon reference

[squishablesunbeam]

Consequence of Action Pt.2

Continuation of the first piece from Collins' perspective. It's a mellow reprieve before the next chapter... which will be a rough one so heads up!

TW: Aftermath of noncon, mentions of noncon, captive whumpee, caged whumpee, mentions of war

Prev - Next

Collins took his glasses off and set them down quietly, rubbing his eyes until the world blurred around him. He looked over at the bed and sighed wearily, idly grinding his teeth.

He'd felt Quinn's eyes on him for a lot longer than he himself would have lasted being as exhausted as he was. Eventually though, his breathing became less painfully rapid and had leveled out to a somewhat normal rhythm.

He was asleep.

Mercifully.

Collins pressed a hand against his own chest, frowning at the ache that had settled in ever since he'd said yes to the Captain's offer.

He didn't want anything to do with this mess.

The mutiny was foolish. Well-intentioned, sure, but foolish nonetheless. Collins held no delusions about the nature of the man that led this crew. The Captain was cruel and cunning. He was a man that won wars and the old generals loved him for it. But they hadn't been at war for many years now and that only made men like the Captain even more unpredictable.

Rumor has it, the Captain was given a ship after being quietly asked to leave the service for reasons he could only imagine. He had served with many of the crew already on board when he was looking for a new captain, so he'd signed up without much thought. He swore his loyalty to his captain and the crew and felt like he had a home again. Most of those good people were dead now.

It disturbed him deeply that he must have been considered to be a true follower of the Captain instead of one that stood slightly apart. He'd often wondered what it was about him, why Murphy and the others didn't come to him before they pulled the trigger on this foolishness.

He would have helped.

Well, he would have at least told him that his plan wouldn't succeed. Collins was loyal to a fault. He knew that. Still, this was- he wasn't like that. He took no pleasure in this.

Just the thought alone turned his stomach, seeing Quinn today, like he was...

He huffed out a frustrated breath and stood, pacing in the small space.

He remembered Quinn, from before. The few occasions he'd had to speak with the communications officer were swift and practical. He remembered the man being intelligent and quick to think on his feet. He knew his job and the jobs of his superiors, tailoring his tasks in such a way that made their work easier, more efficient. He was an asset to the crew, until he became a threat.

Collins stopped pacing, looking down at the curled up form beneath the blanket, only a tuft of brown hair peeking out from underneath.

He clenched his hands into fists thinking about what he would see if he pulled that blanket back, the many bruises and abrasions that littered the man's body. He couldn't unsee them. The shape of large hands on his hips and arms, of fingers around his neck, deep abrasions on his wrists and ankles from however the others choose to restrain him while they took their own pleasure. He'd heard the stories.

He couldn't stop this. It wasn't his place.

Collins turned away from him, dragging his fingers up into his hair.

Quinn made his choice. He knew the risks. The consequences.

Well, maybe not this. He probably thought he would be sent out the airlock with the rest of them. This fate was- excessive, to say the least. The Captain had already taken this beyond anything anyone would call justice, and he wasn't done yet, not even close.

He'll break him. The Captain will break Quinn into pliant little pieces. He'll use him until there was nothing left for him to be entertained by. And only then, will Quinn find any peace.

He turned back to the bed, chewing absently on his lip.

Peace.

He could do that. He couldn't save Quinn, but he could give him some measure of peace at least. A warm bed, like tonight. A proper meal and a shower when he could. Clean clothes even.

He turned to root through his small closet. Nothing would fit him, not even close. Quinn was already on the slight side before weeks of meager meals, all lean muscle and just a hint of softness to his middle.

Collins shook his head hard, shaking the thoughts out of his mind.

He refused to allow himself to think of Quinn that way, not anymore. Not now.

He'll admit to seeing him in the workout room a time or two. He was often on the treadmill when Collins arrived and was still running without losing a single step by the time Collins finished his routine. He remembers watching him from the corner of his eye sometimes, with those small earbuds nestled in his ears, listening to music and occasionally mouthing the words. He seemed to genuinely love to run.

That tiny spark flickered in his chest for a quick moment as he looked over at Quinn before he very intentionally smothered it out until it was nothing but dying embers.

His heart broke for what this man had been reduced to.

A slave. Nothing but a toy to be played with and stuffed back into a cage.

Collins drew in a deep breath and pulled out a pair of sweatpants with a draw string. Maybe these would work?

He gently laid them at the foot of the bed, along with a too large t-shirt.

He groaned as he moved to sit on the floor, leaning his back against the bed. He was exhausted after his 12 hours shift, and then all this, but he didn't want Quinn to wake up in the night to find a strange man sleeping in the bed next to him. Collins knew he'd had much worse over the many weeks he'd been held captive by his fellow crew members.

Still.

He didn't want to frighten him.

He leaned his head back against the mattress and closed his eyes, resolving to help Quinn where he was able. It was the very least he could do.

–

He woke with a start, his head coming up off the mattress far too fast and his vision struggled to keep up with the abrupt change. Collins blinked a few times, remembering why he was still propped against the mattress, sitting on the floor.

He glanced up to the bed.

Still there. Obviously.

It looked as if Quinn hadn't moved an inch in the few hours they must have slept.

Still. Something had woken him.

Collins stifled a groan as his knees popped, standing up stiffly.

He stood quietly over the curled up form on the bed, watching Quinn's breathing carefully. In and out. Slow and steady.

His eyebrows drew down, a frown creasing his face.

Collins leaned forward and gently pulled the blanket down, revealing a flash of two wide open eyes before Quinn dropped his gaze. His breathing starting to speed up exponentially now that he knew Collins knew he was awake.

“Morning.”

Collins let the blanket drop back to where it was, covering all of Quinn's face again. He'd allow the man to choose whether or not he wanted to be awake yet.

He went about brewing some coffee on the small counter by the sink, pulling down two mugs. He paused, his hands hovering over the mugs. Sugar? He took his coffee black but maybe Quinn liked sugar in his, or cream.

He didn't have cream.

He turned back to the bed. Three fingers had pulled the blanket down just enough to reveal two tired brown eyes, watching him silently.

“You're fine,” Collins grunted out. Damn it. He tried to soften his tone.

“What I mean to say is there's no rush. My shift isn't for another hour. Um,” why did he feel like he was trying to speak around rocks, “Do you take cream? In your coffee I mean?”

He watched two eyebrows found each other in between his eyes before smoothing out again.

Collins pointed to the clothes on the foot of the bed.

“Feel free to put those on and, yeah, I'll be right back.”

Collins rushed out of the room and closed the door, huffing out a long breath before heading to the mess hall.

–

10 minutes later and Collins had frozen with his fist paused an inch from the door. The door to his own quarters. Should he knock?

He made a sound deep in his throat that sounded like a growl. This was ridiculous.

He knocked lightly but didn't wait for an answer, opening the door and coming inside, his eyes immediately falling on Quinn.

Quinn was sitting back against the headboards with his knees up and his arms curled tight around himself. He was practically swimming the too big clothing but he looked more like himself at least. With the exception of the collar sitting at the base of his throat.

Collins lifted the tray he had in his hands.

“Eat whatever you like,” he placed the tray on the bed within reach and pointed to the coffee maker that was sputtering away, “Cream or sugar in your coffee?”

Quinn blinked silently but then nodded once.

Collins turned to get the coffee and smiled, making a mental note to keep cream in the small refrigerator under the counter, his shoulders starting to relax.

He sat at the table, Quinn still perched on the bed, and watched him take small, careful bites out of a bagel. He had to bury a smile every time Quinn took a sip of coffee, his eyes fluttering closed at the taste.

They sat in somewhat companionable silence. Collins honestly didn't know what to say and Quinn hadn't breathed a word.

He actually startled when suddenly, “Thank you,” Quinn breathed out on a whisper between bites.

Collins tilted his head down in a brief nod, “You're welcome, Quinn.”

Quinn's eyes flicked up sharply, meeting his own, before dropping back down again.

They walked back to below deck together, down the dark hall and through the heavy door. The room was dark save for the low blue light that ran along the floor of every wall on the ship. Collins hadn't been down here since the mutiny. He didn't know what to expect.

Quinn walked straight to the small cage, bolted to the floor in the center of the room. He never looked up or tried to shy away as he removed the shirt, and then the pants to Collins' surprise. He folded them neatly and turned towards Collins who had frozen in place.

“They wont let me keep these,” he said, placing the clothes in his hands, his eyes boldly meeting Collins' now, as if there was a measure of confidence necessary to strip naked in front of a man who, not 8 hours ago, saw him spread wide for all to see, “I don't know why you... just, thank you.”

With that, he turned and crawled gingerly into the cage. Collins clenched his jaw shut tight as he watched Quinn maneuver his body very carefully. He realized that the floor to the cage was made out of the grates they lay over the ramps in the winter. The ones with the teeth that grip the bottoms of your boots to keep you from slipping.

This was a torture in its own right; and explained the marks dug into his hips and shoulders that never seemed to quite fade.

He watched Quinn thread his fingers through the bars and close the door himself.

“You'll have to lock it.”

“Right,” Collins shook himself and knelt down, swallowing back the revulsion that was twisting up his throat as he secured the lock in place.

He stood and turned, walking out the door and immediately regretted not saying more. Not doing more.

He was a coward.

Taglist: @peachy-panic, @ladygwennn

#a little exposition from Collins side of things #whump #captive whump #captivity #reference to noncon #aftermath of noncon #caged whumpee #caged #torture #whumpee and caretaker #mentions of war

[sparrowsage]

The Warehouse: Digging Up Old Memories

Buckle up, because this piece is something. I really enjoyed writing this piece, even if it is a giant emotional show lol. A huge shoutout and thanks to @flowersarefreetherapy for giving me the general idea for this piece! I hope I did it justice! And thank you to @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, and @whumpcereal for cheering me on as always!

HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS ONE!!!

TW: Minor whump (Jayden is 14), head injury, threatened noncon drugging, implied noncon (off screen), threatened noncon, mentions of past noncon and torture, implied future noncon, character death (off screen), suicidal thoughts, adult character referred to as 'boy', adult language, heavy grieving ((If I missed anything, please tell me and I'll add it!))

“No, I’m sick of doing this shit!” Jayden yelled, stepping back from Logan as the Keeper moved in closer, towering over the teen. “You never stay true to your word! I can’t let you stand by and hurt Sparrow after I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do!” 

Sparrow stared at the two of them, wide-eyed as fear grabbed hold of him. Sure, Sparrow’s challenged the Keeper’s here plenty of times, but that was because whatever ended up happening would happen to him. Jayden fighting back like this? All for his sake? It was thoughtful, but he couldn’t handle the wrath of the Keepers. 

Logan backed Jayden up against the wall, his hand shooting forward to the kid’s neck, taking hold of his throat in a tight grip just shy of suffocating him. 

“I’d be real careful about your choice here, boy. That piece of shit over there doesn’t deserve a hero, let alone a scrawny one such as yourself. Everyone always comes to the realization that they can’t escape this fate, one way or another. It’s easier for the both of you if you just follow my orders. So what’ll it be, pretty boy? Are you going to show me and the bastard here how much of a good listener you are and suck me off or are you going to continue your little defiant act thinking you can best me?” 

Jayden’s hands were around the Keeper’s wrist, doing his best to try and scratch Logan in an attempt to get the hand off his neck, but it wasn’t working. He was too weak. At the question, Jayden stared right back at Logan, his expression sharp enough to cut diamonds. 

“Jayden, please-,” Sparrow tried, on the verge of getting up from his spot against the wall by the door. Logan had told him to stay put and that if he moved, he’d force Sparrow to watch the worst Showing he’d ever put Jayden through. 

“Shut up, runt,” Logan growled, his head turning slightly in Sparrow’s direction. “He has to make this decision on his own.” 

There was silence for a couple seconds and Sparrow could feel the anger rolling off the both of them in waves. 

“You and this whole place can go rot in hell. I’m not following another one of your stupid orders just because you think you deserve respect,” Jayden finally spat, bracing himself against the wall before kicking his foot out, his heel landing a direct hit to Logan’s crotch. 

The Keeper could hardly brace himself before Jayden’s foot connected with his crotch, Logan doubling over for a moment, his hand never leaving Jayden’s throat, before a loud, angry scream erupted out of his mouth. 

In a fluid motion, Logan used all the strength he could muster and lifted Jayden by his neck and threw him to the left over by his desk. Sparrow watched on in horror as he saw the fear and terror flash across Jayden’s eyes as he went flying before the back of the teen’s head connected with the sharp corner of Logan’s desk. He crumpled to the floor as Logan doubled over again, letting out small groans of pain. 

“Jayden!” Sparrow shouted, his body jerking momentarily as he went to get up, but remembered Logan’s threat from earlier, causing him to stay in place. 

He wasn’t getting up and there was blood leaking out onto the floor. Sparrow couldn’t tell if he was breathing. 

“Jayden, get up!” he cried out, Sparrow’s whole body frozen in fear. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Logan yelled, his head turning sharply to look at Sparrow. 

“No, please, he’s not getting up!” Sparrow pleaded, his fists white with how tight they were balled up. “Please, I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, just take him to the medical ward, please!” 

Logan chuckled slightly as he was finally able to stand up straight again. “Oh, you think a bit of pleading will convince me to get him treated? As if. The little shit deserved it, thinking he could fight back like that. Besides, you stupid mutts always seem to recover. He’ll be fine come tomorrow.” 

Instead of continuing on with what he had planned, Logan gave one last look to Jayden and Sparrow before deciding to leave his office. There’d be time to do things with them later. 

Sparrow let out a snarl as Logan passed him to leave, waiting for the door to shut before he rushed over to Jayden, his hands hovering over his body, afraid that a single touch would make his friend crumble into dust. 

#####

“No, you have to let me stay with him!” Sparrow shouted, desperately trying to fight his way out of Josh’s grip on him. “Let me go!” 

“You’re scheduled for a Showing and there’s no way you’re missing it,” Josh growled, his grip seeming to get tighter the more Sparrow fought. “He’ll be fine and you’ll get to go back to the main room and see him once the Showing is over.” 

“No, he needs me to stay with him since you fuckers won’t take him to the medical ward! Let go of me!” 

Josh stopped trying to drag Sparrow forward and out of Logan’s office, instead pulling him in close with an iron tight grip on both his wrists. Their faces were mere inches apart and Sparrow could feel the warmth of his breath. “I won’t hesitate to inject you full of muscle relaxers, boy. You know as much as I do that you’ll do anything to fight back during these things, so do you really want to give up being able to move all because you want to sit by your little friend?” 

Sparrow’s body froze at the threat, his eyes going wide for a moment. Josh was right, he couldn’t go through a Showing drugged up like that. He’d have no control (not that he did during Showings) over anything. He couldn’t get injected with that stuff. 

Josh smirked as Sparrow stayed still, finally continuing towards the door to the office. “That’s what I thought. Once it’s over, you’ll be able to spend as much time with the little runt as you want.” 

#####

Sparrow wasn’t proud of the Showing he just went through. It had to have been the most compliant he’s ever been during one, but he didn’t want it to be dragged out. His only thought and priority was getting back to Jayden to make sure he was okay. 

Josh had been surprised with how compliant he had been, as was the audience that showed up to watch. It was utterly embarrassing, but he didn’t care enough to not do it. He would have been the most compliant pet in the entire facility if it had meant getting out of that Showroom faster. 

Once the Showing was done, Josh walked him back to the main hallway before leaving him there to do his own thing. The moment Josh left him, Sparrow started running to the main rooms, his heart rate picking up as he tried to get to the room as fast as he could. 

Sparrow was almost certain Logan would have moved him out of his office during the Showing, so the most logical place to put him would be one of the main rooms. That, or Jayden had woken up and Logan kicked him out of his office and he made his way to their spot in one of the main rooms. If Sparrow didn’t see him in there, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. 

When Sparrow finally made it to the doorway that led into the main room he and Jayden usually ended up in, he scanned the entire room, trying desperately to locate his friend. His anxiety was starting to climb with each face he saw, none of them being the young teen before his eyes landed on a figure in the corner where Jayden and him sat most of the time. 

He was there, sitting in his normal spot, looking completely fine. Jayden was waiting for him. 

Sparrow did his best to make it over to the back corner of the room, nearly tripping over several pets as they tried to sleep or just pass time, not even bothering to let out any kind of apology before making it over to his friend. 

“Jayden!” he called out, falling to his knees in front of his friend before embracing the teen in a tight hug. 

“You’re okay! You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he said, his voice going quiet as he spoke, letting things sink in. His friend was okay, he was alive and that was all Sparrow cared about. 

“Of course I’m okay. Do you really think a bump on the head would keep me down?” Jayden joked, hugging Sparrow back. 

Sparrow pulled back slightly, his hands still on Jayden’s shoulders, afraid that if he let go, Jayden would disappear. “It’s just - you collapsed once your head hit the desk, a-and Logan refused to bring you to the medical ward, and then I was dragged off for a Showin-”

“Sparrow,” Jayden interrupted, his voice a bit firm, “I’m alright, I promise. I can’t die that easily. Besides, we promised each other we’d find a way to escape this place some day. I can’t go back on my word, now can I?” 

Sparrow wiped at his eyes, tears starting to form. “I’m just happy you’re okay. And you’re right, we are going to escape this place one day. Just please don’t go pissing off any more Keeper’s. Leave that to me, I can handle it.” 

Just then, the entire main room started to fade out, a black abyss surrounding the two of them. Sparrow didn’t even notice, his entire focus was on his friend. 

Jayden looked at Sparrow with a soft smile, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“I know you can. That fighting spirit is what’s giving me hope that you’ll be able to make it out of here alive. If you hold onto that, you’ll be able to escape. Just keep fighting. For the both of us.” 

Sparrow faltered a bit at that. “W-wait, what do you mean by that? We’re going to get out of here together.” 

Jayden didn’t answer, continuing to give Sparrow that soft, warm smile that he cherished so much as he slowly faded away. Before Jayden was completely gone, Sparrow reached forward, trying to grab hold of him before he fully disappeared, leaving Sparrow alone in the dark abyss.  

#####

Sparrow woke with a jump, jolting up from his spot on the floor of Damon’s office. Looking around the dark and empty room, Sparrow couldn’t see Jayden and was a bit confused, but mostly worried. 

Where was he? Jayden had just been in front of him a second ago. He wanted that back, he needed it back. 

The more he woke up though, the more things finally started to settle in. 

Four days ago, he had been brought back to the Warehouse from his two week stay at Volkov’s island, having gone through his ‘welcome home’ Showing yesterday. Two months ago, Damon had been put in charge of training him, starting up a brand new hell for him to navigate on his own. Five years ago, the Keeper’s gave up trying to train him because he was deemed a lost cause and couldn’t be trained, instead just using him as a free-for-all and overall enjoying causing him pain, discomfort and humiliation. Seven years ago was when he had watched Logan give his one and only friend a death blow and then later finding out that Jayden had died all alone while he was in a Showing Josh forced him to go through, unable to be with him in his final moments to make him feel safe and loved. 

As reality came crashing back, Sparrow couldn’t help the gut wrenching sob that erupted out of his throat, the pet clutching his hands close to his chest as he curled into himself. 

Ever since it happened, Sparrow had done all he could to repress that memory to the point that he couldn’t remember it at all. All he chose to remember was that Jayden died. Everything else, how it happened, the look of fear and terror right before his head connected with the desk, how much he tried to fight back as Josh dragged him off to the Showing, Logan’s fucking taunting once he finally told Sparrow what they did with Jayden after he died, he wanted to forget and never remember. 

He had no idea why the memory resurfaced. It had been so long ago, yet now he could remember every detail clearly, as if he were reliving it in full. It was the worst pain he has ever felt and would probably ever feel. And what made it worse was that his head went and twisted the events, giving him the false hope that Jayden was alive and fine. But Sparrow could never see him again. 

After a couple more minutes, Sparrow wiped the tears from his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. It had to have been close to morning, if he had to guess, and Damon would be here soon to put him through another day of hell. If the Keeper walked in and saw him crying or saw the evidence that he had been crying, Sparrow would never hear the end of it. 

Before he could put a cap on his emotions, he felt another sob bubble up from his chest and before he could stop himself, he reared his fist back, sending it straight towards the wall beside him. The wall stayed intact but Sparrow let out a loud shout before biting his tongue, cradling his hand. 

Why couldn’t one of these guys have killed him too? Why couldn’t he have had the peace that his friend had? All he wanted was to be with Jayden again, because he was the only one that made this place bearable. His smile and laugh lifted his spirits no matter how he felt and his presence made Sparrow feel safe, even though there wasn’t a single thing either of them could do when the Keepers came for them. If he didn’t have that, if he didn’t have him here, there wasn’t much of a point to keep fighting. 

The pain that now pulsed from his bleeding and possibly broken hand acted as an anchor to the real world for him and Sparrow was able to stop the tears from falling, taking in a couple deep breaths before he felt like himself again. Damon would probably point out his hand when he came in later, but right now, Sparrow didn’t care. If Damon was overly concerned about it, he’d get it looked at because unlike Logan, Damon wasn’t going to sit by and have a wound that looked serious enough unchecked. Sparrow had no doubt that the Keeper wouldn't let him die before he himself molded Sparrow into the perfect pet. 

Taglist: @mannerofwhump, @honey-is-mesi, @painful-pooch, @whumperfully, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @flowersarefreetherapy, @goronska, @blueyellow8green, @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whumpcereal (if you want to be added, let me know!)

#The Warehouse #Sparrow Cresky #Jayden Cresky #Minor whump #head injury #threatened noncon drugging #implied noncon (off screen) #threatened noncon #mentions of past noncon and torture #implied future noncon #character death (off screen) #suicidal thoughts #adult character referred to as 'boy' #adult language #heavy grieving

[quietly-by-myself]

A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 12

Masterlist

CW: drinking/alcohol, medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, mentioned eye gore, eye whump, possession whump, references to attempted noncon, frank language, institutionalized slavery, possessive carewhumper, dehumanization, fictional religious talk

===

The basement of the bar stunk of whiskey and vodka. Cheering came from every direction. Compared to the somber atmosphere of the Facility, the basement of that bar was refreshing. 

People approached Stergios and Vasiliki with smiles. Vasiliki didn’t feel… judged. He expected hostility. He expected hatred. Vicious rejection. He thought everyone could see through him, look into his core, and understand what an awful person he was. See that part of him that was missing, that part of him that made him ever so slightly inhuman. 

They didn’t.

In fact, they opened him with open arms. Well, not everyone. He noticed some hostile glares that he was long used to. They weren’t the majority, though. Perhaps the majority was hiding how they truly felt about him, but Vasiliki didn’t get that sense.

“I need you to meet someone, Vasil.”

Unlike most of the others who were drinking and singing and dancing the night away, the figure was busy talking in a hushed corner. He was short - below five-foot and bore wolfish ears in his mop of golden-blonde hair. When he turned around to face them, Vasiliki immediately noticed the creature’s goat-like eyes.

“Vasil, this is Elias. Elias helps me a lot with operations.”

Now that Vasiliki looked harder at Elias, he noticed the wolfish way his legs were formed, his dog-like nails, his elongated fingers, and the webbing that hung between his toes and fingers. The left side of his mouth was missing some of its cheek - leaving his canines exposed. Then there were his goat-like horns, poking out of his hair. Elias wasn’t human - he was a devil. An old one at that.

A mix of awe and fear filled Vasiliki as he looked at Elias. The last time he’d seen a devil, it was attacking his village. However, those devils had been young. This was a different breed - a powerful, old devil. A golden one at that.

“Vasilios?” 

Vasiliki shook his head. “Vasiliki.”

Elias chuckled a little. “A girl’s name?”

“My mother liked it,” Vasiliki responded tersely. “Whether I was a boy or a girl, I would’ve been named Vasiliki.”

Elias didn’t lose that good-humored smile that played on his lips. “Well, then, Vasiliki, I’ve heard many things about you.”

Vasiliki tried not to be unnerved by the smile, the calm demeanor of the devil. He felt tense, afraid. To live this long, who knew what this devil had done, what atrocities he’d committed. That thought lingered as did the lingering scent of burning wheat. 

“I’m not sure I’ve heard much of you, Elias.” Vasiliki looked at Stergios hesitantly. Stergios knew that Vasiliki didn’t like devils, so what was the point of this? 

“That… doesn’t surprise me.” Elias threw an amused look at Stergios. “Stergios doesn’t like putting other members in danger. Himself, only. The fact that he told you, a Facility worker - a higher up at that - about his activities is proof enough.”

Vasiliki shifted a little. The undertone of hostility wasn’t lost on him. “You always were reckless, Stergios.”

“But we’ve known each other for a century. I know that’s not a long time for you, Elias, but that’s the majority of our lives.” 

Elias gave a genial chuckle. “No, it isn’t a long time. You don’t remember the times beyond this current regime. You don’t remember the Una Pax, the times before the gods of order and chaos, of death and of life, of disaster and prosperity were driven from this world. You don’t remember when the light mages and dark mages, the devils and the angels, when we all lived in peace.”

Vasiliki froze. “No such times have existed. Gods? What are you talking about?”

“A thousand years ago, my friend.” Elias’ smile turned into something of a smirk. “Who do you think gives us our magic? The gods. Who do you think used to keep the peace? The gods. When they were driven from this world three hundred years ago, peace couldn’t be held together long. I knew the gods, Vasiliki. You? You work for men playing the role of gods. Fake peace is all you’ll ever achieve.”

“Elias-”

“Let me speak, Stergios.” 

Stergios, for all his kindness and geniality, spoke tersely. “Elias, this is his first meeting. There’s no need to be so confrontational.”

“I see no reason not to be.” Elias glared at Vasiliki, staring deep into his soul with those piercing golden eyes. “He’s hurt countless. He’s contributed to a system that enslaves and tortures. He’s no better than the trainers. I don’t know why you’ve kept his company all these years, Stergios.”

“Because he can change, Elias. We all can. You should know that better than anyone-”

Vasiliki finally decided to speak up. “No, he’s right, Stergios. I’ve done a lot of wrong in my life.” Vasiliki grabbed his arm, rubbing it a little and shifting uncomfortably.

That had caught Stergios completely off-guard. “Vasil-”

“It’s okay.” Vasiliki gazed carefully at Elias. “I appreciate it, Elias.”

Elias scoffed. “You appreciate me for that?”

The conflict that had swallowed Vasiliki’s heart whole soon spread to his face. His eyebrows furrowed. “Yes. I know that I’m a bad person. I’ve- I’ve come to realize the error of my ways and I’m trying to change.”

A phone ringing interrupted Vasiliki. It was his cellphone - it was the paging line. Vasiliki immediately picked up.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Christakos, your subject attacked someone.”

Akakios?

“How bad is it? I’m a little busy right now. Is he injured?”

The nurse on the other end sighed - Vasiliki knew that voice well enough to know that it was Amara. “He ripped Constantine’s other eye out. We know it wasn’t the devil - his eyes weren’t silver when he did it. Dr. Christakos - Akakios hurt someone of his own volition. You need to come in immediately.”

Vasiliki looked at Stergios, who returned a concerned gaze. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”

He said his pleasantries to Stergios and Elias, then rushed out of the bar. He jumped in his car, pressing the pedal to the metal. He was speeding - at least 20 miles per hour above the speed limit, but fuck it, he was in the military in some odd way. He would get away with it, even if he was pulled over. 

Parking was easy to find at the complex this time of night - not at all like the morning. Vasiliki practically ran up to his lab, where two nurses armed with guns were waiting for him.

Amara approached him. “Dr. Christakos. I’m glad you could come so quickly.”

“Want to explain what Constantine was doing anywhere near my subject?” Vasiliki asked incredulously. “I thought I made it clear that the trainers were not to be around Akakios. How did he get badge access to my lab?”

Amara hesitated. “We don’t know. He’s going to be investigated by personnel security and the military police for this, because he attempted to sexually assault someone else’s property.”

Vasiliki saw red. He didn’t expect to be as angry as he was, but as he thought of that bastard Constantine trying to assault Akakios, he couldn’t help but be filled with rage. “What the fuck did he try to do?”

“Same thing as he always does.”

Vasiliki fought the urge to push aside Amara and barged into the lab. There, Akakios laid, his gown covered in blood, restrained to the table.

Akakios immediately shrank. “Master.”

Vasiliki looked behind him. The two nurses had followed him in. Amara approached from the side.

“Dr. Christakos, take a moment. Dr. Demos put your subject on the list for retraining. He said that you need to go speak to him immediately.”

Vasiliki swore. This was too much for him. Far too much. He was tired and overwhelmed and the conversation with Elias kept playing again and again in his head.

“I’ll go speak to him. I don’t want Akakios to be sent for retraining.” Vasiliki looked at Akakios, who was trembling in his restraints. “I think Constantine shouldn’t have been anywhere near my property.”

“Well, convince Dr. Demos.”

Vasiliki let out a heavy sigh of frustration, but gave up. “Don’t let anyone near Akakios. Stay outside until I figure out what the fuck is going on.”

—

Dr. Demos was a bastard of a man motivated by one thing: wealth. It worked well for him - moving up the ranks in the Facility quickly and eventually surpassing Vasiliki despite being fifty years his senior. It was always a practice in patience to grovel at Dr. Demos’ feet.

However, Vasiliki couldn’t imagine giving Akakios up to another trainer. Not to let him be tortured for an indefinite period of time. Not to have someone else’s hands on his research project. Vasiliki would rather handle Akakios’ punishment himself. 

To get what he wanted, groveling was exactly what he’d have to do. 

Vasiliki swallowed his pride and knocked on Dr. Demos’ door. “Dr. Demos, it’s Dr. Christakos.”

“Dr. Christakos,” Dr. Demos opened the door, giving a fake, almost passive-aggressive grin. “It’s a pleasure.”

“You as well.” Vasiliki bowed a bit, taking a seat in front of Dr. Demos’ desk, where his superior sat. “I’m here to discuss 7634. I don’t think retraining is fit for him.”

Dr. Demos raised an eyebrow. “Those are orders, Dr. Christakos. This is out of your hands now. 7634 attacked someone. He ripped eyes out. Of his own volition. He’s dangerous and needs retraining.”

“I- I know, Sir. However, I don’t think that an ordinary trainer can handle 7634 in his current state.”

“Continue.”

Vasiliki took a deep breath, closing his eyes and preparing himself for what he was about to say. “Dr. Demos- 7634 is transforming.”

“Into a devil? I thought his magic killed.”

Vasiliki nodded. “And it does. But, he has a devil inside of him, Asimi is their name. When a human mage is possessed like that, the devil slowly transforms the human into one of them. It can take anywhere from a few years to a few decades. Asimi has been with 7634 since he was a child. It… was only a matter of time.”

Dr. Demos’ eyes narrowed. “Why wasn’t something done about this devil sooner?”

“They’re very attached. It makes it impossible to remove the devil from the human. Someone I worked with before your time discovered that.”

“And what can be done now?”

“I have experimental therapies that can reduce aggression in devils. I’ve been working on locking down the dosage, but I think that I can prevent 7634 from becoming aggressive as a devil.”

Dr. Demos seemed unconvinced, before his eyebrows creased and he leaned back in his chair, weaving his hands together.

“Is he still going to be punished for this infraction?”

“Yes and it will be severe.”

Vasiliki hated the idea of punishing Akakios at all, but he would do what he had to, if it was for Akakios’ own good.

“And you aren’t doing this because he’s your work?”

“No, Sir.”

Dr. Demos considered Vasiliki, eyes piercing into him, looking for any sign of lies. 

He found none, even if Vasiliki had lied.

“Fine. If he can go three months without another incident of aggression, including towards you, you can keep him. If not, he gets retrained and sold. Is that clear?”

“Yes!” Vasiliki sounded almost a little bit too relieved. “Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

It made Vasiliki sick to have to grovel at Dr. Demos’ feet. 

“Report his punishment and the results of it to me. For now, you’re in the clear.”

Vasiliki nodded and swallowed, standing up a little too quickly. “I’ll complete the punishment in the morning.”

“No, you’ll complete it now. Report to me before you leave.”

Vasiliki froze, wanting to curse under his breath, but keeping himself amicable. “Yes, Sir.”

With that, he left, no further words to the doctor. Vasiliki could hardly call Dr. Demos a doctor at all, but then again, could the same really be said for him?

===

@i-can-even-burn-salad @whumpsday @pigeonwhumps @oddsconvert @pumpkin-spice-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @writereleaserepeat @just-a-silly-little-whumper, @sparrowsage @inscrutable-shadow @whumplr-reader @whumpycries @demondamage @whumpshaped @itsleighlove @whump-blog

#drinking/alcohol #medical whump #trans whumpee #test subject whumpee #experiment whumpee #fantasy racism #dehumanization #fantasy whump #mentioned eye gore #eye whump #possession whump #references to attempted noncon #frank language #institutionalized slavery #possessive carewhumper #fictional religious talk #whump #whump writing #whump fic #whumpblr #whump community

[moorishflower]

"This one is a special case," Burgess says. "He is a war hero. Do you understand? You will be on your best behavior. You know what happens when you are not." Two years into his imprisonment, and Dream of the Endless has not given Roderick Burgess what he wants. Yet if he cannot have back his son, then he will have whatever else Dream has to give, and sell it to the highest bidder: body, powers, and all. Hob Gadling, newly back from the Western Front, has barely slept since 1889, and is desperate for any sort of relief, even that peddled by mad old men claiming to be warlocks.

PLEASE MIND THE TAGS.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream/hob gadling #the sandman #the sandman fanfic #the sandman fic #my fic #tw noncon references #tw dubcon #tw enslavement #tw ptsd #tw warfare

[leomonae]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Astarion/Raphael (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/Haarlep (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/Haarlep/Raphael (Baldur's Gate) Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Raphael (Baldur's Gate), Haarlep (Baldur's Gate) Additional Tags: Blood Drinking, Sadism, Angst, Mild Blood, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Extremely Dubious Consent, Cazador Szarr Being an Asshole, Astarion Backstory (Baldur's Gate), Astarion Needs a Hug (Baldur's Gate), Astarion's Past Abuse (Baldur's Gate), POV Raphael (Baldur's Gate), Raphael Being a Bastard (Baldur's Gate), Scheming, Nine Hells politics Summary:

Raphael assists Cazador in arranging a meeting with Mephistopheles to discuss a deal involving a certain ritual. As thanks for his assistance, Raphael is granted a) an unwelcome brat of an incubus, and b) the significantly more welcome loan of Cazador's lovely little spawn.

My thanks to @brabblesblog and @kringle-c for betaing!

#baldur's gate 3 #hyperfixation ahoy #my writing #astarion x raphael #plus a bonus offscreen bg2 reference! #cw: noncon

[justplainwhump]

Bad pets

Follows seamlessly after this piece on Angel and Lourdes, narrowly escaping recapture... or did they, really??

Developed with and written for @wildfaewhump - I do hope Lourdes is captured (pun not intended) well in this, I love them so much.

Content / warnings : BBU, BBU recapture, creepy whumper, whumper pov, referenced noncon (romantic training), referenced facility whump. Just some nasty people enjoying their nasty job.

Piers Scott was the sort of man others easily considered a bully; which was probably confirmed by how little that reputation bothered him. He was tall, broad around the shoulders, and the sort of heavy that came from strength rather than from fat. Piers could throw most other people around with ease. And he liked doing just that.

To his own surprise and utmost delight, he'd found an employer who paid him well to do exactly what he loved, each day, on the clock. This year would mark his fifteenth anniversary as a WRU handler. He'd started in training Guards, done alright, aided by his ability to instill respect in the trainees; but quickly enough it turned out that he was best suited for the less... refined elements of Romantic training. Many of his colleagues excelled at building trainees up to match the high WRU standards and clients' even higher expectations. But to build them up anew, you first needed someone to tear down what was there.

Piers did that.

He worked in prep protocol, assisted with the delivery of effective punishment, fear-related conditioning, and often enough he got called out on the streets for acquisition or reacquisition jobs.

Usually, these were fun.

Today though, just as he was getting acquainted with their latest target, a tiny, sweet, beautifully fearful stray with huge wide eyes and soft brown skin, some blond bitch in a fancy blue coat had shown up and shushed him off, claiming to be their owner.

He didn't believe one word of it. Little Doe-Eyes had been perfectly designed to the taste of someone, and years of experience made him sure that this someone was not her.

"What a bitch," Fin mumbles next to him, as they step to their van, looking past the pet and her alleged owner. "There's something off about both of them, if you ask me."

The couple is kissing now, in the middle of the road, the pet on their tiptoes, the taller woman leaning in.

"I'd pay to watch them fuck," one of the junior handlers mumbles. "They're both hot."

Piers watches the woman, the way her posture shifts, the way she curves her back and tilts her head. The junior is right, he thinks. They are. And it's not a coincidence.

He scoffs. "Because they've both had Romantic training," he mumbles. "The bitch is just a better liar than the little one."

"Fuck, you're right," Fin hisses, hand flicking to the shock baton at his belt, ready to lurch forward. It's too late. A taxi door slams shut behind them, as they speed off.

"She played us."

Piers pulls his phone from his pocket and with few clicks opens a map. "We can play them right back."

There's a blue dot on the map, where the team are standing in front of the coffee bar. And a red one, moving away from them steadily.

Chuckling, Fin shakes his head and pats Piers' shoulder. "Fucking genius. You put a tracker on them?"

"Little one is bound to stray off again sooner rather than later. I'll gladly be waiting there when they do."

"Well then. Let's see where they go. And put their descriptions in the database, see what comes out. I want to know who they are. Who's looking for them."

If someone's looking for them, Piers thinks. He's known Fin for plenty of re-ac jobs. They do bring in the pets with enough bounty on their heads, or those with desperate enough clients. They don't always bring in the others. Their job is to get strays off the streets and that they do. What happens after, well. There's a long established agreement between Fin and Piers not to talk about any of their favourites going missing.

"Dips on little Doe-Eyes," Piers says, catching his boss' gaze.

Fin smirks and nods, before he looks back on the red dot moving on the map. "Deal. Blondie is mine. And you -" he waves a hand at the juniors. "Just lean back and learn."

-

"What do we have?" A day later, Piers is leaning forward in the van, looking over the junior's shoulder on the laptop screen in front of them. They've been letting the junior's take the night shift, keep an eye on the bourgoise brownstone town house the tracker led them to and do their research.

The runaways had been surprisingly careful, letting their cab drive circles, stopping at a busy shopping centre where they presumably changed cars. But they'd been too stupid to notice the tracker Piers had slipped into Doe-Eyes' pocket. Nobody had ever intended to chase them. They just needed to wait.

Right now, the second junior is still staking out the street, while the others are gathered in the van.

"Little one is from Lourdes program," the junior said, pulling up the file. Piers studies their face on the photo. They are delicious. Vulnerable, eager, terrified. He's always been wanting to get his hands on a Lourdes. Seems it is his lucky day after all. "Reported stolen around a year ago. Owner seems to be over them, already ordered replacement number two."

"Lovely," Piers hums. "And the blond one?"

"More secretive. But you've been right, she's a Romantic as well. High security case, custom order, facility 002. Reported on the run since her owner died, but higher-ups weren't interested in making the search public, probably not to draw attention on that pretty face."

Fin has stepped in behind them as well. "Fine with me. Our attention will suffice for both of them." He glances at the house, then back at the screen. "Whose house is this? Doesn't look like a classic pet lib hide out."

"Freckles'." The junior points at the screen. "Made up a fake identity, married the owner, conveniently inherited when he passed just months later. Doe-Eyes moved in after. Nobody else lives there."

"Freckles, huh?" Fin clicks his tongue, reaching out to trace the pet's lips on the screen. "What a naughty, naughty girl. And she's got so much to lose now."

"How do we get in?," Piers asks. "Freckled bitch won't just open the door, and this is the neighbourhood to just pick a lock. Back door could be -"

The side door of the van slides open, and before Piers can even jump up and grab his baton, someone is thrown on the metal floor between them.

Brown skin, barely covered by a strappy black top and a mini skirt. Beautiful black hair. And huge eyes, wide with fear at their sight.

Doe-Eyes. Curling up in respect position even unprompted. "Please," they whimper. "Please, please, please."

Piers sucks in a breath. Fuck. They're even more enticing today than they were yesterday.

"Look what I found." The junior handler jumps in behind the pet, tosses a small black purse to Fin. "Lost little puppy, wandering the street, all alone."

"Well then," Fin laughs, in utmost delight, as he reaches into the purse and pulls out a single key. "Problem solved. I guess we'll walk right in." He kicks the pet in the side, and they wince beautifully, as he flips them over on their back, staring up at the handlers. Fin firmly plants a foot on their chest, as he smiles down on them. "Hello again, Doe-Eyes. Remember us?"

They nod, desperate tears glinting in their lashes. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir, I was a bad pet, I was wrong, I should have been good."

"You can still be good." Fin smiles, the fake winning smile every handler learns to master. "Your friend, though. She's a naughty one, isn't she? She's lied to us. Stolen from us. Pretended to be a person."

The pet shivers, and Fin keeps smiling. "You know what happens to bad pets, don't you? What has to happen?"

Doe-Eyes is trembling under Fin's boot, but they nod nonetheless, even manage to call up a shaking, sweet, apologetic smile in return. They're breathtaking. "Yes, Sir," they whisper and cast their eyes down. "Bad pets get punished."

Yeah, Piers thinks, drowning in their sight. Bad pets get punished.

He knows it's going to be glorious.

#bbu #Angel the romantic #Lourdes the romantic #handler piers scott #handler fin somers #recapture #bbu recapture #noncon reference cw