#noncon adjacent

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Box Boy Universe Story: A Girl Called Spider Timeline: A little further along in Rayce's training

Biting, pt1 [Prev | Next]

The first time he bites, it’s an accident.

Handler Sharan pushes and pushes and every time he gives in she immediately wants more. 

It’s not enough to get on his knees, it’s not enough to get into Respect with nausea in the back of his throat. She wants perfect posture even when every muscle in him is still twitching from the shocks and he can’t hold still. 

You know your positions, trainee, I expect better. 

It’s not enough to hold still under her hands, even involuntary flinching is punished. It’s not enough to say please, Handler. She wants him to beg, she wants him to recite the set phrases that feel like a death sentence in his mouth. If his voice shakes, that’s not good enough.

Is it standard protocol to demand so much so fast, before they’re even wiped? He’s never worked with the pre-Pets. He thought the wipe was supposed to be nearly the first thing that happens.

Sharan has him cleaning toilets and scrubbing blood from floors. She has him do pushups at her feet until he can’t get his hips off the floor. She has him bent double and trying to hold shaking limbs still while her hands explore every fucking inch of skin, grabbing and pinching and groping and slapping and taking spoken notes into her goddamn phone until he could die of humiliation, until he wishes for the wipe because at least he’d forget how fucking ashamed he should be.

Her favourite tool, aside from the collar, is an old-fashioned switch – a length of bendy wood just a little thicker than a pencil. It cuts the air with a distinctive swish and leaves red welts wherever it kisses the skin. It’s not as bad as a shock, but soon enough his whole body itches and stings with the stripes. Sharan uses it to correct his many slips and stumbles, saving the collar and the baton for when he balks or hesitates or breaks the rules. 

And when he breaks down, when it’s too much and he collapses crying or struggles uselessly against whoever or whatever is holding him… it’s worse. 

We can always make it worse. They need to get that through their heads.

Time slips out of his grasp faster than he thought was possible. He has no idea what’s an hour, what’s a day, let alone how long he’s been here. The pattern of her shifts ought to tell him something, but he can’t make sense of it.

There’s no respite, no rest period, even when she isn’t there. If he’s alone he’s collared to the wall so that if he starts to sleep he chokes. And mostly he isn’t alone, some handler or another is with him. Most of them don’t even tell him their names.

He sits up on his knees until the pain radiates out from the bones all through his legs, reciting set phrases to the prompt tape while the handler of the hour sits comfortably playing some candy-coloured match game on his phone, just close enough to prod Rayce with the shock stick every time he stumbles.

That tape is twenty-seven minutes long and it repeats five, six times? More than he can count.

He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat except for occasional sips of shake as rewards. He used to think that crap didn’t taste of anything, but with hunger gnawing at his stomach, he’s appalled to find it’s kinda good. Savoury, with a distinct flavour that he can’t name but doesn’t hate.

Sharan has him hold pennies against the wall with his fingertips, arms as far above his head as they’ll go, standing on his toes with his legs wide and his nose and knees practically brushing the wall. Every time he twitches, the switch snaps down across the offending limb. Every time he drops a coin, it’s five strokes across the back and ass.

If he can hold it for an hour, she says he can have something to eat. If he can’t, she’s going to shock him until he blacks out.

He doesn’t get to see the time.

It could be hours or mere minutes that he holds position, limbs burning, skin crawling with the anticipation of the next swish-snap of the switch. 

His arms shake, and she hits the tender skin on the inside of each arm, right then left, and he renews his efforts to suppress the tremor. His leg twitches, and the switch lands across the back of his knee – and then again across the back of the thigh when he flinches from the first. He drops a coin, and she layers stripes across stripes.

And the shaking gets worse, and worse, until there’s no pause at all between strokes, it’s just a beating. And that’s when he gives up. He’s not going to win. It’s only how many times he gets hit before he fails. He lets his knees give way, collapses bonelessly against the wall, and slides down it to the floor.

She grabs his collar and yanks him backwards. He lands flat on his stinging back, choking.

The punishment is delivered with a shock stick. You can only use the collar so many times a day without risking permanent damage. Sharan holds the end to his stomach and pins his throat with a boot to stop him trying to roll away as he convulses and caterwauls on the floor. 

He loses all place and time, loses track of even where his eyes are pointed, whether they are open or closed – but every time he gets a glimpse of her, her face is blank and emotionless and she’s looking straight down into his eyes.

He comes round with the stink of his own piss in his nostrils. Handler Sharan is right there above him with the baton in her hand and he moans in involuntary terror. Her hand cups his cheek and it’s everything he can do not to flinch away.

“You gave up,” she tells him sternly. “I saw you. You stopped trying. That was wrong.” You were going to do this anyway, he thinks. I was going to fail anyway. He says nothing, because talking back gets him shocked without fail. The gentle hand turns to a bruising grip on his chin. “What do you say, Pet?” “I’m sorry, Handler,” he recites. He barely recognises his own voice.

“If you had really tried, if you had kept at it until you couldn’t keep those coins up anymore, I wouldn’t have shocked you,” she says. “It was a test. I know you couldn’t do it for an hour. But if you’d given it your all, I wouldn’t have shocked you. All you have to do is do as you’re told.” Tears leak from his eyes and seep down the wet tracks already coating his face. She’s lying. He knows she is. 

But he can feel the little seed of doubt worming its way inside his chest. Next time he’s on the verge of giving up, it’ll be right there, and he’ll hope for mercy if he’s just good.

“Now look at you.” Her voice is cold and smooth, like the curve of glass. But her hands are feverishly warm on his skin. “What a mess you are.” She strokes his cheeks, smearing the tears. The touch is suffocating. He sobs, then bites down on his tongue in terror as she tsks disapproval. Blood fills his mouth.

“Is this what you want, trainee?” Her hands don’t stop moving.  One cups the underside of his jaw like she’s going to choke him. The other slides up the side of his head into his sweat-drenched hair. “Is this how you want to be? Sobbing in a puddle of your own piss?” “I – s-signed up for – this,” he offers desperately. Trainees don’t get to want. Sharan chuckles drily. “Not quite what I asked,” she says. 

But her hands stay gentle. Her fingers trace the shell of his ear. It itches wildly, nettle stings in the wake of the skin contact. He wants to crawl out of his skin. 

“I’m asking you.” Her palm rests over his Adam’s apple. There’s no pressure but he can’t breathe anyway. “Do you want the rest of your existence to look like this?” This is a test. Everything’s a test. “I –” he forces out breathlessly “-- want what – you want, Handler.”

She pinches his earlobe. It shouldn't feel like anything, not beside the cramps still tearing through his abdomen. But her fingertips are hot coals and he makes a hollow, helpless squirm of a sound. 

"You know your lines," she says, "but you don't do as you're told." I do, he wants to protest. Nearly, nearly all the time he does. He's trying. She picks up the baton again. When he flinches, her hand tightens on his throat. "Do you want to hurt?" "I want what you want!" he insists through tears. 

The tip of the baton touches his twitching stomach and his whole body jolts with anticipation – but the power isn't on. He sobs.

"I don't think you want this," she teases, digging the hard metal-and-plastic in just a little. "I want what you want," he recites desperately. His hands are fisted at his sides. He can feel the slightly oily slick of urine on his skin. 

"Do you want to be good, trainee?" "Yes," he cries, "Yes, Handler." Her hand moves to his face, squeezing his cheeks together like he's a little child. "Say it," she commands. "I want to be good," he sobs, "I want to be good, I want to be good!" The tip of the baton slides lower, even as her gaze holds his with stifling intensity. Her fingers are needles through his cheeks. “I want to be good,” he repeats, “I want to be good!” The tip of the baton nudges against his naked cock.

After, he won't be sure exactly what happened. Maybe he thought he heard the click of the power switch. Maybe the little snap was just inside his head. 

It happens faster than thought. Some deep, animal instinct takes hold, and before he knows what is happening his teeth are buried in her hand. 

She doesn't shock him, she just hits him. The baton cracks hard against the bone of his hip.

He screeches. She reels back at the same time as he does. 

He scrabbles backwards with strength he didn't know he still had. 

His mouth hangs open but all the words are logjammed in his throat, a mad hysterical mash of no fuck no and please and I'm sorry I didn't mean it and don’t please don’t and fuck you fuck you fuck you go to hell.

She doesn't hesitate. She lays into him with the baton. The power is on and every bone-cracking impact carries a shock and he howls and howls and curls up and tries to shield his face.

[Next]

[toxicanonymity]

The Worst 

1.3k, Tom “Redfly” Davis x DARK f!Reader 

SUMMARY: You make Tom pay for Frankie's death.

WARNINGS: I8+ DARK FIC, DEAD DOVE noncon or very dubcon p in v, implied murder, roofie, forced gun sucking, restraints, degradation, praise kink?, Dom reader. Tom survives / Frankie dies AU.

Dedicated to @romanarose who is hosting a write a thon for the @triplefrontier-anniversary.

Happy 5 years to Tom ruining everything. He's the worst, but I'm sorry to say he's also packing.

-------------

You pretended to take comfort in him during your grief. Your flirtations over the past weeks had all been a ruse, as were your advances tonight. You always had one goal – to get Tom tied up in your basement.

Finally, you had him sitting at your kitchen table drinking a night cap. You rubbed his thigh and he looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive, if only he could muster the energy.  His eyelids were heavy with lust and a roofie.

“Maybe we could, uh, get more comfortable,” Tom slurred, nodding toward the living room. 

You downed the rest of your drink, set the glass down, and lowered yourself onto his lap, side saddle. 

“Ohh,” he muttered with his mouth barely open. “Hello.” 

“I was thinking we could go downstairs,” you purred. 

He swallowed, raised his eyebrows, and nodded, “Sure.” 

“Frankie ever tell ya ‘bout our hobbies? Lotta fun stuff down there.”

His face gave him away. “Uhh,” he stalled, “Sounds-” You ran your hand through his hair. “-Sounds good,” Tom muttered at a horny pitch. His eyes lingered on your lips, then he cleared his throat. 

“I'm gonna need ya to trust me though, Tom. Can ya do that?” 

Tom nodded. 

“Yes ma’am,” you whispered. 

“Yes ma’am,” he confirmed, clearly enjoying this. Your dominance was a perfect fit for his being a lazy sack of shit. 

“Good.”

—----------

In the basement–more of a sex dungeon, as it were–you sat Tom down in a metal chair. He let you tie him up and barely objected when you zip tied his hands behind his back. 

“Mmm,” he hummed as you did it. 

“Good boy,” you told him, making him blush. His eyes lazily danced across your face in bemusement.  “Now I'm gonna go change,”  you said. 

-

You returned in a black lingerie set – a lacy top over a strappy, crotchless bottom. You had tucked Frankie’s old pistol into the back of the bottom piece. The cool metal made your skin tighten with goosebumps all over. 

You slowly approached Tom and watched his eyes consume you. Without sitting down, you straddled him so you were standing with your tits in his face. You let him play. He nuzzled his head into your breasts, then nosed at a nipple. 

“Fuck me,” he whispered, then took one into his mouth, through the lace. 

“God, you worthless shit,” you laughed with faux affection. 

“Heh,” Tom chuckled sadly against your tit.

He didn’t notice you reach for the gun. You used the barrel to massage yourself through your underwear. He glanced down, then his eyes snapped back up to you. “Whoa, careful with that,” he laughed nervously with the barrel pointing right at his dick as you slid the cool metal against the lace covering your mound. 

“This is Frankie’s,” you said wistfully and raised the gun to admire it. You used the barrel to nudge his chin so he looked at you. He froze. “You’re gonna suck Frankie’s dick now,” you nodded and slid the barrel up his jaw, then nudged his lips with the muzzle. 

His breathing was heavier and faster. His eyes were less sleepy. 

He maneuvered to dodge the barrel. “Listen, sweetie,” he started. “Are you okay? Maybe we’ll just  — maybe. . .  watch a movie tonight,” his voice trailed off as your face made it clear you were not fucking around. 

“Open.” You grabbed his jaw. “It’s the least you can do, Tom.” 

Tom swallowed. “Okay,” he whispered. “You’re right.” He let the muzzle into his mouth. 

“Good,” you whispered. “Go on.”

You pushed the barrel further into his mouth. “Suck it, Tom. Suck Frankie’s cock.” 

His face whitened as he began to hesitantly bob his head. 

“If it weren’t for you, I’d be sucking Frankie’s real cock right now,” you reminded him and watched dread fall over his face. He hardly moved at all. 

“You can do better than that.” You pushed the gun further into his mouth and his teeth hit the metal. “Good,” you whispered as he took as much of the pistol as he could. You held the back of his head and fucked his mouth with the gun. He looked up at you pleadingly and whined incoherently. You mercifully let the barrel out of his mouth, a string of drool falling down his chin. 

“Look,” his face was serious and his tone was more sober. “I know you’re devastated. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. We can–” 

“Shut up.” You crossed your wrists behind his head and lowered yourself onto his lap. Your most sensitive area met his semi-hard bulge and you let out a moan. 

“Oh, Tom,” you sighed, impressed. 

As it turned out, there was one area where Tom didn't fall short, and your body wouldn't let you ignore it.  “Fuck,” you whispered as he hardened beneath you. You were throbbing against him. The adrenaline already had your blood flowing, and now it was flowing south. His cock twitched against you. His breath was shallow.

He watched your face carefully. He was as quiet and still as a mouse. 

“Got him killed, and now you wanna fuck his girl, don’t ya?”

Tom nodded hesitantly. 

You scoffed. “With friends like you,” you started. “Pathetic.”  A subtle lift of his hips took all your thoughts away as his warm, hard package rubbed against your front. You had never hate fucked someone before. . . With the gun still behind his head, you nudged the nape of his neck with the muzzle and he flinched. “You’re not gonna say a word,” you warned. Then you reached down between you and feverishly unbuttoned his cargo pants. 

You reached into his boxers and gasped at the smooth heat of his naked girth against your palm. “Jesus,” you whispered as you took it out. A hint of cockiness tugged at the corner of his mouth before he appeared to remember his imminent doom.

With your gun hand, you braced yourself using the back of his neck for leverage. You took your thong to the side, then spit on  your hand and wiped it on his dick. God how you hated this man. You lined yourself up, then sank down with a rush of pleasure to your chest as your cunt slowly swallowed his thick length. You closed your eyes and thought of Frankie as you began to roll your hips. Your heart was racing. 

He moaned nearly silently as you fucked yourself on his massive cock. You got wetter and wetter. You could feel Frankie’s presence. You could practically smell his scent wafting off of Tom. You could feel the ghost of Frankie’s hands on your ass and practically hear his whispers in your ear. Should’ve ridden his face, he said in your head and you breathed out a laugh as you rode him.

You let out a sigh and Tom shuddered. You imagined Frankie’s brown eyes looking deep into yours, and your walls twitched around Tom’s cock. You whimpered as you came. 

“Fuck,” Tom murmured through gritted teeth as you choked his cock.Then he erupted inside you. You groaned as his warm spend flooded your core. 

-

When you were finished, you sat there on his cock and you both read each other’s faces. He knew his time was up. You took the safety off the gun. 

“What a way to go,” Tom muttered in resignation. He winced as you squeezed him with an aftershock.

“You took him from me, Tom.” 

“I know, honey,” he agreed. “It’s okay. Kid's better off with the life insurance.” 

The next few seconds felt like minutes. Your heart raced and you could see Tom’s heartbeat in his neck. 

Tom took a deep breath. “Just put it in my mouth.” He nodded. “And pull the trigger,” he whispered. 

His gaze was apologetic as the muzzle once again nudged his lips. He closed his eyes with his softening cock still sheathed in your warmth.  You didn’t feel a thing as the hammer clicked under your thumb.

-----

-----

Thank you for reading!

my main masterlist

[peachy-panic]

‘ lay back down. ’ for Jaime

WARNINGS: heavily implied noncon, BBU “training,” punishment, maybe considered mouth whump?

Handler Smith drags him down the hallway by his hair. Frantic apologies spill from Jaime, along with tears that blur the other handlers and trainees—prisoners—passing by. None of them spare a look his way. Here, everyone is contained in their own special hell with no room for anyone’s suffering but their own.

They come to a stop outside one of the specialty rooms at the end of the block. Panic floods his system. “No,” Jaime cries, pulling against the hold despite the sharp sting in his scalp. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Handler Smith yanks him forward and Jaime crumbles to his knees, the fear and adrenaline and hunger turning his limbs to jelly. The moment the door scans open, he is tossed inside, barely saving his face from a collision with the concrete floor.

“On the table.” The hand is in his hair again before he can recover his balance, forcing him along. Jaime begs the entire way, desperate to apparel to some sliver of humanity he knows doesn’t exist.

“Please. I’ll do it. I’ll do it, I’m sorry.”

“Get on the fucking table.” His back slams against cold steel. Jaime can’t help but kick out when he hears the jingle of metal. He’s been on this table, at the mercy of these restraints, enough times to know that nothing good ever happens in this room.

His resistance is beyond futile. In the end, Jaime knows it will only anger him further, and his muscles are the weakest they have ever been, but terror is at the helm now and fighting like a drowning man. When Handler Smith gathers his wrists in one hand and pushes them to the head of the table, Jaime lurches upward, throwing all of weight into escape. He manages to pull one arm free, but before he can maneuver away, a hand around his throat flattens him back down.

“Lay back down,” Smith growls, inches from his face. Stars dance in Jaime’s vision as the fingers close in, tighter and tighter. His vision goes spotty, then black, for just a second. But it’s just enough to get the drop on him. When he can draw a full breath again, his hands are already cuffed above his head.

Jaime submits to crying quietly as his ankles are secured at both corners. He follows the heavy thud of the Handler’s boots across the room to a large double-door cabinet, his stomach pooling with cold, liquid dread. He can’t make out what he’s holding from this angle.

“Please,” he tries one more time in earnest, his voice barely a whisper.

Handler Smith grabs him by the jaw, forcing Jaime’s eyes to his. “Too late for that, kiddo.”

He brings it into view then: a bottle of liquid dish soap. Jaime screams behind sealed lips, jerking his head from side to side. Fingers bite into the hollows of his cheeks until his lips crack apart, and it’s all the opening Handler Smith needs to shove the tip of the bottle between his teeth and squeeze.

The bitterness is sharper than he could have prepared for, overwhelming his senses on impact. He chokes and sputters, trying to keep the soap from trickling down his throat, but Smith keeps one hand on his jaw, holding him down.

The pour goes on forever, although it’s only just enough to coat the top of his tongue. The second he’s released, Jaime turns his head, trying to expel the already foaming liquid from his mouth, but Handler Smith is faster. Jaime doesn’t even see the gag coming, only feels it when it’s forced between his teeth.

He wants to fight this, too, but all his efforts are focused now on not choking.

“Don’t worry; it’s non-toxic,” Handler Smith says, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. “Maybe you’ll have an easier time swallowing this.”

Jaime barely feels the tears tracking down his temples as he watches his Handler retreat from the room, the door sealing shut behind him.

The hour spent on this table will feel like an eternity. The official mark in his file will be recorded as a punishment for offensive language toward a Handler, but he will know better.

[thefawnfallacy]

It’s truly a crime to be the only person in* the That’s Not My Neighbor fandom to see that Francis is a creepy rapist who is deeply in love with his victims.

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, jack's recovery

part of behavior modification (masterlist here). takes place after lightning glass, and references events during jack's captivity, specifically this piece with vile whumper bill chester.

content warnings for: EXPLICIT noncon, references to previous CSA, threats of noncon body modification, knives and related injuries, bbu/bbu-adjacent, intimate whumper, some blood, brief suicidal ideation, consensual spice, adult language

jack's recovery, a special secret

“What do you want, Jackie?” 

The question still makes Jack’s heart stop. It’s been the better part of a year; he should know it’s okay to want. And he does, in theory. It’s just hard to remember sometimes. But it’s easier when he looks at Joe. 

Joe’s hand is soft in Jack’s hair, his cheeks very slightly pink from being snuggled close to Jack for their impromptu afternoon nap. He smiles when Jack looks at him, and Jack smiles back, closing his eyes again when Joe’s hand slips to his face. 

“What do you want, Joey?” Jack counters. 

Joe laughs, more breath than sound. “You, silly.” He sneaks forward and kisses the tip of Jack’s nose. Jack raises his chin, and their lips meet. 

They’ve been making love more often. It started at the beach after the press conference, and it’s built up steam since then. It isn’t like it was, but that doesn’t matter. It’s sweeter, somehow. Softer. 

Jack starts to pull back, but he presses one more quick kiss to Joe’s lips before he withdraws. “I want you too.” 

Joe’s laughter is a low rumble against Jack’s belly. “Well, that’s fantastic.” 

Jack wraps himself around Joe, hooking his leg over Joe’s hip and nudging himself forward until there is no possible confusion about just how badly he wants Joe. For his part, Joe captures Jack’s mouth in a kiss that isn’t sweet or soft. Jack moans beneath Joe’s lips. 

“What do you think, baby?” Joe asks, his voice husky. 

“I think you’d better fuck me,” Jack answers, rocking his hips against Joe’s. It’s still thrilling to take control this way. He doesn’t ask; he demands. 

“Oooh, alright,” Joe purrs. “But all in good time.” 

Jack practically vibrates in anticipation as Joe extricates himself from their tangle of limbs. Joe threads his fingers with Jack’s and pulls him to sitting, tugging Jack’s shirt off and tossing it behind him. He gently shifts Jack until his legs are dangling off the side of the bed, lifting him up for a moment so that he can slide Jack’s boxer briefs and sweatpants over his hips and away. 

“You work quick,” Jack laughs as Joe sets him back on the edge of the mattress. 

Joe taps his index finger to Jack’s nose. “When I have the motivation, absolutely. But this next part–” he spreads Jack’s knees and smiles up at him, “this next part won’t be quick at all.” 

Joe sinks to his knees, kissing a soft trail from Jack’s bare knee and up the inside of his thigh. Joe’s breath is even and warm, his touch gentle, and already, Jack can barely contain himself. His head drops backward as Joe’s tongue slips against the cleft where his thigh meets his pelvis, and he spreads his legs wider. 

“Joe–”

Joe suddenly pulls away. “What is that?” 

Jack’s head snaps back up. “What?”

“Jackie–” 

Jack barely feels Joe’s thumb cresting over his skin, and when he looks down, he sees. 

He’d forgotten. It was meant to be their little secret. His and Bill’s. Joe wasn’t ever supposed to see it, and Jack’s hidden it well so far. But the sun is still in the sky, and it bares Jack’s secrets in a way they haven’t been yet. Jack has other scars, of course, and Joe has seen them all. But this one–

Joe doesn’t know. He knows about the intimacy consultations, of course; that Jack was sent to WRU for a brief period before he was packed home. But Jack didn’t tell him about Bill. 

Joe braces his hands on Jack’s thighs and looks up in distress. “Jackie, what–” 

Jack takes a deep breath, and he reaches down to touch Joe’s face, glancing his thumb over Joe’s stubbled cheek. “It’s fine, Joey. I’m fine.” 

“What is this from?” Joe asks, voice breaking. 

“Joey–”

“Tell me.” 

Jack sighs. “Come here.” 

He slips his boxer briefs back on, and Joe settles beside him on the bed. 

“What happened, baby?” 

- - -

Bill promised he would come back, and he does. Jack is laid out on the same steel table as the day before, and he knows exactly who he is waiting for this time. 

“I could have them administer another spinal block, sweet boy,” Bill coos. “And then none of this would hurt. But I gave you a reprieve yesterday, didn’t I? I want to see what you’re made of now that they’ve turned you into what you were always meant to be.” 

Jack knows he should be stronger. That he should remember how to deal with Bill, even if it’s been a while. But he isn’t, and he doesn’t, and he just wishes that he could disappear. 

Jack has disappeared, in a way. He isn’t anything like the man he was a few months ago. Ivan’s training stripped him down and away, and all that’s left is the scared little boy who would’ve done anything to avoid becoming what he is now. What Bill always said he would be. Because Bill knew, even if Jack was naive enough to hope for something better. This is what Jack deserves. He was only ever fighting the inevitable. He knows that now. 

Bill’s hands move over Jack’s bare chest, stuttering over the leather straps that fasten Jack’s body to the table. Only two, across his shoulders and chest; his legs must be kept free, after all. The straps are the only sign that Bill might be a little concerned. He’s never tied Jack down before. He never had to. When Jack was a boy, he didn’t know he should fight. The only paralytic he needed was his own fear, the idea that he’d end up somewhere worse if he didn’t let Bill have what he wanted. He can’t even remember where he found the strength to fight back the one time he did. Was he ever strong? Good boys, sweet boys, aren’t. No, sweet boys take what they are given, and they do not complain. 

Jack doesn’t complain, but the buckle of his collar jitters against the cold metal; he can’t stop shaking, even with the straps holding him down. 

Bill smiles, pushing Jack’s hair away from his damp forehead. “It isn’t fair. No one should look so beautiful when they’re frightened. But you–oh, Jack–you. You are just delicious. This suits you.” 

Bill’s mouth finds Jack’s throat, his teeth pinching at the skin just above Jack’s collar. Jack whimpers, and he feels the soft warmth of Bill’s laughter against his neck, a reminder that Jack’s fear is exactly what Bill wants.  That somehow, it “suits” him. Jack wishes it didn’t, that he could look as grotesque as he feels. That his body would break into pieces and never reintegrate. That he could die, right here, and all of this would stop. 

But nothing stops Bill Chester. That much is clear. 

“Now, sweet boy,” Bill says, sliding his nose against Jack’s flesh and stopping his mouth close to Jack’s ear, “I told you last night: there will be no chemical interference this time. I want you to feel everything. Do you understand?” 

Jack nods, clenching his jaw. 

“Out loud, sweet boy. Let me hear you.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack’s voice breaks, just the way it did when he was a boy. 

“Good. That’s good, Jack. Now, we have some scores to settle, you and I, don’t we?” 

Bill stands up, his body a great black shadow beneath the overhead lamp. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small leather case. Jack doesn’t understand at first, but when Bill pops open the button on the case and dumps a sturdy folded knife into his palm, Jack has to bite back his own scream. 

He’s almost successful, but Bill must hear the scream rebound in Jack’s mouth. He opens the knife and touches his fingertip to the blade. 

“It’s no kitchen knife, but in a pinch…” 

Jack can’t help it. “No. No, please–”

He shouldn’t have opened his mouth. Almost without hesitation, Bill slips the knife in between Jack’s lips and presses the flat of the knifeblade against his tongue. Bill slides the blade toward the corners of Jack’s lips with perfect deliberation. He won’t hurt Jack yet, but he wants Jack to know that he can. And he will. Oh, God, he will. 

“Oh, sweet boy,” Bill murmurs. “That’s not a word you get to say. Not anymore. Not ever again. You should never have let it creep into your vocabulary in the first place, should you?” 

Jack doesn’t move a muscle. He’s too afraid even to close his eyes, and Bill leers down at him with an oily smile. 

“You know, when Sally and I took you in, I knew you were special. That you had talents no one else had seen–that you hadn’t even seen yourself. But I knew, Jack. One look at you, and I knew exactly what you were right for. And you were, too. There were other boys who didn’t understand the love I had to give, but you? Oh, my sweet boy, you understood, didn’t you? You were always so good.” 

Tears squeeze from the corners of Jack’s wide eyes, slipping down his temples and onto the table below. He wasn’t good; he was just afraid. Like he is now. 

“I thought you were going to last. That you’d be the one to complete our family. But that’s not what happened, is it?” 

Bill pulls the knife from Jack’s mouth, wiping the flat of the blade against Jack’s chest, first one side, and then the other. He lets the edge kiss the raised pebble of Jack’s nipple, but he doesn’t slice. Instead, he jockeys the handle so that the sharp tip of the knife is positioned over Jack’s skin, and he draws it downward. He doesn’t press hard enough to draw blood. It almost tickles, and Jack has to fight not to squirm beneath his straps. 

“You got a little too big for your britches. You didn’t appreciate all that Sally and I gave you. And that hurt me, Jack.” 

The knife glances over Jack’s belly, and his muscles contract, but Bill doesn’t stop. He guides the knifepoint down between Jack’s legs, and then he scratches a path over the thin seam of Jack’s scrotum. 

“I could take these from you, you know,” Bill says evenly. “I could cut them off right now. Wouldn’t that be poetic? Some grand statement about manhood and all of that. You’d be worthless then. At least to whomever your buyer is now. They want you intact, apparently.” 

Joe. Jack’s body is rigid, the tremors so intense that his body seems still, even though it is anything but.

“But you wouldn’t be worthless to me. I’d have to fork over a good chunk of change to the nice people at WRU, more than your asking price, but then I could have you, lock, stock, and barrel.” 

No. Jack’s protest is silent, but it’s a desperate plea nonetheless. He wants to go home to Joe. Even the Joe who sent him here. But Joe can’t know about this. He would never let Bill anywhere near Jack. Jack knows it. Doesn’t he?

“You could spend the rest of your days repaying your debt to us,” Bill goes on, lazily dragging the knife up and down, up and down. “You still have so many good years left, you beautiful boy. I could teach you everything you failed to learn that first time.” 

The knife twitches, and Jack yelps. Goddamnit, he’s only human, after all. At least, he used to be. 

Bill shakes his head, and blessedly, he lifts the blade. “But then I remember what you did to me, Jack. And I don’t know why I would risk bringing you home with me again. Shit, I don’t think Sally would stand for it. She hates you, you know? So, I guess it’s much better for us to have this time to put things right, isn’t it? To make things even.” 

Bill settles the knife just to the right of Jack’s navel, and Jack understands. That’s where he drove the kitchen knife into Bill the night of his fourteenth birthday. He remembers the strike of the knife, the way he couldn’t seem to pull it back out again, the warmth of Bill’s blood against his pajama shirt, the stunned look on Bill’s face. 

Bill doesn’t look stunned now. He smiles, and this time, the knife sinks in just far enough that Jack knows his flesh is broken. There’s a sharp stinging, and Jack’s breath winces in his chest. 

“Please!” he chokes out. He’s never been in this position before, never been quite so frightened. Ivan never pulled a knife on him. Even here, they’ve never threatened him this way. They won’t damage the merchandise. Even if Jack isn’t good or smart or strong, he is supposed to be beautiful. The only person who gets to mark him is his owner. 

Or maybe Jack isn’t pleading to be saved. Maybe, what he’s pleading for is for Bill to plunge the blade so deep that it never comes out again. 

Bill only tuts, like he knows what Jack is thinking. “Oh, I can’t mark you permanently, my boy. Not in any place visible. But I don’t think it would be fair if I left you entirely untouched, do you?” 

As if he would. Bill digs the knife just a hair deeper, sawing it gently back and forth. “I have a scar here. I’ll never be able to forget you because of that scar, sweet boy. And maybe I can’t leave one in the same place, but you’re not going to be able to forget me either.” 

Jack lets himself groan as Bill moves the knife. It’s the only release he knows he can afford. And, even as he feels the heat of his own blood rise where his skin has been split open, it doesn’t hurt so bad. Not really. Not compared to everything else. 

Not compared to what’s coming. 

“Not so deep,” Bill says with a note of practicality. He pulls back to examine his handiwork. “Not yet.” 

“Bill–” Jack tries, but Bill sticks the knifepoint beneath Jack’s chin. 

“Ah, ah, ah. That isn’t how you address your betters now, is it? Stay still and hold your tongue, sweet boy.”

Jack closes his lips, grimacing as Bill’s free hand presses against the slash on his gut. But he doesn’t scream. Not yet. And this is it, isn’t it? What Bill has always wanted from him. Silence. Compliance. No, not even that: complete submission.  

Jack remembers well enough what it was like. The things Bill did. What Bill pretended to ask of him–what Bill took, because he wasn’t really asking at all. Jack had cried and squirmed and pleaded and pretended to be sick, and Bill still took what he wanted because he could. But there had been part of Jack that knew he didn’t want it, that what Bill was doing to him was wrong. That he didn’t deserve it. He held onto it for as long as he could, let it solidify and crystallize inside of him. 

But even diamonds can turn to ash. 

If that part of Jack exists anymore, he can’t reach it. He is a good boy now, and Bill knows it. Jack can tell by the smile on the older man’s face. 

“Do you remember, Jack? What I asked you to call me back then?” 

Jack’s mouth goes dry. He nods, even as heat collects in his ears. 

“Say it now.” 

“D-Daddy.” Jack’s voice wobbles, and Bill’s smile grows even wider. 

“Good boy. It’s not so hard now, is it?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Sir?”

“No.” Jack swallows, and his collar suddenly feels too tight. When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper. “Daddy.” 

“That’s it,” Bill says. He gently kisses Jack’s lips; Jack wishes that it hurt. “That’s all I ever wanted, sweet boy. Just you, in your place, just like this.”

Mercifully, there doesn’t seem to be anything he expects Jack to say. Instead, Bill unfastens the leather straps across Jack’s chest; he knows Jack won’t fight now.

“Sit up,” Bill commands. He slides his hands down Jack’s arms and grabs Jack’s wrists, guiding Jack upright until he’s sitting at the edge of the steel table. Bill reaches for the surgical tray beside the table and grabs for a white towel. “Hold that against your little cut. Nice and firm, okay?” 

Jack obeys. Hasn’t he always? His shaking hands press the towel against his skin, and he watches as the fabric turns red. 

Bill grips Jack’s chin and forces his eyes back up again. “Kiss me like you mean it.” 

Almost instantly, Jack’s eyes flit to Bill’s lips. His tongue slips out of his mouth, and he wets his own lips. He’s so well trained that he almost doesn’t feel it when his stomach drops. 

Bill chuckles and lets Jack’s chin go. “Don’t be a tease, sweet boy. I’m waiting.” 

Jack leans forward, still clutching the towel to his belly. He softens his mouth, and he closes the space between him and Bill, pressing his lips against Bill’s, gently at first, and then harder. Bill’s groan echoes inside Jack’s mouth, but Jack doesn’t pull away. He can’t. He has to do what he’s told. He has to mean it. He has to make Bill happy, or he will never be allowed to go home to Joe. So, he slips his tongue between Bill’s lips, and he lets Bill wrap around him, one meaty hand against the small of Jack’s back, and the other tight at the base of Jack’s skull. Their mouths are crushed together, the corners of their lips straining against each other. 

Jack hopes that Bill can’t taste his tears. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Bill growls into Jack’s open mouth. 

Jack does what he is told, and Bill yanks his hand out of the way, wrapping his fingers tight around Jack’s wrist. The last time they were close like this, it was Bill’s blood between them; this time, it is Jack’s.  

Bill’s teeth sink into Jack’s bottom lip, and when Jack responds, it is with a moan. Just the kind Ivan liked. The kind that shows what he wants, what he’s worth–that he’s made for this. 

“Tell me you’re sorry for what you did to me,” Bill pants. He is hard against Jack’s thigh, and the hand at the back of Jack’s head knuckles into Jack’s hair. 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, letting Bill yank his head backward. He isn’t sorry. He isn’t. He can’t say it. 

But he does. “I’m sorry.” Another sharp yank. Jack sucks in breath through his teeth, and his cheeks sting beneath his tears. “Daddy.” 

“Yes, you are. I can tell that you are. Just look at you.” 

Bill’s rough thumb slips over Jack’s salty cheek and then dips into his mouth, pinning Jack’s tongue. 

“I’m going to let you make me feel good, just the way you used to,” Bill says, and even though his voice is soft and warm, Jack’s naked flesh breaks out in goosebumps. “Because you’ve been such a good boy. But I told you, Jack, it’s time we were even. And that means that I’ve got to leave you a little souvenir. A special secret, just between us.” 

Jack swallows a sob before it can escape. A special secret. That’s what Bill always used to say. And it was a secret. No one ever knew. No one but Joe. And Joe didn’t protect Jack from this. No one will protect Jack ever again. He isn’t worth the trouble. 

Bill’s weight pulls away, and Jack, whore that he is, shivers in the absence of the other man’s body heat. Bill sinks to his knees, and Jack is so disoriented, so bloody and tired and fucking terrified, that he doesn’t even notice that Bill has the knife in hand again. 

“It’s alright if you scream,” Bill says with all the sweetness of a lover, and Jack doesn’t understand until he feels the knife point saw into the crease where his pelvis meets his thigh. 

He does scream then, loud and throaty, but it doesn’t do any good. Bill carves into him with singular focus, steadying him with a firm hand on Jack’s hip. 

“Don’t squirm,” Bill growls. “I don’t want to knick anything we can’t repair.”

And God help him, Jack stills. Because he can’t resist an order. Not anymore. Not ever again. 

Almost. 

Jack can’t say no, but he can plead; good boys are allowed to beg. “Please,” he whimpers. “It–it hurts.” 

“It’s supposed to,” Bill says cheerily. “But once it heals, only you will be the wiser, sweet boy. Who will see it? After all, no one’s going to care about satisfying you ever again. That’s not what you’re for, is it? It’s your job to keep your owner satisfied.” Bill looks up at him with a grin, his fingertips slick with Jack’s blood. “And this weekend, it’s your job to satisfy me. Now, scream, baby.” 

Jack screams. 

An hour later, Bill leaves, his hip stained red. A medic in a white uniform comes in. He straps Jack back down and pours antiseptic on Jack’s wounds and begins to stitch. There is no anesthetic. It doesn’t matter. Jack’s throat is so raw he can’t scream anymore, and Bill will be back in the morning.

- - -

Joe is holding Jack’s hand so tightly that his knuckles are white. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Jack touches Joe’s cheek, forcing the other man to look at him. Joe’s eyes are red. Jack cradles his face. “I couldn’t. It was right before I came home, and you know–”

“I know,” Joe says shortly. “I was there.”

“I couldn’t tell you, Joey. And then I didn’t. I knew you would be upset.”

Joe laughs cheerlessly, and Jack looks away. “How many times?” 

“What?” 

Joe’s grip is somehow tighter, but Jack doesn’t dare flinch. “How many times did that bastard–” 

“Three.” 

Joe lets go of Jack’s hand and collapses over his knees, tearing at his dark hair with shaking hands. 

Jack forces himself to take another deep breath, but he doesn’t touch Joe just yet. “He came in for a long weekend. He–he was subscribed to the rolls for the intimacy consultations, and he saw me and–well, yeah.” 

Joe launches off the bed and crosses the room so quickly that Jack doesn’t realize what’s happened until he hears the dull thud of Joe’s fist against the bedroom wall. 

Jack rises to his feet. “Joe! Baby, don’t–”

“No!” Joe cries, slamming his fist into the wall again and again and again. “I can’t–it isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! You’ve never done anything to deserve this, and–Christ, Jackie, why?”

Jack doesn’t know how to answer that, so he changes the subject. “Joey, you’re bleeding.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Joe is crying now. He turns to Jack, hands outstretched like a supplicant. “It doesn’t fucking matter. I wish I could make that motherfucker bleed.” 

“No, you don’t,” Jack says softly. 

“Yes, I fucking do!” 

Jack takes a careful step forward. “They arrested him. He–he won’t touch me ever again.” It’s something Jack tries to remind himself of every day. It wasn’t true the first time. It has to be true this time. 

“Too late,” Joe mutters, cradling his swollen hand against his belly. “They arrested him too late.” 

“I know.” 

Jack closes the space between them, taking Joe’s injured hand gingerly between both of his own. Joe’s knuckles are scraped open, and bright lines of blood catch the light as Jack brings Joe’s hand to his lips. 

“I know that what he did was wrong,” Jack says softly. “I know that I didn’t deserve it. I know that I’m safe now. And I know that I love you, and that you love me, and that if you could have, you would have done whatever you could to keep him away from me. I know that. For sure and for always.” 

“But I didn’t,” Joe whispers. “I didn’t protect you.” 

“You brought me home, Joey. That’s all that matters.” 

“No, it isn’t!” 

Jack shakes his head and presses their foreheads together. “Yes, it is.”

“I should have–”

Jack silences Joe with a gentle kiss. “We can’t undo it, Joey. The only way out is through. No looking back.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–” 

“I know,” Jack says. “But I’m here now. We’re here. And they’re not.” He kisses Joe again. “Be here with me, Joey.” 

Joe’s forehead falls to Jack’s shoulder. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

They hold each other until the sun starts to fade, and this time, it is Jack who lets Joe cry on his shoulder. And then, Jack tucks his fingers under Joe’s chin and kisses him again. 

“You killed the mood, Prescott.” 

Joe’s smile is watery but real. “Yeah. I guess I did.” 

“Think you can make it up to me?” 

“What did you have in mind?” 

Jack bites his lip. “Take me to bed or lose me forever,” he says in his best Meg Ryan drawl. 

Joe laughs, and the sound sends tingles all the way to the tips of Jack’s toes. “I guess there’s only one thing to do.” 

Joe’s arms are around him then, and they stumble back to bed. This time, there will be no napping.

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy1, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @termsnconditions-apply, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @ramadiiiisme, @sunnie, @sadboysanonymous, @panic-whump

[only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are]

Swipe Right Masterlist

Set in the BBU, Swipe Right tells the story of Charlie, a young man who is scouted out via a dating app to be an acceptable candidate for a pet (also known as box boy).

Part 1

Part 2

Taglist: @deerheaded44 @sparrowsage

[yuzudonut]

I dont care for the idea that IDW rodimus got his new frame you see in mtmte bcs of the matrix rebuilding his body or whatever. Cuz thats just not true... his body does not change from when hes got a hole blown in his chest vs after the matrix patched him up...that new frames just a new frame ig cuz its noot explained between death of optimus prime and mtmte where he just. Gets a drastically different design thats left unexplained. Thats... not the matrix bcs at that point hes returned the matrix and that new body happens in mtmte onlyyyy

G1 is a different story but I usually only see people get serious w it w the IDW counterparts lol. Like...idk Im not even particularly fond of optimus but his interactions w the matrix fascinate meeeeee like sorry. Rodimus fans. As a big rodimus fan the canon source material doesnt rlly have that oomph for me to get weird abt it. Optimus on the other hand, oh to be changed, not necessarily directly bcs of the matrix. But its presence does smt drastic to him no matter what huh.

[ninereadytoanswer]

For the noncon tag ask game - "Multiple Victims - Character Forced to Commit Rape Tries to Be Gentle" (and maybe Hualian?)

[askbox game!]

(Going to count Wulian as Hualian here.)

After Wu Ming presents himself to Xie Lian, but before things get to the end, Bai Wuxiang, who has some Reactions to this situation, captures both of them together.

He tells Wu Ming that Wu Ming can either rape Xie Lian, or Bai Wuxiang, who is still at this point much stronger, will force control of his body and do it like that.

Wu Ming would of course rather destroy himself than do this, but that’s not an option (and not just because that would be leaving Xie Lian alone). And he’s seen what Bai Wuxiang can do and will do to Xie Lian (without even directly controlling the bodies involved). If there’s anything he can do rather than let his body be that sword, he has to do it.

(Of course he tries to be as gentle, as careful as he can; of course all he can think of is Xie Lian and of how much he, Wu Ming, deserves to be utterly agonizingly destroyed for this.)

[distinctlywhumpthing]

This Time

(Unintentional 30)

Previous — Masterlist — Next

CW: BBU-adjacent (institutionalized slavery), brief references to past-beating, fear of noncon drugging. It's the boys' first time out in public together, we're being gentle, this is practically all fluff. Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

When it’s seven o’clock and not a minute sooner, Leo says, “I’d feel better if you came with me.” He almost adds ‘this time’ and wonders if Aiden is also remembering the last time Leo left him alone while he ran into a store. 

Aiden’s eyes widen. “I…mmm…I…” He timidly raises a hand to the base of his throat, gaze falling as he does it. 

Leo tries not to read shame into his uncertainty. He clears his throat, wanting to sound as casual as possible. “I know. I looked it up and the law says you just need some form of identification on you. It doesn’t have to be…uh…” Nope, he can’t say it out loud. “But that’s really more if you’re on your own. If you’re accompanied…” 

He will also not be repeating the stipulation that in the absence of ‘wearable restraints’, anyone with a ‘plausible reason or concern’ may request that Leo ‘subdue’ Aiden or they are within their rights to do so themselves ‘by any means necessary’. Which unfortunately “explains” the bastards who tore him from the van that first night.

Leo runs a hand over his hair. “We’ll be in and out in five minutes, it’ll be fine.” 

Halfway to the door, Aiden loses his footing. Leo’s ready though, catching him with an arm threaded under his shoulders. 

“Mmm’sorry…” Aiden clutches Leo’s sleeve with his uninjured hand, leaning into him to steady himself. He doesn’t let go once he’s standing so Leo keeps an arm around him.

“No worries. It’s icy as hell and Converse aren’t exactly known for their traction.” They’re also not very warm so Leo ushers the wobbly kid on, making sure to steer him where there’s road salt or dry patches.

 They pause outside the door so he can pull Aiden’s hood off and make sure the scars on the back of his neck are covered by its fabric. “Hands out, right?” he reminds. Aiden nods. 

The last thing they need is some racist assistant manager on a power trip insisting on frisking him. Just the thought has Leo rethinking this whole stop. He’d never be able to stand aside and let that happen. The poor kid has already seen the worst at the hands of strangers; there’s no telling what reaction yet another pair might set off. Leo might be able to spare him the experience by outing him as a Companion but that isn’t exactly risk-free either. Leo doesn’t think he’d be able to make a passable demonstration of the “justice” he’d rain down later on his sticky-fingered Companion and even if he could, he’s pretty sure Aiden wouldn’t be play-acting terrified. After what he already had to put the kid through tonight, he doesn’t want to risk anything else testing the fragile trust between them. 

Aiden shifts from one foot to the other. Leo’s hesitance is making him even more nervous. The parking lot is still empty and Delia’s car has real locks and an alarm he’d hear from inside. Maybe there’s no need to take any risk—

“What-what…if…mmm’I…mmm…” Aiden looks over his shoulder to where he just slipped, furrowing his brow. 

There’s no way Leo can bring him back to the car now, not without confirming that he doesn’t trust him to manage his own two feet either. Sure, he’s not very stable on ice but it’s been weeks since he tripped in the house. Regardless, it’s one hypothetical Leo would happily handle.  

“You’ll be fine, you can do this.” 

Aiden drops his gaze. Leo can’t tell if it’s because he’s shy about the encouragement or if he thinks it’s just empty words. 

“I’ve got your back, kiddo,” he says, straightening Aiden’s beanie that doesn’t need straightening. “I’ll catch you if you trip again.” 

Aiden meets his eyes and only searches them for a second before nodding. 

Any remaining apprehension on Aiden’s part is eclipsed by a quiet overwhelm once they step through the door. His eyes widen and he looks even smaller surrounded by the full shelves, under fluorescent lights. He follows Leo closely, practically brushing against his side as though they’re jostling through a crowd and might get separated even though there’s no one else in sight. 

Leo steers his mind away from wondering too much about the last time Aiden was in a store. 

They walk along the even-brighter cosmetic aisle toward the prescription counter at the back. Aiden looks away from the little mirrors framed by bright red, pink, and coral lipsticks. His eyes trace the bottles on the other side instead, shampoos in colorful plastic, hairsprays in metallic spray cans, and gels in an array of containers all lined up in rows. He keeps his arms perfectly straight and pinned to his sides but his fingers twitch there. Like maybe he wants to touch something but he thinks he’s not allowed to. 

Leo pauses by the shower gel, earning a concerned if not startled stare from Aiden. “Easy, all good. Why don’t we pick one you like?” 

Aiden looks at him like he just suggested flying to Mars. 

Leo picks up the brightest red bottle, flips the cap open and sniffs. Nothing special, just a generic soap smell. He holds it out for Aiden who, slowly, eyes flicking up to Leo’s three times before he leans forward all the way, inhales too. 

“Anything?” 

He shrugs noncommittally, nervous now that Leo’s put him on the spot but Leo wants this to be light and fun, though that might be a leap. He goes for one that says ‘coconut-something island bliss’ in a yellow bottle. Smells nice enough. Aiden leans in a bit easier this time and, though barely discernible, wrinkles his nose. 

“I think not,” Leo offers. 

Aiden shakes his head. 

“Go on, pick another one.” 

He bites his lip and raises his good hand. Hesitates a few times as he scans the shelf before pausing in front of a teal bottle. His fingertips rub together absently as his gaze slides over to Leo, who gives him a reassuring nod. He carefully picks it up. Luckily, this one only needs to be pressed down to be opened and he gets it right away. He holds it out to Leo first—something floral this time—just shrugging once he smells it himself. 

But now he’s into it. 

Leo pulls a pink bottle off the shelf as Aiden chooses purple. Their arms cross in the air when they hold them out to each other and Aiden’s lips almost twitch into a smile. Leo wants to beam but he forces himself to play it cool. 

Aiden replaces his bottle and picks another red, ‘blood-orange orchid blossom’. It smells only of citrus because last time Leo checked, orchids don’t smell like anything so why even call it that except to fool people into paying more for something just because it sounds fancy?  

A black Axe bottle Leo is relieved Aiden also hates, Irish Spring, a classic Dove. Aiden only has trouble with one of the tops. Leo worries it’ll kill the moment but Aiden just passes it to him and finds another bottle. 

After a few more, Aiden goes back for the purple, or actually, ‘lavender fields in summer’, pulling it off the shelf again with about as much confidence as if he were playing Russian roulette. 

“Nice, good job.” 

Aiden huffs and tucks his chin against his chest, hiding a small smile that might just be relief but Leo hopes is something more. They feel different, this smile and the one in the car. Leo can’t put his finger on how they’re different but he finds himself willing to do just about anything to see one again. 

He has another internal debate about whether or not Aiden should be next to him at the prescription counter. In the end, he decides it can only help his case later if a neutral third party explains the medications to them both. 

The pharmacist is young and way too energetic for seven in the morning. Leo makes zero effort to match the vibe. He slides his license across the counter. “Hi, I’m here to pick up some prescriptions, please. Marshall.” 

“Marshall, Marshall, Marshall,” she repeats as she searches the system. “Leo?” she asks like it’s not on the license she’s holding. 

“Yep.” She passes it back and disappears behind the shelves. 

Aiden’s still as stone beside him. Leo smiles reassuringly but it’s no match for the basket of prescription bottles the pharmacist returns with. He should have read Noah’s notes to know exactly what they were getting into. 

A two-week course of—thankfully—liquid amoxicillin. High-dose naproxen for pain as needed. A refill of his paroxetine thanks to Delia. She’s good. He definitely would have skipped it to reduce the sheer volume of pills he would be picking up with Aiden. At least the pharmacist skips the instructions because she can see it’s a refill of a medication he’s been taking for years. 

The last is the worst. Alprazolam with an over-the-top warning that it “causes extreme drowsiness” and “do not operate heavy machinery”. Finally, the real nail in the coffin: “it’s a potent tranquilizer.” Five doses, no refills. He definitely should have read Noah’s notes first. 

Leo rushes to end the exchange and move on to damage control. He grabs a basket from the stack, sweeps the medications in, and resists the urge to rush Aiden out of the whole damn store. He walks them to the far right, along the cold cases of sodas and drinks and freezers filled with ice cream, bags of ice, and a smattering of frozen dinners, mostly for one. The opposite side of the aisle is lined with chips but Aiden’s eyes are glued to the pile of white paper bags in the red plastic basket. 

Christ, where to start? 

“Aiden, can you look at me?” He does, of course. Eyes shining and full of betrayal. “Hon, I know you heard some things back there—” 

“...good…” 

“What?” 

Aiden swallows, wets his lips. He’s clutching the bottle of body wash like it’s keeping him upright. “I-I-I’ll…be…mmm…good.” His eyes flick to the basket and back to Leo’s, pleading. 

“Of course you will. You are good. You’re always good, I know that.” 

No dice. Leo’s reassurances mean nothing, not with what he’s holding. He drops the basket behind him, an arm’s length away. The gesture is met with open suspicion. 

“Hon, the only thing in there that you have to take are the antibiotics. To fight off the infection in your hand. The liquid one Delia talked about, right?” 

He nods once but his eyes narrow. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Delia and Noah only wrote the other prescriptions to give you options. The pain killers, the anxiety pills, they’re only if you want them.” 

Aiden’s expression crumples and he shakes his head. Distressed by the suggestion that he would ever choose to take anything? Or can he only see the whole thing as a trick, a mockery of his agency or lack thereof? 

Leo’s heart aches for him. There’s nothing he can say that will erase all of that history or make it any easier to carry. “Okay, okay. I know this is overwhelming but I wanted you to hear it for yourself. I mean, from someone other than me. That way when you… If you… You can decide…” Aiden looks at him miserably, eyes still burning with betrayal. Leo’s only digging himself deeper. “One of the prescriptions is for me anyway,” he flounders. “Let’s just—” He reaches for Aiden’s shoulder but he steps back, out of reach. 

For a moment they just stare at each other. 

Aiden takes another step back and his eyes widen, surprised to find himself where he’s just stepped. Surprised Leo hasn’t grabbed him yet. His gaze slides from Leo’s face to a point over his shoulder and Leo’s heart sinks. 

The door? Would he run? Aiden takes a step forward, eyes still locked over Leo’s shoulder. 

“Wait—” Leo can’t handle the thought of losing this kid for the third time tonight. His eyes film over with tears. “Ple—”

Instead of walking around him, Aiden steps right into his arms. 

And then the sound hits his ears and Leo turns, shuffling Aiden behind his back for the shelter he was seeking. He wasn’t trying to run, he heard people coming in. He leans into Leo’s back, free hand gripping a fistful of Leo’s jacket so tightly Leo can feel how hard he’s shaking. They don’t have much of a height difference but he’s ducked his head to try to hide better, Leo can feel his cheek against his shoulder blade. 

It’s no wonder why—though Leo is impressed by his hearing—the guys are similar enough to the group that beat the shit out of him that first day. They laugh and banter their way to the first case in the aisle like this is just one stop in a fun night that’s still going. They pull out a six-pack of Red Bull and head to the registers without so much as a glance Leo’s way. 

He doesn’t move until Aiden does and Aiden waits until they’ve picked out a scratch-off and multiple vape flavors, joking with the cashier. Leo doesn’t bother keeping the judgment off his face with Aiden tucked behind his back. They stay, frozen like that until the pair amble out of the store. 

Aiden straightens, releasing Leo’s coat as soon as the first set of automatic doors slides shut. Leo turns to find him staring ahead unseeing, bottle in one hand and the other still closed into a tight fist. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Leo keeps his voice a whisper, all too aware they’re still in public. “It’s all right, they’re gone.” 

Aiden nods but only reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut once, twice, blinking away more tears each time he opens them. His fist trembles between them, arm still locked where it was holding Leo’s coat. 

Leo’s nervous to touch the poor kid considering the mental whiplash he must have—thinking Leo might drug him against his will only to be forced to depend on him for some semblance of safety—but if Aiden’s clenching his fist as tight as it looks, he’s putting too much strain on his stitches. 

“Can I give you a hand?” Leo holds his out, palm up. 

A few days ago, he’d spent a whole bathroom re-tile brainstorming a phrase to use during these moments when he didn’t know where to begin. Something neutral, not explicitly offering help but still open-ended enough that Aiden might get what he needed.  

Without even looking, Aiden drops his hand into Leo’s, uncurling his shaking fingers to grip him tightly. Leo’s momentarily dumbstruck that it worked. Has to be a fluke. 

“You’re doing great. We’re almost done.” He wraps his other arm around Aiden who shudders, finally exhaling. Leo wishes he could just hold him properly, until he stopped shaking, until he felt safe, no matter how long it took. “I just need to grab a few more things and then we’re outta here.” He gives Aiden one last squeeze before releasing him. 

The list from Noah is actually in his sister’s handwriting, first the prescriptions with more specific instructions and then a bunch of other things. Before he attaches himself to that fucking depository of pills again, he grabs a bag of pretzels and another of popcorn off the shelf to add to the basket. It’s an obvious move but at least now the prescription bags aren’t staring at them.

“Sterile gauze and bandages,” he tells Aiden, who nods stiffly, falling in to shadow him as he weaves through the store. He could move faster but he can’t risk anything else going wrong just now. 

Aiden doesn’t react to anything else Leo adds to the basket. As much as Leo wants to involve him, give him some choice or context, he can see the kid is dead on his feet. He is too, has been all night. 

Clothing basics happen to be at the end of the last aisle on their way to the registers. Leo wonders how bad is it to get some for Aiden now. Probably not as bad as it was to let him go this long constantly borrowing Leo’s. A pack of t-shirts, a pack of boxers, a pack of socks. Black for sure to avoid his tendency to flat-out panic about stains. Evidently, even this strip mall CVS is influenced by the pretentiousness of the surrounding area: there’s a choice of organic cotton that costs about forty percent more. Leo wonders if that means he can permit himself to feel forty percent less shitty for not getting Aiden even one thing to call his own sooner. 

He’s not sure what to expect when they get to the register. The woman in her mid-forties has hoops in her ears and acrylic French tips tapping on the side of her lime green phone case. She unabashedly continues scrolling, even after Leo says hello until he finishes unloading the basket. 

“Morning,” she says offhandedly as she starts scanning and bagging. 

When Leo leans away stack away the empty basket, Aiden steps forward to soundlessly place the bottle of body wash on the counter. 

“And good morning to you too, darlin’,” the cashier says, winking theatrically. 

Leo is about to step in front of him, make some remark about the weather to pull focus, but Aiden flashes her a smile that is as dazzling as it is vacant. Leo finds it unsettling but the cashier laughs, joking about how Aiden should look her up when he’s ten years older. Leo forces a chuckle as he pays, shoving the receipt in his coat and telling her to have a nice day while he grabs the bags off the counter. 

She returns the pleasantries and waves at Aiden. Leo’s jaw almost hits the floor when Aiden wiggles his fingers back as they walk away. 

Outside, Leo shifts all the bags to one side, turning to offer Aiden his other arm. 

He holds on right away, glancing around nervously like he's a deer about to step into an open field. He can’t seem to decide if he should watch his footing or surroundings. The street lights cast harsh angles on his face, hollowing his cheeks and throat, deepening the weariness under his eyes. 

Night and day from the mask of a smile he’d pulled on inside and haunting in an entirely different way. Leo is struck again by how little he knows about Aiden, how much he may never know, and the fact that if he’s going to do right by him, he’ll have to be ready for it all.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps 

@batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight

[postmanlinksbootyshorts]

genuinely so confused as to why rei/towa isn’t more popular in the western fandom. it’s not even bc i prefer it or anything, i’m just so used to how big fandoms tend to gravitate towards certain dynamics that seeing this smaller fandom not take the friends to lovers bait for once is blowing my mind

[peachy-panic]

Could we ever have a little something of Jaime dealing with his mental state after his first time with Mr. Torley?

You absolutely can.

SIX MONTHS TO GO

This takes place pretty directly after this chapter (my first Do No Harm chapter ever posted!)

WARNINGS: This is one of my darkest, I think—be careful. Explicit aftermath of noncon, suicidal thoughts, BBU/systematic slavery, dehumanization.

Chapter under the cut:

Jaime lives and dies inside his own contained eternity before Mr. Torley’s movements finally still. 

When he rolls off of him—a graceless, callous departure that jostles Jaime’s lifeless form on the mattress—the air in the room feels colder than it did before. His instinct is to curl up against the chill of exposure, but he can’t make his muscles work. Would it even be allowed? 

You must always make yourself available, the mantra surfaces, but it’s faint and distant, like an echo across a dark lake. 

Jaime is not here. He cannot be here.

“I’m going to shower,” his Keeper says, pulling at his awareness. The bed springs groan under his shifting weight. Jaime flinches when a hand comes down on his thigh. “You can use the guest bathroom to wash up.”

The dismissal is cold. Even now, even after that, the tone sets off alarm bells. Appease. Obey. 

He forces himself to move, to sit up. It hurts. It hurts worse than expected, in ways he didn’t know his body was capable of hurting. Some flash of that pain must show on the surface, because Mr. Torley narrows his attention on him again.

“It won’t always hurt, just so you know,” he says, pulling on his robe. “Not like this. The first time is always the toughest.”

Jaime nods, dazed. 

Those words. The amusement. The sound of his voice. The mere fact that the man who has raped him is speaking to him at all feels like his skin is being filleted from his muscle. He wants to scream; the urge is so sudden and strong it takes him by surprise. He bites down on his cheek until copper warms his tongue.

He cannot make a sound.

Instinctively, Jaime wraps his arms over his naked stomach and curls forward, trying to cover as much of himself as possible. His keeper smiles at him, like they’re in on the same joke. 

“I was in a bit of a hurry, I’ll admit,” he says. “I’m not used to having to wait three days. But we have until Monday, now, before the boys get back. We can take our time.”

Jaime focuses all his concentration on a spot on the wall and tries very, very hard not to let the tears fall. When he is sure he has enough of a grip on his composure, he stands from the bed and plucks his discarded pants from a heap on the carpet. 

He has only stepped into the first leg when Mr. Torley chuckles. “Don’t bother,” he says, and it’s clearly not a suggestion. “You’re just going to take them off again. No point in being shy now.”

Grateful to be facing the opposite direction, Jaime squeezes his eyes shut. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. 

“Yes, sir.” He forces himself to pick up the pants instead. He clutches them tightly to his chest as he collects his shirt and turns for the doorway. There is a moment of hesitation. Even in his haste to put as much distance between himself and his Keeper, he waits for a proper dismissal. 

“Go.” Mr. Torley nods toward the door. “Clean yourself up, but come back here after. You will sleep in my bed on the weekends unless otherwise stated. Understood?”

There is no way to prepare himself for the inevitability of knowing that it will happen again. Likely soon. Likely often. 

Please don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. 

“Yes, sir.”

Six months. The reminder rings through his skull like a cracked bell as he makes his way, naked, through the hallway and the den. Six months under this contract. Six months of weekends in this man’s bed.

Jaime suddenly remembers hearing stories. Overheard whispered accounts of Companions who took their lives while under contract. For the first time, he has a clear view of that outlook, and the sudden clarity stuns him. 

Panic rocks into him, knocking the air from his lungs. His body goes from an empty husk to a live wire of adrenaline and fear in a heartbeat. He cannot fathom, cannot even allow himself to think about another hand on his skin, and the promise—the threat—of six more months. Of… of—

His mind retreats back to those very first days in the facility; when his entire world was narrowed to a single, locked room. His entire existence compressed into a series of unbearable moments he had to endure. He remembers the numbness that followed the fear like an old friend.  He knows now that he is capable of withstanding more than he thought possible. 

(But what if he doesn’t want to withstand this?)

Jaime blinks and opens his eyes to the pristine, white tile of the guest room shower. He doesn’t remember turning on the light or stepping over the lip of the tub. Warm water cascades over his face and down his chest, and he doesn’t remember turning the handle. It’s like his body is operating two steps ahead of him. He decided to accept it as a mercy. 

When he blinks again, blood is swirling in the water circling the drain, turning it a sickly pale pink. He can feel the slow, warm trickle down the back of his leg. He has to swallow through wave after wave of nausea, fighting to keep from puking up bile. 

Six months.

A jolt of pain shoots through him when he slides down the wet, tile wall. He has to shift onto his knees instead.

Six months. 

“It won’t always hurt.”

He knows it isn’t true. He knows the physical ache he feels now is not the pain that will follow him. 

Jaime spends an incalculable amount of time shaking apart on the shower floor before his training tugs at him. His Keeper told him to return to the bedroom. He doesn’t have time to unravel now. He has six more months to go, and a lifetime after that. 

--

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort @termsnconditions-apply @cyborg0109 @whumplr-reader

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

(cw: noncon)

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic.

Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though.

When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably forgotten in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening a damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better off jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een out.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze.

He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway.

You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting as far as his knuckles.

He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit.

You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any anxiety from building in your gut.

Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You carefully set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ a grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking noisily at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s.

Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed.

It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer.

You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand.

The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind.

You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John simply inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.”

John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly it was for this time of year, and hadn't just jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.”

Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb.

You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle.

It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh.

“Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“���What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much.

Your sole scuffs against some debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before.

As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now.

You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

Then he was smiling at you again.

It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward.

You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles.

They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot? That it?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up and spit out 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle.

It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh?" His words still swollen with caustic amusement, "That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble.

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over.

You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze���”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was clearly restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits.

At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right?

But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it. Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek“—almost made us lose out.” he grumbled “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”. You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce.

Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[snekdood]

the reason why yall need to agree that not all kinks are created equal is specifically for the genre of cismale hentai artist that likes to put them in really shitty, even life threatening, scenarios and just like. get off on the suffering and oppression of women. i’m sorry but i fail to accept that the vast majority of these dudes somehow actually respect bdsm rules and just “get it all out in their art”.

[witchesverse]

run, little one, though the pack may follow

pairing: dark!agathario x werewolf!reader

summary: she killed your pack and chased you for six hours. you think you've been saved when you find a cabin, but unfortunately, you've walked right to her doorstep.

content: mentions of killing, wolf hierarchy, kidnapping, collars, muzzles, degradation (mutt, dog), hair/fur pulling, being chained to a wall, shock collars, mean!agathario, death threats, face slapping, noncon, somnophilia.

1.3k words

masterlist // the shelter masterlist

Six hours ago, your life was ruined. The witch, you have learnt her name to be Agatha, slaughtered your pack before driving you into the forbidden forest - a place no werewolf should enter. You thought your torment would end there, but she hasn’t stopped chasing you.

Your paws slap against the forest floor and your legs weaken with each step. You’re exhausted and need a break, but if you stopped running, she would catch you and kill you. The feeling of hope sparks in your chest; a cabin stands in the distance. You can pretend to act as an injured dog and seek shelter. You scratch against the front door and whine. A few seconds pass before the door is opened, revealing a woman with dark hair. Something about her aura makes you shiver. You give her your biggest puppy dog eyes and whimper, lifting your paw as if it is injured. 

The woman studies you for a moment before scoffing. “Agatha, come get your bitch.”

There is no time to react. Agatha grabs you by the scruff of your neck and pins you to the ground. You growl and twist in Agatha’s hold, desperately trying to escape her grasp. You feel something slip around your neck and click in place.

Did she put a fucking collar on you?

“Do not forget the muzzle. I am not dealing with teeth.” the woman hisses with disgust.

To wear a collar was embarrassing and degrading, but a muzzle was by far worse. You weren’t able to defend yourself with your teeth or assert dominance as easily. Only the lowest wolves in the pack wore a muzzle as punishment. There was no way you could allow yourself to wear a muzzle.

You manage to squirm out of Agatha’s grasp and pull yourself away from her. You stand defensively, teeth bared and eyes narrow. You can’t keep running, it has proven to be futile. 

“Brat,” Agatha pulls something out of her pocket and presses the button.

An unbearable pain pulses through your neck and you collapse to the ground. It feels like you’re continuously being punched really, really hard in the neck. The collar is electric. You try to stand but your muscles feel weak and like jelly. Agatha grins wickedly, taking three steps towards with the muzzle in her hand. The muzzle is black and has a few large holes for your nose and air to pass through. It has two straps on the side which she clips around the black of your head, and one strap going down the middle of your head which clips to the two straps. If you had the energy, you would scratch and snarl at her. To wear a muzzle was pathetic. It showed signs of ownership and submissiveness - she did not own you and you are not an Omega.

"Remember our deal, Agatha." the woman seems disinterested in you, almost like she doesn’t want to keep you.

"You'll be a good pet, won't you, darling?" Agatha purres.

You wish that you were human so you could snap a reply at her.

Your limp body is encased in purple magic, lifting you from the ground. Your body trails behind Agatha and the other witch as they walk inside. The cabin is small. Directly next to the door, there is a worn leather sofa and two empty bookcases. The kitchen is at the end of the cabin, and the wooden dining table is adjacent to it.

The unknown woman takes a seat on the sofa. Agatha continues down a hallway and turns into a room. This room is nearly empty. There is a queen-sized bed in the centre of the room and two cabinets on either side. On the right, there is a large dog bed and a chain connected to the wall. You are placed on the dog bed and Agatha attaches the chain to your ankle. As much as it is degrading, you can’t deny how comfortable it is. 

Agatha crouches, her hand threads through your fur, pulling it to reveal your throat to her. You bare your teeth. “I’ll give you a day or two of grace, but I wouldn’t try that attitude on Rio, sweetheart.”

Rio. That is the name of the other woman.

She releases her grip on your fur and pats the side of your muzzle before standing. “Get some rest,”

If your body didn’t feel like dead weight, you would have launched yourself at her and ripped her throat out. You don’t want to sleep. You don’t want to follow her orders. You want to be free with your pack; they deserve a proper burial. You stifle a cry at the thought of your pack. They are dead, rotting alone, and no doubt being torn apart by wild animals. You are the Alpha; the protector of the pack, yet you failed to protect. You blink back your tears. Crying won’t help, it will only blind you. If you want to take revenge, you need to focus.

You fight sleep for as long as you can, but there is no point. You are exhausted, your body aches, and the bed is so comfortable. You sigh, close your eyes, and let the world go dark.

When you wake, you notice two things. One, you’re human again. Two, your pussy and thighs are sticky. You drag two fingers through your slick; you’re drenched. You swallow, dragging yourself to your knees. It’s dark outside; moonlight is illuminating the room. There is a light breeze coming through the open window, making your naked form shiver. Wait, there’s an open window. An escape.

You stand eagerly and quickly move to the window, completely forgetting about the chain connected to your ankle. You fall to your knees and wince at the loud smack. You glance at the door, expecting one of the witches to walk through, but they don’t. 

“Fuckin’ chains.”

You tug at the chains, hoping they’ll disconnect from the wall. They don’t budge. You don’t even bother trying to take the chain off your ankle; it’s padlocked. You groan, flopping on the dog bed in defeat.

“Gave up already, mutt?”

You snap your head to the door. Rio leans against the door with a mocking smile. She’s wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. As she walks towards you, you back into the wall. She crouches, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. Forgetting about the muzzle, you try to bite her. Her mocking smile drops and she pulls you by your collar.

“Don’t try that shit on me, mutt. Or I’ll make you wish that Agatha killed you with the rest of your pack.” she snarled.

“Fuck you.”

Her hand collides with your face. The slap is hard and brings tears to your eyes. She pushes you onto your back and keeps your thighs spread. One finger drags through your pussy, making her laugh.

“Agatha treated you well. Too bad, you weren’t awake for it.”

The look of confusion on your face makes her laugh harder.

“Dogs have never been that smart, have they?”

You hate being called a dog or a mutt, unfortunately, Rio seems to enjoy it. You hate everything about this. Never in your life have you been in such a vulnerable position or had someone have so much control over you.

“Why?” you croak as her hands glide over your stomach and tits.

“Why not?”

“Leave her alone, Rio.” 

With a smile, Rio shuffles back from you. She’s still close enough to touch you but you’re grateful she gave you space. It’s pathetic how terrified you know you look. You have pushed yourself against the wall, trying to create as much space from them as possible.

“You’re scaring her before it’s meant to get scary, my love.” Agatha tsks, kissing the top of Rio’s head.

“It’s not my fault that she’s a scaredy cat.”

You growl. A scaredy cat? Seriously?

“I’ll kill you both.” you promise. “I’ll make your death slow, painful, and horrible. Nobody gets to harm my pack and walk away from it.”

They laugh hard, especially Rio. You scowl. People are meant to cower under your threats, not laugh.

Agatha sighs. “We better get your training started then, shall we?"

\\

taglist (comment to be added) (if ur name is crossed off, i couldn't tag you)

@lanfear-is-my-darkmistress @absolute-memegarbage @teenybean @psychickryptonitebouquet @screamsin-gay @marvelwomenarehot0 @ctrlaltedits

[akunya]

hello ive always loved your fics since nijien days and now more into love and deepspace, specifically sylus (the pipeline is universal, i’m afraid) so now, i beg for stalker sylus who is obsessed with everything you do, will fuck you in an alleyway please, cnc and mindbreak, thank you 🙏🏻

"window watching."

pairings: sylus x m!reader

summary: sylus can only take so much of your teasing before he breaks. unfortunately for you, his methods aren't so nice.

tw: NONCON, stalking, obsessive behavior, size diff., frottage, sph (if you squint), praise. implied kidnapping, handjobs, choking, coercion, dacryphilia etc.

notes: see how i didnt add stalker to the front of his name? i genuinely think he would stalk the shit out of you and it doesnt need to be an au, lol.

in all seriousness, i hope you enjoy it. i'm getting back into the swing of things... probably a bit ooc and doesnt follow the game lore (too much, that is).

im uploading this while sick, so i apologize for any mispellings/mistakes/etc.

please let me know what you think!

stalker sylus who cannot, at first much to his dismay, keep his eyes off of you.

everywhere you go, every time you think you have a sliver of privacy: he's always watching. whether its mephisto or one of the twins, he needs to know what you're doing at all times. taking note of what stores you visit, what time you usually come home, who you talk to. it becomes an urge he cant quite satisfy.

at first, he only watched out of boredom. yea sure, he needed you alive, so keeping note of your location was just another one of his duties. someone as naive and reckless as yourself was bound to get into trouble.

but gradually it gets worse.

"where are you off to now, kitten?" mumbling to himself, the man swipes across his phone screen, watching surveillance cameras with a bated breath as you walked home. your figure was a bit blurry, but that didn’t stop sylus as he watched intently. it was nothing truly unusual. around this time, you'd be already cozied up in bed, but it seems like work made you stay overtime tonight. "idiots.." sylus's brow furrowed slightly at the thought of you overworking yourself.

before you, he didn't care much for romance. friendship, trivial things: he thought those were what made a person weak.

but now?

every little thing you do drives him mad. the way you carefully fold your clothes after finishing your laundry to make sure your room stays clean. how you always greet the cashier at the nearby convenience store with a smile, thanking them for bagging your items. how long you take a shower for, which coffee shop is your favorite, even down to the type of shampoo and conditioner you use daily: sylus had it all down to a science. he practically knew everything about you.

even then, a question still rang through his mind. why would you waste your time with all of these other men?

he knew about that strange doctor who's gaze lingered on yours a little too long for his liking. sylus felt his fist clench when he would watch you talk to that painter too, jaw clenching in annoyance when he would see you walk home or to work with that blonde boy.

he shook his head, trying to snap out of his own thoughts. this wasn't about them. right now, this was about you.

it was another evening with you winding down after a long day of work. a tired sigh leaves your lips, and sylus’s cock throbs watching you undress as you slowly slip off your shirt. was it normal to be staring at another man like this? watching from cameras could only do so much, so this time, the villain found himself on a roof adjacent to your window. thankfully, you were too stupid a majority of the time to close the blinds, so he had a nice view of your nightly routine.

...which was mostly boring to watch, if he's being honest. you walked around shirtless for a moment, putting away your work gear and leaving your shoes by the door. it was a whole lot of nothing for a good 15 minutes, leaving sylus to rethink his choices for the night.

sitting on the cold bricks of the adjacent roof, he couldn't help feeling just a tinge of shame. "how pathetic, watching afar like some sort of pervert. i should just go in there and.." he scoffed, eyes narrowing in what seemed to be.. annoyance? the leader of onychinus hated chasing his prey like some sort of weakling. he was better than this. he deserved to have you in his arms, no matter what you thought or said.

however, his words abruptly came to a stop when your fingers trailed to the hem of your pants.

dark red eyes stared deeply at your hands as they softly pushed at the fabric of your boxers. languid fingertips played with the fabric, yawning as your thumbs hooked against the waistband and began to pull. further and further, pulling ever so slightly to show off a bit of your happy trail, the base of your cock threatening to peek for unwanted visitors to gawk at. sylus could feel himself leaning closer, the distance between the roof and your window suffocating as more of your skin was exposed.

almost, that is, before an imaginary light bulb in your head went off and you quickly took your hands out of your pants. "shit, i forgot to pick up dinner on my way home. i should do that now before i go to bed," you thought to yourself, whisking away from the window and grabbing a plain shirt to throw on. reaching for your keys and wallet, you opened the door and left your apartment as usual, unbeknownst of the dangerous man watching your every step.

sylus's own hands were nearly trembling. the ache and tent in his pants didn't help either, feverishly getting up and following you as you made your way into linkon city. he didn't have to ask mephisto or the twins to follow you - thankfully, the rooftops gave sylus a clear view of the streets below, and he could spot you out from anywhere. the man didnt bother to speed up either, knowing which store you were going to (you were very predictable, after all).

he also knew that there's a convenient dark alleyway just before you would turn the corner to go to the establishment. unfortunately, this vital piece of information slipped your mind, leaving you completely unaware and unguarded as rough hands yanked you into the darkness.

"mmph-!" you tried to scream, the hand covering your mouth muffling your pleas. even though you worked out and were pretty fit because of your hunter lifestyle, your strength was nothing compared to the man hovering above you, wriggling to no avail.

"shh, kitten. you wouldn't want anyone to hear us, would you?" the older man mocked, relishing in the fear and befuddlement in your eyes. it took a second for you to process that the other man was none other than sylus himself, smirking as you squirmed in his grasp. red eyes bore into yours, filing you with fear that rose every second. why did he have you pinned in some dirty alleyway like a thief? surely it wasn't money he was after.

the leader moved his hand from his mouth to your neck, holding you in place as you gasped for air. "s-sylus? what are you doing here?!" crying out, your body couldn't struggle anymore, so you opted for your hands gripping his wrist and trying to pull it off of your neck. "what does it look like im doing?" he scoffed, leaning in close to your ear.

"im here to see you, of course."

brow furrowing, you looked at him in confusion as you took in your surroundings. "a dark, dingy alleyway?" you thought aloud, looking him up and down. sylus fixed his posture as he looked down at you, your size difference becoming more obvious by the second. "oh, did you want me to come and knock on your door instead? i apologize, sweetie. you should've told me you wanted the big bad leader of onychinus inside your little headquarters." his grin infuriated you as you rolled your eyes.

before you could think of a clever rebuttal, sylus wedged his knee in between your legs, parting them open as his thigh pressed against your crotch. "i-i dont.." you muttered, voice raising in pitch to pair with your nervousness as he kissed your neck. he didn't bother answering your silly questions, simply smiling before biting into your shoulder. you hissed in pain, trying to push him off even more than before.

"you don't what, love?" his voice isn't serious at all for the situation you're in. cold skilled hands fiddled with your zipper, freezing for just a moment before gripping onto your girth. the sensation made you cry out again, unable to hide your face from your attacker, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. sylus coo'ed at your feeble attempts to push him away, unbuttoning and pulling out his own cock to hold against yours.

looking down, the size comparison of his cock against yours made your face feel warm. ""aww, look at you sweetie. you're all bark but no bite." the older man laughed again, fingertip circling the head of your cock as he teased you. you loathed the way you shuddered at his snide remarks, the sound of the bustling city just feet away making you panic again.

you raised your voice, "sylus, this isn't funny anymore, seriously! cut it out!".

the wordless tension spoke volumes.

sylus didn't laugh or comment on your refusal. instead, his grip on your neck only grew tighter, choking you against the wall as his other hand started to make a fist around both of your cocks. "do you see me laughing?" his tone was firm as he squeezed harder on your throat. you couldn't say anything back, choking out a sob as he slowly began to jerk you both off together, a low moan slipping from his lips.

"ive wanted this for so long, kitten. so fucking long." muttering, he continued to grind his hips against yours, the unwanted pleasure making your head spin. "i've had enough watching from afar. i think its finally time i get what i want, right?" he kissed the tip of your ear, toying with the cartilage between his teeth.

unable to believe what was happening, you could only cry out more strings of "please", "stop", "no": all music to sylus's ears. "you don't really want me to stop, right? look at how much your cock is leaking onto mine.." he chuckled lowly again, grabbing the back of your neck to force your gaze downwards.

he wasn't wrong, either - dribbling precum and throbbing the entire session, your dick looked just as eager as sylus's, twitching with every flick of his wrist. it wasn't your fault that sylus was way more experienced compared to you. whining, you shook your head again, trying to close your eyes shut so you wouldn't remember any of this. the outside world was so dangerously close, and anyone could catch you two at any moment. how disgraceful it would be: a well known hunter being caught rubbing cocks with the renowned leader of onychinus. you frowned at the thought, whimpering as sylus went back to kissing your bruised neck.

"you could come with me, yknow. back to the n109 zone, i'd take such good care of you." sylus whispered as he felt himself inch closer to his own release, hand pumping furiously between you two. hot tears streamed down your cheeks, your brain awry with the overwhelming sensations of pleasure and pain. "you could have anything you wanted. you wouldn't have to work another day in your life." he groaned, balls tightening at the thought of his own perverse fantasy, imagining you kept in his bedroom all day just for him to use.

"d-don't, sylus please -" you hiccuped, forehead resting on sylus shoulder as he toyed with you. "im gonna cum," sobbing as you held onto his biceps, not wanting to sink any further against the dirty alleyway wall. with so much teasing and dirty whispers from the other, you couldn't think straight, practically panting in sylus's ear as his hands jerked you both off closer and closer.

growling, sylus slotted his lips against yours, a surprisingly gentle kiss before muttering under his breath. "be a good boy and cum for me then," using your fluids as lube, the squelch of his tight fist jerking off your cock made you spill. moaning loudly, your nails dug into his arm as thick ropes of semen poured out, mixing with his load that came seconds after.

silence filled the space between both of you as you tried to catch your breath. your eyelids felt heavy, leaning onto sylus for full support as he rubbed your back. you couldn't quite process what just happened, brain feeling much too fuzzy for any thinking right now.

perhaps it was a mix of exhaustion from your normal workday and your encounter that made you pass out on the older man's shoulder. nonetheless, he was not going to let this opportunity go to waste. pressing onto the comms headpiece in his ear, sylus spoke as quietly as he could not to disturb you.

"luke, kieran, bring one of the cars to my location. i have a little kitten coming home with me today."

[averycutesalamander]

pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He could. He should.)

(He won't.)