#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

[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.)

[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

[yozzers]

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.

[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”.

[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

[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.)

(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.)

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.

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 won't.)

(He could. He should.)

[scara-meow-che]

then they were roommates ┃ sweet deception with thoma

CW. NSFW (MDNI), afab! reader with no set of pronouns, roommate! thoma, use of sedatives, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it!), pervert! thoma, noncon, he takes pics of you, male masturbation, pervert and a bit ooc thoma ♥︎

AN. another reposted work. i promise that i'd be posting new ones soon <3 just a little more from my part on actually editing the drafts that i have here but anyway, enjoy our ooc pervert, roomie thoma!

thoma is the sweetest roommate you’d ever ask for!

besides the fact that he constantly reminds you of the tasks you have absentmindedly forgotten or prepares breakfast in the morning, he also helps you with your projects whenever he has some time to spare.

you also want to take note of the tea he always makes!

“hey thoma! you haven’t told me what brand this tea is.”

the weekend had just arrived and you were left sprawled in the comforts of your blankets while watching another rom-com with thoma. he was laid adjacent to your side, the two loveseats occupied by your tired bodies.

“silly, how many times do i need to tell you that i handmade this! you can help me pick up the ingredients tomorrow morning if you want,” thoma offers with a smile. he can see how you immediately perked up in interest, nodding your head in agreement. “well, just make sure that you sleep early now since i often leave around 5.”

and he hears you grunt afterward.

“come on now, you wouldn’t miss an opportunity like this, yeah?” he encourages you, standing up from his seat. he eyes you, taking a huge sip of your tea before dropping down the cup on the nearby table. he shudders, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips before he reaches out both his hands to help you stand up.

as you do, you can feel your body slipping into a relaxed state, almost stumbling and falling back into the seat. but thoma was fast and had an arm wrapped around your body, gently cradling you in his warmth.

“easy now,” he mumbles. it felt quite nice to be wrapped in his embrace as the nature of his being caring seeps through while he guides you to your room. “getting sleepy now, aren’t you?”

you hummed, feeling the softness of your blanket caressing your skin as thoma gently lays you down on your bed. as each second passes by, you find your eyes can barely keep themselves open. and before you were consumed by sleep, you can hear the faint whisper from your roommate, a sweet smile etched on his face.

“sweet dreams f/n.”

it was truly sweet, thoma had always been like this every day and you barely notice the patterns. he is someone so kind, dependable, selfless, and caring so you trust him. there’s never a reason to doubt him, not when he had you gullible just as he wanted to.

don’t get him wrong but thoma genuinely cares for you. he likes you, a lot. but the intensity of his emotions quickly becomes too much for him to handle. you were so pretty, so perfect in his eyes that he can’t help but give you what he thinks you’d want, what you’d like, what you’d find worthy of your affection.

but he thinks that fucking you when you’re asleep is something you wouldn’t approve of.

when he sees the steady motion of your chest, lungs pumping air in and out of your relaxed and vulnerable state, he’s quick to adjust your body, letting you lie flat on your back and your legs pressed on each side. you’ve always looked beautiful to him, no matter what you wear, no matter how unkempt your hair was.

and he finds you most beautiful spread out like this for him to take. an angel you are in his eyes.

he groans when he feels his cock ache inside his tight pants. you’re just that perfect, fuck, he’s so damn lucky that he’s the one who gets to share this apartment space with you and not just a random bastard who wouldn’t treat you like he does.

he just hope you wouldn’t find out the debauched person he can be.

thoma wants to put all the blame on you. you should be held accountable for how adorable you are, and how your beaming eyes always had him hooked whenever you tell him what happened in uni. you should know that he’s utterly smitten from how much you cling to him, trusting him to the point where you don’t even notice that the tea he makes was the very reason why he had you pressed down like this.

of course, he wouldn’t dare hurt you. he’s not an asshole who just takes advantage of you like this and ends up hurting you in any way or form. thoma would spend the time preparing you, holding you, and pleasing you before he could even please himself.

as he had your legs spread open, he would gently remove your pants, revealing you in your underwear. he finds it cute how you wear this particular pair every weekend, the soft pastel red cotton undies he always love!

then he would notice how you’d shiver, feeling the cold gust of wind welcoming your flushed skin. thoma would cover you up with the blanket he made for you, smiling as he remembers how you were elated to receive this from him.

as he provides you a source of warmth, he would continue and leave kisses on your thighs, his large hands pressing down to spread your legs wider. he dares not leave any hickeys, as much as his mind tells him to mark you already. he can do that later when you’re finally sober enough to know what the hell he’s doing.

after leaving feather-like kisses on both your thighs, thoma would press two of his fingers between your clothed cunt, sliding up and down your slit. he can hear the gentle hums of satisfaction escaping your lips.

“even when you’re in deep sleep, you’ve always loved being pleasured like this, huh?” he whispers, putting in some pressure that the tip of his finger glides down your clit. “we wouldn’t want to mess this though,” he adds before he hooks two of his fingers to the band of your underwear and slowly pulls it off your body.

with your lower half exposed for his eyes to feast on, thoma almost came at the sight of your cunt slightly shimmering from your slick. he curses under his breath, impatient because he just wants to shove his cock but had put an immense focus so to mentally stops himself.

before he even loses control, he moves his head down and has his lips close in your cunt. he hums, satisfied, tasting you as his tongue laps up and down your clit. he can finally taste you, so sweet against the sensitive flesh of his mouth. you were addicting, thoma can’t help but give your pussy lips a kiss before he had his whole mouth sucking on your poor cunt.

he felt your thighs occassionally close back from the sensation, your eyebrows furrowing that your sleep-induced state tries to focus on the pleasurable feeling you’re receiving between your legs.

“you’re so damn cute,” thoma mutters before he goes back on assaulting your sensitive clit. he wants to hear you moan, to hear you whimper about how good he’s treating you, how good he was on eating you out, on pleasing you but that can wait.

after flicking his tongue on your sensitive nub, he had two fingers slowly pumping in and out of your hole. you were so wet, so ready for him to take but he wants to make you cum first. thoma goes back on sucking on your clit as his fingers smoothly go in and out of your hole, adjusting it to reach the most sensitive spot inside that he knew by heart. you were so warm, so tight around two of his digits.

the pleasure he gets from fucking you like this had him rutting his hips down the bed, cock itching to shove itself inside your warmth and have your tight walls snuggle it closer. his pants' already ruined from his pre. he groans as he does so, eyes peering up to witness how your back softly arched from the vibrations he had let go on your clit. thoma can feel how close you are, your warm walls sucking him in with fervor.

“that’s it f/n. go on, cum for me,” he says even if you won’t even hear him or know that it was him pleasuring you like this. your walls clamped on his fingers, your hole gushing out so much slick as thoma didn’t stop sliding his digits in and out to ride your high.

your body was still shaking a bit from the aftermath of your orgasm when thoma swiftly moved up and pulled his hard and aching cock out of his already-ruined pants. he hissed as the warmth of his hands made contact with his skin, quickly rubbing the bulbous head on your cunt to relieve himself from the pain.

“‘want you so badly, f/n, just let me—” slowly, he pushes himself inside your walls, grunting at the sudden tightness engulfing him. he eyes your body, those emerald hues watching every twitch of your eyebrow and how your chest lets go of a shaky breath as he finally pushes all the way in. “fuck, you feel so good around me.”

thoma’s head was spinning at the view he’s getting of you even more when he looks down to where you’re both connected. his long girth feels just perfect to be inside you, smoothly sliding in and out. hell, he wanted to roughly bend you in half and shove himself as deep as he could but you might wake up. he doesn’t want that but fuck, you’re making it so hard for him.

in seconds, he rocks his hips against your body, his thighs softly smacking against your butt as he slowly ruts himself in your core. thoma bites down on his lips, focusing on being gentle while getting the most out of your cunt. he closes his eyes, savoring how your walls sucks him in, tightening every time he bottoms out. he was so big yet he had managed to have you adjust to his size perfectly, molding you to have his cock alone.

he was close, the pleasure so intense on bis lower half he had somehow let go of his focus and started a rather quick pace in fucking you. he hears you whimpering, his mind thinking that you’re awake and was ushering him to go faster, that you’re close too, that you want him to make a mess out of you.

“anything for you, f/n. fuck, i’d do anything for you,” he utters with a moan, sweat glistening on his forehead, his balls slapping oh so loudly against your thighs covered with your slick. and he pulls out, groaning as his cold hands started to jerk on his sensitive cock before he lets out his thick cum just right outside your hole.

thoma could barely keep in his moans, shivering at how he coats your pussy lips with his load that you looked so damn messy but fuck, you’re just so beautiful in his eyes.

“i love you,” he whispers but gained back his focus in seconds when he hears you humming. his eyes darted back to your face only to see that you’re still fast asleep.

thoma sighs, shaking his head, and went back down to look at your cum-stained cunt. he could just jerk again at the sight but doesn’t want to wake you sooner than he’d think he might. but, before he puts your legs back down and it let relax, he pulls out his phone from his pocket and quickly took pictures of your body, more on how he ruined you below, angling it where he can see how he had claimed you to be his.

with this sweet smile on his face, he bends down and slowly left a kiss on your forehead.

“sweet dreams, angel. i hope that we can spend more time soon.”

⠀⠀scara-meow-che © 2023 ┃ do not copy, modify, or repost ANY of my content

[amourrs]

as people almost twice my age feel the need to vague post about me let me clear some things up. this is the last i’ll be saying on the situation- unless you all want to send me some more death threats to treasure (as if that’s a reasonable and normal thing to do or helps your case even slightly). calling me a “kink shamer” for saying reader being literally child adjacent is weird is like… so 2+2=89 now? in general i would never publicly knock any kinks, even those i would definitely rather not partake in- but i WILL knock the idea that having reader act as a child is acceptable. no matter what you say i will stand by the fact that this is not a kink. it is a very dangerous precedent to set ourselves as writers in this space and is also very much inappropriate when there are young impressionable people reading fanfiction. we all know minors have access to the internet and these fics no matter how much we may plaster 18+ warnings on them and i do truly believe we have a duty to display safe, consensual sex in fics- even for younger adults such as myself. in fact, even for adults who are much older than me- i think we should all be emphasising the importance of consent and healthiness in kink and sex. it is impossible for this to happen when these writers create readers who act incredibly childlike (this is not in reference to sfw fics, i truly don’t care about those) and then put these oc “readers” in sexual settings where it is clear they are too “naïve” to consent. these “reader inserts” often are written as if they are not aware of how sex works or their own basic anatomy, much like a child would not be. it is highly reminiscent of sexual grooming and i would suggest that if you are truly insistent that you are still going to write this, tag your fics as noncon or the like because that’s what they are.

+ prev post.

[gabessquishytum]

feel free to ignore this if its not your jam (tw past noncon)

Human au Dream and Hob are roommates, and Hob is always hooking up with people and one night Dream admits that he doesn’t get it because he’s had sex but he’s never liked it. Hob asks if he’s asexual (cause thered be nothing wrong with that!) but Dream doesn’t think he is, he had felt attraction just the actual sex was bad. So Hob asks about his past experiences and as Dream describes it Hob realizes….. NONE of his encounters sound consensual (Dream describes one time that sounds an awful lot to Hob like he was roofied, another time he agreed at the beginning but tried to safeword and his partner ignored him, etc) but Dream doesn’t seem to realize it cause it ws never “stranger in a dark alley” type noncon 

So Hob is trying to find a gentle way to be like “hey I think you haven’t enjoyed sex because what you’ve experienced wasn’t sex anymore than bashing someone over the head with a shovel is gardening”. Then theres lots of healing and comfort, Dream and Hob entering a relationship, and Dream eventually feeling safe and comfortable enough to experience what sex is SUPPOSED to be like with Hob <3

This is sad and sweet and honestly feels very canon Dream adjacent,,, like he really has NO idea that he's put up with some very abusive shit and he's genuinely confused about why Hob is mad about it.

And Hob is mad about it, although he's trying not to show it. Maybe because it reminds Hob of the fact that he hasn't always been a good person. He's trying to be better every day but in the past he's done shitty things, not "stranger in a dark alley" type things but... taking people home when they were blackout drunk kind of things. It's really difficult to try and confront that part of himself. It makes him think that maybe, Dream deserves better than him.

But it's also a chance to do something right. Hob wants to be with Dream, even if that means never having sex with him. He's totally on board with whatever Dream wants from the relationship and he's determined not to fuck it up. So: he's teaching Dream about what a safe, good relationship looks like. But he's also teaching himself. Checking in with himself before he does something stupid or reactionary. Checking in with Dream at every stop along the way.

And when they do have sex the first time, and Dream smiles at Hob as they lay together in the afterglow, Hob promises right there and then that he will always make Dream smile. He will never do anything to hurt him. However much he has to learn, he'll put in the work every day. To be the man that Dream deserves.