#noncon implied

[justplainwhump]

Warrant

Thanks to everyone who stayed patient with me regarding Tyler's story. Here we are.

Tyler's facility is raided by the police.

[Masterpost]

Content (warnings): Implied noncon, facilty whump, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee covering for whumper (idk if thats a thing to tag but anyway), (sort of) parental caretaker.

Time passed differently within the white walls of WRU. It affected even the handlers, who had strict instructions to leave their watches in their lockers. If they had to check the time, they could use their work-equipped tablets outside the cells. If they needed to tell time in a session, they set vibration alerts in their smart bracelets or earpieces. And even for handlers, it was bad enough. Tyler Parker remembered countless moments of leaving the building after work, uniform switched for jeans and T-shirt, squinting his eyes overwhelmingly confused by the position of the sun.

He'd have thought, that experience would have helped him. Given him ways to measure the passage of time without outside cues. 

It didn't. 

In the beginning, he counted. Handlers. Beatings. Showers. Orgasms. 

The voice counting in his head wasn't his own. It was hers. 238's. She'd counted, too. Her unit had been him. He'd caught her doing it, her lips moving, when she was sleep-deprived and high on something. He'd punished her, for wanting to know something that wasn't hers to know. She should only know one thing, he'd said, and that was how to be good for her betters. 

She'd stopped counting, then. At least, he hadn't caught her again. 

He wondered, at what exact number that had been. What her count would be, by now. At what number it ceased to matter. 

Tyler stopped earlier than she had. But then again, maybe she'd stopped twice, too. Maybe she'd thought the same thoughts before the Drip. Maybe he would, too, after. He almost laughed hysterically, thinking about it. About going through all this, again. Just that the people torturing him would be strangers then, the very same people whom he knew now.

People like Jared Grimm, Head Handler of the facility, Tyler's supervisor. Had Tyler counted, he'd know if it was the second time, or the third, that it was Grimm's hand in his neck, pressing him onto the padded table. Maybe even the fourth. 

Grimm wasn't sadistic in his fucking. He was methodical, cold, detached. Working through a routine.

"Fucking. Idiot," Grimm breathed into his ears between thrusts. "It didn't. Have to be."

It did, Tyler thought, as a strained whimper escaped his lips. It did have to be. 

"Jared," someone said, far away. "There's a call from the reception, they need you."

The hand in his hair vanished. The weight on his back. The breath in his neck. The strain in his ass. 

Grimm didn't even slap his butt. He was just gone, leaving Tyler exposed and cold.

Not for long though. "Hey, pretty boy," Dinah Richardson purred. "You look so lonely."

Tyler closed his eyes.

Time passed.

-

Jared Grimm stared at his knuckles, stark white as he balled his fist on top of his desk. He willed himself to unclench his hand. He was head of this facility, he reminded himself. He had worked hard to get to this position. He was capable. He had it under control.

"Say that again," he asked into his phone.

"The police," the receptionist repeated flatly. "FBI. They're here with a warrant."

Jared exhaled sharply. "Let them in. I'll meet them in the hallway."

*

The officer in charge was a tall woman, around his age, late forties, he guessed. Long, brown hair that started graying at the temples, tied back in a pony tail. A vaguely familiar face. And a chilling stare that bore right into his eyes. 

"Mr Grimm," she said. "I hope you don't intend to stop me or my colleagues. We have a warrant. And anything you do to hinder me will only make your situation much worse."

Jared raised his hands in an inviting gesture. "No, of course. We fully support law enforcement." Financially, he thought grimly. Enough to avoid situations like this, he'd wagered. This woman didn't seem to have gotten the memo, though. He forced his lips to curl into a polite smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I am here to arrest Ms Carly Thompson and Mr Tyler Parker, both WRU employees."

Jared blinked.

Parker. Fuck. No. That couldn't be a coincidence. "I…" Jared's mouth felt dry. He forced himself to keep his gaze level, not to double check the state of his uniform pants. He hadn't even had the time to wash Parker off of him. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know everyone's schedules, I… I can confirm they both work here, but I'm actually not sure they're in today. It's pretty early, and-"

"I am sure." Her smile was icy. "Your receptionist has already told me that Ms Thompson checked in for duty this morning. As for Mr Parker, he seemingly didn't, but I… I actually do have a hunch we can find him here, Sir. And that you know exactly where he is." She folded her arms. "Get. Me. Tyler. Parker. As in, Tyler Parker himself, him able to recall his name, his mother, his past, and the crimes he committed." She lifted her chin. "Not trainee pet 002243."

Jared flinched violently. What the fuck. She couldn't know. Not what happened here, not even vaguely. But definitely not in detail. Not in this detail. 

The muscles in her jaw tensed at his reaction. She'd guessed. A shot in the dark. And his reaction had just confirmed it. Fuck. 

How could she have made such a precise guess, though? She knew his number. Nobody who wasn't in this building right now did. How-

"We are in possession of a video that has been filmed in this facility." Her voice was hard. "It shows Mr Parker and Ms Thompson drugging and torturing Ms Zsuzsanna - Suzy - Kowalski, threatening to make her into a pet. Ms Kowalski had been reported missing some days ago, then showed up in a hospital with no memory and serious brain damage. She isn't in a condition be interrogated. But we have proof, on this video, that all of this happened in here, in your facility, Mr Grimm."

It couldn't be. They had people for this, people that made sure WRU management knew before the authorities showed up in one of the facilities. And they would, he told himself. WRU could set this right. They always did. 

Only question was, who would the company let take the fall for it. And this cop? She'd just put his name on top of that list. 

Fuck.

This time, Jared controlled his face better. "I don't believe that's-"

"Mr Grimm," she cut him off. "Again. I do believe that. That video is… not shy on the details. And I would love to bring you and your entire fucking company down for it. I'm a very good investigator, you know."

Jared busied his fingers with straightening his jacket and tried a confident smile. It didn't work out the way he wanted. Still. There'd been something in her phrasing, something not entirely final. "I feel like you are going to present me with another option."

She raised an eyebrow. "Only if I get both suspects, in a state that allows them to be tried. And if you need to go make an immediate call to make sure Mr Parker is taken off from whichever drugs you use to mess people up, please, do so. Because I swear, if he doesn't remember his mother's face, it's not him going to jail, it's *you*, Grimm, personally. And I'm not going to stop at that. I might not be as good as you and your company are at destroying a life, but for you, I'll certainly do my fucking best."

"I…" Grimm stared at her. She was dead serious. "I… I think I didn't get your name, Officer-?"

"Ashley Browne." She smirked. "I didn't take my wife's name."

Her wife. That's how he knew her, how that face seemed familiar. There'd been a photo they'd taken from Parker's and the journalist's apartment, the two of them with his mother and another woman, who- Yeah. That tracked.

"Parker," he mumbled. "That would be your wife's name, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed it would," she confirmed. "So you better hand my stepson over right now, or I will make sure we turn around every last brick in this building and see what else we find."

"Oh no. No no." He shook his head. "You don't have the authority to do that."

"You want to bet on it?" She lifted her chin and raised the paper in her hand. "While we're here, with this warrant, my guys will listen to me, not you. And I'll have them turn on their body cams. Let's see how much we can find - how much we can film - until your bosses call my bosses and my bosses call me; such a hassle, only with the same old result that you need fall guys and Carly Thompson and Tyler Parker must be it. The more we see, though, the more names add to the list. Higher up the ranks."

"I-" Jared's mind raced. It couldn't possibly be. Carly would keep her mouth shut, with the right payment, just sit her time, be released, take the money and burn through it in some seedy beach hotel at the other end of the world. Parker however. The stupid asshole was a fucking liability. The attack on Alex. The pet lib journalist. That video appearing from nowhere. They should've put him on the Drip right when they'd brought him in. They should've shipped him out to another facility. They should've - 

They shouldn't have played this lightly. But they had. 

And now, the police officer in front of him nodded at her uniformed colleagues, lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture. "Search every room, every cell, every office. Turn on your cams, get a good look on every face you can find, trainee, employee, service worker, every single face, until we've found our guys. Clear?"

Jared had no choice. That woman was a fucking nuisance, but he couldn't take any other risk.

"Wait," Jared called. "I… I think I know where to find them. I'll make a call."

Browne stepped back and lifted her hands. "Good. Lead the way."

-

It was even worse than she'd expected. And Ashley had seen the videos. She had expected bad. 

The boy - even at 24, even a head taller than herself and twice her weight, she'd never brought herself to seeing him as a grown man - was curled up on the oddly colorful tiles of a shower room. He was naked, his light skin mottled with bruises of various colors and shapes. Some from weapons, bats or batons, she figured. Most from hands. 

She had to force herself to stand still. Not to fall to her own knees besides him, to run a hand through his wet blond strands, to hug him and shield him. Not to draw her gun and empty it into the smirking handlers around them.

"Our handlers sometimes get handsy with each other, after a stressful shift," Chief Handler Grimm said from behind her. His voice had a nervous pitch to it, but still, she swore she could hear a kind of glee in it. The knowledge, that this blatant lie, like so many others, would stay unchallenged. "We condemn any sexual relations at the workplace, but- I guess you know how it is."

"You don't get to assume what I know, Mr Grimm," she said flatly. "I'm a cop. What I know is what sexual assault looks like."

"It was consentual," another man said, and idly kicked a piece of soap over to Tyler. Ashley flinched, when it hit his side, the boy too weary to react. "Tell them, T. We had fun."

"It was consentual." Tyler's voice was all but a hoarse croak. Ashely's stomach turned. "It was."

"See?" Grimm said to her, and to him, "Clean yourself up, Parker, and get dressed."

Tyler struggled to push himself up to his knees, his hand shaking as he weakly reached out for the piece of soap.

It took Ashley a second to remember her duty. To remember that she was here to betray all her beliefs in law and order. Making a deal that was far from any justice. Saving her wife's boy. Who - given what Tara had told them - might as well have deserved all of this. But Ashley wouldn't be the judge of that.

She was here for Diane. She was here to get him out. Whatever the price.

"Tyler Parker," she said, a part of her wondering when she'd addressed him like that the last time. Tyler Frederick Parker, you call that cleaning up your room? It felt like yesterday. It felt like another lifetime. "Tyler. You are under arrest."

He sobbed.

Ashely told herself it was with relief.

[shootertron-stuff]

Black Legionnaire sticking his fingers in his Imperial Fist's wife's armor interface ports until they orgasm.

In the post-orgasm haze they're more amenable to learning about life in a Black Legion warband, and less likely to reject compliments.

Sometimes if he really wants the wife to be cum-brained, he connects electric shock plugs into the ports instead.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Gilly is a terrible person, and can only get worse from here, but I find it hilarious how he’s slowly realizing he’s probably not entirely straight.

He is realizing - not consciously yet, but it will come - that what he is attracted to isn't actually any particular gender of person, but rather his attraction is based on the power he holds over the other person.

It is going to be an awakening, to be sure.

[mamiownsyou]

I can just see Sophia licking reader’s tears the entire time they’re “making it up” to her 💜😈🖤

Y and R together pls, yandere sofia is a huge possibility

Over It

Pairing: Dark!Sofia Falcone x Reader

Warnings: Manipulation, Possessive and Obsessive Behavior, Sofia holds Reader at gunpoint, Yandere!Sofia

Summary: You have had enough of Sofia, but she won’t let you go.

Request:  “You can’t get rid of me.” | “Run… let’s see how far you get.”

You sat down at the table, having got Sofia’s text message wanting you to meet her at your favorite restaurant. Although you didn’t want to go, you knew this would be the perfect opportunity to end things with her. She had become obsessed with you and was too possessive for your liking. You needed space from her, pleading for her to allow you some when she had her men threaten your coworker for offering you a ride home in the rain. You had almost lost your job because of it, so it was the last straw and you knew it needed to end as quickly as you could do it.

Sofia smiled at you, “Hey, baby.”

You sighed, knowing that if you didn’t end it right here and now, you never would. Sofia was good at convincing you to stay, filling your head with empty promises and you hated yourself for falling for it every single time. But she was good at it, always making it sound as if she was going to change when deep down, you knew she never would.

”What’s wrong?” She frowned, picking up her glass of wine. She took a small sip, humming at the taste. “Is work okay?”

”Yes, Sofia, work is actually going good.” You said, trying to keep your voice steady. You knew if she realized you were nervous, she was going to play into it.

“Then what’s the matter? I invited you out to your favorite, expensive restaurant. I’m about to take you out on a shopping spree after, so what’s the matter?” she questioned as she sat her glass down. She licked her lips, waiting for you to answer her question. You knew she was getting ready to tear down what you had to say, but you needed to be strong.

“We need to break up,” you said, refusing to look at the woman across the table from you. “This isn’t working and you need… I don’t know what you need, but you almost made me lose my job last week!”

Sofia laughed and it caught you by surprise. Out of all the reactions she could have had, that was the last one on your mind. You pushed your glass of wine further away from you, shaking your head as you did it.

“I’m serious, my life has been hell since we started dating and I can’t do it anymore.” You said, crossing your arms.

Sofia’s smile faltered, realizing that you were being serious. She leaned in, “No we are not. You’re not breaking up with me, so when the waitress comes back, you’re going to order food that you want and then we’re going to have a nice night. Do I make myself clear?”

You shook your head, “No, we’re done.”

You stood up from your seat, but she was quick to grab your arm. “You can’t get rid of me.” she snapped, but you were able to get her hand off you. “You think words will do something? Us being in public will help you? I can pay everyone in this place to look the other way if I need to.”

“My friend is here to pick me up, now leave me alone.” You began, but she just smiled at your words.

“What friend?” She asked, and your eyes widened.

You rushed out of the restaurant and when you realized your friend’s car was nowhere in the parking lot. You were worried that Sofia had someone take care of your friend. You wouldn’t put it past her.

You realized you were going to have to walk home, but you didn’t mind - wanting to get as far away from her as quickly as you could. You were free from Sofia and the mess she had caused you, but you knew she wasn’t going to give up that easy.

It was colder than you would have liked, but you walked as fast as you could. After a few minutes of walking, you stopped to catch your breath when you felt safe to do so. You stopped in front of an alleyway, but realized the alley was a faster shortcut to your apartment. You decided not to give yourself a break and began to walk down the alley, you stopped when you saw a familiar looking silhouette standing in front of you. You were quick to turn around and walk back, but her voice rang out throughout the alleyway.

“Run… let’s see how far you get.” Sofia called out, causing you to freeze in your place. You heard her footsteps get closer and as you tried to move, your body wouldn’t let you. Finally, just as she began to reach out to grab you, you finally were able to move, sprinting out of the alleyway only to be grabbed by someone as you turned the corner.

“Let me go!” you cried out, struggling against the man’s grip.

The man held you in place and that’s when you realized that it was one of her men. She sighed dramatically, grabbing your shirt as she placed her gun to your cheek.

“Go get the car, I don’t think she’s going to be running any time soon.” She pointed out.

You watched him go back in the direction of the restaurant, leaving you with Sofia alone. She kept the gun trained on you, a sadistic smile on her face. “Oh, baby, I had such a nice night planned for us, but instead, you and I are going to go to my place and you’re going to make it up to me. I think that’s fair, right?”

You refused to answer her, but that only seemed to make her angrier. Sofia pushed her gun harder into your cheek, causing you to shake. “I- you’re right- right. Please, just… put the gun down, I won’t run off.” You promised, tears pricking the corner of your eyes.

To your surprise, Sofia put the gun down. When she saw her car pull up, she pulled you towards it.

“You’ve got a long night ahead of you, baby.”

[envy-of-the-apple]

older reader?? SAY NO MORE

you're a confident, popular, charismatic lady in your 30s. you catch a pretty, barely-not-teenage gojo at a bar about to get roofied and rescue him.

you're neither a paragon of moral virtues but apparently you do still have some maternal instincts because you take him aside, help him sober up, and give him a stern but well-meaning lecture about watching drinks, staying safe, etc. maybe he gets a headpat and a caring look while you do this.

that's where you thought this would end but to gojo had absent parents and is starved of all forms of affection, including maternal, so he absolutely cannot let this end here and he will exploit his prettiness, his pitifulness, AND your maternal instincts to the max.

if wires get crossed and he manages to get you to bang him (and hopefully feel so guilty about taking advantage that he can get you to stay with him) then even better!!

omgggggyou know me so well-

(Warnings: manipulation, guilt-tripping, large age gap but both characters are 21+, implied non/dubcon, implied drugging)

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Bad Night

When you open your eyes, your head is pounding.

Last night is a blur, but you get the big picture. You drank too much, and you brought someone home.

He's a cuddler, pressing you against his bare chest, a long arm wrapped around your naked body. It'd be a cute way to wake up if you weren't so sweaty and already in a bad mood.

You're debating on how to kick him out when he shifts behind you. He yawns, one hand reaching up to draw circles on your waist.

"You wake up pretty early."

It's not a stranger's voice. You know him.

You turn your head, almost afraid to look. He gives a sleepy smile.

"...Satoru?"

"Mornin'." Taking advantage of your shock, he gives a quick peck on your lips.

It's a jumpstart for the memories of last night to kick in. Satoru had invited you out, you had a bad day at work and you took the offer, you took shot after shot, one thing lead after another and then-

Shit.

"What's wrong?" He asks, and you doubt you're managing to hide the horror off your face all that well. His usually carefree attitude melted into concern.

"Feeling' alright? I wasn't too rough last night, was I?"

When you open your mouth, the only thing that comes out is a strangled 'I'm fine'.

"That's good." He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. "I was worried I hurt you or somethin'. Last night was perfect, by the way. Everythin' I dreamed of, baby."

Baby. You want to throw up.

"Oh, you must be hungry." Satoru frowns, clicking his tongue. "Uh, wait here, I'll go whip somethin' up."

Another kiss, this time on your cheek, before he's sliding off your bed. He's naked. You squeeze your eyes closed when he starts to put on his pants. You keep them closed until the door shuts behind him.

What the fuck did you just do?

You know what you did. You just had sex with someone more than a decade younger than you. You can't even remember it, but the evidence was all around you. Your panties laying crumbled on the floor. The ache between your legs. The bitemarks on your chest, your legs.

You fucked up.

Satoru was by chance You weren't supposed to talk to him, let alone meet him. You were at the right place, at the right time. You happened to catch smug asshole putting something in the oblivious kid's drink. You happened to grab it right before Satoru could, before dumping it on the asshole's face.

Looking back, it wasn't your finest moment. You nearly got the police called on you, but ever since that day, Satoru clung onto you like Velcro. He didn't leave you alone for the rest of the night. You thought your lecture would have embarrassed him enough to leave, which kid wants to be scolded by a thirty-year old? If anything, that might have sparked his admiration for you.

He was determined. Before you knew it, Satoru was everywhere. He spammed you with texts everyday, when he couldn't call. He'd constantly invite you to places adults way past their college years should not be going. Despite your absolute refusal to visit his dorm, you found yourself reluctantly letting him into your house, picking him up from parties when he was too drunk to drive. He'd told you things he'd never told anyone before.

You knew what was happening, you weren't stupid. And unhealthy infatuation. Young, starved for attention, eager to please. You saw the signs, you tried to set boundaries, but you thought you could help him somehow. Your savior's complex grew too big...you thought you could help him.

And then, you ended up sleeping with him.

It wasn't illegal. You knew he was over 18, at the very least. You still feel nothing but nauseating disgust. When you looked down at your hands, they felt dirty.

You needed to fix this, somehow. You needed to tell Satoru that this was a mistake. Rip the band-aide off, nice and clean.

You ignore the crumbled clothes on the floor: your flimsy dress, Satoru's shirt. Instead, you go to the closet and pull out baggy pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. You needed to hide as much skin as possible. To preserve the remnants of dignity you had left.

You stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes, practicing what you were gonna say over and over again. I'm sorry, it was a mistake, I was drunk, I took advantage of you, it's not your fault. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

When you step outside your sanctuary, you smell something that makes your stomach growl.

Satoru's standing over a sizzling pan with a smile on his face. He knows his way around your kitchen because he's been here before, doing homework on your countertops. You feel sick all over again.

"Hey." He pouts when you inch closer. "I told you to stay in bed, didn't I? Silly." He reaches over, pinching your cheek in affection.

You swallow and you finally manage to steel yourself.

"Satoru, we need to talk-"

"And done!" Satoru cheers, setting down a plate. "Hungry? You gotta' be, right? We did a whole workout last night." You cringe at his choice of words, wishing he'd stop mentioning your biggest blunder.

When you don't move, he picks up some food with his fork, hovering it close to your lips.

"C'mon. At least try it." He urges. "I promise it's good. Please?"

You look into his baby blue doe eyes. Wide and earnest and eager. When you accept the offering, he glows.

He feeds you like this, one forkful at a time. When you ask why he isn't eating, he just shakes his head.

"I don't think it'll stay down." He admits. "I'm so happy, it almost feels like I'm dreaming."

You clear your throat. Hopefully, you can steer this conversation into something more productive. "Satoru, about last night-"

"Did you like it?" He suddenly asks.

"What?"

"Last night." He says with a sheepish smile. "Did-did you like it? Was I any good?"

You stare at him, utterly bewildered. "I-"

"It was my first time!" He blurts out with clear impulsiveness, and your heart stops. "I-I was pretty nervous. 'Had no fuckin' idea what I was doing, but it looked like you liked it. Right?"

He looks at you with those wide eyes, filled with genuine sincerity and you want to throw yourself off a ledge because not only did you not remember having sex with him, you don't remember taking his virginity.

You were a horrible person.

"It...was a nice night." You mutter quietly.

He beams again, it does nothing to assuage your guilt.

Fuck this all. You needed to put a stop to this. You needed to stop stringing this poor kid along. You needed to be the bad guy.

But, like always, Satoru makes the first move.

He rounds the countertop, coming to a stop by your chair. Satoru kneels to the floor, taking your hands within his owns. If it were anyone else, you would have melted.

Not him. Anyone but him.

"I meant what I said yesterday." He quietly says. "I know you still think I'm young, but I'm 22. I'm more than old enough to treat you the way you deserve to be treated." Oh God. When you turn away, he's reaching out, placing a hand on your cheek. You're forced to stare at him.

"Thank you for giving me a chance." He smiles. "I-I always thought you'd never see me that way, but then you said you liked me too and-"

"Wait wait, hold on." You interrupt. "What?"

He suddenly looks unsure, his gaze darting around. "At the bar last night. I confessed, and you said it back."

That doesn't sound like you. If anything, when you're drunk, you're annoyingly honest. You've never seen Satoru as more than a kid how could you have said that to him?

But he can't be lying. Not with those eyes. Eyes that were suddenly starting to fall like dying stars.

"Oh..." He trails off. "Did you not mean it?"

He handed you your chance on a silver platter. It was a mistake. I was drunk. I've never seen you like that. I took advantage of you.

You can break his heart, here and now. You take in a breath.

"No." You smile. "Of course I meant it. I...really really like you, Satoru."

His smiles returns and he's leaping up. You can't stop him from kissing you, but he's quick, flitting away just as quickly to give you a hug.

"I'm so glad." He whispers. "I'll make you happy, I promise. I'll do anything for you."

You pat his back, still in a daze.

Satoru is smart. He's a physics major, he's got to be smart. You just need to pretend to date him for a while before he realizes that you're too old for him. Then, he'll leave you for someone his age.

He'll snap out of it eventually, right?

[dvchvnde]

Simon x Reader. IMPLIED NONCON HEAD. Simon is gross. and mean.

You can smell the musk on him—tobacco, stale sweat—and bite back a whimper when he peels his hand off of your nape, sliding the rough, dry skin of his palm over your jaw, your cheek. Cradling the side of your neck in his grip, the tips of his fingers sinking in—just a bit—against the bruised, tender flesh of your neck. Nestled over your stem. The jut of your spine.

His thumb sweeps over the curve of your chin, inching higher with every pass—back and forth. Up. Back and forth. Up—until it sits against the seam of your mouth, pressing into the corner. 

Brief pressure—open up. 

His nails dig in, sudden and sharp—you’ve pleased him. You think about preening, but the urge dies quick when his thumb glides over the ledge of your bottom lip, pressing the tip in until it’s wedged between your teeth. 

You know what this is even if you have no name for it. No measure of experience. Just—

Instincts: fawnlike and unsure. They trickle in—drip, drip, drip—until a puddle forms on the floor of your belly. Brinepool. Sharp and bitter. All salt. Nausea on your tongue when you taste his skin, the grime under his nails. Congealed blood. Something sour. Meaty. 

It tugs at something inside your stomach. Makes you feel like you're going to be sick—

This feeling worsens, churning in your guts when he spears his thumb into your mouth, grazing against your tongue and pulls it out just to push it back in again. A repetitive motion. In out, in out. Hooks the crook of his first knuckle over your bottom teeth, scraping the tip between the gap of your tongue, running it over the ridges of your gums. Saliva fills your mouth. The puddle quickly polluted with the briny, rotten beef tang of his skin. 

He hums. His eyes are drawn, shuddered. Lids falling to a flat, even curtain at half-mast as he gazes at you with an impenetrable expression. Almost impassive. Cold. But the artificial deadpan in his mien is broken by the shift of his throat when he swallows. The plumes of black smoke that fill the gaps in his bloodshot eyes. 

In, out. 

It thickens. Becomes a dense, caliginous cloud. Nimbostratus. The sight of it sours in your guts, rankles sharp talons of unease, fear, down your spine. 

“Go’ such a pretty mouth, don't you, pup?” 

In, out. In, out. In—“gonna catch flies if you keep it open like tha’;”—in, out, in—“yeah, tha’s a good girl—nice and tight now; go’ such a soft little mouth, huh?”—in out in out—

on a pop that fills the cab, spears you with the brutal sting of embarrassment; his echoing groan suturing around the trepidation that shivers over your nape

—his thumb is wet when he presses it to your lips. A secret. A garish kiss. Shush shush, pup, ain't go’ nothin’ to cry ‘bout—

Yet. 

“Nothin’ in life comes free,” he drawls, arched and mean. His damp, sticky thumb smearing over your mouth before stamping into the corner; eyes shading, procellous, in the low gloam as he wets your skin with your own saliva. “‘pect you know tha’, though. Don't you?” 

You want to ask what do you mean—if only to angle for time; delaying what comes next until you can figure out how to get out of this—but his finger peels away, swiping over the swell of your cheek as his hand reclaims the grip it had on your nape. Bruising and painful. What was once just a hold quickly becomes a guide, pushing your head down, down—

And there's really no dancing around the inevitable. 

“C’mon, pup,” he mutters, still pushing, pushing. His hand forcing you low, belly on your thighs, head inches from his lap where a thick, dark bulge pulls taut against the jeans spilling over his thighs. Intimidatingly thick. Long. It's enough to make you dizzy. 

So dizzy that you think you might get sick. 

But you can't. 

It's all happening so fast. Not fast enough. You could wriggle free, maybe. Run.

He pried the lock out of the door. Stay. Just do what he wants, just—

His thighs are thick. Stretched lax over the seat. The wobble of the truck down the empty stretch of gravol road bumps your chin into his firm, corded flesh before coming to an abrupt stop. 

—an escape;

His fingers tighten over the scruff of your neck. Your chest presses tight into the tops of your thighs. It feels like you can't breathe—

“Give us a taste, huh?” 

He's not asking. Your hands shake. The other flashes in your periphery, snaking between the steering wheel and his belly, fumbling over the button keeping his trousers fastened. There's no pretending when the button pops out, splits his jeans down the middle. 

The scent of him—thick musk, sweat; humus—is potent. Overwhelming. All salt. Stale piss. It's gross. You feel it glueing in your nostrils, leaking down your throat. Something you could taste—

In your panic, you tense. Body coiling, head trying to spring back, away from the heavy, olid smell that makes your belly churn, nauseated by the idea alone. 

He doesn't let you get far. His hold is ferric. A shackle. The paroxysm, all panic and fear and instincts, just makes him huff, amused by the attempt to get away, and—

The fat bulge in his pants twitches against his thigh. His hand slides inside the gap, gripping the thick length in his fist, and pulling it free.

The noise that spills out at the sight of it—a pathetic whimper clawing up your throat—makes him groan, twitching in his hand. 

“C,mon,” he rasps, tugging so hard against your nape that your vision swims from the pain of having your skull rattled so viciously. The ink that bleeds in congeals over the hideous thing in his grip—impossibly thick, molted like a bruise; angry looking with straining veins looking primed to burst—and doubles your vision for a moment. 

Whitenoise rings in your ears. You blink through the pain, and nearly choke on a sob when the fog dissipates and unveils his fist squeezing tight, pulling upward as a thick glob of sour milk white bubbles from the mushroomed head, the thin slit oozing it out over the red, engorged flesh of his—

his—

“—fuckin’ hell. Ain't you sight? Lookin’ all scared of my cock. Come on, don’t be shy, pup. Give ‘er a kiss—”

Your stomach churns again when he pulls you forward, your nose pressing against the molten length of him, smearing your skin against the hot, sticky spill leaking done the sides and over his fist. 

Use that pretty little mouth o' yours to earn your keep. 

[justplainwhump]

Mac

A short character intro of some sort, for the character that has lurked in the background of Adrian and Blanca's story since their very first chapter. The sixth guard dog.

[Pet Safety Masterlist]; this piece is referencing [Favor].

Content / warnings: BBU, (indirect) dehumanisation, captivity, briefly referenced/implied noncon.

In the nights in his cell - or kennel, rather, he didn't know why but there was a difference and it made his stomach uneasy - Mac had a lot of time for thoughts. And he used it. He thought about fights, about technique and strategies, about his opponents and their strengths and weaknesses. He thought about winning, about the feeling of triumph, and how stale it was. Like the tasteless, grayish mass that came from a dispenser in the kennel wall, a viscous nutri-shake, that fell into a stainless steel bowl welded to the floor. Victories in his fights were just the same. Bland, insipid, and utterly necessary to survive. 

Mac pulled down the lever and watched more of the nutri-shake fall into the bowl. Sometimes he thought about how long he'd have to hold it down until the room would be flooded. Sometimes he wondered, if the person he'd been before would've known how to calculate it. The pet he was now sure did not. He stared down at the food below him, let himself sink to his knees before he bowed down to eat it. He'd never been further from being a person.

He'd been allowed to eat at a table, real food, with taste and consistency, back at his owner's place. He'd had the others to talk to, Guards, like him. They hadn't been what people called *friends*, he wagered, at least he hadn't actually liked them, but they had existed together, shared a life and the dedication a common goal - to keep their master safe and satisfied. They hadn't been friends, but in lack of better terms, they'd been a pack.

Here, everyone like him was an adversary, who'd fight him to the death the next day or another. And those not like him were the ones who didn't care about if the others died, or Mac did.

It was exhausting. A feeling that wasn't going to bring him anywhere. That was why when Mac had time for thoughts, he didn't think too much about his pack. 

He thought about his owner.

—

Jack Donnell took great pride in his belongings, and that had always included his WRU-trained Guards. Six of them, all of the same height, featuring the same dark hair, same broad shoulders, same mannerisms. He employed a retired WRU Guard handler for some hours a week to make sure the Guards worked like one. He also bought the consulting services of a WRU Romantic Trainer - not for the Guards to be involved directly, but to make them part of intricate designed "scenes" that Mac learned to hate.

Jack wanted to be a ruler, a conqueror, and every once in a while he loved to dress his Pets up in accurate costumes, only to make them submit to him in every scenario possible.

Mac had endured. He'd been a good pet. Until the day a new business partner of Jack's had shown up with his Romantic.

Blanca.

Blanca was petite, with the sort of auburn hair that could look dark brown in one moment and light up like fire in another, with a seductive sway to her hips, full lips that curved into a knowing smile and clothes so tight they left nothing about her curves to the imagination.

Hot, Mac knew he was supposed to think. 

He didn't. 

Please spare her from this, he'd thought instead and closed his eyes. Prayed, almost. As if he knew, how to. 

As if there was a God who'd listen to a pet. No. Their only Gods were their owners.

And while her owner had all but fled the room and left his subject in the hand of another, Mac had stayed by the door, standing at attention, while he watched his master brutalize her.

It took hours.

And after Jack was done, he'd simply smiled to himself, sauntered towards Mac without another look at the broken figure of the Romantic behind him, and patted Mac's cheek. "Good boy," he'd said, and left. 

That moment had been the first in Mac's conscious life, that he'd felt something a Pet was never supposed to feel.

He'd felt hatred. Plain, pure, seething hatred, for the one man he was supposed to love. 

He'd felt it every day since.

-

--

tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses @pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds @somewhumpyguy @whumpzone @tragedyinblue @theelvishcowgirl

[saintshigaraki]

sorryyyyyy the best hybrid/monsterfucking trope will always be random citizen that the monster showed an amorous inclination toward getting handed over to said monster by scientists (with no input from the random citizen) so that scientists can observe the courting and mating behaviors of the monster

[angelyuji]

webbed-up

spider-man x f!reader (noncon/kinktober week 1)

cw // noncon, shitty smut, implied stalking, dubcon

18+!!! minors dni!!!

“HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP!” it was the middle of the night and no one was out. you were all alone when someone had snatched your purse and ran. you chase after them, screaming for help, but no one was coming. you follow them into an alley and before you could continue screaming, a familiar voice comes from behind you.

“woah woah, what’s the issue here, cutie?” you turn to see spider-man standing before you.

“s-someone t-took my p-purse.” tears streaked your face as you sobbed.

he tilts his head and lifts his hand, “this purse?” you blink. your purse hung from his arm.

the relief came in waves, “oh my god thank you so much-” as you reach for the purse, he tosses it into the air and webs it to onto the wall of the alley. “-what are you…”

“since i helped you, you can help me, can’t you?” his voice was deep, and as he moved closer, you could feel your heart in your throat.

“y-you’re not spider-man, spider-man wouldn’t…” you back up, alarms going off in your head.

you hear him sigh, “spider-man has needs too, you know…. i mean, it’s only fair." you back up, looking around for a way to get out, “uh oh babe, are you trying to run?” before you could move, you feel your arm slam against the wall. “just stay still.” he grabs your other arm, forcing it against the wall, and webs it. you try to struggle, but you weren’t budging.

“please d-” your words were silenced as he webs your mouth closed.

“for today, i’d prefer your mouth closed.” his spandex-clad fingers go under your shirt, “god, how i’d love to really feel your skin.” chills go down your spine and you choke on your sobs. he coos, softly, his hands wandering down to grope your ass.

you try to scream through the webs, but your sound comes out strangled and muffled. spider-man taps your butt, “we don’t have much time, jump up and wrap your legs around me.” you shake your head and he huffs, “don’t be difficult. the faster we get this done, the better it’ll be for you.” he tilts his head. you test the webs trapping your arms once more, seeing no change, you try to jump in little space you have. he makes sure to grab your ass, letting you wrap your legs around his waist. you could feel his hard cock under the suit, pressing against your cunt. you let out a panicked sound at the feeling. he groans, letting his head drop to your shoulder. slowly, he rolls his hip into you, pressing himself closer. you let out a muffled moan and you hear him chuckle.

“i wish i could taste you.” he groans into your ear, as he grinds against you. you could feel heat starting to pool at your abdomen as he gets rougher. “my good girl, my pretty girl.” his voice was dripping in pleasure as he breathlessly groaned, getting faster. you couldn’t hold back your moans and spider-man gets faster hearing you. you let out muffled pleas, as you feel the coil tighten in your abdomen. “i hear you, cutie, i hear you.” he grinds you against him for the final time and you feel that coil snap as pleasure washes over you in waves. you hear him groan and slump, pulling you as close as he could without hurting you.

a few minutes pass before spider-man collects himself, letting your legs drop to the ground, “this-” he gestures between the two of you, “-was great. let’s do this again sometimes.” he blows you a kiss and swings away, leaving you attached to the wall. after another 15 minutes, you feel the webs start to disintegrate. you rip your arms out and pull the webs covering your mouth off, letting you loudly sob. you snatch your purse off and dig out your phone, in between your choked whimpers.

the phone rings for a few minutes, before he picks up, “p-peter? c-could you come pick me up? p-please?”

his voice was sympathetic, “god, of course, (y/n)… i’ll be right there.”

[icepip]

big brother yuta making you sit on your lap even though you tell him you're too big.. his long fingers gripping your hips too tight when his cock twitches beneath you. you were just trying to get comfortable but it sure felt like you were grinding against him, practically begging for him to just slide the tip inside..

[aeriondripflame]

jaehaerys the conciliator & his daughters

george r.r. martin, fire & blood. sigmund freud, totem and taboo (chapter iv). flowers in the attic: the origin (2022). giovanni gerolamo savoldo, tête de vieillard. johann hofman, leda and the swan. dacia mariani, dreams of clytemenstra. lolita (1997).

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Pairing: Yandere!Alastor x Reader

SFW

Word Count: 2'627

Warnings: Yandere behaviour, Implied forced relationship, Implied captivity, Toxic relationship, Possessiveness, Invasion of personal space, Non-consensual touching.

Additional Notes: Do be kind, I have not written for this man before and find him exceedingly difficult.

Every week at the Hotel, there was something new Charlie had planned.

Trust exercises. Ice breakers. Activities meant to bring everybody closer together as a group. To try and get people to open up and show a side of vulnerability that - she believed - would help sinners take one step closer to salvation.

Most of them were awkward, and a lot of them never went as planned. A fact she realized and, after a near mental breakdown, had her promptly take advice from Vaggie and agree to try something different.

The task was very simple compared to the previous activities. She requested everybody to think about redemption and what it meant to them.

Thinking about the definition itself took little to no effort.

Redemption (noun): The action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

But it was clear that Charlie wanted more than just a quote from the dictionary. She wanted residents of the Hotel to mull over it while looking deep down into themselves so they could share their stance on the matter later on.

That was the tricky part.

From how you saw it, “saving yourself” from sin was easy enough to accomplish. ‘Just don’t be a dick and avoid the bad shit.’ was the first thought that came to mind, but where you hit a snag was based on what Charlie had shared about Heaven. According to her, even so much as breathing in Hell was enough to solidify your place in the inferno, yet she made it clear that actively resisting sin wasn’t something to go unrecognized.

It took a lot of effort, energy, and courage to do so, and it was hard to disagree even if Heaven didn’t see it that way.

Error was a bit harder. In your opinion, nobody could be saved from that, at least not entirely. Eventually, inevitably, you or someone else would do something wrong, it was just a matter of degree. It could be something as minor as bumping into somebody by accident or as major as Angel relapsing for what felt like the hundredth time, but it would happen and it was only a matter of time.

Charlie did bring up a rather good point, though. Apologizing when you realized you had done something wrong was the best thing someone could do, and it was the first step in the right direction.

You had to give her credit where it was due for that.

But evil was a different matter entirely.

Evil lurked everywhere in Hell. Across every street, around every corner, evil was out in the open for everyone to bear witness and see. None of it was hidden. None of it was meant to be hidden.

What would be the point? You and every other sinner were already in Hell - and many would argue that hiding it would be counterintuitive to being there in the first place.

Charlie tried to plead the case that everyone had good in them. A good that could be tweezed out if given the right chance, and the right environment, which the Hotel was perfect for.

You wish you could agree.

Evil was in the hotel itself, not that Charlie was fully willing to see it.

You believed she was careless there. Little Miss Bleeding Heart wanted to see the best in people, and by god did you ever want to know what it was like to see through such rose-tinted glasses, but you knew you never could. Not in this place.

Stepping a foot into the building was the worst thing you’d ever done because it showed you just how wrong you were about evil being so out in the open. It still had the ability to lurk, something you learned the moment you shook hands with Alastor.

You could see it on his face upon meeting him for the first time - the way Alastor’s perpetual grin widened upon seeing the goosebumps that lined your arms when he clasped your hand in his. No comment was ever made on the matter, but the way his lips peeled back to reveal the black of his gums before he pressed a brief kiss to your knuckles said enough.

Something utterly sinister reeked from him in a manner you couldn’t describe, so you took your own advice and applied the same thing you did when it came to sin.

Avoidance. As much as you could, at least.

Some moments were easier than others. The distinct metallic clack of Alastor’s microphone against the floor combined with a surge of radio static usually bought enough time for you to make whatever excuse you needed in order to leave before he arrived.

Other times you weren’t so lucky, and Charlie’s group meetings were usually to blame in that regard.

At first, you made a great deal of effort to put as much distance between yourself and the Radio Demon as you could, which worked for a time. Unfortunately, Alastor caught onto what you were doing much faster than you would’ve liked.

He reveled in it. You knew he did. After a while you had the gnawing suspicion he was purposefully going out of his way to make you as uncomfortable as possible for his own entertainment. You saw no other reason as to why he’d consistently move so close to you that you could literally feel him breathing down your neck.

Lately, he had adopted the skin-crawling habit of locking eyes with you the moment you stepped foot in the room and patting the seat beside him - reserved specifically for you. Accepting the gesture felt like swallowing nails, but being openly rude to Alastor was something that you knew better than to do.

Instead, you began to find excuses for skipping the meetings entirely and have Angel or Husker fill you in later, which was exactly what you were doing now.

“To be honest I wasn’t payin’ much attention,” Angel said while he scrolled through his phone, resting his chin in his upper left hand while his lower right swirled alcohol around in a glass. “Was the kind of thing that could’ve been sent in an email.”

You traced your finger around the rim of your own glass, its contents untouched. “Still, I want to know what I missed.”

“He’s right, it wasn’t anything special,” Husker replied, slinging a cloth over his shoulder from behind the bar. “Same old bullshit about salvation with a new coat of paint on top.”

A pang went through your chest, but you pushed it down. “So nothing new?”

Angel scoffed and looked up from his phone. “Trust me, dollface, you did yourself a favor.” He downed the rest of his drink in one go. “What were you doing anyways?”

“You know…” You replied with a shrug, glancing down. “I went out.”

Angel smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Out?”

“Yeah.” You tapped your nails against the edge of the glass. “Things were feeling a little claustrophobic, so I went out for some air.”

Husker made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I know how you feel, kid. This place is a mess.”

Angel tilted his head, placing his phone down on the bar and leaning forward a bit. “So where’d you go? Anywhere fun?”

“Where indeed~.”

All your movements went rigid. After a few seconds, you slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder to see Alastor standing barely a foot away from you, staring down at you with a tight, closed-lipped smile. You hadn’t heard him coming in the slightest, which you immediately could tell was intentional.

Whether he’d used his shadow or had actually stalked up behind you wasn’t something you wanted to think about, and if Angel or Husker picked up on the immediate tension, neither of them said anything about it.

“Hey, Smiles.” Angel greeted with his usual flirtation, placing the elbows of his upper arms on the bartop as he turned to face Alastor. “Fancy a drink? You look a little stiff” He gave Alastor a very long once over, “and I’ll have you know I know a few ways I can help relieve some… tension.” 

Alastor’s lips curled back to reveal his teeth, the muscle in his cheek spasming for a moment.

Mentally you were kissing Angel on the cheek for the save as you slowly picked your coat up off the bar and slipped it on, concealing the goosebumps already present on your skin. Husker gave you a glance from the side and gave a very slight shake of his head, silently advising you against your unspoken desire to leave.

“I assure you, such a thing is never going to happen.~”

“You sure?” Angel rested his lower right arm on his hip. “I have a few tricks that can loosen you up.”

The leather in Alastor’s gloves audibly squeaked as his grip tightened around the staff of his microphone and his attention immediately shifted back to you, ignoring Angel entirely.

“My dear,” His voice dripped with such a saccharine sweetness it made you feel sick, “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Fewer combinations of words could instill such a unique feeling of encroaching dread all at once, but you refused to let it show as you nodded and turned your body on the bar stool to face him fully; waiting for him to say the first word.

His eye twitched ever so slightly.

“Privately.”

That made you swallow.

“Sure.” You slid off the bar stool, doing your best not to appear as reluctant as you felt.

“Lovely.~” He said, promptly turning on his heel and walking towards the staircase - expecting you to follow.

You glanced back towards Husker and Angel, each giving you looks of grim sympathy and confusion respectively before you took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other, following Alastor up the steps.

You thought he would talk along the way. Engage in some form of idle chit-chat where he’d be pulling the strings, or even hum along to the countless jazz tunes that he played in the halls over the Hotel’s sound system.

But no such music played and he remained silent. A few minutes into the walk you gathered enough courage to glance up at him and found his eyes locked straight forward, not even sparing you so much as a glance.

You averted your gaze, the hem of your sleeves suddenly the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

Eventually, he came to a stop, and he held out the end of his microphone to prevent you from going any further down the hallway.

“Here we are!” Rather than producing a key from his coat, a green flash emanated from the lock when he placed his hand on the handle and opened the door.

He all but leered at you as he gave a small bow that didn’t feel genuine in the slightest.

“After you.~”

Like the alleged gentleman he was, Alastor held the door open for you, eyes never leaving your form as you walked inside his suite.

The smell of dampness and soil hit you immediately.

Alastor’s suite wasn’t the worst thing you’d seen in Hell by a mile, however, it was still eerie beyond words. The skeletons that hung along the walls and mantlepiece of his fireplace became less complete and increasingly disorganized as they led further into the room - which itself gave way to a swamp-like environment halfway through. Undoubtedly a result of whatever hoodoo, voodoo bullshit he was capable of, and while it still wasn’t the worst you’d seen, it served its purpose thoroughly.

It creeped the shit out of you.

“Now, then.” Alastor clicked the door shut, his body half-facing yours as his hand still lingered on the doorknob. “I'm sure you have a good explanation for what you’ve been doing.~”

The immediate dryness in your throat was hard to ignore. You knew what he was talking about, and you knew that he knew, but you still attempted to buy some time as you tried to figure out what to do.

You cleared your throat. “I was just catching up with Angel and Husk-”

He chuckled, the sound like that of a radio shifting stations. “Don’t be coy.” His head turned towards you with a sickening, ossified crackle that bent his neck in a manner that made your stomach lurch. “You’ve been avoiding me, and I’d like to know why.”

Fuck.

“I haven’t.” Lying to Alastor was a mistake, but you still decided to risk it since it wasn’t entirely false. “There’s just been a lot on my mind recently.”

“Hmm.” Interest and something much worse flickered behind his eyes as he faced you fully with another crack of his vertebrae. “Such as~?”

You shook your head, looking away from him. “That’s private.”

There was a quick flash of red, and the tip of his microphone turned your face back towards him - the cool metal of the edge digging into the skin of your cheek. You had to bite back a grimace.

“Not when it concerns me.” His tone was sharp, a stark contrast to the faux politeness he was putting on before. He kept the tip of his microphone where it was to prevent your eyes from looking anywhere but him. “And trust me darling, when it comes to you, everything concerns me.”

His words twisted in your gut. “...I’m not sure what you mean.”

Alastor tutted, his smile widening once more. “Don’t be stupid, darling, it’s unbecoming of you.” The way he said it was patronizing, like he was scolding a child. “You know precisely what I mean, so I’m going to ask again, as much as I hate repeating myself.~”

Cool metal was replaced with the warmth of his hand as he tilted your head up and brought his face frighteningly close to yours.

“Why are you keeping yourself from me?”

It was an odd sensation. Being backed into a corner, both metaphorically and physically. A frightening one that all but yanked on your instincts to do whatever it meant to get the fuck out of there, but you knew that was the worst thing you could do.

Alastor was a predator, a creature designed to prey on those he deemed weaker, and turning your back on a predator would almost certainly trigger a series of events that would not bode well for you.

So you did the next worst thing.

You told him the truth.

“Because I can see you.” The words felt wrong to say out loud. “I can see you for what you are, I can feel the absolute malevolence that radiates off you in waves, and it’s suffocating.”

Saying any more was a horrendous idea, but you couldn’t help but add one last thing.

“And if I want any chance at leaving this god-forsaken place, I can’t be around you.”

The silence that stretched on afterward was deafening.

Mentally, you were bracing yourself. Alastor had killed people for far less, and you expected nothing different for saying something so daring to his face.

You could see it too, the anger that simmered underneath his gaze. You expected the red of his sclera to flash black and his antlers to extend with his body in a grotesque display before you were ripped to pieces while he laughed.

What you didn’t expect was for his eyes to narrow into slits and his expression shift into one that was far more genuine than you wanted it to be, and it was then you knew that being saved from this kind of evil was never going to happen.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t need to worry about something silly like that.” Alastor all but cooed.

“After all, what makes you think I’d ever let you leave?~”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2024. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

[justplainwhump]

Handlers

Adrian faces some colleagues. They don't get along.

[Pet Safety masterlist]

[< prev] [next >]

Content/warnings: BBU, WRU company internal quarrels, implied noncon, systemised dehumanisation, derogatory language. (This is a short one.)

When Adrian got back to the Clinic, there was a handler leaning to the wall next to the Chewtoy's room. Her grey uniform was slightly crumpled, Adrian noted, her hair tied into a messy ponytail. She was scrolling through her phone, but looked up as he approached.

He knew what happened, even before she spoke up. Fuck. He should've seen that coming.

"Not right now," she said, words drawn out lazily. "Handler Grimm's inside. Quality assurance."

"I don't think that's necessary," Adrian said flatly and stepped forward.

The handler pushed herself off the wall, folding her arms as she blocked his way. She was sturdy built, and even though a lot shorter than him the threat was tangible. "I don't think it's necessary a pet safety inspector tells us how to do our job. It's protocol. It's in the rules. And for all I know, you guys love the company sticking to the rules, huh?"

Adrian cursed to himself. Facility 012. Their department never get rid of that. It hadn't even been any Pet Safety Officer; it had been Adrian himself who had gotten the facility to shut down because of systematic misconduct. He still counted it as a success, morally; but practically it had come with a huge toll. There'd always been a rift between them and the handlers, but the atmosphere had never been this hostile.

"Pet gets shipped to an owner, it must pass quality control. 'Adhere to WRU's high standards', isn't that what you call it?" She grinned at him, but there was no amusement in her eyes. "So I guess you just go on your ways and let us do our job here, Delgado."

Adrian felt his jaw clench, holding back from pointing out he actually was the prospective owner. It wouldn't make a difference. He'd lost this fight already, and he couldn't risk any more.

Before he could say anything else, the door opened and Handler Grimm stepped out, hair damp from the shower, still adjusting his belt. "Wanna compare notes, Smith? I'd not let her pass if she weren't filed as an internal sale. Knows her positions, very flexible, pretty good fuck, but fucked up attitude. Complied just fine, but didn't even try to make me think she enjoyed any of it. Only way to get any reaction out of her is pain, and she doesn't even make that be any fun."

"She has several fractured ribs," Adrian said, as calmly as he could muster. "She's probably been in pain for all of it."

Smith jugged her chin towards Adrian. "PSI Delgado didn't think it was necessary to test her."

"Delgado?" Grimm raised an eyebrow. "You're the whore's prospective, aren't you? Makes it somewhat ironic to lecture us, doesn't it?"

Adrian folded his arms. "Maybe I just don't want you to break my property even more."

Grimm scoffed. "Trust in the company a bit more. This isn't my first rodeo. I'm pretty sure every Romantic handler here knows how to fuck a product with a broken bone and not leave lasting damage. Even on one that is that messed up already. Anyway. My assessment is a narrow pass. What's your verdict, Smith?"

"Passed." Smith smirked. "Knowing who's the prospective does make it way easier to ship a substandard product, doesn't it." She boxed Adrian's shoulder and he had to fight the reflex to break her arm for it. "Let's see how a PSI fares with a stubborn bitch Romantic and still keeps everything pretty and 'humane', huh."

Relax, Adrian told himself. They were done. This part of the game was over. He'd just need to keep his composure, before they could change their mind again.

It cost insane effort to just tilt his head and give them a cold smile. "Great. Now that we're done with the small talk, may I finally go in and collect my purchase?"

"Go ahead." Grimm stepped aside. "She's still in the shower. If you want to seize the opportunity."

They both chuckled behind his back, as they strolled off.

Adrian kept his shoulders straight. He didn't turn around, just counted to ten, forced his racing heartbeat to slow down, before he opened the door to face the person that was going to be his.

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 4

Sorry this took so long. In the hospital still. Out of the hospital now!

For @unadulteratedsoulsweets

——

It had been early in the morning when she’d stepped foot in the manor. It was closer to noon, now, that found the reincarnation attentively sitting in one of the (if she remembered correctly from the blue prints) three massive kitchens located in Wayne manor.

She sat atop one of the island stools Damian had ushered her into, spaced a comfortable distance from the man that was her biological father in this life. Her mask dangled at her hip, a comfort she indulged in after unpacking her things. In truth, she’s had cookies before, but it had been so long since she’s tasted it that she might as well have never tried it before. Damian and Alfred Pennyworth worked with maximum efficiency, measuring out flour and sugar and chocolate like there were no tasks more important than this.

Alfred Pennyworth also avoided a specific cabinet that smelled slightly of metal polish and gun powder. It was kept away from the perishables.

Perhaps the manor was smaller and much more homely than the palace, but the reincarnate could see the sense in and approved of the various well-hidden caches of weapons around. Meant for non-lethal take downs, of course, but anything can be lethal if you tried hard enough. Or, considering the vigilante filled manor she had agreed to vacation in, anything could be lethal if one did not try hard enough to keep it non lethal.

The scrape of a spoon drew her attention back to Damian, waving away the off topic musings her mind had wandered into now that a large portion of her brain power was freed from the duty of fear.

She tracked how Damian existed within this space he had so clearly made for himself. He was… happier. Kinder. More. More at ease, more settled into his skin instead of where he stretched it to fit the cast of the Demon’s Heir. Simply, more. He was more Damian than he had been in the league.

When Damian was locked within the walls of the palace, his shoulders were always held straight. There’d been a- not quite darkness- cruelty in his eyes and gait that their grandfather had eagerly nurtured. His chin had remained lifted, his actions closed and callous. She’d feared, for while, that Damian would follow their grandfather’s footsteps. Until the day she saw him sneak a bird into his room to heal, her heart had trembled and grieved to see someone she loved imitate the worst parts of her abuser. It didn’t change the fact that she loved him, but it changed how she taught him.

But experience is a better teacher than she will ever be, and Damian had little chance to experience true kindness in the pits of the league.

Here, Damian is light. Perhaps less aware than he normally would have been, on the look out for fatal attacks as she had trained him to be within the league, but here he is free and safe and relaxed. It feels like she’s sitting in a haze, the chirps of birds and the clouded noon sun casting everything into an unreal light.

“Ukhti, assistance is requested.” Her brother holds out a bowl of dough. Her heart hurt with how happy it was. She squished the dough between her fingers like a child rediscovering her childhood. In some ways, she was.

——

As she watched Damian, in turn the others observed her. Bruce sat beside her, cataloguing every minuscule expression of his child, the first and the eldest, in an attempt to make up for lost time. And truly, it was minuscule. For all Bruce trained in micro-expressions and movements, his eldest- god, he had another daughter, the eldest- daughter remained a mystery from which he gleaned little of. Her face never lifted from that trained neutrality, having resettled back into it after first bite of b’stilla. He cradled the mug of coffee in his hands, the tang of grief and guilt roiling in his stomach as his daughter hesitantly but skillfully rolled a ball of dough.

“Pennyworth has divulged his secrets to me.” Damian plucked the ball from his sister’s hand, who allowed it with traces of… bemusement, perhaps? His eldest daughter flicked her eyes up in question, perhaps mildly amused. Even if she had more than two decades worth of training, Bruce was frustrated that he could not read her. She was his daughter.

Already he fails her. For too long, he had failed her.

“He chills the dough for a chewier cookie. I, and some of the others with adequate taste, prefer this texture. But which would you find adequate?”

His daughter flickered through that sign language again, the one he had no knowledge of. Considering he knew multiple from each continent, that was saying a lot. He was catching a few repeated signs, but nothing concrete.

Alfred waited patiently as they had their conversation, paying sharp attention to their motions. Bruce… felt like he was sitting next to Cassandra. He supposed they were the same, except his eldest daughter hadn’t gotten free.

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Damian grumbled, resting his hands on the counter, making sure to keep it away from his meticulously clean clothes. “We’ll cook them immediately.”

Bruce, in a fit of inspired parenting, offered a compromise.

“We could do two batches. One for right now and save a batch for later.”

Unspoken were the words ‘so she can try the cookies now.’ Despite the silent nature of his intent, Bruce thought that Alfred and Damian understood anyways.

“A fine suggestion, Master Bruce.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

——

She sensed them before she saw them. Her father had slipped out after his suggestion, no doubt intercepting his flock of traumatized orphans before they could pile in.

Perhaps she had inherited something from Bruce Wayne after, considering how many of them she’d taken under her wing. She rolled the ball of dough between oiled fingers in a haze. Faint memories, impressions of a life long faded, guided her hands as she smooshed the cookies to her preference.

“Penny for your thoughts, Miss Al-Ghul?”Alfred Pennyworth asked her.

‘A Pennyworth for my thoughts?’ She swapped sign language, eyes slyly watching for Damian’s reaction.

Damian, right on cue, clicked his tongue, looking defeated. Alfred, on the other hand, smiled wider.

“A Pennyworth for your thoughts indeed.”

Her humor faded into something softer. Longing. Melancholy.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve made dessert for myself.’

She glanced at Damian, who was trying his best to pretend like he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation lest he caught another stray pun. ‘Or used it to inoculate poisons.’

“I see.” The butler patted his hands dry onto a towel, a sharp eye on Damian’s efforts at covering the dough meant for freezing. “I assure you that these cookies will remain poison free, have no worries about that. Now, would you like some tea?”

She shook her head. ‘I’ll make it myself later. Thank you.’

“Very well, Miss-”

“Hi, Alfred. Making cookies?”

Her hands continued to work on her tray, placing cookie dough on the tray with military precision. Damian remained relaxed, though watchful of her reaction.

“That’s correct, Master Tim.”

Tim shuffled over to her, and she turned. Ah, her partial benefactor.

“Little photographer.” She smiled, slightly. Her eyes, however, were warm. Alfred stilled for a brief second at her voice.

“Hi. It’s been a while.” Tim plopped down on the seat next to her. His whole body screamed of nostalgia. It’s odd to see the little scrawny Bristol boy grow into a full fledged vigilante. It seemed like yesterday she was keeping him from slipping on Gotham’s manifestations of its rot and plummeting down on its stone heart.

She hummed. ‘Not too long.’

“What is that supposed to mean? When had you met Drake, recently?”

She glanced at the little- not so little- photographer.

“She helped me bring B back.” Tim lied. She didn’t like how easily he lied to Damian… but on account of her fondness for him, she let it slide.

“Did you, Miss Al-Ghul?” Alfred wiped his hands on the hand towel he carried. “Then I suppose we owe you our sincere thanks.”

She blinked slowly.

‘I didn’t do much. I kept him alive just the once.’

“That is a harder task than one might think, Miss Al-Ghul. Master Tim has, arguably, the worst self preservation instincts out of the life risking vigilantes I have known.” And he has known many, Alfred seemed to imply.

She tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“Hey! What is this? Gang up on Tim day?”

“I would participate in that even if it wasn’t,” Damian stated, packing the frozen cookies away in the corner. “Come and help, Drake. My ukht is about to have her first cookies and we will bake it to perfection. Bring the tray.”

Tim scoffed but slid the tray away from her, Alfred seamlessly dropping a napkin for her to wipe off the dough from her fingertips.

“Thanks, by the way. For saving Z and Owens.”

‘They were my assassins. Even if you did manage to sway them to your cause.’ She tapped the marble island, before opening her mouth. “Thank you. For destroying his pit options. It helped me kill Ra’s.”

In her peripherals, Damian settled back, disgruntled but willing to rest his curiosity as gratitude towards Tim’s part in her freedom overrode his need for answers.

Tim stilled. “…What are friends for, right?”

‘Of course, little photographer.’ She relaxed as her, arguably first, friend and now brother popped the tray into the oven.

“Anyways, they sent me in here to see if you’re ready to meet the rest of them.”

“And they said that?” Damian scoffed, coming around the island to stand beside her as she slipped off the stool.

“Nah, they actually wanted me to subtly vibe check her, but it’s not like she wouldn’t catch me doing it.”

“Ukhti’s ‘vibes’ are perfectly fine,” Damian said crabbily, crossing his arms defensively. She tapped the back of Damian’s neck and he relaxed.

‘Thank you for the… assessment of my character and general disposition.’ She signed dryly.

“Ugh, I should’ve made the connection. Your syntax is exactly like Damian’s.” Tim joked, dodging the punch Damian aimed at his nonexistent spleen.

The reincarnation huffed. ‘I spoke perhaps three words to you.’

“And how many people use disposition on a regular basis?”

“I do, Drake!”

“I know, Damian. That was the point, you little walking thesaurus.”

——

They left Alfred in the kitchen, the man all but shooing them away so he could get working on lunch, and made their way to a sitting room. The floor was covered in a plush blue carpet, a fact that made itself vividly present to the reincarnation when she placed her foot on it, the fabric brushing the back of her heels. She was too trained to allow the slip to visible, but for a microsecond, the memories of kneeling and choking clawed their way past her defenses. She made note of the trigger and moved on, compartmentalizing that fact for later.

“It’s you,” Nightwing breathed out, tensing. The others behind him freeze, even more alert than their regular state. Bruce whipped his head towards him, sharp and searching.

“Nightwing.” She greeted. She felt a kinship with this vigilante turned brother. She watched him soar and fall alongside the little photographer. She watched him grow new wings and watched them get tainted with blood and fear and grim hope. She lived vicariously through him, he who flew when she was chained. In some ways, she had ended up watching his back for a long time, both in yearning for the ease he was allowed at her father’s side and to protect the vulnerable back that knew not of its openness. Bruce inhaled deeply at her voice.

Dick stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She does not disembowel him for it. Instead, she allowed the giant octopus hug her new oldest little brother gave her. There was no aggression in his countenance. Only relief and gratitude.

“You know Dick?” The little, ah, no, she doesn’t want to sound like Ra’s, Tim asked. Dick tensed, clearly unwilling to speak about it. She stepped in.

“I met him once. Eliminated a spider for him on a rooftop. I did not think he would remember.”

“Is that why you were so adamant on knowing who ukhti was?” Damian demanded, scowling. She immediately freed an arm and wrapped it around his shoulders. Damian ducked away with a rather petulant scowl. "Not because of my safety but because she crushed an arachnid for you?"

Dick nodded at him before looking up at her. “I really hated that spider. It was super scary. Thank you for getting rid of it.”

In lieu of an answer, she gently hugged him back.

“I get the feeling.” She said solemnly, voice coming out soft and borne of an implicit understanding. ‘Talk later,’ she signed to him.

“I was not aware you were afraid of spiders, ukht,” Damian muttered. “Though, Richard, I would believe.”

“Hey!”

Dick detached himself and pasted on a mostly genuine smile. “Oh! You should meet the others!”

He turned to the rest of Bruce Wayne’s wards and children to cheerfully point them out.

“This is Duke! He’s Alfred’s favorite grandkid, because he hasn’t burnt down the kitchen yet and reports when he’s injured.”

“Hey. Nice to meet you.” Duke Thomas raised a hand, smiling. “The bar was literally on the floor with you people. ‘Sides, Jason did just fine.”

The reincarnate nodded. Yes, she knew of him, though her memories were hazy. It had been over two decades, after all.

Dick steamrolled onwards. “This is Stephanie-”

“But you can call me Steph!” Stephanie Brown interjected, bouncing in her seat. Despite her bubbly demeanor, her gaze was sharp. Seeing. She liked that sharpness. It was tempered by the same rough and tumble kindness she’d seen in Grave- ah, Jason.

Spoiler, her memories reminded her. It was a soothing distraction from the anxious memories of the league. She found herself collecting little hints and information about this family. Her family, even if it were tentatively so. She caught Bruce staring at them intently, visibly anxious about this meeting.

‘A pleasure to meet you.’

“So… what do we call you?” Steph tilted her head. Hm. A tell Ra’s would have beaten out of her, had Stephanie had the misfortune of being in his presence for more than a day.

“Al Ghul will be adequate.” Damian cut in. The glance he threw her promised a discussion upon the topic of her name. Later, it promised.

“Wow. That’s kind of impersonal though.”

“Steph!”

“What?! I’m not wrong.”

“Anyways!” Dick loudly said over the two bickering kids. “That’s actually it for now.”

“The rest aren’t here as of this moment, but they’ll be around for dinner.”

A white lie. She studied Bruce for a moment before acquiescing. He meant no harm. Despite his capability to inflict harm, his willingness to do so, she could not read a single instance of ill will in him. Not, at least, towards her. She allowed the lie to slide.

‘I wish to see the grounds.’ She put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. He knew what it meant for her to retreat to the wilderness. Nature, where most things were free and where one does not often find Ra’s after he’d had a taste for luxury.

“We will go to the gardens. Ukhti wishes to explore.” Despite the rather curt way he pronounced it, Damian had stepped closer to her side in a gesture of concern. The pit inside of her stomach eased.

“Sounds good! Let’s go!” Steph bounced out of her seat.

“We could tell you stories,” Tim offered from behind her.

“Yeah, like that one time Dick face planted onto one of Poison Ivy’s flower beds because he was distracted by an ice cream truck.” Duke grinned, eyes crinkling.

“Hey! That ice cream truck was full of Scarecrow thugs!”

“And they weren’t worth an Ivy-lecture. I’m surprised she didn’t skin you and make a pot out of your bones, Dick.” Tim yawned.

“Ooo, we should tell her about the time I hit you in the face with a brick!”

“Literally what more is there to that story, Steph?” Tim grumbled.

“I would like to hear this tale,” Damian said, beginning to tug his ukht towards the garden. The rest of the group followed.

“Actually, why don’t we tell her about the time you tried getting Batcow to the barn and he just sat down? Didn’t you bargain with her for an hour, Damian?”

“Tt!”

Duke leaned back and took in the chaos he unfolded with a twinkling grin and Bruce’s sigh bolstering him. And if their newest and oldest addition to the family relaxed in his chaos, well, that was between him and her.

——

Cassandra found her in the gardens, the both of them weaving in between the foliage like light footed cats. Her contingent of Bats were behind them, watching the two former assassins approach each other.

Cassandra had frozen, mirroring the reincarnator’s stillness.

“Ukhti.” The word was torn out of Cass’ throat, filled with tears and relief.

“Cassandra,” she called, fond and kind and loving. Damian’s eyes darted between his sisters. They knew each other. How? She called his ukht, ukhti. A title he had assumed only he could use.

Cassandra scrambled and launched herself at her, silent sobs shaking her frame.

“Hello, Cass,” she caught the flying vigilante, crushing her first little sister into a tight hug. “Freedom suits you, habibti.”

Cass trembles in her arms, hands clutching at the fabric on her shoulder blades like Damian’s. Her eyes softened, and she rested her chin on Cass’s head.

“You know Cassandra too, ukhti?”

She nodded.

“Ukhti named me.” Cass said, voice wobbly. ‘Cass. Cassandra.’ Cass did her name sign. The one she had taught the slip of a girl back when Cass was stuck in a senseless prison and she was only free in terms of movement.

‘First word too.’ She smiled, proud of Cass and how far she’s come. Cassandra reads the pride in her language, the safety and kindness that she’d never forgotten even after traversing the world for years before arriving home, and she burrowed deeper into the hug.

“Oh. I see.”

“Two ukhts.” She smiled at Damian.

Cass shook her head, but before Damian could settle into his hurt at her supposed rejection, Cass explained her confusion. “Ukhti is your name? I’m Cass.”

“Ukhti means older sister.” Damian informed her.

Cass blinked and looked back at the reincarnation. Her shoulders relaxed and drew back, eyes softening and body loosened from its confusion. She smiled, bright as the sun, and deftly clambered around to perch on her older sister’s back.

“Two.” She declared. And truly, the reincarnation was weak to her younger siblings because that was that. Cass declared it so, and it shall be so. Damian grumbled but seemed like they agreed.

“How did you two meet?” Bruce piped up, intent and surprisingly considerate.

“Saved me,” Cass sighed, resting her chin on her ukht’s head. ‘From father and the league. Taught me to speak, a little. My name. Cass. Taught me..’ Cass paused. “Taught me I am not a weapon.”

The former assassin carrying Cass on a piggy back ride hummed in agreement.

“Oh.” The rest of the family glanced at each other. Dick had his shiny teary eyes on, the ones he got when Jason initiated a hang out.

“Not a weapon,” Cass repeated, pressing firmly on her ukht’s head.

A less sure hum. Cass scowled.

“No. Bad,” Cass scolded. “Not a weapon.”

An acquiescing hum, full of fondness and exasperation.

Cassandra Cain will take that answer. For now.

“You named Cass?” Duke asked. Bruce looked at them with gentle eyes.

“After a heroine I knew.” She replied, shifting. Cass hugged her tighter, intently listening. “She was strong. Lethal if need be. But… kind. She had an inherently kind heart. Full of love. Like Cass.”

“Oh, that’s really.. that’s really sweet.”

Cass hugged her ukht closer, touched. She had never known why she had been given the name, but finding out that it was after a heroine her sister looked up to made the day that much brighter. Hopeful. Honored.

“You have not told me this story,” Damian said.

‘I will. One day.’

——

Jason found her at the lunch table. Along with the rest of the brood. Except for, jarringly, an alien named Jarro.

“He’s our alien brother!” Duke said. He smiled, and it was a smile of unassuming harmlessness. A well crafted mask that she knew better than to be fooled by.

She offered three long blinks that had Cassandra, stuck like a limpet on the reincarnator’s back, muffling a laugh.

“Telling truth,” Cass whispered, sentences punctuated by giggles.

She hummed, shifting to more securely carry Cass on her back. Damian sighed and dutifully carried Cassandra’s pack. She smiled at her little brother, who straightened. Adorable. All of her siblings were adorable. She would kill for them. Ah, right. They frown upon murder here. So had she, once. Before Ra’s broke that part of her heart and forced her hands to commit evils that grew gnarled vines through her very soul.

“Oh.” She blinked.

“Hm?”

“Killing is… a choice.” The conversations around them fell silent. Cass’ arms tightened around her shoulders.

“We don’t have to do it, anymore,” Damian agreed. Yes, he understood what it was like, to be raised to kill and suddenly having the option not to.

“Did you not want to kill, before?” Bruce asked, suddenly a bit closer. Her mind was slipping, she realized. It felt… safe, to slip.

‘If I did not,’ she admitted, like throwing stones off of a lock-laden bridge. ‘Damian would bear the consequences.’

She sounded… young. Afraid. Two things she had always been and were never allowed to be.

Bruce Wayne looked at her like his heart was breaking, like he wished he could shoulder her pain on top of the weight of the world he willingly carried since his parents died. This, she is reminded, was why she swore Damian to secrecy regarding her existence. She wondered if he had ever taken the burden of more grief than he could bear.

‘And I could not say no, regardless,” she told them, absent and tired.

She wondered if she would be the one to break him, should she allow him a glimpse of the scars on her back.

“I could have taken it.” Damian grabbed her arm, clutching at her sleeve once more.

“No,” she whispered, haunted. ‘Not while I drew breath, habibi.’

“You don’t have to kill here. We’re all very good with no murder.” Tim reminded her firmly.

“Unless it’s the Joker.” Steph chimed in, bubbly smile gentled into something kinder.

“Unless it’s him.” Duke agreed. His eyes were more serious now.

“No,” Bruce replied, tired. Heavier, in a way that made sour tang of guilt scratch the back of her tongue. She hadn’t meant to give him the weight of knowledge, but she had inadvertently done so with the things she had and hadn’t said. He wasn’t the world’s- she glanced at Tim, who quirked a smile at her- second best detective for no reason.

“Yes, but you’re not ready for that conversation.” Dick snapped, lightheartedly.

Ah. That’s what was off.

They’re kind. They choose to be and they inherently are kind.

It showed. And she wasn’t used to that.

“Lunch.” Cassandra reminded them. She was a solid, grounding presence at the reincarnator’s back.

“Oh, Jason said he’s on the way.” Duke commented, nodding when she quickly did a subtle thank you sign.

“Why does he text you and not me?” Dick whined.

“Wow, man. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of the emoji wall you send?”

“They’re nice! How else are you supposed to know what I’m feeling, right, Cass?”

Cass nodded and gave a thumbs up from her place on ukhti’s back.

“See?!”

“I love you Cass, but you also use a wall of understandable emojis. Dick just spams them.” Steph retorted.

The reincarnator turned to Damian, a silent question in her eyes. He sighed. “Yes, the imbeciles argue all of the time.”

She nodded and the group made their way to the green house for lunch, bickering all the while.

When they get there, Jason Todd, along with Alfred Pennyworth were already at the table.

“Grave.” She greeted as Cass slipped off her back.

“Ain’t no fucking way, Trainer?” Jason leapt to his feet. It was odd, seeing him in casual clothes. Ra’s had kept him in armor most of the time.

“You know each other?”

“At this point, who doesn’t ukht know would be an easier question.” Damian grumbled. She tapped him on the head twice, a light reprimand.

‘Grave was part of your guard,’ she told him. ‘He protected you well.’

“You’re the demon brat’s older sister? That makes so much fucking sense.”

She felt her eyes go cold, lifting to stare at Grave’s rapidly paling face. He visibly backtracks.

“Uh- I mean, you’re Damian’s older sister?”

She regarded him for a beat longer before blinking, ice melting away at the change. The nickname chafed at her neck, too close from a fate she gave everything to save Damian from.

Her head dipped into a small nod.

“Wild.” Jason sat back down. “So, uh, how are you handling the pit?”

‘I am not.’ She informed him, settling down in her seat. Damian claimed the spot next to her and Cass quickly took the other, much to Bruce’s chagrin. Tim plopped down to the seat next to Cass, eyes zeroing onto the chamomile tea Alfred had set out for him.

Duke smiled at Bruce before sitting next to Jason, Steph skipping over and sitting next Dick and Jason at the same time.

“Ukhti managed to get rid of the side effects,” Damian informed the table at large.

Her little bat had the worst ability to make sure attention focused on her, the reincarnation groused. She sighed.

“How?” Clearly, Grave had forgotten how much she beat him into the sparring mat because he leaned forward to glare at her. Well, she hadn’t wanted him too afraid of her.

‘Magic.’

His face fell at the assumed non answer, but Damian’s nod had the entire table once more expectant.

She sighed and began weaving her magic.

——

She stalked through the shadows of the manor, at ease. Bruce and the others had left on patrol, hours ago. She was clad in her sleeping clothes, one of her less favored clothes. Her hands would get dirty again tonight but she was long past the point of lingering on those regrets.

“Miss al-Ghul,” Alfred turned as she stepped towards him, having made sure she made adequate noise as a forewarning. “Having a good night?”

She tilted her head, eyes inquisitively peering at the spotless china display behind the butler.

“Ah, you must be curious about the fine ceramics we have currently displayed,” Alfred smiled. “Would you be so kind as to indulge an old butler on this topic?”

She had an idea about the kind of gift Alfred Pennyworth would appreciate.

——

“Uh, whatcha got there?”

She blinked, pulling bloodied hands away from her clothes where she had been inspecting them. The assassin that caused the damage on her clothes laid beneath her feet, still and lifeless. She blinked again.

Nightwing, Dick, stood in front of her, freshly showered from his patrol.

Some form of long forgotten instinct rose from the dry rotted fabric of her faded memories had her responding, ‘A smoothie.’

“…That’s… not a smoothie,” Dick said as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m pretty sure that’s an assassin?”

She shrugged. “He was after Damian. To force him into being the Demon’s head.” She paused. ‘I am tying up loose ends.’

Dick considered her. And the he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay. I’ll help you get rid of the evidence.”

She waved him off, clicking her fingers and looking over the room with critical eyes as the body and traces of the fight disappeared.

“Woah, handy.”

‘Very,’ she agreed. ‘Did you need something?’

He made a face. “That’s weird. It’s usually me asking that,” he muttered. “Uh, yeah. I just… wanted to thank you again. And uh, let you know that the others don’t know so if you could not tell them, that would be great?”

With a huff, she reached over and up to gently ruffle his hair. ‘Of course. Damian did not know either.’

“Right,” he breathed. “You get it.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Been avoiding thinking about it?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

She looked at him, silent. Offering a space to listen, and a quiet promise to offer no judgement.

“I don’t- it- I could have stopped her,” he told her, guilt and shame and the lingering whispering voice Catalina burrowing into his ears and heart.

And when he started, it seemed to him like he couldn’t stop. Dick told her of the things he felt as she got on top of him, of how numb and far away things were. How, if it rained, he couldn’t be in the quiet because it made him relive it.

“But… but you stopped her so I shouldn’t even be like this!”

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ She told him, the first thing she’s said since he’s started talking. ‘The only one at fault was her. You trusted her to stop. She did not. Her crimes were not yours to bear.’

She paused, taking in the refusal she could read on his face. “If someone beats another person, would you blame the person who was beaten?”

“No!”

‘Then you are kind. But you are so kind to others, why not yourself?’

Dick fell silent.

“I killed Ra’s,” she reminded him. “He allowed many others to partake in my body without my agreement.”

She leaned towards him, the admittance of something she had not even told Damian ringing painfully in her heart but made all the easier to say by the fact that one of her little brothers (the free, first Robin, the son who stood by Bruce’s side when she could not) needed her. “He himself partook in me. And yet,” she added, when Dick looked up. ‘It is difficult to forget. I am still afraid when I step onto the carpet on the sitting room.’

“The carpet? The rug? The fluffy one?” He asked, confused.

“It is like… your rain and silence,” she crossed her arms. ‘That and the sound of rustling silk reminds me of his chambers.’

“Oh.”

‘I killed him and it will not go away. Would you blame me for that?’

“No, that’s how healing is- oh.”

“Be kind, to yourself.”

His chin trembled. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Ukhti.”

“Ukhti,” he parroted, aiming a watery and small smile her way.

She held out her arms and, with Dick’s tacit understanding, tucked him beneath her wings like she did with Damian. “Thank you for offering to get rid of the body, habibi. But I would not want you to get in trouble.”

“Eh, I’ve helped Jason deal with worse.”

‘Comforting.”

“I know, right?”

——

“Why the hell do you keep calling me Grave?” Jason asked her, grumbling as he tried to wire his new helmet after the last one got damaged.

She leaned back, basking in the sun on the new rugs. After their conversation, Dick had set fire to every fluffy rug in the house-

“What the hell, dude?!” Duke gaped as he watched Dick cheerfully toss an expensive rug into the impressive bonfire they had going on.

“Ukhti doesn’t like fluffy rugs,” Dick said with a straight face. Damian dragged another roll to the bonfire with a scowl. “Alfred Approved project, if you want to join~!”

Duke stared at him… and picked up a roll to toss into the fire.

- and bought new ones using Bruce’s credit cards.

“You got some of your memories back, in the league.” She hummed. “You liked reading. Poems.”

“What does that even have to do with Grave?”

“I remembered one. A line. Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep…”

Jason twisted around. “Are you kidding me?”

She continued. “Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.”

“But I did die.”

She shrugged. ‘People still remembered you. Gotham and Bruce cried at your loss. I saw it.’

She straightened and smiled a small smile at him. ‘Besides. You got better.’

Jason snorted. “You too, I guess.”

She hummed an agreement, eyes slipping closed in the warm light of the sun, relief after a long second life of cowering in the shadows of a man more like a demon than he was a grandfather.

[merakiui]

So how would red riding hood Vil go about training wolf reader into being a good puppy

Someone totally not into pet play ur crazy

>:) so many thoughts for training!!!

Firstly, he’ll have you wear a collar. It’s a pretty thing, study and well-made, aesthetically pleasing craftsmanship. Perhaps it also functions as a shock collar as well or, if Vil is determined to use methods that are not so painful or risk ruining any part of you in some cosmetic way, then maybe the collar just emits a noise that sounds like a shock. You’ve no idea what to expect and maybe you’re already so tense with the threat of that hunter that you don’t even realize you haven’t been shocked. You still flinch all the same, your hands flying to your neck, but Vil clicks his tongue at you. You’ll be tricked into thinking so the more times you hear that crackle as it fools your brain with nonexistent shocks.

He dresses you in very nice clothes. He’s quite selective when it comes to fashion, and he has a very good eye for choosing based on what suits you best. Therefore, you’ll wear things that flatter your body type, that match your preferences and style (while also incorporating some of his as well), and that show off certain assets. You’ll wear lots of things with a low neckline so that your beautiful collar can be seen.

As for training, I think he starts with the house first. Teaching you proper etiquette and whatnot. You must never eat so sloppily. He’ll teach you what each utensil is for and where to arrange them on your plate once you’ve finished. These lessons are so tedious, but they’re simple enough to follow. If you’re smart enough to simply abide by his teachings, you’ll breeze through any and all of his house training. There’s just two things you loathe: the fact that Vil insists he be the one to dress you and the fact that Rook is always the one to help you bathe. Apparently, Vil has yet to see any indication from you that you’re trustworthy, so until he can trust you you’ll be supervised by either him or Rook. Or both if you’re unlucky.

You’re not sure which is worse: this demanding Red Riding Hood or that creepy hunter. >_<

If you happen to fail or refuse to comply, Vil is very simple with his punishments. You’re cut into with harsh criticisms, and they’re all the truth. Vil does not go out of his way to lie or sugarcoat when he offers his criticism. This is all meant to help you for the better. Also, he’s no fool. He’s tailored his lessons to help work on your weaknesses. He knows you’re very intelligent, perhaps too much for your own good when you try and fail to outwit and charm him or Rook into letting you go. You’re very clever. He’s merely assisting you where his assistance is needed most.

Usually, you’re given x-amount of spankings for however many minutes you refuse to cooperate. So if you remain locked in your room for fifteen minutes, to the point where Rook needs to break in to get you, you’ll be bent over the knee and spanked fifteen times. One for every minute of disobedience.

Sometimes Vil will take you outside his house in the woods and allow you to roam, but not beyond the boundaries he’s set. It’s all a test. You fell for it the first time and took off running, and Rook captured you within minutes. When it’s Rook, he’s not exactly one for punishments like Vil. He recognizes the abstract beauty in that, but he prefers to praise you for your efforts, failed though they were, instead. Scrubbing you clean from the tussle he had with you in the woods, calloused hands running down your soft skin, fingertips pressing into your shoulders to massage you, reaching to pet your ears or admire your tail. All while he rambles about how beautiful the chase you gave him was. It’s not your intention to cry out when he brushes over a bruise, nor do you mean to sound so erotic. What happens in that bath remains an easily uncovered secret, but Rook will come out of it with scratches and bites littering his forearms and throat and you’ll have a hole stuffed full of cum. >_< your every bite is like a addictive, disastrous kiss, he tells you, so it really doesn’t faze him. ;;;;

The only reason you’re not muzzled and treated more like a mutt than a person (wolf) is because Rook insists upon otherwise. And Vil agrees because, troublesome you may be, you are full of potential that he couldn’t dare stifle by demeaning you anymore than he already has.

[angelyuji]

…you can see i have a favorite twin

tw // kidnapping, power imbalance, implied noncon in stan’s part, yandere themes

18+ :)

yandere ford where hes hyper paranoid and freaked out about bill coming back, so he kidnaps you and keeps you trapped in the shack/basement of the shack. the kids and stan know hes being crazy, but “grunkle ford is just worried and scared for u and he really really needs you” so they let him keep you. ☹️☹️

yandere stan who abuses his role as boss at the mystery shack to make u do whatever he asks. especially since wendys in college and the kids are in california, no ones around to stop him or help you. soos thinks the world of stan, so he’s not going to believe you. buying you a tight, short uniform, making you come in early and close late, he’ll call you into his office just to tell you to pick something up of the floor for him, slowly leading up to him bending you over on his desk and teaching you exactly how to treat your oh-so-kind boss☺️☺️