#reference to noncon

[oddsconvert]

Compromising positions?! 👀🤨 Felix is a nasty man

Truly, a sick and nasty man - I loathe him (I created him 🤪😫). Josh in his most vulnerable and terrifying moments, and Felix snapping photos so he can remember how 'breathtaking' he looked 🤢 My poor boy would have no idea the pictures even existed. He'd find pictures of before he was taken too, him showering in his apartment. Out walking his dog. So damn violating.

[deadsetobsessions]

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

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

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

——

Ra’s al Ghul.

Talia al Ghul.

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

On a bad day?

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

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

She was not a baby.

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

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

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

“My apologies, father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

She was still young. A child.

“No.”

“No?”

“He did no wrong.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

——

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

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

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

She learned a valuable lesson that day.

There were things worse than death.

“This is an order, granddaughter.”

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

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

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

——

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

She was right to be afraid for herself.

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

“You have become a sharp tool, granddaughter.”

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

She did not understand.

-

The girl came back. Water. Food. Kind.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

The girl had given the weapon her own sound.

“Cass—n- ra.”

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

“Cass.” Cassandra pointed to herself.

-

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

Cassandra did not want to.

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

The girl came.

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

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

-

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

Sometimes, she hates Talia for being- for-

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

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

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

She wished…

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

She hated him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

Tim had never had a friend before!

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

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

His new friend nodded, looking interested.

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

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

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

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

——

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

“Do you have to go?”

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

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

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

——

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

The reincarnation stood behind her mother, eyes cast downwards.

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

Damian al Ghul cooed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

Perhaps… she could use the pits?

Her mind turned and turned.

——

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

“Ukhti?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

——

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

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

——

Another mission.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

Then, someone new joins.

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

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

Her memories roar. A child.

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

——

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled, and patted his head.

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

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

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

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

——

She found it.

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

“What…?”

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

“It’s you!”

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

——

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

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

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

——

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

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

Shhhlk!

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

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

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

Damian sighed as father stepped in between them.

“Who are you.”

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

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

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

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

Damian sent the Flash a derisive look and ignored him.

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

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

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

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

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

His sister glanced back and ignored them.

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

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

——

[humblefryingpan]

Considering Regina was a teenager when her abusive mother forced her to marry a middle aged man and she had to cast an infertility curse on herself just in case I'm gonna say her hatred of Snow is a little more than "you killed my bf". Like little Snow went "I want her to be my new mom" and then Regina's only chance of freedom (running away with Daniel) got crushed before she got sold to another - possibly worse - prison for years

I will defend this woman with my life. Why does everything bad that can happen happen to her?

[pricetagged]

Please pretty please if someone wants to give me a Christmas gift I request one (1) of the following 💖 dark, mdni, implied dubcon/noncon.

Yulecat Gaz. He's a sinister, toothsome predator. A solstice spirit with just a touch of malice. He's smiling, of course, and so sorry, love - You've broken a rule that you didn't know exists, but ignorance does not grant pardon. And it's a death sentence. He should eat you right up, tear into the soft arch of your neck (gristle and blood and teeth) and suck at the marrow.

Except-

Except now that he's circling you, something slithers into his mind. He's a cat batting at a trembling mouse (cowering, timorous beastie) and it's just delicious. Lapping at your tears. Toying with you, letting you chase at hope before he snaps his teeth. Closes the cage.

You pay the toll in flesh, but not as first intended. Let him paw at you, lave his tongue along your spit-slick flesh until you're raw and aching.

It's mercy and it's punishment. He makes you thank him for his kindness; give offering to this benevolent creature of chaos and hunger. You spell out your gratitude (bitter, sour, desperate) letter by letter on your knees before him, claws nails and too-strong fingers keeping you in place (strong enough to dig in and rend you to pulp).

He coos at you as he wipes your tears, nails catching and drawing crimson as they follow the lacrimal tributaries cooling on your cheeks. Salt and iron dripping down, heady and fuck-

He's trembling more than you. Coiled tight from the strain of stifling his strength. It itches at his gums, his fingertips. Bite, rend, lacerate.

But that would be an ephemeral pleasure; a transient taste, all hot spray and cooling chunks. The thought is anathema. A malediction (isn't that funny, face stretching into a trenchant grin).

You're a meal he wants to savour.

_____________

In this universe I will also take one (1) hulking, mean krampus Simon; one (1) chaotic solstice spirit/Jack Frost Johnny; and one (1) disciplinarian "Santa" Price (they all work for him; he's the architect).

[oddsconvert]

I really wanna see Joshy being forced to stay awake for days. He gets so desperate to sleep that he even sweet talks Felix, ya know, desperate times.

Exhaustion clings to Josh like a leech. It feeds off his vigour and drains away any remnant of lucidity. He teeters on the edge of collapse; his body totally spent and mind shrouded in fog. Just as his heavy eyelids flutter shut for what must be the millionth time, a shock of electricity winds around his throat like a serpent, jolting him awake with a warbled cry. Josh’s hands fly to his throat, tingling and near-numb fingers scratch and desperately rip at the collar strapped to his neck. He chokes on a silent scream as hot-pain streams through his veins. 

“Eyes on me,” Felix orders with a sickly-sweet grin, he fidgets with the shock collar remote in his palm before pocketing it. “Oh, am I boring you, darling?”

Josh can barely see Felix through the tears brimming his bloodshot eyes. His jittering body slumps and his head lolls against his chest, drool slipping from his lips.

“Please -” Josh croaks, his voice coarse like sandpaper. He gulps down a sob. “Please - I - I can’t-”

-can't stand to stay awake for a second longer. Countless days and sleepless nights have blurred and bled into one waking nightmare. Josh can't remember when he was last allowed to simply fall into the sweet surrender of sleep, nor can he remember how it feels to just let his eyes slip shut and his brain switch off - his only true escape from Felix.

It had never occurred to him that sleep was a luxury that he could have denied…

“You can. You will. Remember this is your choice, my sweet. Not mine.”

What’s left of Josh’s mind races. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. He isn’t afforded choice, that was a long-learned lesson, taught through blood, sweat and tears. If he had the freedom of choice, he wouldn’t be here, huddled in the corner - fatigue eating away at him. The other night, when Josh begged Felix through breathless, hiccupping sobs that he didn’t want to sleep with Felix, he couldn’t sleep with Felix, he was terrified of the thought of going to bed and what that would bring…did he have a choice then?

Josh’s eyes suddenly and uncontrollably roll into the back of his head, his body growing limp once again. Felix clicks his fingers against the bridge of Josh’s nose to snap him back. Josh groans in weary frustration. 

“If - If you… llloved me, you’d let me sl-sleep-” Josh mumbles without a thought to the words leaving his lips. He doesn’t clock the way Felix sees red in that moment, steam nearly blowing out his ears.

“Stop that,” Felix snarls. Fists clenched tight. “What have we talked about, Josh? About you manipulating me-”

How is it that Josh always winds up the villain and never the victim? His attempts at survival and bids for peace deemed calculated and cunning? If he had the wherewithal, maybe he’d think of his mum saying it’s like “the pot calling the kettle black” and snicker to himself… instead he blinks blankly and at a snail's pace.

“You know the deal,” Felix chastises, “It’s quite simple, really. Nearly as simple as you-”

That hits Josh like a blow. Like a sucker punch to the gut. He slumps further against the wall, his head rolling back as if his neck were made of lead.

“You sleep with me, or not at all. It’s your choice, baby. Deprive yourself into a slow madness… or just let me hold you through the night.”

Josh knows. He’s not the fucking idiot Felix makes him out to be. He knows deep down that he’ll never win the battle of the wills - not against Felix. He’s grasping onto consciousness by a string: his eyes feel like acid has been poured into them - his body feels like it might crumble to dust. Josh has to give Felix what he wants, to get what he needs. It’s a transaction. Nothing more. That’s what he’ll tell himself. 

A memory foam mattress. Warm blankets. A night’s sleep. Is it worth it?

He forces himself onto all fours, even as his muscles scream and throb in protest. He crawls across the filthy floor until he reaches Felix and crumbles at Felix’s feet. His pounding head rests against Felix’s leg and he dares to close his eyes. A chesty sigh stretches into a yawn.

“I-I’m sorry…for-for playing up…” Josh mutters miserably. “I-I don’t know what came over me - I don’t know why I do this, I just -....take me to bed? Please?” He blinks up at Felix, batting his long but tear-drenched lashes.

Felix hums, carding his hand through Josh’s locks of hair, “Change of heart, my beautiful boy?”

Josh nods, but it just makes his nausea increase ten-fold. “I - I want to sleep…with you. In our bed. I wa-want you to hold me…through the night.”

For a second, Josh thinks that maybe Felix is right - he might be manipulative. He’ll say whatever he has to, to get whatever he wants. He’s playing Felix like a fiddle and he prays it’s working. Josh pulls himself to his knees, his eyes shining at Felix and his hands together in supplication.

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise. I’ll be so good. I’ll be…complaisant-”

“Complaisant?” Felix purrs, and he palms himself through his trousers. Josh has to fight back bile. But this is the price he has to pay. “You better not be teasing me, baby.”

“You’re too good to me,” Josh sniffles, “Too patient. I don’t deserve it-”

“No. You do not.”

Felix scoops Josh up into a bridal carry, as though he’s as light as a feather. It makes him feel so impossibly small and frail. The sudden swooping motion makes his stomach churn and the world twist. 

“And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

[3-2-whump]

New Look

<prev next>

Say goodbye to that beautiful hair, guys!

Thanks once again goes to my beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for checking me for accuracy as well as the usual grammatical functions.

TW/CW: allusions and references to previous whump, aftermath of whump, body image issues, and noncon body mod (tattoos, piercings), but for the most part, a light chapter. Let me know if there's anything I may have missed, too, if you think!

The first thing Khaled registered as he woke up the next morning was that he wasn’t in his sparsely decorated bedroom at Tom’s apartment, nor was he in the dormitories they had at Joyous Springs. So, last night was real, and not a dream.

The second thing he noticed was a loud thud as something landed on the coffee table. Vikash straightened up from a large, heavy-looking cardboard box he’d brought from the attic. Khaled kicked the blankets off his legs and sat up from the couch he’d slept on, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he curiously stared at the box labeled ‘VIK’S EMO PHASE –DONATE.’

“It just occurred to me this morning that you don’t have anything else to wear besides the clothes you came in, and you’ve been wearing those for the last three days. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that,” Vik explained. He waved a hand at the box as he walked to the adjoining kitchen for a cup of coffee and some eggs. “Take whatever you want, it was all going to be given away anyway. I’ll see if one of us can take you to a mall later this week for some newer clothes.”

Khaled opened the box and gently lifted its contents out to examine them. Most of the t-shirts were black, save for their eye-catching graphics, and most of them did not make any sense.

“Bring Me the Horizon? I’m Dead Inside? Rawr?” he read aloud, craning his head to look back at Vik questioningly.

The doctor drank sheepishly out of his mug. “I was going through a phase,” was the only explanation he gave.

Khaled shrugged, then settled on a few combinations of Vik’s ‘emo’ clothes to last him at least a week. At the bottom of the box, he found faded silicone wristbands, which he slipped over his tattooed wrists. Even if they didn’t perfectly conceal the black bands, they certainly distracted from them with their bright pops of color on an otherwise very black outfit.

With his new clothes gathered in hand, Khaled made his way up the stairs to the one bathroom all three–now four–men shared. The door was locked when he arrived, so he waited awkwardly in the hallway until the clicking of the lock signaled whichever roommate was in there had finished.

 “Alright, it’s all yours!” Cade said, with a towel around his waist as he exited the steamy bathroom. Twin scars underneath his chest stood raised and dark pink against his milky freckled skin. Khaled briefly wondered what injury could’ve caused those scars, but dismissed the question. He quickly slipped inside the bathroom and closed the door, careful not to let all the steam and warmth escape. He dumped the clothes in his arms out onto the floor and changed quickly, kicking the clothes he wore overnight into a pile by the door when he couldn’t find a hamper anywhere.

Khaled then looked up into the large toothpaste-speckled bathroom mirror that spanned the entire two-sink countertop. His reflection glared back at him under artificial light. He hadn’t gotten a good look at himself since he’d left for the morgue, and even back home at his (late) master’s apartment, he rarely looked at his reflection any longer than necessary. Whenever he’d look in the mirror, Khaled would see a slim and pretty stranger staring back at him, someone who wasn’t quite a man but could not be called a boy anymore, someone with very little body hair and very little body fat and that stupid little floof of hair sticking up from the top of his head. Short enough to not get in your eyes, but just long enough to grab a hold onto, his master once said.

He never liked looking at himself in the mirror, but now he leaned over the counter to physically see how much he had changed in only a handful of days. He was thin, practically drowning in Vikash’s old graphic t-shirt ensemble and skinny jeans. Dark shadows under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep, his light beige skin looked borderline sickly in the overhead bathroom light, and he counted a handful of new silver strands in his neglected, mussed-up hair. The slight protrusion of facial hair shaded his lower face in a five o’clock shadow, and it prickled his fingertips and palms as he touched his hands against his cheek and jawline.

I should shave soon, I wasn’t allowed a razor at Joyous Springs, and Master doesn’t like when I get too–oh, wait… The reminder that his master wasn’t there anymore to dictate his hygienic practices hit Khaled like a dull throbbing pain. Less of a crushing pain, and more of a bruising sensation as he realized that Thomas J Costa was no longer in control of him. No one to tell him to shave everything, clean himself out, follow his skincare routine to the letter, no one to even remind him to brush his teeth.

That means…I’m…in control now… The revelation quickly dispelled the painful feelings that remained, making Khaled both giddy and nervous as he now viewed his body like a canvas, or an old painting that he wanted to redo, to be more precise. He turned his head side to side as he made mental notes of what he wanted to change, and how immediately he could change it, and just how much of his physical appearance was now in his control.

The scars and tattoos etched onto his body were outside of his control, unfortunately, and there were far too many of them in far too conspicuous places. Khaled traced his fingers across the black band at his throat. At least his scars could be covered by clothing (as was the intent), and most of his tattoos could be concealed too, except for this one. He remembered how Thomas and a grunt named Johnny had to hold him down as the nervous tattoo artist quickly inked the line around his neck. Still, the pain was nothing compared to the wrist and ankle bands, tattooed over skin and bone. Those were agony, Khaled remembered. And for what? To mark me even more permanently as his? So I could never hide that I was his slave? He shook his head, and moved on to parts of his appearance more in his control.

For starters, I’d like to be bigger, he told himself. Muscular, broad, like Vik. Khaled didn’t have to take off the graphic tee and the long-sleeved shirt underneath to see his small, shaved torso, where his ribs lay barely visible underneath a crepe-thin layer of sallow skin. The borrowed pair of jeans was held up on his narrow hips by a studded leather belt on its tightest notch. Yep, he concluded, I definitely want to be bigger. Maybe Vik would take him to the gym in the mornings, if he woke up on time.

Knowing that gaining muscle mass would be a gradual change, Khaled focused on the smaller details that he could change immediately, such as his piercings, the diamonds and white gold tokens of his master’s affection. When he’d been checked in to Joyous Springs, they took his piercings at intake, storing them in a little plastic bag with the rest of his worldly possessions until he was discharged. Khaled had put the earrings back in out of habit, but now he slowly took out each diamond stud and laid them on the counter, feeling incrementally lighter with each one. The septum ring never went back in (the piercing healed over and closed overnight), but it wasn’t much of a loss, considering Khaled didn’t like it anyway. His unadorned face smiled in the bathroom mirror as he slowly recognized who the stranger in the mirror was supposed to be.

There’s just one more thing. Khaled’s eyes wandered to the electric razor Vikash had left on the counter after shaving this morning. The temptation was too great. There was nothing else on his mind but to control his physical form and get it as close to how he viewed himself on the inside as quickly as possible. Khaled picked up the razor and plugged it in.

-

The pervasive buzzing sounds coming from the bathroom had been going on for several minutes now. Vikash pounded on the door insistently as he waited outside, wondering what was taking Khaled so long and what exactly he was shaving. The guy didn’t have much body or facial hair, so what was there to shave? The buzzing stopped, and, after a few more moments of silence, the door finally opened. A bald little stranger with Khaled’s tattoos and Khaled’s old clothes gathered in his arms slipped through the doorway. Vik couldn’t help but do a double take. "Did you just shave your head?" he asked.

Khaled stopped on the way to the staircase, tilting his head toward Vik as he answered. Facing him now, Vik also realized Khaled had taken out all his piercings too. "Yes. Was I supposed to run it by you first?"

"What, no!” Vik reflexively denied. “Of course you don't need my permission to shave your hair!"

Khaled frowned. "You look unhappy about it though..."

"I don't know, it's just..." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly as he realized there was no polite way to tell Khaled that he thought it looked bad.

“You hate it,” Khaled guessed correctly. “You hate it, but...” Khaled sighed dejectedly. “I can’t really undo it,” he murmured as something akin to regret darkened his expression.

Vik lowered his hand from his neck and forced his posture to visibly relax. “Why did you shave it, anyway?” he asked. Khaled murmured something into the carpet at his feet. “One more time please?”

“Because shaving it made me happy!” Khaled said a bit louder. His fingers picked at the silicone wristbands nervously as he hugged the wad of clothes closer to his chest. “I-I hated my hair, he’d always touch it, pull me around by it, a-and I just wanted it gone!”

Vik’s heart sank. Yeah, I’d probably want my hair gone too, if that were me, he conceded. Despite the sobering revelation, he did his best to put on a supportive smile. “I don’t hate it,” he answered calmly. If he’s happy with it, then I’ll be happy with it, it doesn't matter if I think it looks bad, it's just hair, it'll grow back. His mind cycled through those thoughts as he forced his tongue to say “It’s not even that bad of a look, it’s…just gonna take some getting used to, I guess.”

Khaled returned the smile. “In fact, why don’t I clean it up for you and go over the patchy bits you missed?” Vik offered. He stopped Khaled before the young man could go back into the bathroom. “Set your old clothes in the wash first, then come up and see me, okay?” Vik lightly pushed Khaled back towards the staircase. “And when we’re done, consider taking a shower!” he yelled after him.

Le Tag List (also if you want on or off, nbd, just let me know 👍🏼) (also if I missed anybody I'm sorry, still getting into the habit of making these again :P): @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire @phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling @borp0

[hold-him-down]

Belleview Chapter Two (Part B): Felix

Notes: mostly low-level med whump

Belleview: Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (Part A)

TW: Institutionalized slavery, Med Whump, Med Exam, References to Noncon, Noncon touch, Dubcon Medical Care, References to Human Experimentation

✥ ✥ ✥

They expected him to die soon. Lincoln knows this, without prejudice, as well as he knows anything else about this place. Even if the handler had not introduced Felix with the caveat that they had recently ceased all medical intervention, Lincoln could put the pieces together by looking for twenty seconds at the handlers’ notes from the last few days.

According to the available records, during Felix’s first several months at Belleview, he went no longer than three days between ‘projects,' often with multiple projects stacked on top of each other. Lincoln has not yet researched every experimental tool or drug or procedure that Felix was a part of, partly because some of them were classified and the DOH had yet to access the details, and partly because, in the cases where Lincoln was able to identify the critical components of the trials, his stomach had bottomed out early and he had wound up six hours deep in case files trying to sort out exactly how this had happened.

After Felix's first nine months, they had slowed down with him. There was a three week break wherein Felix was not assigned to any long-term trial before he was pulled again, for what would have been the final time. It was a medical test for a hallucinogenic training drug that lasted nearly two months before abruptly terminating two weeks prior, when, to Lincoln’s best guess, the site had received guidance to stop any majorly illegal activities.

Felix appeared to have been neglected since then. According to the handlers’ notes, he had accessed only two meals a day, a few glasses of water, and, if someone took pity on him, was afforded some assistance in showering and using the toilet. If he didn’t, or couldn’t, eat what was given to him, he would go without eating. “That was part of the gag,” the handler said. “We couldn’t… well, we couldn't actively aid in their... uh, it was technically not allowed. But there came a time when we were asked to let them ride out the end. If they didn't eat, they didn't eat.”

There will come a time, Lincoln thinks now, that Felix will be asked to testify to what happened at this site. There will come a time where some semblance of justice will be served, at least to those who partook in the darkest corners of the system. He will see to it that Felix is afforded that chance.

He takes a breath and enters the small cell, which will need to be repurposed into a bedroom over the next day or so. Felix lays on the floor on his side, curled up as tightly as his frail body will allow. He doesn’t open his eyes at their approach.

“We call him Felix because he’s always smiling,” the handler said. He doesn’t smile now. Even in sleep, he looks scared. He’s covered in bruises, with dried blood smeared across his legs and torso. Lincoln had not caught that earlier, but it couldn’t be new. He’s pale. He swallows, and his body tenses for a moment before he settles back into sleep.

“He’s not actually happy, though,” the handler continued. “He flirts with everyone he sees, just trying to find someone to take him home, we think. He’ll do anything you ask him to, as long as he can understand it. The last couple weeks he’s been up and down, though.”

He’s shaking, and it’s not the light tremble of a scared boy who’s seen too much, but a deep, uncontrollable movement that possibly points to deeper issues.

Lincoln thinks through the side effects of the drug trials. The head of that project, Dr. Michael Gletzer, Ph.D, was a leading researcher in the country, highly sought after by pharmaceutical companies and the former Dean of Medicine at the University of Florida. He is available to speak at length regarding his research. He is not currently under arrest, and, to Lincoln’s understanding, has been cooperative with questioning. He will have to speak to the doctor, and he dreads it.

Lincoln watches Felix sleep for a moment, and the reality of what these men have gone through crashes over him. It’s a crushing weight, and he lets himself feel it for only a moment before he shuts it down and takes a breath, then makes a cautious approach.

“Grab him a blanket?” Lincoln asks quietly. From behind him, Philip moves to the cabinet and begins rummaging through its drawers. Lincoln kneels down next to Felix, his hand hovering over his body. He hesitates to make contact.

“Felix,” Lincoln says. He’s gentle when he finally allows his fingers to graze Felix’s shoulder. Felix’s eyes flutter open, although they are slow to seek out Lincoln. His features are uniformly lined with exhaustion, and Lincoln, for a moment, regrets waking him.  “Hi,” Lincoln whispers.

Felix blinks slowly and tries to sit, but even in that movement, it is clear that his body is failing. He struggles to get his hands under himself, and when offered support, he accepts it without any clear indication that he is aware he’s been touched at all. Still, he looks down at himself and takes an almost unnoticeable inventory of his condition. Philip approaches and drapes a blanket over his lap, and Felix offers a tiny smile in return.

“My name is Lincoln Prescott,” Lincoln says. “Do you remember me? From earlier?”

Felix watches his mouth, his expression tight.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Lincoln continues. “I’m a doctor, I’ve been assigned to Belleview by the Department of Health.” There is little evidence that Felix hears him at all, but he continues the well-rehearsed speech. “As of 9:00 this morning, the contracted worker system is no longer active in the United States,” he continues.

“I don’t think he’s following,” Philip says from next to him. Lincoln nods.

He’s right, of course. “We are working on finding all of the residents of Belleview stable homes to stay in while the infrastructure is built for you to live independently,” he says anyway. “In the meantime, we’re going to stay here as a group and get you all some help, alright?”

Felix nods. 

“Can you tell me your name?”

There is no response, although Felix’s eyes search Lincoln’s, studying him intently.

Lincoln asks Felix how he feels, if he’s hungry, when he ate, how old he is. Felix doesn’t respond. The question hovers just out of reach, whether Felix can and doesn’t speak, or whether he cannot at all. According to the handler, he hasn’t spoken since returning from the most recent drug trial. Prior to that, though, there were no notable concerns with his speech, hearing, or comprehension. Best case scenario, it’s a trauma response and can be worked through down the line. Worst case is that there is irreversible damage to either his brain (most likely), or individual elements of communication (highly unlikely). Both are worth exploring.

Layered upon this, there are the issues of his physical responses. He startles easily but does not pull away. He blinks slowly. His hands are slow to find the blanket and hold onto it. His eyes are red, his skin has a kind of translucent hue. He expected Felix to require more substantial diagnostic testing than they’re able to offer, and it is clear to him that a trip to the hospital for scans is unavoidable.

As Philip sets up the admission forms on the tablet, Lincoln pulls a pair of blue latex gloves on. Felix almost instantly responds, which is ultimately a good sign, as hard as it is to address in the moment. The tremors that run through his body have taken a sort of panicked edge.

“It’s alright,” Lincoln says. “I’m just gonna look at you, okay? We’re here to help.”

Felix is cooperative as Lincoln takes one of his hands. He squeezes it once then turns it over, examining the bruising and scarring from months of drug use. He runs his thumb across one of the most prominent, likely the site of a long-term IV port.

“Let’s get this off you,” Lincoln says. He is cautious as he presses his fingers under the front of the collar, his touch light as he seeks the release mechanism. When he finds it, and the collar clicks free and falls into his hands, he is both relieved that it was simple enough, and horrified by what he sees. Dark bruises form where the clip sat, with deeper gashes toward the back of his neck where the plasticky-metal dug in during, what had to be, violent altercations. Lincoln runs his fingers along the lines there, but Felix does not react.

He takes his vitals, he does as thorough an exam as he can. There’s a very tender spot on the side of his head, and with the other potential signs of concussion, it shouldn’t be ruled out. Felix is especially jumpy when Lincoln runs his hand down his spine and over his ribs. Some are broken. Felix holds his left arm more gingerly, so Lincoln is careful as he looks checks it. Still, as Lincoln turns it over, Felix cries out, his whole body tense for only a second before he forcibly relaxes. 

“I’m sorry,” Lincoln whispers. Somewhere along the line, tears have formed in Felix’s eyes, and they now threaten to spill. Lincoln isn’t sure exactly how much willpower it takes him to keep them in, only that he does. As soon as his arm is released, Felix cradles it to his chest. 

“Can I look at your back?” Lincoln asks, gentle but assertive in repositioning him.

He’s extremely underweight, with too many vertebrae and too much rib instantly visible. A thick scar runs across one side of his abdomen and circles around his side. There are other scars, less visible ones that almost would be missed by the naked eye, but they’re there. 

Felix doesn’t make a sound when Lincoln examines lower. He watches the wall with a sort of sad detachment as Lincoln runs his fingers gingerly over some swelling in his lower back, then guides him onto his side.

“Almost done,” Lincoln says. “Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” 

There is no answer, which Lincoln does not mistake for permission, but accepts at face value. He monitors Felix’s breathing, the cadence of the tremors that roll through him, his posture. Philip kneels in front of him, holding his hand and watching his face for signs of extreme duress. It’s the best they can do.

Here, the damage is obvious. Lincoln notes both bruising and tearing, with a slew of fluids, presumably belonging to both Felix and the handlers, dried onto his skin. Lincoln’s stomach turns over as he cleans him up, muttering whatever words of encouragement he can come up with.

The further into this they go, the more Lincoln questions the plan. The likelihood that even in a full service hospital, he would be equipped to manage this, is slim. He pulls off the gloves and helps Felix to sit, then drapes the blanket around his shoulders. 

“You okay?” Lincoln asks. Felix looks very, very far from okay, but the worst is over.

Felix brings his hand up to rest on Lincoln’s arm and squeezes it. It isn’t exactly confirmation of understanding, nor is it a show of okayness. Lincoln would be doing him a disservice by writing the action off as either. But it’s something close to it, he thinks. Lincoln smiles and covers his hand with his own and squeezes it again.

“We’ll get you better, okay?” he says. “Philip’s going to help you get cleaned up, get some food and water in you, set you up with an IV and some medicine to make you feel better.” There’s no recognition in his eyes, but Lincoln continues. “While you get showered, we’ll get you a bed and a TV, or some books, or anything you need.”

Extricating himself from Felix’s grip is a little harder than it was getting into it, but once he’s free, he stands, and Felix’s eyes track his movements. 

“N… n…” Felix reaches after him as he steps toward the door, and Lincoln pauses, turning. There is true panic, for the first time, in his expression. He wants to show you he can still be of use, the handler said. He wants you to pull him.

“Felix,” Lincoln whispers. “I’ll be back for you, alright? I promise you, I will come back." He takes a step toward the door, and the tears that threatened to spill earlier come back in full force. “I need to go check on your friend,” Lincoln says, although there is almost no chance at this point that Felix understands. He kneels down and tries to smile, but he thinks it probably doesn't land. “Philip will stay with you and get you cleaned up.”

He mutters instructions to Philip, and seconds later, he is in the hallway, his forehead pressed into the wall while he takes that whole interaction and locks it into a very, very tight box in the back of his mind. 

He is in good hands. He will be okay. He is not alone, and he is not going to be left to die, and Lincoln will spend the next four weeks making sure that he knows it.

✥ ✥ ✥

Belleview Taglist:

@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @pirefyrelight @i-eat-worlds

@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@handsinmotion @whumps-and-bumps

[ashintheairlikesnow]

somewhere in the back of my mind is a cloudy and nebulous piece of writing where rafael and chris talk about sex and Raf doesn't understand how anyone could NOT want sex, and Chris isn't sure how to explain being ace because his understanding of it is so self-focused and hard for him to elaborate in a way that includes others, and then Raf expresses confusion about why someone who didn't want sex would be made into a Romantic...

And Chris has sort of a blistering sudden awareness that Oliver was probably thrilled by the fact that he had no innate desire. It's never really sunk in before, not fully, that he only ever wanted Chris to suffer, every single second of every single day.

That none of it was ever about anything but having someone pretty under his thumb who would be eternally miserable and equally eternally unable to do anything about it.

And that would not be a good time for Chris's brain...

[destroyerofgirls]

please please please I need more Girls_Being_Destroyed I need beautiful cis women being forced to become big dilfs with big clits and hating yet loving it and missing their femininity yet unable to stop being men

Btw, y'all are honestly sleeping on my favorite post

TW: noncon, degradation

"You're pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. People want to look like you. People want to date you. People want to fuck you. You're everyone's dream. You're the perfect girl.

Or at least you were, before I came along."

God, you're such a fucking pervert watching that shit. I mean, god, you're seriously getting off to the moment your life changed? The moment I got my hands on you?

I thought you said you didn't like being a man. I can't believe you get off to this shit.

You used to be so fucking beautiful, you could've been a model. Now look at you. You're a perverted freak who can't keep his hands off his dick.

You can never go back. And you know it. You've been begging me to let you go back to your old life, but do you really want to?

Doesn't it feel nice to take up space? To be big. To be hairy. To be a Man.

You're so attached to your femininity that you can't see the beauty in your masculinity. I stripped you of your feminine features for a reason, sweet boy. Yet, you're unwilling to fully forget. You need to forget, so you can be happy. Don't you want to be happy? Don't you want to be comfortable in your masculinity? There's no going back, you should just let your past go. Focus on the now. The fact that you are a Man.

You. Are. A. Man.

M. A. N.

Man.

There's no changing that. It was never questionable, even when you were parading around as a woman. You were still a man.

Get that into your head. You can never go back. This is what was always meant to be.

[oasisofataraxy]

the rape of danaë - tapestry

crochet medium (weight 4 acrylic yarn)

eyes: hera and/or the gods looking down upon danaë as she is raped. the red represents either evil or anger. the anger of hera as she watches her husband yet again breaks their matrimony, the anger of hera as she watches yet another child of zeus be born that is not hers. the anger of hera, the goddess of childbirth, because this is not what she is the goddess of¹.

sun: direct reference of The Morning Visitor (Dino Buzzati, 1967). the painting is of a woman who gets raped so brutally it literally deforms her.

golden flecks: the golden shower zeus came to danaë as. but notice how it encircles the sun. there is no way out. he is caging her.

brown (overall color scheme): inspired by Hozier's album Unreal Unearth: Unending. The album cover is Hozier's face (minus his mouth) covered in dirt, which is brown. This album seeped its song into my veins and now, whenever i hear of yet ANOTHER (american!) abortion issue, this lyric is all that plays: "a crying child pushes a child into the night." lives are not political. this is not freedom. we are not a "beacon of liberty."

¹ this line comes from @achillescomehome and their fic the pinnacle of civilization (is just a neat name for tyranny). show them some love <3. be angry at the scotus.

this is a sister work of my fic blood runs thicker than water (but the womb cries all the same).

[hold-him-down]

One Day

Notes: Maybe like 9 months in?

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

✥ ✥ ✥

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Luke’s expression, he trails off. 

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

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

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

“How bad is it?”

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

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

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

Luke nods, but he’s not happy. 

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

Take them. 

Take them. 

Take them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One day,” he says, nodding. 

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

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[ashintheairlikesnow]

All We Have Is Each Other

CW: Intimate whumper, captivity, defiant whumpee, biting, creepy whumper, obsessive whumper, noncon kiss, vague noncon references, drugging. For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 1: Duel

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

Takes place during Jax’s second captivity. As always, Jax is used with oversight and permission from @comfy-whumpee)

-

Savvie rolls dice every time she uses the mortar and pestle in the kitchen to grind up one of her collections of pills and mix it into Jax’s drink.

She’s always gambling with the drugs. The first part of the game is seeing whether he’ll drink it before he realizes there’s something in it. If she doesn’t mix it well enough, he’ll see the cloudy bits floating around in the glass and look at her with terrible sad eyes. Sometimes she can’t take it. She just takes the drink right back out of his hand and pours it out, makes him a new one. 

Other the other hand, sometimes his sad voice and sad eyes piss her off worse than anything else could, and she just tips it up until he chokes and makes him finish it anyway. Or shocks him, pressing the button to the remote and watching his muscles lock up, knowing he’ll look sweeter once he’s fighting the way his muscles jerk afterward, the unconscious twitches he can’t quite get rid of as the aftermath works its way through him. 

Sometimes he even looks scared. Those nights are some of her favorites. Savvie never loves Jax as much as she does when he is scared of her. 

But... she can’t keep him scared all the time. What kind of marriage would they have if she did that? No, the drinks aren’t to scare him, they’re just to make… to make things easier. And she doesn’t always do it! She doesn’t always drug him, but it’s enough that he never trusts her. She knows that. He doesn’t… trust easily. 

That’s okay. 

Their relationship got off to a rough start, that’s all, what with Jax starting off as one of the staff, bought and paid for. Plus, Jax’s dad convinced him Savvie was evil, once upon a time when he ran away from her. Taught him to hate her. She had to have her uncle fly all the way to England to bring Jax back, and it’s taking years to undo all the damage that stupid old man did. 

That’s okay. He’s getting better, he’s definitely getting better. He is. He has to be getting better. 

Still… he’s not an easy man to be married to. Not with having to keep an eye on the remote to his shock collar so he can’t take it off and try to run away again, not with the way he watches her sometimes like he wants to dunk her head into the toilet and hold it there until she drowns. Putting stuff in his drink just lets Savvie be able to relax. 

She doesn’t have to worry about what he might do when he’s so high he can’t do much of anything. Besides, it’s only like one out of every ten nights, sometimes twenty, sometimes she even goes for a month or two without doing it. 

She really doesn’t even want to. If he would just learn to be happy without it, she wouldn’t have to keep drugging him, would she? If he’d just stop being so difficult about being her husband… but that isn’t fair. He can’t be any better than he is, not really. Jax just… isn’t wired that way.

So she has to help him a little, to make it so he can have nights when he can’t stay mad at her. Or at least nights when his anger isn’t able to simmer in there behind his eyes while he says Yes, Miss Savvie or No, Miss Savvie like there’s a gun to his head. 

Still. Trying to give him these evenings where both of them just relax… it’s always a gamble. 

Even if he drinks whatever she makes without realizing it’s spiked, he doesn’t always react the same way. If she’s lucky - if her dice rolls well - the drugs make Jax… softer. He’ll lean against her when some of his strength slides away, not seek out touch but loathe it less. Those are the nights she can coax a sound out of him that isn’t clipped or tense. She still thinks about the night she gave him a back rub and he genuinely fell asleep sitting on the floor between her knees, his head drifting until it rested on her leg, the knots of tension slowly loosening beneath her kneading hands until she got distracted by the movie and forgot what she was doing. 

Sometimes he smiles, when he’s blurry and unfocused. Smiles, enough to show teeth even… God, sometimes he even laughs at some of Savvie’s jokes. It’s rare, but it happens. She loves those nights the best. Those are the nights that their marriage almost feels normal… if she just ignores the dilated pupils and the way he can’t stand up on his own. 

Sometimes he gets so foggy he can’t stop laughing, which is irritating but at least adorable to watch and take videos of to make him look at later on the next day when he sobers up again. Sometimes the side effects make him too scared to smile, his eyes darting nervously everywhere watching the movements of shadows he swears are watching him. She… tries not to give him those pills anymore.

The nights tend to end with her telling him to take off his shirt so she can enjoy the view, or even his pants, too. She usually waits on that, though, because it doesn’t matter how good the drugs are - he always hesitates when it comes to taking off his pants, as soon as his fingers touch the boxers with their oddly rolled waistband. 

It reminds him he doesn’t want to be here. Makes his addled mind come back to the collar he wears around his neck, to the reality of the life they’re living, the marriage Savvie has built all by herself whether he wanted to or not.

And he… he didn’t want to. 

So normally she waits on the getting naked bit until they’re in the bedroom and what he wants matters so much less that neither of them think about it any longer. The drugs, at least, make it harder for him to slow her down in there. 

Savvie tries not to think about that, because she doesn’t remember it that way. She likes the nights best where he doesn’t even try to fight, just lets her pull him upstairs and she gets to bury her hands in his hair and tell him what to do and have him, languid and loose-limbed, follow every command without the tension and misery he usually carries into their bed. 

She doesn’t always roll well. 

Sometimes, she rolls snake eyes… and she gets this, instead.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jax groans, words slurring around the edges, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He pushes clumsily away from her, nearly falling off the couch before he manages to catch himself. “For… f’r fuck’s sake, Savvie, what the fuck.”

His wedding ring glints, light from the TV bouncing off the deceptively plain platinum band. She’s hit all over again with a wave of love for him, for the life she’s built after he was brought back home to be hers forever, just like he always should have been. She’d been an idiot not to see it, not until he was gone and she spent years in prison dreaming about getting him back. 

“Fuck’s sake what?” She asks, voice light, smiling at him and poking him in the shoulder where they sit on the couch. 

He doesn’t slap her hand away, but she sees him look at her and… he wants to. His expression is dark. The light is bouncing off his hazel eyes, too, giving them a strange sheen of white that wipes out the color, obscures even his dilated pupils slowly taking over the iris. “What the fuck was it?”

“What was what?”

“What the fuck did you give me?” He goes to push himself to standing only to have his knees buckle beneath him, crashing him to the floor, barely catching himself on his hands. Savvie’s mouth waters, and she swallows, trying to ignore the flutter of fascinated interest in watching his fingernails scrape the rug as he tries to steady himself. “What the fuck is it, Savvie?”

“It doesn’t matter,” She answers, without changing her own tone, leaning forward with her arms resting on her thighs. Her hair falls in heavy waves down her back and over her shoulders. “It’s not anything that could hurt you.”

This time, he doesn't say Miss Savvie or try out the sad eyes. Instead, he looks away. She can nearly hear his teeth grinding. “Yeah, but once I’m all fucked up, you will.”

“Don’t be rude,” Savvie chides him, but she doesn’t move. He looks good, on his hands and knees on the floor. Well, he looks good all the time, really, but he looks even better on his hands and knees. She knows the physique he’s built with the workout routine she makes him do, knows the muscles there hidden beneath the green sweater and jeans he’s wearing. “You’ve been stressed all week. I’m just trying to help-”

“Fucking shit, the hell you are!” He manages to sit back on his knees, then collapses back until his back hits the edge of the couch cushions, upright through sheer force of will and a bit of good luck. His hands lay limp at his sides, now. When he turns to look at her, his eyes don’t focus quite right - but the fury in them is clear.

Well.

Tonight’s not going to be the best night for them, then, she supposes. She feels the edge of a headache starting up, and sighs, looking mournfully at the movie she’d pulled up for them to watch. Another night, then. A night when the gamble pays off and doesn’t backfire. A night when he can’t remember how to be angry at her.

“Fine,” She says, heavily. “I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to help me.”Her own voice changes - drops almost a full octave from her usual carefully constructed diction and sweetness to something sharper. “I’m making tonight easier on me. Making you less… less-” She can't think of a good way to end the sentence, so she just lets it hang there between them. 

Jax snorts, looking away again. His head keeps lolling forward until his chin nearly touches his chest before he jerks it back again. “Yeah, I fucking know,” He manages, but his slurring is getting worse. “Shit f’r brains.”

Savvie sniffs, but the fake tears aren't coming as easily as they usually do. She probably accidentally gave him too much again. It’s just sometimes so hard to remember exactly how much the dose is supposed to be…

“I don’t enjoy you being cruel to me any more than you enjoy it when I do it to you, you know,” She says, suddenly… so tired. She spends so much time and effort creating a marriage herself out of a man her uncle bought for her once and abducted for her the second time, and she’s doing this all on her own - no one helps her, not really. And Jax never gives up.

She’d been sure he’d start to settle in and understand by now, but he just… he just doesn’t. And she’s so tired. Her fingers toy with the little black remote to his shock collar. Maybe she should just… just give up on having a good night and punish him for the cursing until he just bites off his stupid tongue. 

No, wait. 

She likes what he does with his tongue, when she gives the order. He’s so good with it now. Maybe… maybe just a small shock. Just to remind him he's hers. She takes a deep breath. “Jax… get on your-”

“On m’knees f’r discipline?” He starts laughing before she can finish, cutting her off, letting his head fall totally back against the arm of the couch until he’s staring at the ceiling. He sounds wild, almost like an animal. Her quiet watchful husband is feral, and Savvie resolves never to give him the pill she gave him tonight ever again. “Yeah, fucking… fuckin’ do it. Second I don’t play along, there y’go. Bzzzt.” He cackles, a cracked bark of laughter she’s never heard him make before. “Shut me up so you don’t hear me say it.”

Savvie’s heart twists. “Say what?”

The laughter dies in him as suddenly as it appeared. He turns his head, or tries to - it mostly just falls to one side until he’s looking at her. Their eyes meet, his all black pupil and hers with nearly no pupil at all. “How much I fucking hate your fucking guts.”

“You don’t hate me.” She says it firmly, as if he’s being ridiculous. “Don’t be mean, Jax. You don’t hate me at all.”

She takes a deep breath. Married couples have fights, even ugly ones sometimes, and they work it out-

“Yeah. I… I really do.” Disgusted, that’s the tone in his voice. Disgusted with her. “I do. I hate you.”

“Why do you hate me?”

The look he gives her is such a blatant are you a complete fucking moron that she can hear his voice even though he doesn’t say a word. 

“No, hold on.” She waves one hand, dismissing her own question. His eyes briefly follow the movements of her fingers, distracted by whatever the drugs make him see there. Trails of light, maybe. It’s probably beautiful. “Hold on. I know why-”

“Do you?” His question is sharp, snapped, even as his every muscle can barely tense enough to move. “Do you fuckin’ really?”

“Yes. I do.” Savvie’s too tired to talk him in a circle tonight. She’s just… too exhausted by her bad gamble, bringing neither the snuggly Jax or the scared one, but this angry, vengeful animal instead.

Her headache is getting worse. 

She grabs her glass of wine off the coffee table and chugs it so fast a little drip escapes the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. She has to wipe it away, wincing at the… at the idea of how that looks. Her mother would have had a fit about it. If she hadn’t died years ago. “Because I had you kidnapped.” 

Jax is silent, for a beat. He squints at her. “Fuck… what’d you say? Might be hearin’ shit.” 

She laughs, softly. Not her usual laughter, crafted to fill up a room and put all eyes on her. This laugh is barely there, but far more genuine. “No. You're not hallucinating, that shouldn't happen with what I gave you tonight.”

“Oh, good, not this fucking drugging, then, jussss-” His head falls too far to one side and he forces it back up, groaning. “Jusss… others.”

“Only one of the pills does that. And you were cute when you thought there were monsters in the bathroom.” She gets that flat stare from him again and this time she can't hold eye contact, looking down and away, still fiddling with the remote to his collar. “I just. I do know what I did, Jax.”

“Yeah, I fucking know you know-”

“I had you kidnapped.” She takes a deep breath. It feels oddly good to say, like a scene in a movie confessing to a priest. A foul-mouthed priest she’s been sleeping with for over a year. The thought makes her smile, just a little. “My uncle had people watching you, and when I was ready, he knew where you’d be and he abducted you for me. I know that. I know that you’d run, if you could. I’d take your collar off right now if I thought you’d stay without wearing it.”

Jax is silent for so long she briefly wonders if he's flat out forgotten how to talk. Then he shrugs - or tries to, his arms don't quite follow his commands. “You’d find somethin’ else, some other reason for shit ‘round my neck. You fuckin’ like it.”

For the first time, she doesn't deny it. “I do.” She laughs at the way he looks almost comically surprised, unable to keep his usual closed-off expressions in place with the drug coursing through his veins. “What? Can't a girl have a kink?”

“Sure fuckin’ can, but you… you don' have a kink, you got… goddamn victims.”

“... I… yeah. But it-... that's not my point. It isn't about the collar, Jax. Your wedding ring does it for me, too. I could barely wait to get you home after we signed the marriage certificate.”

The glare is back. His hatred is blistering her skin. She watches him try to stand, making it nearly upright before he falls back down again with a heavy thump. 

Her mouth twitches. “You want help, sweetie?”

“Ffffuck you.” 

“Well, I mean, if you’re asking so nicely.” She giggles at her own joke. 

He mumbles something she can't quite hear, trying to stand one more time but quickly giving up. He makes it onto the couch, at least. Savvie stands, turning to grab his ankles, shifting so he’s lying on his back, head and feet each cushioned by the arms of the comfortable, overstuffed couch. He struggles weakly, and it's hard work, but she gets him where she wants him. She barely breathes, taking in his chest rising and falling under his sweater, how his inhales are coming more sharply. 

She can't help herself. 

Savvie climbs on top of him, like she’s done a hundred times. She straddles him, sitting on his hips and leaning down to kiss his neck, nosing under his jaw. At first, his head tips back in resignation - but then he curses and pushes at her weakly instead. “Don’t.”

She grabs his wrists and shoves them above his head. He’s so weak, the drugs have taken all that muscle and made them… useless at holding her off. There’s a shiver of excitement down her spine. “Uh-uh, sweetie. You’re the one who said to fuck you, remember?”

She feels a thrill at saying fuck, like she’s still a kid sneaking swears in her room when her parents won’t overhear. 

“Don't,” He groans. “Sav-... Savvie, stop. G’t off me. I hate you.”

“I know.” She smiles down at him. His eyes meet hers, tired and bleary. Furious and almost resigned. “I know you hate me, Jax… but I love you.”

She leans down, her hair a waterfall curtain, blocking them both off from the world. She can smell the cologne she buys for him, blended with her own pricey perfume. His wrists jerk against her grip and she digs her nails in until he grunts in pain and the skin gives beneath. 

“Savvie,” he whispers. 

“Sssshhh.” She lets go with one hand, shifting both his wrists to her other one, and presses a finger against his lips. “I love you so much,” She whispers. “And I don't need you to love me back, sweetie, I don’t. I just need you to lie for me.”

 She kisses him, then, pressing her lips firmly to his. For half a second, his mouth is slack and unresisting even as his body shudders with disgust. He’s warm, his skin burning up beneath her. Her mouth moves against his, trying to get him to answer her, to open up.

His lips gently part. For a brief moment, Savvie feels the rush of victory.

Then he bites.

Pain blooms in a sudden flare as his teeth bury themselves into her lower lip and he jerks his head to the side, sensitive skin tearing.

“Shit!” Savvie jerks backwards, staring down at him wide-eyed. She can taste her own blood in her mouth. It’s smeared on his lips and his teeth like badly-done lipstick as he gives her a smile that's really a snarl. “Oh my God, Jax-... how dare you-”

“Fuck you! Don't fucking touch me!” He gets his arms more or less under his own control and shoves her off of him. She crashes into the coffee table, the legs giving out, tumbling her to the floor. Pain spikes hot and demanding along her hip where she hits the hard angle of the corner and she finds herself the one lying on the floor, while Jax slowly sits up, wiping blood off his lips. 

Her blood. 

Savvie pulls her fingers from her mouth and gasps. There’s a smear of red, bright and vibrant, the unmistakable sense of blood trickling down over her chin. She tongues at the wound, then winces as the pain flares bright, like he’s bitten her all over again. She considers tears - looks at the loathing in his eyes, the absolute rage written in the lines of his face - and then decides they’re wasted on him tonight. Instead, she just shakes her head. “That hurt.”

“Good. Don' like bein’ the one fucking bleeding for once, huh?” His eyes drift closed. He struggles to open them again, to keep his eyes on her. “Shit feelin’, isn't it?” 

“God.” She swallows. Blood on her tongue is making her feel nauseous and she gets to her feet carefully. Her mouth and hip throb. She’s going to be so bruised tomorrow, going to ache so much. “You’re awful sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He grins. He hasn't bothered to try and get the red off his teeth. “I know. So… so fffffuckin’ get rid of me, then.”

Savvie snorts, limping a little as she moves to pick up the spilled wine bottle from the floor. She could shock him now - that’s what she would usually do. Or call Isaac and have him carted off to spend another month locked in the kennels with the dogs. He… probably doesn’t care about that, though. Anything to get away from her. Anything is better than her, to him.

“Get rid of you?” She drinks the last swallow in the bottle, washing blood down her throat with the wine. “Then what, Jax? I should just… live here alone, without you, for the rest of my life?”

“Fucking-... yes, or go fucking die. I don't fucking care.” The flush of hot anger bleeds away, his voice softening a little. “I don't… don' care, Savvie. I don’t care about you.”

“No. You do.” She feels a burst of desperation to make him understand. “You hate me, right? That’s caring about me, still.”

“Savvie-”

“No. I love you. You are mine, and I am keeping you. This is love, Jax. What I feel for you is true love.” 

He shakes his head, swaying a little where he sits. He tries to push her away again as she takes him by the arm but his burst of energy seems to have used him up. He lets her, in the end, get him onto his feet. She leads him on his unsteady legs out of the room, and he stumbles along with her. 

“S'not love,” He mumbles. She keeps an arm around his waist to help him balance. “Fucking… fuck you. Let me leave, Savvie.”

He doesn't have the strength to push her away, not anymore. He has to use her to stay up as they take the stairs one at a time, although after three or four he jerks away again and uses the railing, leaning heavily against it as he drags himself upwards, inch by inch, step by step. 

She lets him pull away, watching his determination to not need her, how badly he doesn’t even want her. There’s a canyon inside of her, something dark and deep that hurts so much worse than her hip or her torn open lower lip, threatening to claw its way out as she watches the man she has forced to play the role of her husband do anything he can to avoid her touch. 

Her jaw sets. “It is. It is love, and you know what? It’s all the love you’re going to get. Ever. No one else will ever love you.” Savvie’s voice stays low. “You’re not… you’re not lovable, Jax, but I don’t care, I love you anyway. Nobody else would. No one is ever going to even want to love you but me.”

He slumps. The fight’s all gone out of him, for now. Her gamble failed tonight and Jax is buckling under the weight of what runs through his veins, the heavy expectations in her eyes and her smile and her devotion. 

“Fuck,” is all he says, barely a whisper under his breath.

Savvie sighs, touching her fingers to her lip again. The bleeding has slowed but there’s still a spot of red. “Goes both ways, though, I think.”

He doesn't look at her. “What?”

“This… how much you hate me… how I had to kidnap you, and put that thing on your neck to keep you here, how you wish you were anywhere but here with me… you know, I, I get it.”

He has to stop at the landing and lean over, resting his forehead against the wall. 

She lays a hand on his back, leaning over to speak right against his ear. “I get that your hate is all the love I’m going to get, too, Jax. Nobody else will ever love me, either.” 

Her throat feels tight, and she can’t tell if she really feels the twisting nerves in her stomach, the sense of dread, or if it’s part of her act for Jax. Sometimes even Savvie isn’t sure when she means the things she says. Sometimes, even worse, she really does.

“All we’re ever going to have is each other.”

He doesn’t answer her. But when she takes his arm in her hand, he allows himself to be dragged along towards her bedroom. The fight might be gone, but so is the feeling. There’s nothing in his eyes that shows he even heard her.

That’s okay. She can be honest, in the dark, in the middle of the night, knowing that he’s too drugged to remember anything she said when he wakes up again. She’ll lie to herself again by morning. So will he.

She just needs him to lie. 

-

@whumpyourdamnpears consider this my evil savvie gift to you

[ev1scerator]

it is not serious at all and in fact it makes me giggle a little bit but when people insist on using “noncons/nonconned” i’m like. ok<3 RAPES/RAPED<3333

[house-afire]

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

(tw: references to noncon)

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

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

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

“It can be both.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” Izzy said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Like Bonnet?” Izzy said incredulously.

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

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

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

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

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

Dead Man’s Folly. Captain Graves.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Izzy said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Who the fuck are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My first mate is right up on deck—”

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

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

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

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

“Made it back to his own ship.”

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

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

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

“J—John.”

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

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

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

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

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

Aided in the fuckery, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Sugar and blood, he thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Izzy nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love it.”

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

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

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

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

“Mm. You didn’t quite, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[syncopein3d]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks," she mumbles.

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

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