A/N:***Important***This story has strong noncon concepts, and delusional thoughts from Steve, who is the aggressor. None of these things are okay irl, and because of the sensitive nature of these concepts, warnings are below the cut.
Reblogging this to my new erotic/smut account 8P wow over 30,000 notes on this now? AWESOME!
NOTE, although my intent was to make this comic depicting completely consensual kinky fun, it has been read as coercive rape, and I can totally see why some people have interpreted it that way, so although that is not the intent of the content, I am going to trigger warn in the tags appropriately. If I should add a tag please let me know!
Detective Jones’ first impression, as Regina pushed his wheelchair into Killian’s room, was that his twin looked markedly worse than when he’d last seen him. Not that he’d expected a miraculous recovery–magic was still being suppressed somehow, so any healing would have to be done in a conventional manner–but Jones would have thought that a few days of intensive medical care might afford him some measure of regained strength. Instead, he appeared even more gaunt then before, and very little color could be seen on his skin, apart from the purplish black where bruising still had a gruesome foothold. His eyes were closed, lids brushed with dusky shadows, and he wore a barely discernible frown, as if suffering from pain even in sleep. Emma was at his bedside, of course, resting one hand over his bandaged arm where it lay atop his blanket. Henry was there too, sitting in a chair in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. He was the first to notice the new arrivals, and he greeted them with a wan smile.
Jones had a fairly good poker face and thus could be confident his shock would not be apparent to Emma. Which, upon reflection, served little purpose anyway; she knew how bad her husband looked, no doubt about that. Jones nodded a somber hello as Regina rolled him to a stop near the foot of the bed.
“Hey. You outta here?” murmured Emma, setting her phone on the table so she could have both hands free.
“At last,” he replied, matching her volume. “Just thought we’d stop by first and see how things are coming along.”
Emma looked slightly evasive as she said,
“Improving, slowly… his visit with Hope seems to have really made a difference.”
“I imagine so,” Jones said with a grin. He saw the framed artwork on the table and thought fondly of similar creations by his own daughter. If that didn’t help Killian to feel better, then nothing would.
Emma ran a finger gently along Killian’s cheek. “Hey. Want to say hello to Killian and Regina?”
“It’s okay,” Jones assured her quickly, “you can let him sleep.” But Emma persisted with her caresses.
“No, I think he’ll want to see you.”
Slowly and with obvious reluctance, Killian opened his eyes, struggling to focus; first on the frame at his bedside, then on his wife. Finally, he looked in Jones’ direction. An unnerving, dull sort of vacancy colored his stare, which Jones uneasily attributed to whatever strong pain medications were keeping him somewhat comfortable.
“Ahoy, mate. You’re looking significantly more chipper then the last time I saw you,” Jones lied. “Guess that git Whale has his uses, after all.”
Killian might have been trying to smile; Jones couldn’t be sure. His lips were quivering, their movements jerky and barely controlled, mirroring other small but noticeable tremors disturbing his person.
“I’m glad you came,” said Killian in a voice tremulous and feeble enough to be a perfect match for his outward appearance. He took a moment to catch his breath and then added, “I wanted to thank you for coming after me.”
He did not elaborate, but Jones knew the words were heartfelt.
“I only did what I felt I must,” responded the detective humbly. “Just as you did.”
The following moment of awkward silence was eventually broken by Emma.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“On the mend. I’ve been assured I’ll make a full recovery.”
“And… your heart?”
Jones glanced in Regina’s direction; had she explained her theory to Emma? “Back to normal. Alice and the second Jolly Roger cruise are scheduled to return to port this afternoon; with any luck, I’ll be capable of meeting her there.”
“You’ll be able to meet her there and give her a one-armed hug hello,” Regina told him impatiently.
“So you really think the monster absorbed the curse, and that’s what weakened it enough for Mom to blow its brains out?” Henry asked of Regina, confirming that she’d at least shared the idea with those currently in attendance.
“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”
“Even with the shield against magic, though?”
That was a valid point, though Jones was certain he’d felt the same symptoms as the too-familiar curse, and Emma had mentioned seeing the telltale green light. He’d been too preoccupied to notice that detail himself.
“There had to have been some magic allowed,” reasoned Emma. “Unless you’re telling me the Vocivore could convert…” She paused abruptly as if realizing at the last second what she had been about to say so casually in Killian’s presence. “Well…” she stammered, “get its energy the way it did and… have the control it did… all with purely natural processes.”
Killian was staring resolutely at Hope’s artwork as if it were a lifeline cast into a roiling sea. In apology, Emma began running her fingers through his scalp, gently massaging the tension away.
“It very well could have been,” shrugged Regina. “We might know more once the necropsy is completed. The other possibility is that the shield isn’t 100% effective, or allows certain types of magic through, or something. The bottom line is, yes, I believe that’s what happened, and yes, I think the poison is gone for good now.”
Jones felt a stab of uneasiness as he pictured the unlikely chance that Regina was mistaken. Alice would appear on the gangplank, all smiles at the news of the monster’s defeat, but before she could take a second step toward him, a wrenching pain in his chest would throw him backwards, out of her reach, forever…
“It was all for nothing, then,” came Killian’s halting voice, breaking into the terrifying daydream, and it took Jones a moment to connect back to the previous conversation.
Emma’s “Oh, Killian…” mingled with Regina’s, “What was?” and Jones’ double winced as he clarified,
“All we needed was for Jones to get close, and we could have slaughtered that demon months ago.”
On the one hand, it was heartening to hear Killian following the train of thought with such lucidity. But the audible bitterness in the words tempered any possible lifting of spirits.
“We… we couldn’t have known that,” murmured Emma as she stroked him for all she was worth, desperate to soothe. “Of all the ideas, the infinite number of things we could have thrown at it, how could we have expected that to be the one thing, even if we had known about the residual poison…”
Killian did not appear mollified in the slightest, and Jones could easily sympathize. It wasn’t that Killian would begrudge anyone their collateral freedom or safety after his hard-won victory, or even expect gratitude for his sacrifice. But to think that there had been an easier way would have made anyone a little bit resentful that they’d been subjected to such torture for no reason. There were limits to what a person would willingly suffer, after all, even in the name of love…
Jones was voicing his objection even before it had taken solid form in his mind. “Actually, mate, I’m not so sure about that.”
All eyes were upon him now. He offered an apologetic smile before continuing.
“That curse… it didn’t work on just anyone. Or I would have been cut off from any human contact for the span of decades. But that isn’t the way it happened.” He drew a breath, considering. It wouldn’t be a comfortable truth, what he was about to share, and there was no guarantee it would help Killian feel any better about the whole thing. But it would justify the struggle, and as far as Jones knew, it was accurate.
“The poison was enacted to separate me from the one I loved. It only affected me in proximity to Alice. And from the admittedly brief impression I got of the monster… there wasn’t a lot that it truly loved.”
Killian looked away as the words sank in, a flash of nauseated loathing crossing his face, followed by humiliated shame. Emma swore under her breath and rubbed one hand across her eyes. But Regina appeared taken by the idea.
“Huh. And Killian’s immunity, granted by way of being a former Dark One, meant that he was in the Master’s presence for far longer than the rest, making it possible for it to grow fonder of him than usual. It makes sense.”
Though she seemed reluctant to cause her husband further distress, Emma added her own evidence in a low, almost angry tone. “Those last few minutes… It did seem to get weaker the closer it got to… to Killian.”
“So really,” concluded Regina, “everything had to happen the way that it did. We’ve learned that it did not care for female voices, so that rules out Emma as a possibility. You were the only one who could have done this. Or, at least, the only one who would have been successful. Sounds like a one-in-a-million chance, everything lined up the way it needed to: your resistance, the way you were able to hide your true purpose from the monster, even the length of time you spent there. A week earlier, and maybe the Vocivore would not have had the time to develop a strong enough bond to be affected by the curse. We got lucky.”
Silence reigned in the room for several long moments as everyone thought of countless ways the scenario could have fallen apart and led to a more dire outcome. Killian lay with his eyes closed, but Jones knew he was not asleep. His forehead creased in an uncomfortable scowl, and every so often, his jaw muscles would jump as he clenched his teeth. Emma continued to play with his hair, probably hoping that the gesture would keep him grounded in reality.
Rapid footsteps sounded in the hallway, bringing with them a sense of purpose as they drew closer. Then Dr. Whale rounded the corner, wearing a grim expression. He hesitated for an instant when he noticed the somber crowd in the room, then focused on Jones, of all people.
“Detective, good; I’m glad I caught you. Care to join me out in the hall for a minute?”
Somewhat nonplussed, Jones glanced at Regina, then said,
“Aye, of course.” He turned his attention back to Killian, who was listlessly watching the exchange. “Take care.” He smirked as he added, “Don’t let this bully drive you too hard.”
Killian answered with a weary nod of acknowledgement but did not seem to derive much humor from the jibe. Regina once again took over escort duty, and Henry got up to exit with them both.
“I’ll be back to see you again soon,” promised Henry.
Just before following the rest out the door, Whale held up an admonishing finger toward his patient.
“Stay put, Hook,” he commanded, as if Killian could do anything else. “I’ll be right back in to take a look at you.”
Regina paused outside of the exit but Whale gestured toward a window further down the hall.
“Over there.”
When they reached the desired rendezvous, Whale positioned himself in front of Jones so that he could look him squarely in the face. Without any need to be prompted, the physician made a blunt statement.
“Hook isn’t doing well; I’m sure I don’t really need to tell you that.”
Jones couldn’t see Regina’s face, but Henry was in view, and his closed off expression mirrored the wary anticipation with which Jones awaited further explanation.
“We performed another MRI this morning, and the neural deterioration is continuing at an alarming rate despite his being away from whatever caused it in the first place. I’ve got people searching the compound for clues, and we’re awaiting any information the dissection of the monster might provide, but if something doesn’t change soon, I wouldn’t expect him to last another week.”
Their little corner of the hospital seemed to go deathly silent for a moment, as if even the plumbing within the walls had paused out of respect. Jones’ heart went out to Emma, keeping vigil over her weakening husband and unable to provide much more in the way of assistance. To lose him now, after what they’d both been through…
“Bloody hell.”
“What about the treatments you were working on with the other slaves?” Henry sounded slightly panicked, and rightfully so.
“And I thought he had better protection then the others,” added Regina, icy cold in her own way of dealing with emotion.
“What was a benefit to him before is now a definite disadvantage. For whatever reason, the protection also is making him more resistant to all attempts to slow the progression. Like some extra blood-brain barrier or something, but nothing that we can obviously see from his scans. That’s where you come in, Detective.”
Whale’s eyes bored into Jones’ as the physician attempted to drill into him the seriousness of his next words. “Emma has already agreed to allow us to study her, the only other example of a former Dark One that we have easy access to. But we’d like to run a few tests on you, too, as a sort of control subject, since your biology is basically the same as his except for the Dark One-ness. Would you be willing?”
“No question,” Jones agreed without hesitation. “Whatever I can do to help.”
Whale looked relieved, as if he had truly doubted whether Jones would agree. “Great. Thank you.” He drew a big breath, clapped Jones on the uninjured shoulder–which still wasn’t the most comfortable gesture he could have made–and added, “I’ll take a look at tomorrow’s schedule and give you a call with instructions later this afternoon.”
With that, he whisked away, headed for Killian’s room.
Henry ran a hand through his hair, looking shell-shocked. “Man, I… I mean, I knew it was pretty bad, but… not thatbad.”
Regina briskly aimed the wheelchair toward the elevator, practically marching down the hall. “He’ll be all right, Henry. Whale’s pretty smart, despite his looks, and don’t forget, we’re still working on getting magic back, too. We’ll figure something out.”
No one brought up the fact that magic had been unable to help the victims brought in before its disappearance. The prognosis was grim enough as it was.
AN: HUGE thank you to @justsomewhump, who unknowingly helped to make the resolution to this story so much better! The original thought was to have the poison defeat the Master no matter how it tried to escape, because it only loved itself. But justsomewhump’s amazing (and detailed!) comments helped highlight how it felt about Killian. One of the weaknesses of the original plot line was exactly what Killian brought up in this chapter: all of the suffering could have been avoided if only Jones had gone into the Vocivore’s presence earlier. But having its love focused on Killian gave his sacrifice a deeper meaning and meant that no one else could have done what he did. Which is much more satisfying, in my opinion :) So THANK YOU, friend (and happy belated birthday)!
Another amazing month of Whumptober has come and gone. Everything I posted this year has strictly been on AO3, but I figured a post here would help people find my work! The theme this year follows my book characters - demigods and gods - through their Hellish lives. @whumptober2021
The Wolf-God’s Daughter-guns, rape mention, hog-tied, painful transformation, whump of a minor
Lightning’s Wrath-character deaths, blood, suicide mention, whump of a minor, decapitation, choking, electrocution
Don’t Let Me Die Here- burning, knives, blood, waterboarding, breaking bones, familial abuse, major character death, whump of a minor
In the Temple of my Father-familial abuse, slow torture, branding, cauterization, fire, whump of a minor
Warnings:Noncon, mind rape. it’s darth sidious entertaining himself, please tread with caution
Additional Tags: Non-graphic rape/noncon, mindfuck, memory loss, inappropriate use of the force
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You’re walking through the main hall of the Senate building, and you don’t know how you got there.
Your steps stutter for half a moment, and you glance around, trying to spot any nearby vode. It’s later than you thought, if your chrono is right. The building is quiet, but not deserted, you just need to find the nearest guard on duty—
“Is there a problem, Commander Fox?”
The voice is calm and dry, with a quiet note of idle interest. You don’t startle, because you’re trained better than that. But when you look beside you, it’s a surprise to see the Supreme Chancellor there. That’s… fine. You’ve guarded him before. But why is it a surprise? How did you get here?
It’s been a while, but I’m still alive! I’ve been doing some commissioned work for the lovely Miss Pearl (including the book cover above), but otherwise have been occupied with my other jobs.
Realistically, the way this year is going, it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to post as much as I did last year. That said, I will try and put up nice things every once in a while.
WARNINGS: Uh, this one is p dark y’all. NONCON, BBU/BBU-adjacent, general fucking creepiness from people in positions of power
It’s morning when Jaime opens his eyes, and he blinks against the sun coming in through the beige curtains, not quite remembering at what point the night had faded into day or when he had finally closed his eyes. His body is naked but warm beneath the comforter in the master bedroom. It’s the first sensation that orients him to where he is; if he wakes up shivering, he knows he has slept on his cot in the closet. Being warm is for weekends, and it’s a privilege he pays for with every inch of himself.
⚠️ Warning for child abuse, verbal abuse, psychological abuse, and sexual abuse of a minor ⚠️
Writing: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Plot: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
“Miami approached the hero that had just outlined UA’s practical exam,
‘Excuse me’
’-WWHAAA…aaaaaaaatttttt’ Loudmouth screamed right in her face.
Miami reacted on instinct as she swiftly deactivated his quirk. As the secondary aspect to her quirk flared to life, her carefully styled hair rose quickly and hovered above her head, likely messing up the artful style her foster father created that morning. The hero was loud even without his quirk activated.
She could hear the man in front of her heart fluttering widely in his chest, but he didn’t say anything, his hands clutching his chest as if he had seen a ghost. Not an uncommon reaction to the cancellation aspect of her quirk. At least he wasn’t trying to attack her, she thought wryly.
She deactivated her quirk and her hair fell back down”
You saw that right, I gave this fic six stars in a five star rating system. This is one of those fics that I leave essay length reviews on every chapter. Go read them if you want five thousand words worth of gushing over this fic, because I am obsessed.
OK, so this is a real good one. It’s a Percy Jackson/Dresden Files crossover, and it’s written by a really amazing author too, so you should check out their other works as well! (Though they mostly write for Worm)
Ceaseless Flow
by Ryuugi
Plot: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Writing: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
⚠️ Warning for cannibalism, torture, and implied noncon! ⚠️
Author doesn’t have a fic summery, so I’ll improvise.
Percy either eats and/or gets eaten by Tartarus, and this kills him ofc. He gets reincarnated as a minor fae, along with Tartarus and all his memories for some reason. Features Percy interacting with the supernatural side of NYC, so doesn’t have very many cannon characters from either series, but the OCs are all easy to swallow and well written, so don’t let that put you off. Highly recommended fic!
Summary: Sage can’t get off unless they have a little bit of pain with their pleasure. Unfortunately, Trevor knows this. Fortunately, HQ is full of Fakes who don’t care about Trevor’s rules.
A kept!Sage fic. The kept verse involves bad horrible Fakes who do bad horrible things. Cast includes Trevor, Michael, Matt, Jeremy, Geoff, Jack, Gavin, and Alfredo.
Warnings: In this verse, Sage is being held against their will for a long period of time. This captivity involves emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. All three make an appearance in this fic, but the focus is on controlling behavior. Additional warnings include: orgasm denial, brief daddy kink, gun play, biting, collar play, bondage, spanking, references to violent murder (does not happen onscreen), somnophilia, degrading language, various pet names used by an abuser, references to strangulation (very mild choking happens onscreen), sexual masochism (inflicted by others and the self), and manipulation (both by abusers to further their abuse and by a victim to mitigate their own abuse).
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Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The grandfather clock in the Fake’s foyer counted the seconds dutifully. Sage sat on an expensive couch, stiff as a board, and watched the pendulum swing back and forth. Geoff had stolen that clock on a whim months ago. He kept it in pristine condition, always polishing and tinkering to keep the machinery singing. Sage had been stolen a lot longer ago. They counted the seconds dutifully, trying not to squirm.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Unlike the clock, Sage had the ability to misbehave.
As soon as the front door creaked, Sage sprang off the couch.
The stench of violence followed Michael like smoke. He smelled like lighter fluid and human meat. Sweat and smoke clung to his face and neck, along with a telltale red splatter. His breath was heavy and there was still a gun in his sweaty fist, as though he’d used it just moments ago.
Sage didn’t know what he’d been up to or who he’d been killing, and they didn’t want to know.
“Michael—” They rushed up to him before he was even through the door. “I-I need you to—”
The barrel of the gun cut off their words.
Sage staggered back, quivering, as Michael used the gun like it was just an extension of his hand, shoving them roughly back.
“Don’t get in my goddamn way,” Michael grunted. He kept the gun pointed at them. “I’m trying to take my boots off. Christ.”
Sage’s gaze jumped between the gun and Michael’s face. The harsh pressure of the barrel was making their heart pound. Despite the danger, they couldn’t make themself back off. “I-I— I need—”
“You need a bullet? I’ve got plenty left.”
“I need a favor!” Sage confessed in a rush.
Michael’s eyebrows rose. With a scoff, he lowered his gun. “Fuck, you’re a mess.” The observation was the first thing to bring humor to his voice. “You look like you fucked a steamroller. Rough morning?”
Sage knew what he meant, but roughness was the entire problem. If their morning had been rougher, they wouldn’t be in this situation.
Lips had been the first sensation Sage felt as they awoke, before light touched their eyes, before sleep had really lifted. They had felt soft lips moving over their own, muffling their sleeping breath. And…
A second pair of lips, and a tongue, between their pliant legs, tasting them in their sleep. Sage awoke already moaning.
“G-Gavin…”
“G’morning, love,” Gavin cooed. He cupped Sage’s face, trapping it close to his own. “Just relax and let Jack work her magic.”
Jack’s tongue coaxed weak noises out of Sage, but Gavin’s tongue stifled every one.
“M-morning was fine,” Sage said stiffly.
It had been soft and sweet, even when Jack and Gavin took turns sinking inside Sage. Too soft. One rough yank on Sage’s hair would have been enough, one moment of pain to spice up the pleasure, but Gavin and Jack never obliged. Sage couldn’t finish without that extra little push.
“Congratulations on your great morning,” Michael drawled. “Can I fucking help you with something?”
Sage had tried to be subtle, slipping a hand over their own skin, searching for the perfect moment to scratch. If Jack and Gavin wouldn’t supply the pain they needed, they could do it themself. One sweet, biting press of nails into skin, that was all they needed…
Fingers closed over their wrist before they could scratch, though. Gavin lifted their hand to his lips, giving it a kiss, smirking fit to burst. He’d known.
Sage squirmed, their eyes glued to the carpet. They cleared their throat and said in a shaky half-whisper, “W-would you… fuck me?”
Michael blinked. “’Scuse me?”
It didn’t feel like it should have been possible, but Sage’s blush deepened. “Um… I-I really need to come, and—”
Michael snorted. He shoved past them, tossing his gun carelessly on the coffee table. “So? Go beg Trevor to throw you a bone.”
Trevor. Sage had gone to him first, of course they did. Trevor was always so willing to indulge them. Sage had crawled into his bed, needy, pleading, offering whatever he wanted. Maybe that had been their mistake. They gave him a taste of something and he took a liking to it.
“You’re so cute like this,” he breathed, hand in Sage’s hair.
Soft, too soft. No matter how Sage whined, no matter how they lavished his balls or swallowed his cock, he never pulled. Just stroked.
It was no accident. Trevor had learned all of Sage’s buttons long ago.
“I just want to keep you like this all day.” He pushed, still so gentle, until Sage’s nose was pressed against his body. “You can be a good little pet for me, right? I’ll give you such a nice reward if you make it until tonight…”
“I already went to Trevor,” Sage said, truthfully. Then they lied. “He’s not as good as you.”
That got Michael’s attention. For the first time, he was neither scowling nor smirking.
“Come back to my room tonight.” Trevor made a promise as he latched a new dog tag to Sage’s collar. “I’ll spoil you all night if you’re good.”
Sage fidgeted with their collar, casually tucking the tag under the leather. No need to let Michael see the instructions that Trevor had left there for the rest of the crew, the embossed words “Don’t Let Me Come.”
“You could have asked anyone,” Michael pressed. The look in his eyes was intense.
“I-I’ve… I’ve already asked the rest of the crew.” Sage bit their lip, and swallowed a little moan. “They, um… they didn’t help.”
Sage didn’t dare disobey Trevor’s orders themself, though they easily could have finished on their own. But if another Fake did it… Trevor’s anger was so easy to redirect.
“What’s wrong, little bookworm?” Geoff patted his knee. “Come here and tell Daddy all about it.”
Michael laughed, shrugging out of his blood-stained jacket. “None of them would fuck you? Color me surprised.”
Before Sage could even begin to climb in Geoff’s lap, his clever fingers caught their collar, rubbing the edges of the brand-new tag. “Mmm, what’s this?“
Sage’s face flushed hot. “Th-that's—”
“A little bonding exercise between our favorite strangler and his pet? How cute.”
Sage’s voice was miserable. “No, they… they still…” They squirmed under Michael’s gaze, the admission squeaky with embarrassment. “They fucked me.”
Geoff was the only one who could truly disobey Trevor without consequence. He could have taken care of things. He…
He traced a finger in an agonizingly slow circle around Sage’s aching clit, making them clench around his cock. There was only one proper way to sit in Daddy’s lap. Sage told him every detail of the morning between whimpers.
“It’s so sweet to see you and Trev playing together,” Geoff purred. He never let go of the dog tag as Sage rode him. “I’ll make sure I play by his rules.”
Michael’s breath caught. “All of them fucked you?”
“All of them.”
Well…
When Geoff hadn’t helped, Sage had turned to the next most likely Fake to ignore Trevor’s rules.
Sage’s breath caught as soon as the question left their lips. Matt glanced up from the book he was reading. He didn’t move his head, so he ended up staring at Sage over the rim of his glasses. He held their gaze for several seconds, not saying a word, then went back to his book.
He slowly turned a page. Sage was getting lightheaded.
“No.”
"Jesus christ,” Michael breathed. “No wonder you look like you ran a marathon. You fuckin’ did, huh?”
Trevor’s sugary affection was flammable. More than one Fake had been sent to the respawn room for putting their hands on his pet. But he had a blind spot.
Sage found them in the armory: both of them. Alfredo was as striking as ever in his tight jeans, sitting on a desk like a chair, one long leg dangling off the edge. A menacing rifle was in his hands, deftly taken to pieces while Sage watched.
Trevor was in the room too, cleaning his own gun.
Michael unsuccessfully wiped at a smear of dried blood on his jaw. “So if you’ve already spread your legs for everyone else, what do you need me for?”
It was impossible not to be charmed by Alfredo, no matter what horrible act of violence he was committing at the time. That was what made him so dangerous. Trevor was no more immune to it than Sage was.
“Fredo?” Sage stole the pet name they’d heard Trevor use. “Can I…”
“The others just made it worse,” Sage insisted.
Alfredo’s gun was pressed against Sage’s forehead while his cunt was pressed against their tongue. Trevor whistled to himself, but never looked up from the gun he was cleaning.
Alfredo’s gun never pressed quite hard enough.
Impatience was creeping into Michael’s voice. “Made what worse?”
Sage was nearly whining. “None of them would let me…”
Sage had been hopeful when they went to Geoff, hopeful that he would use his authority to do whatever he wanted. Matt had never concerned himself with Trevor’s rules in the first place. And Alfredo… Trevor could never say no to him. Any of them could have relieved Sage’s plight.
Going to Jeremy, however, had been an act of desperation, and it was probably the worst thing Sage could have done.
“You need someone to hurt you?” Jeremy asked, confused.
Sage nodded miserably. Jeremy made a show of looking around, as if expecting to catch Trevor hiding around the nearest corner. Silently, they beckoned Sage to follow them.
Sage shouldn’t have followed.
Michael stepped closer. Sage’s heart pounded as he stared at them, demanding eye contact.
“So you’ve been edging all day?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it could have cut steel. “You’ve been fucked by the whole crew and haven’t gotten off once?”
The soft click of an unlatching buckle, the leather slide of a belt being removed from its pants, was enough to send Sage’s heart hammering against their chest.
“Bend over.” Jeremy’s voice was calm. “I can hurt you.”
Michael lifted his hand, gripped Sage’s chin. It was harsh, rude, the first non-gentle touch all day, and Sage’s knees turned to water.
“And now you’re crawling to me for the rough fuck you can’t get anywhere else. Is that it?”
“Y-y-yes!”
The anticipation of Jeremy’s belt was torturous. When Sage finally felt it, it was a feather-light caress, leather trailing lightly across the curve of their ass. Tickling, teasing.
“Ready?” Jeremy asked.
The belt lifted away. A quick whistle of velocity, a horrifying THUMP as the belt struck the mattress next to Sage, a startled jolt that ran through their whole body and brought them nothing. Sage nearly sobbed as the belt dragged lightly across their skin again.
Michael’s gaze drifted down. His hand slipped off Sage’s chin and grabbed their collar instead, slipping out the hidden dog tag before Sage could squeak. Exposing the words “Don’t Let Me Come.”
“Ah. I see what’s happening.”
Sage’s face was hot with need. “M-Michael, please—”
“Jeremy, please!”
As Jeremy wound the belt around Sage’s wrists, binding them behind their back, they leaned close to Sage’s ear and whispered.
“I told you I could hurt you.”
“So that’s why you haven’t taken care of this yourself.” Michael tugged on the collar, making Sage’s whole body wobble. “Trevor’s orders. You’re not gonna disobey Daddy.”
Sage writhed in the makeshift bondage as they felt Jeremy’s tongue where they’d been hoping to feel his belt. One firm hand on their back kept them pinned as Jeremy gave them the kind of kiss Jack had given them that morning.
It should have hurt at least a little when they squeezed their cock into Sage’s ass, inch by thick inch, but Jeremy had the patience of a saint when it came to torment. Tongue and fingers and lube soothed away every trace of discomfort. Even when Jeremy’s hips bumped against Sage’s un-spanked ass, all it did was make them drip.
Michael yanked on the collar, making Sage stumble. “You know what, though?” His fingers wound into their hair. A cold shiver of anticipation gripped Sage’s spine. “Trevor isn’t my Daddy.”
His hand tightened in a vicious fist, wrenching Sage’s head back. Hot sparks of pain danced down their back and exploded in their vision. Sage barely noticed it when Michael’s other hand pressed between their legs, groping roughly.
“He’s been saving you up for himself, huh? Like a sweet slice of cake. I always love stealing from him.”
Michael’s fist twisted in Sage’s hair, his fingers pressing against them through the thin fabric of their yoga pants. It wasn’t a lighthearted playing with Sage’s clit as much as it was Michael mashing a button with his thumb, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered more than the fact that someone was finally hurting them.
Their orgasm was half-drowned out by the blinding, deafening experience of seeing Heaven’s Gates and hearing the entire angel’s chorus. Sage was positive their legs had given out, but since Michael had a firm grip on their hair, they knew they weren’t going to fall.
“You’re fucking easy,” Michael taunted. Still gripping Sage by the hair, he hauled them towards the same table he’d tossed his gun onto. “Bend over.”
The command must have just been for show, because he shoved Sage face-down onto the table, almost pinning them against the gun. He grabbed the waistband of their flimsy pants, but instead of yanking it down over their ass, he grabbed it with his other hand and ripped.
“There we go.” Michael spread Sage’s ass, thumb teasing against their hole. “There’s my favorite fleshlight.” He pressed his thumb in, then snorted. “Not as, uh, tight as you should be. Someone else prep you?”
Sage squirmed, tried and failed to hide their burning face against the table. Aftershocks were still shuddering up and down their spine. “Nnh— J-Jeremy.”
“Well. Remind me to send them a fucking thank-you card.”
With his thumb still buried to the knuckle, Michael sheathed himself in Sage’s cunt. Sage’s back arched, eyes rolling, knuckles going white on the table.
“Jeeesus, you really were worked up, huh? Wet as shit.” Michael slid out just as quickly as he’d pushed in, guiding his dick up to their ass instead, pulling his thumb out. “Thanks for the free lube, slut. You’re gonna need it.”
Jeremy’s careful work had prepared Sage for penetration, but there was no way to prepare a human body for Michael. Sage winced between cries as Michael pounded them hard enough to rock the table. His hand was back in their hair, yanking and twisting, his open zipper scratching their thighs. This was what Sage had been aching for ever since Jack’s gentle tongue swirled over their clit that morning.
“Fuck, man,” Michael groaned, grabbing a soft handful of Sage’s ass as he fucked it. “Trevor’s gonna be so pissed.”
Michael’s hand kept the promise that Jeremy’s belt had broken. The first hard spank left a handprint and punched the air out of Sage’s lungs. Their chest heaved with every slap, gasping relief and shuddering through a second orgasm. Michael pinned them down as they writhed through it. The hand left their hair, replaced by teeth on their shoulder. These weren’t friendly nips; Michael left painful red marks. Sage didn’t stop squirming even as the waves of pleasure faded.
“That’s it, bitch,” Michael growled, “nnh, squeeze for me–”
Sage caught their breath, feeling every pulse of come in their ass. Michael pulled back, finally removing his teeth from their shoulder, but didn’t pull out right away. Sage’s breath steamed against the table as his nails ran lazily down their back. They hurt in a dozen places, but the aching strain of denial was finally gone.
Finally, as if satisfied with the view, Michael pulled out and left them on the table. He landed with a flump on the nearby couch, stretched for a moment, then braced his boot against the coffee table.
“A guy can’t take his fuckin’ shoes off around here,” he grunted, unlacing his boot, “without railing someone’s asshole first.”
Wobbling, Sage peeled themself off the table. Michael was kicking his boots off, pulling out his phone like nothing had happened. Well. Like nothing had happened, except for the fact that he was bare from waist to thigh, his balls and softening dick coated with both his and Sage’s come.
When Michael looked up again, he seemed genuinely surprised that Sage was still there. “What, you want me to make you breakfast?” His voice wasn’t as harsh as his words. Sex had softened his rough edges a little.
Gingerly, Sage sat on the couch with him. There was no way to pull their ruined pants back up, so their sore ass rested bare on the couch cushions. Nervous, not sure what they wanted, they placed a hand on his thigh.
Michael didn’t protest, turning his attention back to his phone. “You can clean me up if you want. I’m not getting up for a while, that was a good fuck.”
Gingerly, Sage scooted closer. Michael had gone back to whatever he’d been doing on his phone, so Sage leaned their head into his lap and nuzzled his balls. Satisfied at last, they could enjoy soft things again. They swallowed the happy little moan that bubbled up in their throat as they moved their tongue over him slowly.
Sage jumped a little when they felt a hand on their head. Glancing up, Michael wasn’t even looking at them, but his fingers busied themselves running through Sage’s hair, scritching their scalp. Sage melted, nearly started purring.
“Look good like that.” Michael’s voice, slurred and slow as it was from afterglow, made Sage smile. His fingers clenched a little, a mockery of a yank, laughable after how rough he’d just been with them. “C’mon, they’re not gonna worship themselves.”
Quiet enough that he couldn’t hear, Sage mumbled, “Yes sir,” and got back to work.
It was tempting to dissolve into the contentment of it all, the intimacy of Michael’s hand in their hair and the dull, throbbing reminders of his teeth and hands, the sore slickness between their legs… but there was one loose end Sage needed to tie up. Discreetly, covering up the sound with a pleased hum, Sage slipped a hand under their body. They were still sensitive, twitching under the touch of fingers through barely-hanging-on yoga pants. They probably could have gotten off again from the sting of Michael’s bite marks and the deep ache of a rough fuck, but getting off again wasn’t their goal.
It wasn’t discreet enough. Michael glanced down from his phone and scoffed.
“Again? That wasn’t enough for you?”
Sage pulled their pink face out of his lap. “I-it’s not that, it’s just… Trevor…”
Trevor was expecting a whimpery, squirmy, desperate pet in his bedroom tonight. Sage could still cover up what they’d done, but only if they put on a performance. It would have to be convincing. Trevor’s anger was easy to redirect, but all the same…
The words wouldn’t come out, stuck behind a clog of shame. Michael had been wonderful, Sage wasn’t trying to one-up him, these were just… preventative measures.
“Oh,Trevor?”
Sage’s head snapped up at the sound of Michael laughing.
“I think that ship has fucking sailed.” Still chuckling, Michael tilted his phone down so they could see the screen. “I just sent him a photo of me balls-deep in your ass. Probably too late to pretend nothing happened between us, huh?”
Below the lurid picture– bite marks and all– a single massive text from Trevor dominated the text box. It was so long it ran off the bottom of the screen.
Your timing is impeccable, Michael. I was just pondering a spool of wire. Have you been garroted before? I’ve always wondered if it makes a bloodless death or not. Will you merely thrash yourself to death like an animal as your windpipe collapses, or will the wire bite into your skin and make a dreadful mess? I imagine it depends on the wire. Home Depot has a great selection of
“You think he’s pissed?” Michael snickered.
Sage’s stomach dropped through the floor.
Michael flicked the phone back around, scrolling idly through Trevor’s elaborate threats. “Don’t look so scared, I’ll keep him busy for a while. Go take a nap, sleep off that brutal assfucking.”
Sage could feel tears coming, and blinked them back. Before they could think better of it, they flung themself into Michael’s arms, hugging him around the neck and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. He tensed up at first, but relaxed as he brought his hands up to their hips.
“Get the fuck out of here unless you want another round.” Idly, he picked up the gun that still rested on the table, though he didn’t aim it with any conviction. “Just so you know, round two ends with a bullet.”
Sage breathed, “Thank you, Michael,” as they pulled away.
A happy glow was humming in Sage’s chest, putting a spring in their wobbly steps. They left the room, turned a corner, and bounced off of Trevor’s solid chest.
Warmth fled Sage’s body like an extinguished candle. The look on Trevor’s face froze them in place, took the breath from their lungs. Before they could speak, Trevor grabbed them by the collar, choking off their words.
“Go. To. My. Room.” His grip tightened, pressing the leather hard against Sage’s throat. “And wait there.”
Sage nodded weakly. The collar was too tight for them to speak.
Somewhere behind them, Michael laughed. “Shit, you got here quick. Somethin’ wrong, buddy?”
Trevor’s searing gaze shifted away from Sage. He shoved them away, letting them cough and gasp for air. Without a word, he strode towards Michael.
Michael was sprawled on the couch with his arms resting on the back, a savage grin on his face, gun dangling from one hand. He hadn’t even bothered to tuck himself away. “Yeah, babe, c'mere and choke me. If you can.”
Sage didn’t wait to see whose blood hit the wall first. They scrambled down the hall towards Trevor’s room, heart pounding, afterglow all gone. For a moment, adrenaline overrode soreness.
Trevor’s anger was easy to redirect, but like a wandering dog, it sometimes found its way back home.
(Making a part 2 of this. R is gonna be Rowen, L is gonna be Leo, G is gonna be Greyson. Noncon warning etc etc, but this time it’s just mentioned/talked about)
As Rowen finally returned to the resistance army’s camp, he reminded himself of the only plan he had:
He would not say how he really got these documents.
The other soldiers who saw him arrive were shocked to see him again. “Dude, where were you?!” Rowen had heard. His head was still foggy from the sheer shock of what he had been through earlier and the process of hearing words, comprehending them, thinking up a response and then finally verbalizing it was especially slow when it used to be instant.
“I was on… a mission.” Rowen managed.
“But General Leo said he ordered you to not do anything! He was worried sick, he had sent out search parties–”
“–It was um. Self appointed?” Rowen said with a forced smile.
Naturally, he was sent to Leo’s office.
When Rowen had come face to face with Leo for the first time since their argument, something finally clicked with him.
It was odd, looking back on the before and after. Before, Leo had kept him a bit too close. Rowen was always kept off of dangerous missions and he felt he was being underestimated.
And then after– after Rowen had gone out on his own anyways, everything had changed.
But of course Rowen had no intentions of letting Leo actually know that.
“Where were you?” Leo asked. He didn’t seem angry, rather his voice sounded more worried with a hint of relief that Rowen was finally back– but perhaps also quite disappointed that his orders weren’t followed.
“I had… infiltrated the nearby barracks of the Empire’s army.”
“Against my orders.”
“R-Right, I– I apologize but–” Rowen lifted the strap of his satchel off his shoulder, and handed the bag to Leo, “I found some documents. About– about the enemy, you should look at them.”
Leo seemed skeptical but he took the stack of papers out of the bag. As he skimmed over the contents, his eyes began to widen. “This is…” he turned to another page, “You have information on their stations, where they’re getting their supplies, what merchant caravans they plan to meet up with– are you sure this is legitimate?”
“Well…” Rowen recited the lie he had mentally practiced on the way here, “They didn’t want me to have it, that’s for sure! A soldier who caught me with them attacked me to try and take them back– I won that battle though, as you can see… since I’m standing in front of you right now. I made a break for it back here as soon as that was over.”
Leo glanced up from the documents to get a look at Rowen’s face. “I see. That explains the bruises you got.”
Rowen couldn’t help but flush red and freeze up when the realreason for the bruises came back to him. He had bruises on his face? That must’ve been from when that man had pushed him to the ground and he didn’t have a chance to catch himself, right before–
“Hold on, do you have any injuries that need patching up?” Leo asked.
“Injuries?” Rowen echoed, not sure how to proceed. His lies he prepared in advance hadn’t covered lines of questioning like this. “N-No, I… don’t think so, it was over pretty quickly.”
Leo didn’t take his eyes off Rowen for a second as he set the documents and satchel on his desk behind him and approached Rowen, eyeing… his neck?
“Wha–” Before Rowen could protest, Leo held onto Rowen’s shoulder with one hand and lowered the collar of his shirt with the other.
“Someone strangled you? Just how bad was that fight?” Leo asked, his voice growing more concerned. “This looks serious, I should send you to the infirmary to–”
“It’s fine!” Rowen slapped away the hand on his collar and took a step back– bumping into the door. His heart pounded at the thought that his cover could be blown and his breathing grew unsteady.
More noticeable to Leo though, was the fact that Rowen’s face was completely red.
Leo looked down on Rowen, his gaze as scrutinizing as ever. Rowen felt that Leo could see right through him– see through his clothing to see all the ways his body had been violated, and could see past his lies and right into his mind where he could witness the memory of the incident itself.
“Rowen…” Leo spoke softly, softer than Rowen thought was possible from him, “this soldier– the one who fought you and tried to take back these documents– did they rape you?”
“What?! No!” Rowen’s protest was immediate and not at all convincing. “What kind of a– why would you even jump to that conclusion?!”
Leo blatantly using the word “rape” had a way of making Rowen losing any cool he thought he had had. Rowen had thought of it in other ways– a violation, “the incident”, something he had been through– but the blunt way Leo was making him confront the gravity of what had happened to him caused everything to fall apart.
“It was a bit hard to tell at first glance, given the way it blended into the bruises from strangulation, but… there’s very clearly a hickey on your neck.” Leo said.
Rowen could barely feel the door at his back or his feet on the ground. “N-No there’s not! It’s just, it’s just from the strangulation– you’re just seeing things–”
“Take off your clothes.” Leo said, and at that moment, Rowen’s soul left his body.
“..W-Why?”
“If my suspicions are correct, there will be more similar marks along the rest of your body. If they’re wrong, there will be nothing more than typical bruises and I will sincerely apologize for overstepping and coming to the conclusion that I did.”
Rowen felt his legs give in and he began to slide down the door behind him. Typical bruises? No, there would be bite marks and hickeys all over his back and chest. His memory was foggy– he was really zoned out at the time– but that man… a general, his name might’ve been Greyson or something– Greyson had taken a sick pleasure in “marking” him, making him cry out in pain as his teeth pierced his skin.
A sob escaped from Rowen’s throat and his vision blurred as he started to cry. He slid all the way down and sat on the floor.
It was over. Everything was over– Leo would never look at him the same way again. He would never be trusted on another mission, probably kicked out of the army that he had trained so hard to join. Rowen’s throat burned and humiliation overtook him, clouding his mind with nothing but hopelessness.
“Rowen.” Leo said firmly, now kneeling down in front of him– at his level. “What did they do to you? Where are you hurt?”
Rowen didn’t have it in him to lie anymore. “He– he made me, he made me use my– my mouth. And then. And then my–” pure humiliation boiled in his gut. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, hoping Leo would take the hint.
“I see.” Leo seemed to understand. “How did you get away? You said he caught you taking documents and then attacked you– which escalated to violating you, correct?”
Rowen shook his head. “N-No. I, I lied, it wasn’t– it was a general. The one ordering everyone around at that place, he caught me in his office. He said he would let me go, and let me take those documents– if I…” he trailed off, biting his tongue and digging his nails into his upper arm. He was angry.
“He just let you take them? Wouldn’t they probably be fakes, then?”
“He said he didn’t– he didn’t really care, he just wanted money for doing his job, and it didn’t matter to him who won the war. B-But maybe they are fake. I don’t know.”
Leo thought about it for a moment, processing everything. “How bad are your injuries? Are you… having any trouble walking? Did he draw blood? We need to make sure that doesn’t get infected.”
Rowen winced. “Y-Yeah. I’m. I’m… going to need a medic.”
“I’ll take you there, then.” Leo reached out a hand. “Do you need help standing? You can lean on me as we go.”
Rowen hesitated. He blinked away his tears, which seemed to have stopped for now, and he could see the hand in front of him more clearly. “Don’t you– aren’t you going to… kick me out of the army? I, I went against orders and failed miserably,you were right, I’m too fucking incompetent to–”
“We can worry about that later. For now we need to get you patched up. You can at least follow that order, can’t you?”
As Rowen slowly made his way to the infirmary with the help of Leo, he was trembling too hard to realize that Leo was trembling too– from vehement and overwhelming anger.
Whumper makes an AITA post on reddit about their situation with Whumpee
TITLE: AITA for hitting my partner. (TW for mild noncon mention)
I know that the title sounds bad, but please hear me out.
I (29M) have a live-in domestic partner (21M) we’ll call “Elliot.” Now, Elliot and I had been seeing each other for a couple months before he got in a rough spot and lost his house. Like any rational person, I offered a place at my house to him.
At first, things were going well. Me and Elliot were having a great time! But then I asked him to start helping out with basic stuff, you know, the bed, the dishes, cooking meals, all that stuff. Sometimes I’d get mad and throw stuff, but I’d always apologize immediately after. It’d make me feel so bad to have scared him like that.
One night I came home drunk and man, he was so hot I just couldn’t stop myself. We got a little rough, but Elliot was always into kink so I didn’t think of it much and thought he had a good time. Well, things kinda escalated and our relationship moved on from there. We started the “kink thing” 24/7. He did all the work around the house and at night we’d have our fun. One of our favorite kinks was “sharing” or public humiliation but hey, he was all down for a good time.
Everything came to a boiling point yesterday when I was in a terrible mood. You see, someone rear-ended my car and drove off. I was pissed because my car is a 2021 Carrera Cabriolet and that fender bender was gonna cost me a lot. When I got home, Elliot hadn’t made food despite it being 8:00pm. He said he wasn’t feeling well, and I relied neither was I. As he got up to great me, he grabbed my arm tight, so I hit him off my arm. He claimed it was for balance because he was dizzy, but I bet it’s going to leave a bruise. He was really angry.
AITA for hitting my partner when he tried to grab me because he was mad at me?
In the comments:
“seen him for a couple months” meant seeing him in the bar and not really having more than a couple passing conversation with a couple friends
“rough spot” and “lost his house” meant that he got thrown out the door by the last person who had him
“kink things” is essentially torture, masked as kink because whumper is always right
“agreed to it” was Elliot being trained not to say no
2021 Carrera Cabriolet is a Porsche because whumpers all seem like expensive car guys, no?
“dizziness” was from a punishment/malnutrition/blood loss, you imagine
It was the most vivid dream Darius had had in a while.
He could still remember the ways Alastor had touched him– holding his hips, petting his hair, pulling him into his lap as he held his jaw and kissed him deeply, groping his ass and chest.
But more than anything, Darius remembered how much he enjoyed it.
In the dream– the nightmare, he had kissed back. He had leaned into Alastor’s gentle touches (why were they gentle?) and grinded against him, begging for more.
Darius had pressed up against him, kissing his neck and leaving marks, taking satisfaction in the way he made Alastor moan. His heart skipped a beat when Alastor spoke softly in his ear, telling him how beautiful he was, what a good job he was doing.
It didn’t make any fucking sense. Darius hated it, more than anything. He knew he didn’t want it, he knew that all those times his lord had called him a whore were nothing more than cheap, empty taunts.
There was no denial, no deep-seated desires burried somewhere within him. That was the truth.
Whumper curled themselves around Whumpee, cradling them close. Whumper loved to hold Whumpee against them, feel their heartbeat, the warmth of their skin. Even if coldness called to them more often than not, Whumpee was different.
Whumpee did everything they could to hold still. The stiller they were, the less likely Whumper would be to hurt Teammate. Whumpee couldn’t care less if Whumper hurt them, but Teammate, Whumpee couldn’t let that happen. So Whumpee let Whumper snuggle in close, hating every moment of it.
“My Whumpee,” Whumper breathed into Whumpee’s hair, “doesn’t this feel good?”
Whumpee didn’t reply, they didn’t struggle, but remained as still as possible. They held their breath.
“Whumpee, we talked about this. You answer me when I talk to you. You respond when I say your name. You are mine. Are we clear, my Whumpee?” Whumper’s voice remained as pleasant as it had before and they continued to curl around Whumpee, nuzzling into their hair.
Whumpee continued to remain still, continued to ignore Whumper. They reminded themselves this was all for Teammate. They kept telling themselves that this would be over soon, that Caretaker would find them. That other Teammates were looking for them.
Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s jaw in a pincer like grip, their nails digging in sharply. “Whumpee. Whumpee. What did I just tell you? If I have to tell you again, I won’t be this nice. And you want me to be nice, don’t you, Whumpee. You know what I do to people, right Whumpee? You’ve seen my…victimswork. That could be you. Or, does that not matter to you?” At Whumpee’s continued silence, Whumper continued. “That could be Teammate then. What do you say, my Whumpee?”
Silent tears tracked down Whumpee’s cheeks. “Yo-yours. This-this is nice, Whumper. So-so nice. Thank you.”
The Unsolved Murder of Henry “Brute” Hanlon and the Box Boy Killer
r/LetsTalkTrueCrime
•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee
2 weeks ago
I’m back, r/LetsTalkTrueCrime! I really appreciated the questions and discussion under my last write-up, and a few of you really encouraged me to keep working to provide a part two to my Serial Killer Box Boy series, so here it is!
InPart One, we looked at the mysterious death of Nathaniel “Nanda” Benson, who died of cardiac arrest due to an undiagnosed heart defect (and likely head trauma played a part) and was found at the bottom of the stairs inside his California home. The only valuable possession missing from his property was his legally-purchased Box Boy, who fled the city wearing Nathaniel Benson’s shoes and using his money to buy a bus and then train ticket.
The last confirmed sighting of the runaway Box Boy (and Benson’s possible killer?) was in Red Hills, California, a large-ish city a couple hours south of Benson’s house by train.
Questions remain around Benson’s death: did he suffer cardiac arrest and fall down the stairs? Did the Box Boy push him, with the shock of the trauma and injury leading to the heart attack that killed him?
Is the Box Boy merely a witness to a tragic but natural death, or the prime murder suspect?
And most importantly: If he wasn’t guilty, why did he run?
Less than a full calendar year after Benson’s death, the question of where the Boxie went after Benson died was answered… but even that answer only opened up more questions, and the sudden death of a secondman places even more uncertainty into the story of a Boxie who might simply be an innocent victim - or who could be a serial killer whose makes a victim out of those who give him shelter.
Which leads us to the story of Henry James Hanlon, known to nearly everyone - including his wife - as “Brute”.
(Contains pretty explicit noncon, wars/armies and whatnot)
The new recruit ( R ) of the resistance army was sick of being kept off of dangerous missions. Their Leader (L) had gotten a bit too attached to him and even started to think of him as a son. Because of that, he wouldn’t let R put himself in danger– but R felt he was being looked down upon and wanted to prove his competence, thinking “You don’t need to worry about me. I can handle danger on my own and I’ll prove it to you.”
So he tries to infiltrate the Empire’s ranks to get information.
—
It was all going so well. R was so close– he had managed to get into a General’s (G) office and find documents that they absolutely do not want in enemy hands. G was out for the night, he’d be safe, he just needed to get out and–
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Abruptly, G came into the office staring daggers at R, who could only freeze.
But G was oddly relaxed. “You know, I don’t really mind all this infiltration stuff you’re doing. I’m not too attached to the Empire– I’m just here for the coin. If you make it worth my while… I’ll let you go, and even let you take all those documents.”
R couldn’t believe his ears. “M-Make it worth your while…? What do you mean, what do I need to–”
“Get on your knees and blow me.” G said with a smile, relishing in the way R’s face fell and turned completely red.
“I… what?!” R shook his head, “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
R couldn’t say a thing, couldn’t look G in the eyes. He could only stand there frozen in time.
G sighed. “Oh, you won’t take my generous offer? Well– if you’d prefer to be executed–”
“Wait!” R cried out. “I’ll…” he screwed his eyes shut, face burning. “I’ll do it.”
And so, he kneeled down.
R thought he could just get this over with. But no amount of mental preparation could possibly keep him calm as it actually happened. G taunted him as he gagged, choked, and started to cry. And to R’s horror the more he cried the harder G got. It seemed like the tears did more to turn him on than whatever he was doing with his mouth.
At one point G abruptly grabbed R by the hair and pulled him off of him. R looked up, confused.
“Change of plans…” G murmured, voice coated in lust, “I’m going to fuck you.”
R had never felt more despair before in his life. He could only weakly shake his head, “You– you said I just needed to–”
“Come on, this is good, you’re perfect, just a little more… and I’ll let you go.”
R couldn’t think. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel the floor underneath him because he had gone so numb– all his senses were out of order but taste, the taste, invading every corner of his mouth and nearly making him throw up– and now G was going to go even further, R was already broken beyond repair but G wasn’t done.
Since he didn’t protest any further, G threw him to the ground to take him.
R couldn’t stop himself from screaming. The pain was blinding and intense beyond words. G just clamped a hand over his mouth and held him in place as he squirmed beneath him, perfectly trapped. Every single moment R thought it couldn’t get any worse and time and time again he was proven wrong as the pain and humiliation reached new heights.
As G trembled and released inside of him, R could only feel relief. Any disgust he should’ve felt was overshadowed by thoughts of ‘It’s over. It’s done. No more.’
Something fell next to R’s face. Papers.
“Mission accomplished…” G said. “You did a wonderfuljob.”
For set 1 of @nsfwhumptober I tried something new (New-ish. Of course I hurt a lady. Just… new setup). Have some post-apcalyptic fantasy setting, with warring gangs and a fighter lady in the lead.
SET 1- Begging | Mirrors | Blood | Costume | Mind control | Stripped/ Stripping | Foreplay
Content note: lady whump, team whump (in a way?), mind control, forced stripping, mutual noncon, fade to black noncon
It must be the hundredth time Kara pulls at her bonds, at the chains fixed to her cuffs hand, pulling her upright to stand in the middle of this filthy warehouse. Once again, it’s useless. She can’t use her powers here, there’s some drug they gave her, that made her weak and doozy, but it did nothing to soothe her anger.
Now even the two guards have vanished. She’s alone, with the rattle of the chains and the gusts of wind chasing through broken windows, cold air brushing over her bruised body in the places where her functional combat gear is ripped open. She’s been led into a trap, beaten into a pulp, her, who prides herself in her strategic understanding even more than her battle skills. It all has failed her, all at once, because she brutally underestimated her enemy.
"Decker!“, she yells, and lets the chains rattle again. “Come out at least, fucking asshole, I know it’s you.”
