how long are vic's stumps in the quad amputee vic au and how mobile is he
for burnt ends it's just above the ankles/below the wrists (he can crawl or maneuver around on his knees and could theoretically be more mobile with prosthetics)
for the revenge stream ending, hands are about the same but legs are above the knee (mobility gets a lot harder/more uncomfortable)
Whumper who triggers Whumpee's fawn/freeze response with close proximity and a gentle hand on their face, just caressing them despite the hurtful intent behind it.
Whumpee whose defiance dies as their brain shuts down once they're touched in any manner resembling intimacy, just staring wide-eyed at Whumper who coos unnerving things into their ear
GUESS WHAT its finally finished!! come get ur pwp kids
Pinned
A Rowe & Aris Royal AU // Masterlist
A collab with the amazing @unorganisedalienrubbish
Tags: prince x knight, royal au, nsfw, restraints, manhandling, begging, porn with plot // Words: 5k
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There are many things that a prince should be—poised, elegant, confident, strong. Mastery in a wide variety of subjects was required, from geopolitics to riding to the intricacies of social decorum. Amid this mountain of expectations for a budding royal such as His Highness Prince Aris, none was more important than that of physical combat.
And in the area in question, no one was better suited to teach the young prince than the royal knight known as Rowe. Considerably young for his handsome reputation, Rowe had pleased the higher knights and even the king himself with both his fighting prowess and his devout sense of respect. ‘A beast on the battlefield,’ the generals called him, though all who observed him admired how Rowe knew the gentle touch needed to please foreign guests, to adjust a mare’s bridle, or to kiss the bejeweled hand of a maiden of the court. He was truly a man of balance. Indeed, no one in the court was better suited to instruct the young prince in the art of hand-to-hand combat than Rowe.
What began as afternoon training sessions in the courtyard quickly escalated, as Rowe stressed the importance of training at different times a day. “You don’t want your body to become attuned to only being able to fight in the afternoon, or relying on the visibility the sunlight brings. We must prepare ourselves for combat when darkness falls, if we want to train you properly.” The prince did not object—Rowe seemed to know what he was talking about regarding all things combat.
Night fell. Torchlight illuminated the courtyard, scattering slanted shadows across the compacted dirt training ground. Rowe and his Highness walked through the stone corridor to the open area. Sand crunching beneath their feet. They took their usual stance—this time, under the cover of darkness. The torchlight flickered off of the sharp angles of their features.
“No weapons this round,” Rowe instructed. “You must be prepared to fight even when caught off guard.” The prince nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly and the corner of his lips curling upwards in a slight smirk. Aris was sure he had this. He’d been training with Rowe for weeks, but this was his first encounter beneath the moon.
Rowe, however, was less confident—not in his ability to win, per se, but in the extent of self control he could exhibit around the young prince. It’d been weeks of close proximity—drills, sparring matches, grappling exercises—and Rowe was trained to notice every little twitch of his opponent, every shift of weight, every hair trigger muscle reflex—to predict them and stop them. This wasn’t an ability he could exactly turn off around Prince Aris. Rowe still, even to his own detriment, noticed everything.
And Rowe would have to have been utterly blind to not take notice of the prince’s... sensibilities. His slender waist… His smooth skin… His long blonde hair—soft to the touch whenever Rowe’s fingers grazed it. His little hipbones—Rowe felt them jutting out just slightly beneath his clothes whenever he pinned the boy down.
Rowe had to stop thinking about it. He could not disgrace himself by becoming noticeably aroused by his young master, yet alone be accused of indecent behaviour. At the very least, he would lose his job—if not his life. Rowe tried to think of anything else, on the drills he would have Aris perform, or the tricks to fighting by moonlight, catching glimpses of blades reflecting before they were drawn. Rowe took a deep breath. “It's okay. It's fine,’ he told himself. He could do this.
But somehow, Rowe found himself hovering over his Highness yet again, pinning his wrists down and leaning in until they were breathing each other's air. It was all too satisfying, the knight thought, smirking down at his prince—the way the young royal glared up at him with pouted pink lips, his brows furrowed and his cheeks flushed.
“Go on. Break free, your Highness.”
Aris grit his teeth and thrashed against the knight, trying and failing to free his arms from Rowe’s grip. Long hours of training drills had worn on them both—clothing stuck to skin with sweat and the evening fall of dew as the moon swelled in the sky above them. After a few seconds of writhing in vain Aris went limp in the knight’s hold, brow furrowed and panting slightly as he stared defiantly up at him.
“Remember what you have been taught,” The knight breathed heavily, avoiding eye contact. “Where am I open?”
Aris considered this for a moment, then found his target.
Suddenly, Aris’ knee collided with the side of Rowe’s ribcage, and the knight tumbled off, surprisingly winded at the sudden attack.
“Attaboy..” Rowe wheezed while returning to his feet, proud of the prince—and the result of his own work training him.
They returned to fighting position once more, circling each other. Two pairs of hands raised—a violent imitation of a waltz.
Rowe didn’t want his prince getting too cocky, but he could see the start of a grin pulling at the corners of the prince's lips—his soft perfe—no, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t get distracted. Snapping himself out of his trance, Rowe lunged at the boy, managing to fold himself under even the prince’s much lower center of gravity. He slammed his shoulder into the boy’s torso, knocking Aris to the ground once again.
Aris thrashed, trying to remember his training, but all the wind had been knocked from his lungs and his back ached from being thrown around for so long—couldn't this bastard give him a break? He kicked and twisted around, managing to break free for a moment, before the knight’s hand found a fistful of his hair and slammed him back down again. In a flash, Rowe was on top of him again, this time with one of the prince’s legs hooked up over his shoulder.
Rowe leaned forward until they were panting the same air. He cocked an eyebrow when he realized that if their faces were just two inches closer he could so easily stick his tongue in the pretty boy’s mouth..
Aris cried out as he was folded in half—he twisted in the Knight’s grasp, but he made no progress, eventually resigning himself to the position and opting to glare up at Rowe instead, out of breath and red in the face.
Rowe could only notice how, despite his verbal protest, Aris didn’t seem to be in much physical distress. Rowe smirked at his sweet little prince's flexibility, his eyes scanning over Aris’ contorted frame, only making the prince flush pinker.
"Hm, got you... again," Rowe chuckled, a little too casually for Aris’ liking.
The prince, once recovered from the shock, quickly became more irritated again and squirmed even harder.
“You asshole,” Aris hissed. He could feel the heat rising beneath his cheeks. “Don't even think about it—”
Rowe was smug as ever. "You actually have to fight back if you want to get any better at this, your Highness."
He would’ve claimed it was an accident if he were questioned on it later, perhaps he needed it to be—but Rowe, without thinking, pushed his hips forward, pressing his bulge up against that sensitive spot between the prince’s legs. Just because he could—because he wanted to know what it would feel like. He’d only imagined it a thousand times before, but even his most vivid fantasies couldn’t hold a candle to pinning the prince down in person.
Aris gasped at the sudden deliberate contact, writhing under the knight’s hulking frame and hissing through his teeth. Rowe ground his hips down again and it forced a heated whine from the prince’s pouted lips.
“Stop—sto—hhnnng!”
Aris’ heart was pounding—struck with the horror that there was absolutely nothing he could do—that if his knight wanted to, he could take him like this right then and there, and Aris would be powerless to stop him. Shit—why did the thought of it make his cunt twitch—
The knight leaned in closer, so that only the prince could hear, "Or do you just like being pinned underneath me?"
Aris flushed furiously—his features incredulous and now bright pink beneath the torchlight. But the knight let his hips twitch forward again—didn’t suppress the reflex—and the prince realized he was losing his brain power by the second.
“No—! No shut up you're just huge—! Agh!” Aris thrashed in Rowe’s grip, struggling harder against the hands that held him down almost too easily.
Rowe’s brain short circuited—all he’d heard was, ‘you’re huge’ and he couldn’t help the pleased snicker—the way his hips just ground his dick against his prince harder this time, letting out a little satisfied grunt at the way his Highness felt beneath him. The prince’s frame was so small—so easily overtaken by Rowe’s hulking form.
“You know,” he breathed, voice heavy with want, “I kinda like you like this, your Highness.” The prince’s face turned red as a sunset—his eyes went wide in shock at his knight’s sheer audacity.
Aris couldn’t help but feel like prey, pinned down and squirming—caught in the drooling jaws of a wolf. The prince’s narrow hips jutted up against the knight’s bulge, whining in embarrassment at the way he couldn’t seem to control his own body.
Rowe couldn’t help but think about it—though they hadn't even gotten to training in arms yet, he fixated on how flustered the royal heir would look at having a blade pressed against his throat.
“You look so good like this, your Highness, very good..” The knight's gaze dragged over the prince's pinned form, undressing him with his eyes. “I can see why you’ve avoided training for so long.”
Rowe leaned in, looming ever closer towards the royal’s face and deepening the stretch of the stress position as he forced his prince’s legs apart. “Even the most loyal and prudish of royalty wouldn’t be able to resist…” Rowe cracked a smile, letting his hips twitch forward. “This.”
The prince gasped at his sheer nerve—Aris hissed and bucked his hips beneath his knight, trying to throw him off. He failed gloriously, however, only managing to press his hips up into the knight’s growing bulge and encouraging Rowe ever further to continue his mutiny.
Aris was seething, dust kicked up from their scuffling ground between his gritted teeth. “H-how dare you— I—“ but his knight only casually thrust against him again and the prince felt himself gasp as the motion cut him off and forced out a pathetic whine. Aris caught himself halfway through, and tried to bite his lip to silence it, but it was already too late. Of course, his knight had heard it. To the prince’s dismay, he was helpless to control his reactions when Rowe rut his hips up against him again.
“Un—haAAHhh—ungh— Unhand me at once!!” The prince’s face heated rapidly at the sound of his own voice. God he sounded pathetic.
“Oh, but I don’t have to,” came the smug voice from above him. “Do I, little prince…” Rowe leaned in. “And quite frankly,” his lips brushed against the soft skin behind Aris’ ear. “I don’t think you want me to.”
The knight shifted his weight to grip the prince by the jaw—strong, capable, deadly fingers pressing into his delicate cheeks—something that would certainly get Rowe thrown into the royal prison if anyone saw the way he was handling his superior.
“You don’t want me to let you up, do you?” Rowe smiled down at the prince as he squirmed, helpless in the grip of his knight’s large, strong hands. “You like it down there, don’t you, your Highness.” Rowe chuckled to himself, shaking the prince's head around like it were a toy.
Aris let out a humiliating gasp. He wasn’t prepared for the knight to fucking shake his head back and forth like a doll. Fuck—he should be clear-headed—demanding, decisive, authoritative—in a moment like this, but his thoughts were so fuzzy and clouded, like his face was full of cotton; his heart thundered like a war drum.
“Answer me,” Rowe chided, slamming Aris’ head back down into the floor. “Speak.”
Aris shocked himself, humiliated by the pained cry forced out at the force of the impact. What the fuck was happening— Aris could barely think, let alone see.
“N-no—no you— don’t know—” Aris’ voice was slurred, heavy as if filled with stone. The aftermath of getting his head slammed into the ground still echoed off the sides of his skull. “Y’don’t kn-know what you’re ta-aahh—aaahhAH!!—“ The prince’s words cut out into a wanton cry as Rowe’s hips instinctively twitched down into him again—only egged on further by the royal’s attempted recovery.
“— T-talking about— haah-hAHhn—” Aris was trying so hard to finish his sentence, but he felt so far gone so quickly, a part of him suddenly itching to feel more, the rest of him almost tearing up at how humiliating this was. This was so not how a royal should react. Fuck—how did he let this happen? Why had he let his face get so hot? Why was he so fucking dizzy—?
“You fucking like this and you know it,” Rowe taunted, growing more brazen the more the prince’s lucidity withered away beneath him. “You walk around giving orders to me like you don’t know that this is where you belong—beneath me, grinding into me like a mutt.” Every sentence Rowe spat at the prince, his fingers tightened harder around Aris’ jaw, crushing his cheeks together. Aris was horrified to feel his mouth filling with drool—threatening to spill over his pursed lips at the slightest provocation.
Aris didn’t know what had hit him—perhaps a stronger hit of the intoxicating affect of whatever the fuck all this was—but hearing that word—’mutt’—it made him groan in a way he never should have—it was so horrendously unbecoming of someone like him.
The knight roughly released the prince's head, and took the opportunity to pin the prince down further into a position that would definitely not be considered training anymore.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Rowe’s smile penetrated his every word, leaning in so close the prince thought his hips would pop for how wide they were being pressed apart. The knight’s voice lowered even further than Aris thought possible, a near growl that made the hairs on his neck stand on end.
“I can practically feel your heartbeat in your cunt through your trousers, your Highness…” Rowe let himself chuckle softly, his breath tickling the prince’s delicate neck. “That’s hardly how royalty should be behaving now, is it?”
To his heated embarrassment, Aris fucking groaned and immediately cringed at the way his own voice sounded in response. He tried to fasten his lips shut so nothing else would escape—but the knight just kept fucking talking—talking down to him—he could barely breathe. Aris was panting now, his face flushed with heat and his eyes were lidded and unfocused as they gazed up at the knight that loomed over him. This would be grounds for termination—imprisonment, exile, execution even. What little rational part of the prince remained couldn’t believe the gall of his own guard.
But Rowe had called him out so badly. Fuck—fuckfuck fuckkk— Aris’ cunt was actually twitching—he could feel it. He was trying so hard to ignore it but his knight could feel it too. With Aris’ legs spread wide, he couldn’t hide anything like this—it was so far beyond humiliating.
Rowe ground his hips down against his prince and could feel how wet Aris was through his thin trousers. When Aris felt his own hips twitch up automatically to meet his knight’s hardening bulge, he squeezed his eyes shut and cursed his own existence. Aris couldn’t believe this was happening. He was the prince of the entire kingdom, and here he was, on his back getting bent in half like a cheap little whore.
“Hnnnhnhnnn get off meee,” he whined pathetically, still panting and so far past the point of sounding anything resembling respectable, let alone royal.
Rowe eventually leaned back, and just as Aris thought he was free from his humiliation, Rowe grabbed the seam of Aris’ pants—in between his thighs—closer and more roughly than anyone had dared to touch him before. The knight seemed absolutely feral, hell-bent on getting exactly what he wanted and so full of himself that he believed he deserved it. Grabbing either side of the seam of Aris’ trousers, Rowe tore the whole seam open, straight through both layers of clothing, leaving Aris utterly shocked—panting, scared, and exposed.
Rowe’s jaw dropped when he finally saw Aris’ dripping wet cunt leaking between his legs, pink and twitching in the low torchlight. Drool threatening to spill from his lips, Rowe smirked to himself, his suspicions were confirmed—this explained why Aris wasn’t getting noticeably hard against him, despite the fact that his rutting meant he obviously liked the way he was being treated.
Unable to control himself—the cool air now on his exposed cunt—Aris’ legs fell gracefully—and, in Rowe’s opinion—all too perfectly open on either side of his knight’s waist. The prince fit into him like a fucking puzzle piece, Rowe thought, exactly as he was meant to.
Rowe let out a pleased exhale. “Fuckkkkk, you're so wet for me.” He had to run his tongue over his lips to stop drool from running down his face.
It made no difference to him what the prince had going on between his legs—he was going to rail the prince stupid on the dirt floor regardless—though this revelation cemented in his mind that Aris really was truly made for this. If anything, this just made it even easier, he thought, grinding his clothed bulge against the prince’s exposed cunt and relishing in the embarrassed whining and thrashing it brought forth from his Highness.
Aris, his reaction almost too delayed, clumsily and hurriedly shot his hands downward between his legs, only to have his wrists caught abruptly in Rowe’s hands and slammed upward into the ground above his head. The motion forced Aris’ back to arch, his hips rising automatically and pressing into the growing wet patch on the aching bulge in Rowe’s trousers.
“Uh-uhn, your Highness,” Rowe smiled and shook his head. “Don't try to act all proper now. There's no point in covering up, you were moaning like a slut for me mere seconds ago.”
Aris seemed to get a shot of sobriety at the insult—his brows furrowed in confusion and anger, and he thrashed against his knight once more. “I ordered you— t-to unhand me at once—” He tried to sound authoritative, though his tone was significantly dampened by his position and the way his voice shook. “Let- let me f-fucking go— hhnnngh!” The prince groaned again when his knight ground his hips forward into the prince’s exposed parts.
“If you know what's good for you, you’ll stay still.” Rowe let go of the prince's wrists to unbuckle his own trousers, pulling them low on his hips, just exposed enough to…
Aris took this opportunity to try and squirm away, his brain finally catching up with him. Fuck, he couldnt be seen like this—couldn’t allow this treacherous knight to—
Rowe sighed under his breath, seeming almost disappointed in his prince. He all too easily grabbed Aris by the hips and tugged him back into position, not even breaking a sweat to get his prince back to where he was supposed to be.
“Agghh—n-no noo!” Aris keened in surprise when he was roughly yanked back into place and pinned down.
Rowe slapped Aris hard across the face, and Aris hissed sharply—the shock itself stung almost as much as the blow.
“I fucking told you to stay,” Rowe spat through gritted teeth, obviously struggling to keep his hips still when he could feel his cock brushing up against his prince’s clit, coated in his slick.
“You act like a dog, you fucking get treated like one, mutt,” Rowe snarled, smug in his toothy grin.
By this point, Aris’ jaw had fallen slack, opened mouthed and panting at the treatment. All the rational thought from his head was fucking gone and replaced with something much less dignified. Why was this coming so naturally to him—Why did his agency seem to slip away so quickly—Why was he just.. just allowing himself to get fucking handled and manipulated by one of the fucking knights of his own family’s court?
Rowe absentmindedly began dragging his leaking and aching cock between the folds of Aris’ glistening cunt. Not even thinking, chasing his own pleasure—running on pure animalistic instinct.
All it took was a soft and broken ‘hhnng-please’ from Aris to get Rowe to shove inside him. Realizing what he’d done, Rowe clapped a hand harshly over his prince's mouth so that his wanton cry didn't echo off the stone walls of the courtyard.
Panting now himself, Rowe gasped, “It's like you've never done this before, my sweet prince, or do you want us to get caught?”
Aris groaned at the backhanded praise—at the feeling of the stretch inside him. Rowe seemed to release his grip on Aris’ face solely for his own amusement at what the prince would say. “N-no—noooo!” Aris gasped with panted breath. He hadn’t wanted to make a sound—he still couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Aris wanted to kick and protest and fight Rowe off of him, but his limbs just twitched in his knight’s grasp.
Against what was left of his pride, Aris had already started begging with his eyes—now brimming with tears. He shook his head furiously up at Rowe—the last thing he wanted was to be caught in such a disgraced state, by one of his own court knights, no less. The situation was beyond unthinkable, and he would face unknowable punishment if anyone were to catch them like this.
“..Good.” Rowe chuckled, and his hips bucked forward again, almost against his own will—his pretty little prince was just squeezing around him so perfectly. Aris’ eyes rolled to the back of his head, a guttural moan muffled once again by Rowe's rough palm.
But when the knight’s hips started moving, Aris’ thoughts disappeared from his head like little popping bubbles, giving way to thin air. With a sharp snap of his hips, Rowe shoved halfway inside his sweet prince before the tip of his cock started brushing against Aris’ cervix. The moment he felt it, Aris’ ankles automatically locked behind Rowe's back, pulling his knight closer, trying to stifle the burst of pain radiating through his abdomen.
Rowe leaned down and buried his nose in the crook of his prince's neck, panting and groaning—God his Highness felt so fucking good—but he couldn’t embarrass himself now by finishing so quickly. It wasn’t his fault Aris was so goddamn perfect, everywhere.
Aris was borderline smothered now by Rowe’s enormous frame; he couldn't escape if he tried. He was trying—he was—but, everything was just so confusing and scary and Rowe felt so good inside of him—he couldn’t explain or decipher it and his brain had completely checked out—any thought was being forced out and replaced with that warm pulsing feeling inside him that sent jolts of electricity up his torso every time Rowe moved his hips.
Though the prince was still weakly writhing in his grasp, Rowe trusted that Aris had learned his lesson about being loud, and removed his hand from his prince's face, instead letting it slip down to the soft skin of Aris’ throat.
The threat wasn’t lost on Aris, and his breath caught in fear—Rowe groaned into his neck at the way he could feel the prince’s cunt clench down around him as he squeezed his delicate throat just slightly. Aris whined against him—he was well aware of the damage those hands could do. He’d given the man fucking medals for it. And now those very fingers were twitching around his throat, tightening with the rhythm of his thrusts.
Rowe was completely lost in the smell of the skin just beneath the prince’s ear—the fucking feeling of Aris tightening around him—it all made him crazy, like he was drunk on him. He never wanted to leave or let go or ever not be inside his prince ever again.
Rowe was almost caught off guard at his own actions, he’d never been this...uncontrollable before. Aris just knew exactly how to wind him up. The prince had already been on his mind every second of every day—Rowe knew he had become obsessed with him, but even in all of his nightly fantasies, he didn’t realize his Highness would feel this fucking good.
Desperate to feel more of him, Rowe released the prince’s slender wrists and hooked an arm beneath Aris’ knee to pry his leg up and hold it in place to keep his hips nice and open. Rowe shoved himself into the prince again, forcing Aris to moan into Rowe’s ear, and Rowe fucking lost it—he had to bite down on Aris’ collarbone to stop from moaning too loudly—and if he were honest with himself, to stop himself from finishing right then and there.
Aris’ other leg shook and tightened around Rowe’s waist, and he had to cover his own mouth this time to stifle the startled yelp from the sudden pain shooting down his shoulder. Fuck—did he just fucking bite me?
Aris’ face felt hot—warmth pulsed sharply in his cheeks—he couldn’t believe how fucking turned on and wet he was. This shouldn't be happening. This was all so wrong. He squeezed his eyes shut, shame spiking in his chest when he realized he didn't want it to stop, but he also felt terrified at the thought of how easily they could be caught.
Aris could feel the moans building up in his throat, threatening to spill past his lips if it wasn’t for his own hand that covered them, he wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer.
Aris knew he couldn’t get out of this, but he couldn’t let it happen here, of all places. Anything to avoid getting fucked in the goddamned dirt. He couldn’t think of a more unbecoming fate for a royal. The rumors that would spread throughout the court like wildfire—no, he couldn’t allow it. He had to do something, but the knight was feral and growling into his neck and thrusting down into him like a man possessed—making it so so hard to fucking think.
“P-please.. Hhngfuck—can't keep quiet…” Aris pleaded, his voice hitching every time Rowe pushed back into him. “Hnn Sirr—Rowe please… suh-somewhere else, gonna… gonna be caught—” Aris gripped at the back of Rowe’s shirt as Rowe groaned at just hearing Aris moan his name, drooling into the side of his prince's neck.
“Please—Rowe please, just— just take… take me back to—to the quarters Sir, please—” It wasn’t becoming of a royal to beg either, but Aris had already fallen this far, and he’d do anything to be out of the watch of any wandering late night eyes.
Rowe’s brain was so far away from the courtyard, just lost in the way his boy felt, that Aris’s words drifted to him through a thick fog, and hearing Aris whine ‘take me’ made his eyes roll back in his head, and he leaned forward to bury himself impossibly deeper into his toy. He’d dreamed of hearing those words for months, wanting—no, needing—the prince to desire him the same way he craved Aris.
Aris grew more desperate—the knight wasn’t fucking listening to him—he begged more furiously, slender fingers winding into the knight’s hair and tugging at him, trying to regain his attention. “Sir—Sir please, fuck, Rowe—the quarters... Just—just br-bring me to the quarters!” He tugged at his hair more sharply, until Rowe lifted his head just enough to blink at him with some relative sense of comprehension.
It physically pained Rowe to stop, to pry himself from the prince's warm body. But as much as he hated to pause even for a second, just the thought of being about to fuck the poor boy sensless without worrying about the sounds he let out made his cock twitch.
Rowe let out a frustrated guttural growl when he pulled out, like it was a gargantuan feat possible through only the grace of god—like Arthur himself miraculously pulling the sword from its stone sheath.
At last, Rowe sat up, leaving Aris to pant helplessly on the ground while he slid his belt out from his trousers. With a fine swish of the leather, he wound the belt around his wrist, eyeing the prince sharply. “Turn over, now,” Rowe ordered, but Aris’ mind seemed to be elsewhere, floating somewhere high above Rowe’s head, in the inky depths of the starry sky. Rowe huffed through his nose in frustration, opting to do it himself, if his little prince wanted to be difficult. Without any warning, the knight roughly flipped his prince over onto his front and leaned forward, his hand crushing Aris’ cheek into the dirt. Satisfied with his toy’s positioning, he yanked Aris’ wrists back behind his back.
“Stay,” he ordered, voice low and gruff, and the prince—his mind hazy and heavy and barely able to process what was happening—simply obeyed. Rowe quickly bound the prince’s wrists tightly behind his back with the length of the belt.
Aris groaned into the ground when he felt it happen, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to struggle anymore. It’d already taken so much effort just to get Rowe to relent long enough to move them somewhere more private.
Rowe left the prince panting in the dust for a moment to readjust his own situation, neatly re-buttoning his trousers before lifting Aris up over his shoulder. He chuckled to himself—his tiny little prince was so light. Rowe easily hauled him over his shoulder and out of the courtyard towards his quarters.
A victorious saunter from the training courtyard, Rowe kept his voice low, but it didn’t hide the smugness in his tone. “You’ll want to cross your legs, you Highness, unless you want everyone to see how much of slut you are. Letting yourself be opened up for easy access like that…”
Aris whimpered and immediately crossed his legs over Rowe’s torso, burying his burning face against his back.
Rowe carried him off through the palace, taking paths he knew weren’t stationed with guards at this hour. When he reached the door to his personal chambers, his prize in tow, Rowe unlocked the heavy door and stepped inside the warm quarters. Aris had been very well behaved on the journey, not even writhing too much from his position slung over Rowe’s shoulder. It seemed he was spent from the evening’s events. Rowe, however, wasn’t even close to finished.
Safely inside the privacy of his quarters, Rowe slammed the door behind them, the click of the lock echoing in the empty stone hallway.
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MORE IS BEING DRAFTED! We are having a lot of fun with this AU. I'll start a separate taglist for the royal au stuff so lmk if you want to be added. Thanks for reading! Kudos if you made it this far <3
You know how sometimes you just can't let go of something? lol Part of me thought this story was over, with a messy, hopeful little bow. Part of it is Trouble - he can't help needing to deliver vengeance. Part of it is absolutely @doomeddestination, dangling tantalizing mermay art of vic in front of me and i just hnnnnnnghrrrrrr.
Either way, there's a new chapter for y'all ;)
Read it right here, or over on ao3. 3089 words. Enjoy ⚡
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Trouble couldn’t believe his luck when he spotted Sahota standing guard at the far end of a private dining booth. Even with the sunglasses on, his was unmistakable. Oh, I have to. Sorry Kiv.
He ran through several excuses he could give, in case Kiv somehow found out. He was unhelpfully perceptive whenever Trouble least expected him to be. That was part of the reason he’d given up hunting any prey that didn’t smell like maliciousness on two legs. Kiv seemed to be able to sense it when Trouble fed off someone who “didn’t deserve it.”
Kiv would say that you don’t deserve it, but he can’t smell you, he thought, stealing glances at Sahota over the cocktail he was sipping at the bar. And you let that place hurt Kiv over and over. Maybe he’s forgiven you, but I don’t have to.
The real issue wasn’t hiding this kill from Kiv when he went home, though. Sahota was armed, on alert, and standing in the open. Sure, it was the quieter, VIP section of the club, but that still meant tons of witnesses. That and he was certain that Sahota would recognize him, even unshifted.
Luring him away from his post would cost him the element of surprise, and he wasn’t eager for a round two face off with the formidable human. Especially since he couldn’t tell if Sahota was the only one present from Midnight. There was probably backup outside in the form of a driver, or even a second guard hidden in plainclothes among the club goers.
He chewed on the cocktail straw with his dull human teeth as he considered and discarded several implausible schemes to isolate Sahota. But Trouble froze when he saw Sahota move — standing aside to allow an older man in a suit to leave the booth. He watched the man’s lips move, clocked the possessive hand he put on Sahota’s shoulder before moving past him. Trouble wished he was close enough to catch their scents for the exchange.
Well, hello handsome. Aren’t you interesting… Trouble noted the direction the man took, exiting the vip section to cut across the room, skirting the dance floor. Trouble slammed the last of his drink and slipped off his bar stool. Happily, the bar area was much closer to the restrooms than the VIP section.
…
The bathroom stalls had floor to ceiling wooden walls and full doors for privacy. Trouble ducked into the first one to wait, pressing a sensitive, shifted ear to the door. His heart hammered against his ribs, then skipped a beat at the sound of the bathroom door swinging open and closed.
He shook out his hands, trying to stay loose while tamping down the urge to spring out of the stall. If Sahota had accompanied the man he was guarding into the bathroom, Trouble would have to act fast.
He had no way of knowing if they were both armed, so it was best to assume they were. No way to know which was the worse threat, though he suspected Sahota would be faster. He already knew firsthand that Sahota was quick, strong, and could operate extremely well despite pain and duress. Probably safest to take him out first, either way.
He felt and heard a stall door close, followed closely by the soft click of the knob lock. He smiled. Now or never. He carefully opened his own stall as quietly as possible and peered out. A mirror ran along the wall behind the row of gleaming sinks. No Sahota.
Waiting outside for your big boss man? Perfect. Looking fully human, Trouble walked to the middle sink and got out his eyeliner. He had to take slow, deep breaths while he pretended to touch up his eyes. Steady. He’ll be like any other human. I won’t give him the chance to let out a squeak for Sahota…
The muffled flush of a toilet drew his gaze to the door of the only closed stall, but he was looking at his own reflection when the stranger left the stall to join him at the sinks. Trouble made a point of scoping the man while he washed his hands. When their eyes met in the mirror, he ducked his chin and lowered his gaze.
“All by your lonesome tonight?” Trouble asked softly, glancing up through his lashes at the man, smiling. “I could help you with that,” he bit his lower lip and tucked the eyeliner back into his pocket.
“Not interested.” The man briskly washed his hands.
Your scent says different, asshole. “I usually don’t give out free samples,” he murmured, moving close enough to touch and be touched. He reached out slowly, brushing his knuckles against the man’s still dripping ones.
He gasped as the world blurred; in the span of a few racing heartbeats, Trouble found himself pinned face-first against the wall between two of the bathroom stalls, one arm twisted up behind his back.
“I never said you could touch me.”
”I-I’m sorry,” Trouble whimpered, not resisting the man’s hold. Huh. Did Sahota learn to be fast from you? “Please, I’ll go, okay? I didn’t mean to bother you.”
”I’m not.”
He gasped again as he felt fingers caress the side of his neck. “N-not what?”
”Bothered.”
”D-do you want my rates?” Trouble asked. He whined softly as the caress became a tight grip on the back of his neck. He swore under his breath as his cheek was forced against the wall.
”I don’t usually pay for this.”
”I could scream,” he whispered, shivering.
”You won’t.”
The air was thick with the scents of cloves and smoke. It figures you’d get off on hurting people. He thought of Kiv and gulped audibly, forcing his own rage down. How many times did you put your hands on him, huh? You’re worse than the johns you sold his room key to.
The man drew Trouble off the wall and shoved him into a stall.
Trouble stumbled in, one hand going to his aching shoulder. He opened his eyes wide as he stared at the man, cringing further back into the stall as he blocked the doorway.
”I’ll have that sample now.”
”Please,” he begged as his eyes teared up from not blinking.
“No one works for me without proving their worth in advance.”
The first tears spilled down his cheeks and chewed his lip for a moment. Then, he backed up another step and sank shakily to his knees. The man didn’t smile, but it was impossible not to smell the cinnamony satisfaction that quickly flooded the stall.
“Take off your shirt.” The man closed the stall door behind himself.
Trouble looked away and hugged himself, then went stiff, as if realizing he’d disobeyed. He drew a shaky breath and slowly found the man’s gaze before easing his skin-tight shirt up and over his head. He gasped and dropped it as the man nudged his knee with the toe of an expensive leather shoe.
”Knees apart,” the man ordered softly, hands at his sides while he thrust his hips forward expectantly.
Trouble did as he was told, then reached up to open the man’s fly.
“Use your mouth.”
He flinched, but lowered his arms. The hardest part of loosening the button on the man’s trousers was choking down the urge to shift. His human teeth closed on fabric, but his mouth watered at the thought of sinking his real teeth into soft meat and ripping it free. He’d barely closed his eyes to enjoy what he could of the fantasy, only just tasted the tang of metal from the zipper tab when something cracked across his face. The blow fell so hard he’d needed both hands thrown out against the wall to save his head from knocking into it.
“Eyes up here while you do it.”
I’ll kill you. Trouble shook with hate as he raised one hand, holding it poised, hovering over his throbbing cheek. He tasted blood and nearly snarled, ready to shift and taste more -- gouts and gouts of it.
“Now, or I walk away.”
He held the man’s gaze and straightened up, blinking more tears down his cheeks as he got back into position. It took two tries before he could catch the zipper tab and drag it down. He could hear how hard he was breathing. He can’t think you’ll bite. He wants someone too afraid to fight back. Trouble made his breathing shake instead of slow. It made him cry so much the man’s face was a hateful blur above him.
Fingers glanced against his ear, his temple.
Trouble nosed against the briefs peeking through the man’s open fly, then gently mouthed the firming erection trapped underneath.
“Show me what you can do.”
The man’s palm settled over his throbbing cheek, then his thumb rubbed through the wetness under Trouble’s eye, smearing eyeliner. Trouble’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his gaze up and didn’t shy from the contact. He took the elastic waist of the briefs in his teeth and drew them down. The erection that jutted free was dark and swollen. Trouble nuzzled it with his cheek, then took the tip into his mouth. He tongued precum from the slit before taking him deeper, bobbing his head.
“Sir?” The familiar voice was muffled, coming through the stall door.
Fuck. Maybe Sahota had that same unhelpful perceptiveness that Kiv did. Trouble swirled his tongue around Sahota’s boss’ cock, then sucked him in deep enough to gag. He kept his eyes on the man’s face. C’mon asshole, you know you want to finish...
“Five minutes,” the man replied after a sigh. His voice was steady. “I want the transport ready in ten.”
“Sir.”
Trouble couldn’t hear if the bathroom door opened again -- he was a little busy -- but he hoped that Sahota had gone. He could sense a hum building in his prey. Soon he would be able to tug that into himself. Once he started to feed, Trouble had the feeling that things would get interesting. That would be easier to deal with if Sahota wasn’t in the--
“Time’s wasting.” Hands cupped the back of Trouble’s head and jerked him forward.
He gagged, nose squished flat and buried in hair. His hands were instantly on the man’s hips; instinctive panic for air surged through him, chased instantly by the urge to shift. His eyes flooded with tears as he choked, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Not yet. Sahota’s close. Not yet. All it would take was one yell. The thought of being tased senseless or shot let him stay human. The hands released him, but Trouble only leaned back enough to cough and get in a gasp of air.
“Choke yourself.”
Trouble held the man’s gaze, ran both hands up the backs of his legs to his ass. He pulled the man close as he leaned in, blinking away tears as he swallowed every inch. He drew back and repeated the full swallow, not breaking eye contact, again, and again. He could taste cloves and cinnamon, the scents were so thick in the air. Enjoy it, fucker. I’m the last you’ll ever have.
Even sneaking air, he was growing lightheaded. When he tried to speed up, growing eager to feed and to breathe, a sudden cuff over his ear made him cough and gag so hard he nearly pulled off. Heat crept up his neck. His eyes flooded with tears. A hand at the back of his head pinned him to the man, choking.
“No.”
The smell of cloves made his nose and throat burn, but Trouble didn’t struggle.
“Stay.”
His body jerked with each heave. He grabbed fistfuls of the man’s slacks, anchoring himself to him.
“That’s it.”
The humming under the man’s skin had swelled to a loud buzzing, like bass music through club speakers. Trouble tugged at the sensation, drawing it into himself with all his body’s desperation for oxygen behind it.
“Fuck.”
He was only dimly aware of the curse, of the man’s painful twisting grip on his left ear. Thrumming energy surged into him as the man climaxed, swamping his senses, making his grip on the man’s clothes numb from the strength of the vibration.
“You’ll do.”
Trouble was shoved backwards. His head clipped the rim of the toilet bowl as he fell on his back. The moments stretched out before his lungs dragged in a deep, ragged breath. He coughed and gasped again, disoriented. His entire body buzzed from how much he’d taken from the man.
“...wh...what?” He heard the man crumple to the floor, his shoes squeaking and sliding against the floor tiles.
Trouble got his feet on the floor and sat up.
The man was slumped against the stall door, looking pale and shaky, arms limp at his sides, chin on his chest.
“Don’t have a heart attack, old man.” He wiped his mouth and chin off on his arm as he moved in close. “Weak and unconscious is fine, but I need you alive.” Trouble smirked when the man tried to glare at him. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Vic.”
Vic’s eyelids fluttered as he mumbled something, the fingers of his right hand twitching.
“Something you need?” Trouble asked, helping himself to Vic’s pockets. There was a cell in the right pocket, a wallet in the back pocket, and a thin, metal case in the left pocket containing three familiar looking purple cards. “Recruiting clients and victims all in one evening, huh? You must be exhausted.” He chuckled, gripped Vic by the collar of his expensive shirt, and hauled him upright. He shifted and let the man get an eyeful of his sharp, thick teeth. “You should sleep. It’s the only way to recover from what I did to you.” He leaned in and nosed Vic’s cheek, and then his throat.
All that Vic could do was tremble in Trouble’s grip.
He hummed appreciatively when he caught a whiff of cut grass. Anxious already? Ugh, this is gonna be so fucking fun. Trouble opened the stall door, turned Vic around, and shoved him to the floor.
...
“Sir? Hey, are you alright?” someone said, loud even through the bathroom door. “Sir? Oh my god!”
Sahota pushed it open. He entered slowly, body relaxed and ready. Nothing registered on his face as he took in the scene: Vic sprawled facedown on the floor, motionless, possibly unconscious.
“H-he needs help.” There was a young man, shorter and slender, dressed for a night of dancing. He had both hands over his mouth, black-lined eyes wide and tear-filled. “Oh god.”
Sahota scanned the restroom, one hand on the weapon at his hip as he moved to the far end where he could see that each open stall was empty.
“I’ll get help!” The young man scrambled out of the room.
With the room cleared, Sahota knelt at Vic’s side. He checked for a pulse, though he could see and hear that he was breathing. No blood, so what...? He gave Vic’s shoulder a shake, then rolled him over to scan for any visible injuries.
Vic groaned softly. The muscles in his jaw flexed. His eyes opened a crack, but wandered, unfocused.
“Sir?”
After a stretch of stillness, Vic’s gaze found his. Sahota watched Vic raise an arm one handspan off the floor, two handspans, watched it reach toward him, then fall limply across Vic’s chest.
Sahota tapped his earpiece, then got his arms around Vic and lifted. He wrapped one of Vic’s arms around his shoulders and put the other around his waist before a voice spoke into his ear.
“Almost to the entrance.”
“Skip the queue,” he ordered calmly. “Vic collapsed.” Sahota shouldered the door open, half-carrying, half-dragging Vic along. They were conspicuous, but there was nothing for it. Once they were out of the club, he could do a proper assessment. There were supplies for emergencies in the transport.
“What?”
“Evac, now.”
...
Trouble had no difficulty spotting the transport he needed. It was sleek and black, with windows tinted too heavily to see through. There was a valet in a uniform and name tag looking frazzled, bowed slightly and speaking heatedly with the driver. He headed over, pulling the most distraught expression he could manage.
“Hey!”
The valet straightened, frowning at the sight of Trouble rounding the car and approaching.
“It’s a m-medical emergency. Please! He collapsed in the bathroom.” Trouble reached out a hand to the valet, who backed off immediately. “Someone’s bringing him now.”
The driver’s door popped open. Trouble caught it, blocking the driver from climbing out.
“What?” The driver’s eyes were wide enough for the whites to show around his stylish oval sunglasses.
Trouble put a hand on his face and forced him back, thrusting him hard enough to send him onto the passenger’s side. He slipped in and yanked the door shut after him. In a flash, he shifted, and clamped one hand over the driver’s mouth and the other around his throat. No time for a mess, he thought with a pang of disappointment. A rough jerk snapped the driver’s neck, and Trouble looked up in time to see a pair of men exiting the club.
The pair of bouncers and the few smokers at the entrance all parted to let Sahota hustle Vic through to the transport.
Trouble hurriedly patted down the driver and found what he needed at once -- a stun baton, holstered at his hip. He grinned as he snatched it, along with a black hat that had fallen off the driver’s head onto the seat. He crammed on the hat as he scanned the dashboard screen. He tapped to unlock the doors the moment before Sahota pulled the rear door open.
Wordless, Sahota heaved Vic into the car with a grunt, then closed the door behind him.
Trouble couldn’t help smirking as he crouched on the front seat, then sprang.
...
Sahota was getting Vic settled against the backrest when his entire body locked up, every muscle firing at once as a shock coursed through him. It felt like he’d taken a bat to the back of his neck, but the blow didn’t stop. His yell was caught behind gritted teeth. He couldn’t turn his head or dodge. His hands, still on Vic, clenched tighter and tighter.
He knew instantly what was happening, though he couldn’t feel the prongs at the end of the stun baton. The pain was crushing. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. The agony went on, and on, until the world went dark.
merman vic going blind from being kept in a pool with chlorine
MAN yeah, worst nightmare short of losing his mobility
I think he'd do a little better with it than human!Vic since he can still sense some vibrations in the water, but out of the water (especially suspended) he can do nothing and now he can't even see things coming. Awful
proof of life photos of abducted whumpee and there's just... hints. nothing overt, but hints that something sexual is happening. their pants are undone. not pulled down, not ripped, just undone. there's a strange stain somewhere on their body. there's a sex toy in the background, just a little too close to whumpee's bound body. the gag in their mouth is obviously from a sex store, which... could mean nothing. their shirt is riding up and there's part of a handprint bruise on their hip. there's a hickey or a bite mark on their neck, mostly hidden by their collar. they're not overt, not front and centre. but the hints are there. whumpee's team/friends can put together what's going on.
Uuu, what's the decide for?? The Vic art looks amazing!
thank you!
I'm assuming you meant "device", so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong skfjr
The thing they're inserting is meant to simulate breeding. Vic's species can produce eggs regardless of gender but he needs something to kickstart the process :)
