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Cole has told himself that he would not care once Hanzo stepped foot into the Gorge. He’s told himself that he would be at the exact opposite end of the huge compound, either getting drunk or getting fucked, or both.

In the end he is nothing of any of those things. He’s staying in the shadow beneath one of the stilted houses, sitting in a lazy lean on some crates and tipping his hat up just enough to watch as the large doors open and three cars roll in. Two look dusty and beat up. The one sandwiched between them looks a bit dusty but like a million bucks regardless.

Cole doesn’t want to look but he does so anyway as doors are opened and people get out and there’s an awkward second of Deadlock goons having to remember how to work as humans and who it is they have escorted into the Gorge for someone to jump into action and pull the door open for their guest.

Once Cole sees Hanzo unfolding into the unrelenting, dry air of the desert, his stomach does a low, painful flip and clenches into a tight fist of anxiety.

There he is. The little son of a bitch.

.o.

Cole had known that it would end this way; with Hanzo losing interest in him and stopping his interactions. He just hadn’t anticipated how fast and sudden that would happen. Upon leaving Japan so many months ago, Cole had almost been lulled into a sense of complacency.

Especially with his wonderfully fixed-up arm presented to him just before having to leave on the plane back home; the electronics not having fucked up once even during the process of checking in and out.

But he’s touched down on American soil and suddenly Hanzo hadn’t replied to any of his texts or calls or furtive little hand signs toward the cameras stationed around, trying to garner his attention.

Nothing had worked. Months have passed.

The guys around him even had noticed; some at least. Snickering and whispering in hot little bursts that puffed against his ears as they grunt fucked their boredom out into his guts: “Got dumped by your wealthy boyfriend, huh? Must sting.”

And the thing is: it does. It does fucking sting. Because he’s a grown-ass fucking Alpha in his fifties and there never was a way that he and Hanzo would be together, but it had kind of felt that way anyway and he should never have been this fucking dumb.

Like watching Hanzo moving around the compound like the little princeling he is. Always wearing his suits no matter how unbearably hot it got. Always with his facial hair clipped in a way that made it look like he’s taking a ruler to it.

Always so goddamn handsome that it made Cole almost nauseous with how desperately he wanted him and how much they don’t fit together. A gorgeous young Alpha and a fat old whore? Yeah… yeah fuck.

Fuck.

Of course Cole has no damn dignity. At first he thinks that Hanzo simply has not noticed him – hah…– but once he gets pretty much right in his way and forces him to step around him; those pretty, dark eyes glancing off of him without sticking around for even a second, Cole has to admit even to himself that Hanzo does not want to notice him.

He does not want to interact – period.

Cole feels sick to his stomach. He moves away, figuratively crawling into the shadows to lick his wounds. In reality he just moves underneath one of the stilt houses and hides away in a dusty area whose cargo has been forgotten, and curls up into a much smaller ball than anybody would have anticipated him being able to wrap himself up in.

As he feels like his soul is falling out of his damn ass and he can’t pull enough oxygen into his lungs, no matter how hard he breathes, Cole has to realize he’s having a panic attack. He leans forward, pressing his head between his knees – hard enough to do with his stomach in the way – and closes his eyes tightly.

While it feels like the worst thing in the world in that very moment and like he could just lie down and die, thank you very much; it, like everything else, eventually passes. It leaves him clammy with panicked sweat, his limbs vaguely prickling and a bit numb.

“Fuck,” he whispers, uncurling minimally and wiping the hair out of his face. He repeats low and in a croaky little voice: “Fuck.” It does not nearly encompass everything that he wants to say, but Cole doesn’t have the words for that. How could he? He’s just an old Alpha whore that barely got any education before he stumbled his way into his current life and just… stayed there. For decades.

Before his current obsession has even been born.

He closes his eyes again and leans back against the dusty crates. He tries to untangle the frankly ridiculous mess inside his brain and chest but it’s not that easy when he can hear footsteps disconcertingly close and the occasional bastard roughly asking where their bitch had gotten to.

“Uh… old or new one?”

“Old. I wanna fuck fuck. Can’t wait for the boss to give us the damn go-ahead with Flower.”

“Uh shit. Cassidy? I don’t fucking know. Try followin’ your nose or somethin’.”

“The whole fucking Gorge stinks of Cassidy, the fuck are you on about?”

Their voices become marginally quieter as they start to move away. Cole exhales long and stuttering, feeling surprisingly enough an odd calm coming over him at the mention of the new whore the others introduced.

A young, pretty Alpha called Florian and that everybody just called Flower. He seems to really enjoy his new job. More power to him, honestly. The guys are easing him in, as far as Cole can tell which is something, at least.

It’s all on you, Cole thinks, his thoughts snapping back to his current predicament. You got real attached REAL quick. Kind of embarrassing.

Really embarrassing, as far as he is concerned. Sitting in the dust, having a panic attack like some kind of teen.

He tries to rationalize what happened, but there’s not much to rationalize, really. Not when he knows, deep down, that he hadn’t been all that far off the mark. Not with the way Shimada had behaved during the last visit.

Cole closes his eyes and inhales deeply. In… and out. Wait a few seconds. In, and out. He can feel himself coming back to his own body. He fumbles for a pack of cigarettes that is nowhere near as good as the cigars Shimada hooked him up with what feels like a million years ago, and lights it.

The first hit of nicotine calms him down further and helps tremendously in sorting out his whirling thoughts.

Get everything into somewhat of a coherent order. Maybe then he can figure out what the Hell happened to leave them like this?

Yeah. Yeah, okay. He can do this.

Chapter Text

It’s getting dark outside now and Cole is still nowhere near to understanding what happened. As far as he is concerned, Shimada had been all up in his ass – pretty literally – for the whole duration of his stay. Hell, the asshole pup had not allowed him any clothes until the very last moment at which he had shoved them with a petulant scowl into Cole’s arms.

He’s allowed him to… well, not fuck him, but dominate him, and that amongst all other things had stuck with Cole in the past months of complete silence, wondering about what had happened.

Cole hadn’t pressured him into any of that shit. Not as far as he was concerned. His checks on reality weren’t all that frequent, he’s easy to admit, but as far as he can remember, he’s been actively trying to slow the pup down and not let him get away with his horny brain.

So he is… suitably sure that it hadn’t been anything that he had done. Everything that had happened had happened because Hanzo had wanted it to. Because Hanzo had actively bullied Cole into it.

Hell, the pup had even gone so far as to make some guys fix his damn arm. And two days later he’d gone radio silent and never again spoke a single word to Cole.

His head aches at the thought. He tries to wrap his mind around it but just can’t. He can’t help but feel like a huge piece of the puzzle is missing.

Partway through, Cole had been absolutely convinced that Hanzo had died in some freak accident; maybe directly after dropping Cole off at the airport. But the fact that the Shimada never told them that their contact person actually was no more, kind of clued him in that that couldn’t quite be it.

And now Hanzo is here. Looking very handsome and very regal. And very alive with not a single hair out of place.

Cole frowns into the setting darkness. “What the fuck,” he whispers, a stream of gray smoke curling out of his mouth as he speaks. At his right boot are five smoked butts and his packet is woefully empty.

Feeling much calmer, but nowhere close to satisfied with the current situation and the answers he has – being none – Cole slowly pushes himself up into a standing position. He grunts, rubbing the circulation back into his aching legs and cursing his age.

As he waits for his body to settle back into feeling like his own body, his brain suddenly produces a thought: He’s just no longer into you. You’re old and he’s young. You always knew this would happen.

And Cole did. He had known, but for some reason that simplest of explanations had not come to him until this sudden moment of clarity.

And it sucks. It hurts. But for some reason, it is easy to accept. Because it makes sense. He knows what he looks like, even though he hasn’t been looking into a mirror lately.

He exhales long and throws the last cigarette butt down into the dust, finally coming out of his hiding place. At least he feels better than he had when he crawled in there.

Crawled into your hiding place like a little kid. Goddamn, get a grip old man.

He grins crooked and with not much mirth. Looking about, he finally decides that the bar was as good as any other place and he could at least get drunk while getting fucked.

.o.

The pup is there.

Cole’s step slows minimally as he sees him sitting at the edge of the bar, his dark suit seemingly pulling the color out of the surrounding world. He looks… foreboding, and that is exactly what his aura projects around him.

There are only a handful of guys in his general vicinity; most of them the guys that had been assigned to him in the first place. People that are just high-ranking enough and have just enough people skills that they were deemed the most competent and less likely to fuck things up with the young Alpha.

They were all crowding around Cole’s usual spot, but he did not put up a fuss, quietly turning on his heel and moving toward the other end of the bar.

He is quietly relieved to find that seeing Hanzo sitting there still ached, but wasn’t giving him the same kind of anxiety that had been brewing in his gut during the time he had been half convinced the pup was dead.

His little introspection has helped that much, at least. It’s easier to accept the truth: that he’s simply become uninteresting to the virile, young man.

“Where’ve you been the whole day, you asshole?” someone asks gruffly, clapping him hard on the back. He half-turns, giving them a crooked grin. He glances down, half reaching toward the Alpha’s crotch to fumble his fly open when he realizes that that is not being asked of him.

The other guy flags the bartender down and actually gets Cole a beer, then sits down next to him and doesn’t pursue this further. It’s an odd enough occurrence to give Cole a pause, but he rolls with it easy enough, mumbling a thanks and sipping on his beer.

He’s stupidly aware of Hanzo at the other end of the long bar. Not long enough for Cole’s tastes. He watches him from the corner of his eyes but his head starts hurting after a while, so he just lets it hang low and focuses on relaxing his muscles bit by bit.

He’s got his beer clasped in his left hand but the sight of the thing suddenly makes his stomach roil uncomfortably, so he lets it drop underneath the bar and grasps the cool bottle with his other.

The bar seems less loud than usual. Less rowdy; less posturing Alphas that stink up the place and get into pissing contests over the smallest of grievances. They seem to be tip-toeing around to some extent; giving the young Alpha at the bar a wide berth still. Not daring to breathe too loud.

Cole has heard their comments during Hanzo’s last stay; how they thought he was just a stuck-up pup that really needed to be shown his place. How they just barely kept in check to not give him the same treatment as their old resident whore because he was pretty as they came and just aggressive enough to put their teeth on edge.

This time seems… different, though; and now that Cole is paying attention to it, he realizes that that is not just a figment of his own imagination paired with his overall… feelings toward the young man.

Things are changed. Hanzo is not only exuding his usual cool indifference that had made Cole want to crack him in the first place, but something else entirely.

Something dark and aggressive and borderline feral that makes the hair on his arms stand on end and has his stomach tying up in knots slow and uncomfortable. He chances another glance down the length of the bar, staring at Hanzo’s profile.

The Alpha’s expression was stony, his dark eyes staring unblinkingly ahead. Not a splotch of color was on his cheeks. He looked dead for all intents and purposes and Cole felt inexplicably sick.

What was going on?

Chapter Text

Tonight was a night of many realizations. Cole can’t say that he necessarily enjoys that. He’s fine being a drunk, fucked-out mess most of the time, but his little stint in his hideout had assured that he is neither and that means his senses are sharpened enough to pick up on a few things.

Hanzo’s growing animosity toward the general ruckus around him being one. The lack of guys pulling him onto their cocks another.

It’s not that they are not horny; but they are not horny towards him, which is such an odd thing to experience that his first instinct is to feel betrayed. Somewhere in his back and to the right he can hear the soft, breathy grunts of Florian as he got fucked by a gaggle of the guys.

It doesn’t become overly loud or aggressive. It almost seems… amiable; the way they treat the young Alpha sandwiched between their bodies. Like they were trying to get a favor out of him instead of the other way around. Like they had to ask for permission to put warm, gooey loads into his belly. Not the way they behaved with Cole.

As if it was their god-given right to fuck him over. (Which it was, for all intents and purposes.)

Cole stares at the label on his half-drunk bottle. He’s been nursing it for so long that it’s started to become tepid. He’s stopped obsessing over Hanzo for the moment and instead turned his attention to the sounds behind him.

Flo always sounded on the verge of giggling. He couldn’t really make out the exact words he was saying between taking gulping breaths of air and sucking nice, fat Alpha dicks, but it sounded like he was flirting with them.

He’s just thoroughly enjoying himself, being pushed from one cock to the next, taking knot after knot and still asking for more. The perfect little whore for these guys who coo at him like they aren’t all a bunch of fucked up assholes just struggling to stay alive.

And nobody is paying attention to him. It’s like they’ve lost all interest. Which… should be great, right? Right. Except that he doesn’t have any other job other than spreading his legs and sucking dick and suddenly he finds himself wondering if he’s going to get kicked out soon once the boss notices that nobody wants to dick the old resident whore down anymore.

And then he starts thinking about the pup again and how humiliating it is to know he can see and hear and smell how the guys are circling this new virile Alpha in their midst like sharks while Cole is tossed to the side like unwanted trash. He at least knows Hanzo well enough to know that the other definitely noticed; and he can’t quite tell how to feel about that particular twist of shame that follows all of that.

Cole frowns, nail scraping against the label on the bottle, eyes narrowing as he inhales the thick scent of sex mingled with the oppressive stench of too many Alphas in an enclosed space. Yeah, fuck, his mind is not playing along today. He should just… get out and get some sleep.

“Damn, Shimada has been sitting there like a fuckin’ statue the whole night. Who put a stick up his ass, huh?” The drunk whisper is stupidly loud; especially when the surrounding guys quiet down real quick, staring in unease between the stiff-backed Alpha at the bar and back to the guy that is gesturing vaguely with a sloshing glass toward him. “Someone died? Huh? Fuck, this ain’t no fun. Where’s… there! Yo, Cassidy! Didn’t you fuck him silly last time? What’s up? Go and take care of your missus!”

Cole feels his back going stiff, the sweat that had been gathering between his shoulder blades turning clammy and cold within seconds. He turns his shoulders up to his ears, then relaxes when he hears the answering bark of laughter from the guys around. The atmosphere seems to loosen up, leaving him wondering if none of the other guys can feel the sweltering pit of rage forming on the other side of the room now.

Or maybe they just try to really ignore it and pretend like it isn’t happening. He’s studiously not looking at Hanzo as he turns around on the stool and leans back against the hard edge of the bar. His crooked smile is in place and he thinks he might look like he’s calm and self-assured and didn’t have one big anxiety attack the whole damn day.

“I’m too drunk for any of that shit,” he drawls, playing up the slur of his voice, though he keeps his knees angled apart, meaty thighs a blatant invitation that he doesn’t even consciously think about. It’s just second nature at this point; being available. Making himself look horny and like less of a problem than he could be for all the Alphas currently stacked inside the warm space of the bar.

His grin slowly slides off his face when he realizes that he shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have reacted in any way at all so the guys would just push past the moment and move on to their next target.

As it was, they zero in on the issue. Someone grabs Cole by the shoulder and gives him a friendly jostle. “Don’t be fuckin’ dumb! You ain’t gettin’ a prettier piece of ass around here. Fuck knows the guy can use a good dicking.”

“Hey Shimada!” Cole feels himself growing pale as one of the drunk fools turns toward the seething young Alpha at the bar. He’s kind of fascinated, in a watching-a-train wreck-unfold kind of way how much guts they got to be talking to Hanzo in the first place. He’s still not quite looking at him but from the corner of his eyes he can see that the stiffness with which he had held himself the whole evening has shifted into something more sinister. He seems to be almost vibrating on the spot, trying to keep himself in check.

Cole wonders where all that ire comes from. This mindless rage. He can taste it on the back of his tongue, thick and oppressive and it makes him sick to his stomach.

The drunk fool from before continues: “You should try him out! Seriously! We didn’t use him all up this time around; kept ‘im nice and pristine for you!”

“No, fuck! Why’re you offerin’ Cassidy? Shit. Come on. He’s our esteemed guest. Hey, babe… go on and show him a good time.”

Cole watches as they push Florian out from the circle of half-dressed Alphas. The young man is taller than Cole and lanky but with some fine muscles that are on display, shifting beneath his naked, cum-slick skin as he walks through the bar, wholly unselfconscious.

He’s a pretty lad. The guys take care not to rough him up too much. Cole’s eyes follow him as he goes and his mechanical arm twitches for some reason. He looks away again as Florian approaches Hanzo.

Actually… he doesn’t want to see any of that. He starts to get up, almost tripping over his own legs as the bar suddenly explodes in violence.

Chapter Text

There’s a crash and a thud and Cole whips around, one hand shooting to steady himself against the edge of the bar to see Hanzo has shot up and off his stool at last. He’s got his palm wrapped around Florian’s throat and has him slammed against the top of the counter, the young Alpha’s back twisted in a way that makes Cole’s own back muscles spasm briefly in sympathy.

That one would bruise.

The bar falls completely quiet as everyone stills, just as surprised by the sudden outburst of violence as Cole is. The silence is interrupted by the low, rumbling growl pouring out from Hanzo and the choked almost puppy whimpers coming from Flower as he claws at the hand around his throat, trying to dislodge the fingers. His face is already turning an alarming shade of red from lack of oxygen.

Through clenched teeth, Hanzo grits out: “Never touch me again. I’m not one of you sick fucks. Are we clear?!”

His gaze briefly flicks over the other Alphas collected, his eyes looking like two black holes sitting in the middle of his face. Completely void of anything like sympathy or human understanding. Cole shudders, his nails digging harder into the soft wood he’s clutching at. Hanzo looks unhinged.

His eyes fall back on the other young Alpha in his grasp, and, realizing that he’s making it difficult for the other to reply, he marginally loosens the grip he has on his throat. The answering confirmation that yes, he’s understood, loud and clear, sorry, sorry, sorry – is accompanied by a whole show of submissiveness; little whines, eyes turned away, his chin tilting awkwardly to show off a throat that is already being attacked.

Hanzo’s lip lifts, showing off his canine in an aggressive display of complete disgust. He suddenly lets go of Flower as if burned by his skin and shakes out his hand for good measure before standing up straight and making first sure his hair, then his clothes are in perfect condition.

Once more he looks over the Alphas present. They’re all some varying degrees of drunk and dumb, but none of them is dumb enough to make a peep and try to stand out of the crowd.

For a split second, Hanzo’s soulless glare lands on Cole. He doesn’t have enough time to react one way or the other before the connection is lost as quickly as it had been established, Hanzo’s face pulling into an odd little micro expression before he turns on his heels and makes his way out of the bar, his temporary retainers scrabbling to follow after.

Cole is the first to move, peeling off the bar and crossing the space in four long strides, though a few minutes later he wouldn’t be able to tell how he made it there when he’d not been able to even feel his legs. He peers out of the window as behind him the Alphas finally thaw from their tense positions and start murmuring amongst themselves.

Cole can see Hanzo standing in the light thrown out by the bar, not acknowledging any of the men awkwardly standing around him. He’s pulling out a pack of cigarettes, shakes one out and lights it before he starts to walk away with oddly jerky motions.

His hands had been trembling hard enough that he hadn’t been able to light the smoke on the first try but Cole does not think anybody noticed.

.o.

Cole is a dumb fuck, but he’s not that dumb. He knows when to keep his eyes and ears open and just be good and aware of his surroundings, and in the coming days, he’s doing just that. Being not dumb under the veneer of a useless drunk bastard that is slowly getting his purpose pulled out from under his fat ass by a pretty young thing that can do what he does – only far better.

He’s got a lot of time on his hands. When just a few weeks before he’d be stumbling from one cumdrunk asshole to the next, he now barely has to give out a handjob or two in a day, leaving him to just sit in the shadow, quietly sweat in the Texan heat, and watch.

It should be relaxing, he supposes. Like some kind of vacation because he’s also stopped doing the few other chores he usually should be doing and nobody was getting on his case for it, but… well. It doesn’t feel relaxing at all. It doesn’t feel like a vacation. It doesn’t feel like people are letting him off the hook just for the shit of it but because something will be happening soon.

He can feel the eyes of the other Alphas but whenever he throws them a crooked-toothed smile, they only wave him off and are on their way. Not staying to mingle and to talk, just… existing. Watching. Appraising.

Cole feels queasy. He wishes the other shoe would simply drop, but it doesn’t. So he is stuck pretending like he doesn’t know something is off and something is about to happen, and just watches Hanzo. Trying to figure out what’s up with that bundle of nerves and anxiety is a job in and off itself.

Once he’s gotten his bearings and calmed himself down from the odd barrage of emotions upon seeing him after such a long time, he can say, objectively, that something is up with the pup. The way he moves and talks is downright mechanical, his scent tightly reigned in like he doesn’t want even a molecule of his touching up to anybody outside his bubble.

It’s not entirely outside of his usual MO, but it’s dialed up to a degree that is plainly ridiculous.

He’s been closed off and apprehensive when he noticed Cole coming on to him all that time ago in the hotel they met in, but he’s been calm and self-assured enough to just go with the flow and dominate the other Alpha.

He’s enjoyed it. Cole had been able to see that without needing to second-guess himself.

Now, though, there’s not that simple standoffishness of a young Alpha not wanting to seem weak and never having thought of fucking another Alpha. It’s something much more volatile. His little stunt in the bar had been plenty impressive. Nobody dared to mouth off in his general vicinity; Florian kept a wide berth and usually just fled the scene upon the faintest trace of the foreign Alpha.

Cole doesn’t try again to step into Hanzo’s space or get the other to notice him, but he is also not scurrying away like a little animal sensing a predator. He just watches and assesses and wonders when that sweltering tension is going to rip open wide.

.o.

In all the time that Clint had been the boss of them now, he and Cole had come to… an understanding? Something like that?

Cole behaved and Clint would not fuck him up.

They’re fifty and sixty now and have been doing their little song-and-dance for a good thirty years. It works. Cole hasn’t lost any more limbs to the hard-as-nails Alpha.

He’s still scared fucking shitless of him.

Especially when he just stands there, his face rigid with a frown, his hands hidden behind his back where Cole can’t fucking see what he’s up to.

“Ah, Cassidy. Just the man I’ve been meaning to talk to. It’s a good evening tonight, right? Clear sky. Not too hot.”

He smacks his lips, pretending to think for a moment, then jerks his head over his shoulder. “Come.”

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When Jaskier finally manages to peel Gaetan’s pants off all the way and ducks his head past his spit wet cock to instead nose beneath his heavy balls, Geralt can basically see the cogs starting to turn in the other Alpha’s head. He’s been downright sweet for them; just quietly growling out his groans, staying nice and placid and letting the Omega service him without trying to take control.

Geralt is not so naive as to think that the behavior doesn’t have in large part to do with the fact that Gaetan is injured. He keeps vigilant, ready to restrain the other if he were to suddenly get shocked out of his stupor by Jaskier’s warm tongue laving warm and needy against his hole.

He is not prepared for the softest little whine to slither out of the other witcher’s throat.

He bites the tip of his tongue to not make a sound. Hands moving slowly, he grasps Gaetan’s throat, fingers just the gentlest points of pressure petting along the skin and feeling the constant sub-vocal Alpha rumble slipping from him. He looks and sounds confused… but his body is all on board for Jaskier slipping his hands beneath Gaetan’s legs and pushing them up enough that he can lap at the other Alpha’s secret little hole.

Jaskier is trilling again. He sounds so damn satisfied with himself. So happy to feel the tension draining from the hurt Alpha’s body; downright addicted to making them feel good.

Gaetan whimpers again when Jaskier shifts; presumably fitting one of his long fingers into the Alpha. Geralt is fascinated. They have yet to find an Alpha that was so good for them; not posturing and struggling and denying the obvious pleasure he felt at getting his sweet little hole opened up by an Omega.

Jaskier pauses suddenly, his head lifting, mouth and chin glistening with spit. His eyes look animalistic but also calculating as he stares at Gaetan. It takes Geralt a second longer to notice his smell as well – and damn was Jaskier’s nose sensitive. There’s the soft tendrils of distress creeping off from the other Alpha. It’s just sour enough to make Geralt’s mouth flood with saliva.

He swallows thickly, his hips angling up, pressing the warm bulge of his erection against Gaetan’s naked ass.

Jaskier tilts his head. His bicep flexes and Gaetan throws his head back against Geralt’s collar bones as the Omega slowly pumps his fingers through the clench of his desperate body.

Jaskier flicks his eyes up to Geralt. They stare at each other for but a moment before Geralt understands what the Omega wants. He gives him a little nod – and begins to move.

Gaetan struggles briefly, then hisses in pain from the wounds. Jaskier no-doubt will tend to them in a bit; but first they need to satisfy that animal need inside them.

“What is… what are you-” Gaetan fights them just as long as it takes him to realize that Jaskier has presented for him, his pristine powder blue pants down around his knees and no longer as pristine; ass up in the air with slick visibly glistening between the furry cheeks. He’s got one shoulder on the ground and twists just enough to peer at the Alphas behind him.

His trill this time is not airy and light but low and throaty and amorous; urging the Alphas to come closer and take him. Knot him. Breed him.

Gaetan does not ask for permission but he gets it anyway by way of Geralt simply letting go of him and watching the injured Alpha awkwardly crawl closer. He’s pushing through the pain that his body must be in, not showing much more than a mild wince whenever the ripped muscles on that side have to work through their ache.

Despite it all, he does not want the pretty Omega to see him off-kilter. Geralt smirks privately, hands working on the bindings of his own pants. He keeps a careful eye on the both of them. While his earlier assessment of Gaetan not appearing to be aggressive still stands, he is not willing to risk Jaskier when he is this obedient and in such a vulnerable position.

Just like Jaskier before him, Gaetan’s first move is not to mount up and fuck but to bury his face between the Omega’s hairy cheeks and find his slippery hole nose first. Interesting.

Geralt cocks his head slightly, fingers light on his erection as he circles it and thumbs the tip; gathering slick and slowly spreading it across the warm, silky skin of his shaft.

Jaskier seems surprised – as well he might be. In all the encounters Geralt had carefully watched him have with Alphas, none of them had used their tongues on him; not for more than a perfunctory swipe to check his general readiness and coat the insides of their mouths with the fragrant, thick slick he generously produces.

Gaetan growls softly, hands fluttering about Jaskier’s hairy thighs, then carefully grasping on to them as he pushes in even deeper. The sound of his tongue and lips against the Omega’s warm little pussy are delightfully wet. Messy smacks of kisses and sucks and self-indulgent licks that quickly have Jaskier singing for them in a whole different way than he usually likes to do.

Geralt’s quiet little smirk becomes wider as he shuffles closer to the both of them. He hesitates for a moment, gaze traveling along Gaetan’s bend-over form, eyes taking in his grip that he has on Jaskier. He seems completely spellbound by how open the pretty Omega is. How eagerly he angles himself back and trills and simpers at him as if they’d been mates for years.

Deciding to take the risk, Geralt leans down and wraps his arms around Gaetan’s hips, cock slotting in against his warm little behind.

Time stills as the other Alpha lifts his head, Jaskier dripping from his chin in slow, stretching strands of glistening slick. He turns his head just enough to watch Geralt from the corner of his eye, his feline pupils pulled together into thin, aggressive slices. He is instantly wary, though Jaskier crooning at him and cutely ducking his chest down against the ground like a playing kitten somewhat distracts him from whatever immediate violent outburst might be lurking underneath his skin.

“What are you playing at, master Witcher?” Gaetan asks softly, his voice barely audible above the low growl rumbling in his chest.

Geralt does not immediately reply; not with words, at least. He hums low and gives his hips a slow roll, dragging his cock between the other Alpha’s cheeks, letting the yet soft folds of his knot brush against his sweet little hole.

Gaetan stiffens further in his grip but he has yet to lash out at him, which is a good sign, Geralt decides as he gently curls himself about the smaller Alpha’s back and hooks his chin across his shoulder so to whisper into his ear: “Jaskier is enamored with you. I think he would like to tend to your… wounds… for a while longer yet. And I do not mind having you around us. At least until the next settlement. And maybe…”

Maybe longer. He does not say it but the meaning is clear.

He waits for Gaetan’s decision as Jaskier is growing more restless by the second; trying for pathetic and horny in a ditch effort to get the Alphas’ attention on him.

Gaetan is quiet, gaze shifty; but he has yet to buck Geralt off which is a good sign.

He waits patiently.

Chapter Text

“And in return for your little… pack… you wish to mount me?”

Gaetan’s voice is odd; there is aggression laced into his words but he still has his hands on Jaskier, mindlessly petting and trying to soothe the Omega as he makes more and more of a ruckus.

Geralt hums low with a growling little edge to it. As sweet of an Alpha rumble as he can manage – which is not much, he is the first to admit, even without Jaskier’s many assurances that he sucks at this.

“He and I are a packaged deal,” he murmurs. No sugarcoating it. He can tell that the other Alpha appreciates it even as he is stuck in a stalemate. Geralt is quiet and Jaskier is not. The Omega is making a soft little ruckus that becomes harder and bigger as the Alphas fail to tend to his need.

He tries to twist around, his voice put upon despite what he is saying: “Then let me at least dress your wounds, good grief-”

He’s not allowed to go anywhere. Gaetan curls his arms in a bear hug around his middle and hectically pulls him in, closer, underneath himself.

Jaskier yelps, his fingers leaving tracks in the dirt where he tries and fails to grasp on to something.

Geralt can relate to what the other witcher is feeling. That desperation to connect. The intense loneliness gaping in his chest and the many years of training that insist that it isn’t sitting right there.

They’re in an odd little configuration; three people slotted into each other with Geralt as the biggest and sturdiest of them, ranging large and protectively above the other two.

Jaskier whimpers, the sound gone hoarse. “Fuck… you’re so close… please, just-”

He probably wriggles, trying to finally slip that warm Alpha cock where he needs it most.

Geralt inhales deeply, rubbing his cheek against Gaetan’s. They’re in a stalemate. He waits, anticipation prickling down his spine and sitting warm and itching at the small of his back. His cock flexes slowly, dripping pre-cum against the small of Gaetan’s back in turn.

Finally, the other Alpha relaxes minutely. His head tilts. Submitting.

The desperate skin hunger has won out.

Geralt rumbles low and approving. He shifts his arms, still wrapped around Gaetan’s waist and drags his fingers between Jaskier’s cheeks to gather a generous amount of his silky slick against them.

Jaskier whimpers in anticipation.

“Very good,” Geralt praises in a low voice. “Have at him.”

It’s a good sign that Gaetan waited for the permission. A sign that he could actually… fit. Nice and obedient. Right between them where he needed to be.

Geralt listens to Jaskier’s melodious whine as the Alpha slowly slides into him and brings his slick covered fingers between Gaetan’s cheeks. Gaetan growls as he feels the warm petting sensation across his nervously clenched hole, but the exhaustion from the massacre and wounds sustained keeps him docile. Has him shuffle his knees apart just so in an almost meek offering of himself.

Geralt smiles with a quiet, close-lipped uptick in the corners of his mouth. His fingers are slow and gentle as he pushes them into Gaetan’s overly hot body. He did not anticipate for it but he is setting the rhythm by which the other Alpha mounts his Omega. His Jaskier.

No matter how loud Jaskier becomes; how desperately he begs for more, harder, deeper. Gaetan has his head tilted in an odd way, somehow attempting to attentively listen to the Omega he’s mounting and also keep a watch for Geralt as he opens him up slowly with patient strokes of his thick fingers through the slowly loosening clench of his body.

Gaetan’s mouth falls open on a reedy little whine. His eyes look wet for a split second before he closes them against scrutiny and whispers: “...Alpha…”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry.

Jaskier’s incessant yammering suddenly cuts off. There’s quiet, only filled by the hesitant chirping of birds before the Omega suddenly changes his tune. His voice becomes throaty and a bit rough around the edges as he coos at the Alpha on his back.

Geralt watches as Jaskier half-turns, trying to press kisses against Gaetan’s cheek. Assuring him that he is fine. That he feels so goddamn big inside him. The line almost makes Geralt snort but he refrains from it. It’s worked on him more times than he likes to admit. Just something primal gripping him right by the cock.

Jaskier is sensitive; he can feel the loneliness and distress dripping off the Alpha in their midst. Geralt can see it too; it’s pretty plain at this point. A little embarrassing of a Witcher of Gaetan’s status, but… it has been a long day for the Alpha.

Geralt shuffles into places. Jaskier’s borrowed slick is like silk, aiding the slide into the other’s intensely hot body beautifully.

Gaetan grunts, stuck between the cooing Omega stroking his ego and trying to smooth ruffled feathers and the foreign feeling of having another Alpha mount him.

He’s growling but it sounds half-hearted; body clenching nervously as he tilts forward on his knees, away from the thick cock and unwittingly pushing deeper into Jaskier’s silky hot insides.

Jaskier gurgles. His arms seem to give out because Gaetan is tilting forward suddenly as well, his growl becoming high-pitched and puppy-like for just a split second. His hands shoot out, palms slamming onto the grassy ground to brace himself and push back up; right into Geralt’s warm, firm bulk.

Geralt hooks his chin once more across the other’s shoulder and growls; not in a threatening way; more just a low rumble that shudders through the other Alpha and keeps him unmoored. Whimpering.

Gaetan cuts it off, probably biting his tongue to do so, but his body betrays him even so. He carefully, almost shyly, tilts his hips up into Geralt’s breeding and Geralt rewards him with another few inches of cock, pushing into him and forcing him back into Jaskier.

They find a rhythm. Or more like Geralt finds it for them; fucking nice and slow and patient, pushing Gaetan into their little service Omega and listening to Jaskier going dumb and cock drunk in just a few delicious thrusts that have him drooling and trilling in a gurgling kind of way.

Like he is about to choke on his own damn tongue. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Gaetan is making precious little sounds. He’s wheezing mostly; just trying to keep somewhat upright and not completely bury Jaskier beneath his bulk. Jaskier tries to purr for him but that, too, gets choked out by everything else.

The both of them come before Geralt gets close. That is fine. He would not have subjected Gaetan to a knotting anyway; not when he is already aching and confused by everything else.

But he lets him have Jaskier; lets him growl and posture and bury himself so deep in his warmth that it might be just enough to make him forget the massacre for a moment or two. Maybe have him think of home.

Just like Geralt promised, they would escort him into the next settlement. But he hopes that by then Gaetan will have made up his mind to come with them indefinitely.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“You’re lucky that you’re cute. And a bit hot. I like the whole… MILF thing you got going for you.” Velvette’s words are softened around the edges just that little bit that Husk realizes with a sense of relief that she is drunk.

Maybe after all these years his luck is actually starting to crawl back to him, pleading for fucking forgiveness. As it should. He swallows thickly, gathering his wits about him. He’s here to do a goddamn job; and listening to Valentino’s laughter slicing through the atmosphere and the crackle of Vox’ electricity, the other two are doing their’s already.

Time to step up.

“Just a bit hot?” Husk croons. He’s not sure what Velvette even thinks he is. He’s not trying to change his voice in any way and he does not think the way he holds himself is particularly feminine, but she seems interested nonetheless.

Her eyes flash and her prettily neon-painted mouth stretches into a wide grin. “Oh. There we go. Got a bit of personality in you after all, huh? What’s your name, pusspusspuss?”

Husk swallows thickly. He’s not… necessarily thought so far. Being the drunk recluse that he’s become, neither of the Vees would probably realize who he was from sight alone, though his get-up sure as fuck helped diffuse any lingering recognition. His name might ring more alarm bells, though.

“I ugh… well-” his eyes fall to the thick glass in his palm and he says in a slow cadence, realizing how dumb it was even as it came over his lips: “Whis…key…”

One of Velvette’s finely sculpted eyebrows rises. Her head turns slowly, eyes following Husk’s gaze and staring at the glass in his hand before turning back to look back at him in a dead pan kind of way that has him wincing internally.

“MMhhh… sure. Whatever you say, mommy.” She reaches up with a hand and while Husk still reels at being called ‘mommy’ of all things, she curls her hand around his throat and forces him to tilt his head back. “MMhhh,” she hums again. He can feel the vibration of it through his body; only because she is suddenly plastered against him, he realizes, his tail flicking nervously in the corners of their eyes. “Your fur is nice and soft. The color could be helped a bit, but… mmmhh are you trembling? Are you afraid or turned on? Cute little kitty cat.”

Husk’s head is swimming. He tries to growl; wants to tell her that she should make up her damn mind if he were a ‘mommy’ or a ‘little kitty cat’, but he wisely doesn’t say a thing. All that comes out is a weak hiss that settles low in his stomach in humiliation.

Fuck, are the others at least succeeding in raiding the Vee’s files? Would they find Angel’s contract? He doesn’t know what he’ll do if all of this would be for nothing.

Velvette stops grabbing at his throat. Instead she fiddles with something there and Husk remembers dimly that Angel wrapped a silky choker around his neck, tittering something about how it flattered Husk or something. He had thought at the time that the other was just full of shit and was tormenting him with the same end goal as Alastor: to humiliate him.

But carefully peering down at Velvette’s interested face now, he realizes that maybe Angel did have the right of it.

A second later, Husk is jerked forward. He grunts, alcohol sloshing over his fingers and heart rate kicking up into overdrive. The sensation is so alike to being yanked around on Alastor’s chains that for a second his wide, panicked eyes flick around wondering if his master was anywhere in sight.

But no… it’s just Velvette who is now cooing at him, her fingers framing his face and carding through the creamy pale fur of his cheeks. The pressure around his neck is still present. “Awww kitty… don’t look like that. Did I scare you? Tsk tsk tsk. Here… I’ll kiss it all better.”

Why is the sensation still pressing in around him? It’s like an invisible finger is hooked into the front of the silk choker, keeping him bend forward and toward Velvette who only needs to slightly stretch her back so she can press her neon painted lips against his mouth.

Husk’s eyes fly open. His first instinct is to snarl and push her away, all his reactions these days focused on keeping Angel Dust at bay; but as if sensing his burst of aggression, his clothes shift around his body and suddenly press in on him from all sides as if a huge invisible fist had taken a hold of him.

It’s not painful. To be quite honest it is kind of… comforting. The pressure from everywhere keeping him nice and down and forcing him to stop his feeble struggling. Mind still reeling with everything that is happening, he lags behind to really react to what is happening.

Namely that he is getting kissed. By Velvette from the Vees who he is supposed to seduce. Or, apparently, the other way round? The fuck even is this?

She smells fruity and warm and slightly chemical, though he supposes that is the neon make-up she is wearing. Not that he’s an expert in these fucking things…

Velvette grunts softly, her fingers moving so there are eight sharp points of pressure digging into Husk’s cheeks through the thick fur. “Focus on me,” she hisses against his mouth.

He tries to bristle but his clothes are pushing in again and this time it does have a decidedly threatening edge to it. His wings jerk involuntarily before he quickly tucks them against his back once more.

Velvette’s lips are feeling a little slick against his mouth; some type of gloss that is quickly sticking to the sensitive fur there. As she pulls back for a little breath, his tongue darts out on pure reflex, lapping at the mess. It tastes like fruit, too. Cherry. So intense that it fills his whole mouth in just a couple swipes of his tongue, sticky and sweet and overwhelming.

Velvette is so close, he can feel her breath ruffling his fur as her fingers become once again gentle and pet across his cheeks as if nothing had happened a second before. “There you go… good kitten,” she purrs, then dives right back in before he can think about it more.

The cherry coating his mouth is crawling down his throat. He can feel it wandering into his belly and slowly spreading warm and saccharine throughout his body. Velvette keeps pressing in, kissing him, pushing him against the wall.

There’s a thick thud and the sound of shattering next to them as his hand goes lax and loses its grip on his glass but nobody is paying it any mind. Velvette seems to feed him her lipstick; her clever little tongue lapping at the seam of his mouth to get him to open up before licking across her bottom lip, swiping away the thick, juicy gloss there and pushing it messily right between his sharp teeth.

Husk groans softly, his tongue flickering helplessly and hands slowly settling on Velvette’s hips.

A calm, detached part of him wonders what is happening.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Tim is squirming as hard as he can in the arms of his jailer, but there is not much he can do. Not when he is getting all dumb and floaty in his head, the fuck hunger crawling through his veins despite him trying his best to push against it.

To keep himself sane in the insane situation he’s found himself in. He’s losing despite his best efforts and the frustration has tears prickling in his eyes, his teeth grit and his legs trying to kick out against the huge man’s legs.

The guy is holding him in a bear hug, crushing Tim’s arms to his sides and leaning back for good measure until Tim’s feet are no longer even brushing the ground and he’s just uselessly wriggling in the air.

“Let… let go of me,” he hisses through grit teeth. His voice sounds choked with tears which he hates as well. He does not want to sound so upset.

“Shhhh,” the huge guy is whispering against one of his ears. “Ssshhh, don’t struggle now. The boss doesn’t want you to be so upset. I don’t want you to be so upset. Shhh, cute little cow. Neddie is going to be so sweet to you. I’m gonna make you feel so, so good. You’re hungry, right? Right? Boss said you shouldn’t fight it. It’s only natural. Cute little calf. Shhh.”

Ned is an absolute behemoth of a man; huge with meaty, muscular arms and a curiously triangular, small, bald head on his broad shoulders. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Tim had noticed that early on; but he is smart enough to not step a toe out of line of his insane boss’ instructions.

Tim is biting his tongue, half hoping that if he bites it through, the pain might startle his body out of its cravings. Or he might choke on his own blood. Or die from blood loss. Or something.

But Ned is too intelligent for that, too, wedging thick fingers encased in a sturdy protective glove first into the corner of Tim’s mouth and then wiggling them between his teeth to stop him from self-harming.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Ned says gently, his breath ruffling the hair on top of Tim’s head. It’s warm; just like the rest of him. His big, warm body pressed against Tim’s back. The way he effortlessly holds him in the air as if he weighed nothing. The promise of his big fat cock pressing into the small of Tim’s back and distracting him so… so much.

He blinks profusely against the tears in his eyes, sniffling. He’s trying so hard not to cry, but the frustration about his situation and his own body’s betrayal is leaving him feeling impotent and he hates that.

Ned keeps his fingers between his teeth and is slowly stroking across Tim’s tongue. It’s stupid how comforting that is. The feeling of something thick and blunt in his mouth. How that little bit of stimulation already gets him drooling and his insides to feel molten.

“You’re fine,” Ned tells him softly, petting Tim’s tongue and rotating his whole body slowly left to right, rocking the calf back-and-forth. “You’re so, so fine. Just don’t fight it. Be a good boy. I just want to help you through, right? Right.”

Tim closes his eyes tightly. He doesn’t want to, but his body goes practically belly up for it. Ned pets his tongue a couple more times, pulls his fingers out, watches how much drool is glistening on his glove, and hums in a very satisfied way.

Tim slowly finds himself getting lowered onto the floor of his cell. Because that’s what it is. No matter how much Ned and his fucking boss try to tell him its his special calf room.

His very special room where he can get fucked to his heart’s desire and slowly but surely be made into a cow.

(Not as slowly as it should function. If he actually were wanting to become one. He’s never considered it, but being a calf, he’s been educated throughout his life. He knows how these things are supposed to go. Careful modifications. Slow introduction to the system.

Consent.)

Ned moves his fingers slowly in Tim’s periphery. He can see the unnaturally thick drool stretching into strands between his index and thumb and he hates how the sight alone is getting him hot.

From the cell adjacent to his, he can hear the constant ruckus become louder. There are no ceilings here; the not-so-abandoned factory has been put up in a hurry and is easy to take apart. He’s figured it all out in the two days he’s been here but frustratingly can do nothing about it.

The walls are too slick and high to climb. And they are careful in constantly manipulating his body, keeping him weak and dumb and helpless.

The calf in the other cell has been moaning for a while now but something must have changed because the cadence of their voice shifts into the decidedly desperate and downright frightened.

Ned pauses. Tim can feel him going still behind him and turns his head a little too see the giant of a man is staring with a thoughtful expression at the dividing wall as if he was able to see the other calf through it.

Tim grits his teeth, forcing himself to be quiet and not disrupt whatever thought process was painfully going through the goon’s head. He almost whispers a harsh ‘yes!’ in triumph when he feels himself slowly getting lowered towards the ground, Ned muttering: “I should see what this ruckus is about…”

But instead of just leaving Tim be, he suddenly hefts him again, practically clamping him like a sack of potatoes underneath his arm and dragging him toward the fucking machine in one corner of the room.

Tim, being a calf, has seen and experienced a myriad of machines throughout his life. This one… he hated this one. It felt like it came from the middle ages. Some ancient contraption, rusty in places and rattling worryingly beneath him when it got really going on its highest setting.

He starts to immediately fight it, but there’s not much he can do. Not with the artificially induced fuck hunger coursing through his veins, and Ned patiently trying to soothe him through it until he seems to get fed up and just mutters his trigger phrase.

It’s not a hard shift in his psyche, the phrase only just having been established during an impromptu hypnosis session, but it is enough to have an additional haze to the fuck hunger settle across him.

Tim is relegated to a quiet, horrified, angry onlooker in his own mind, watching himself get haphazardly strapped into the machine, his hole already slick and relaxed for the silicone cock pumping into him.

Ned promises to be back for him in just a second.

He’s left to his own devices, held in place, fucked by the rattling, groaning machine as Ned hurries to the other room to see what the calf there was getting up to.

The worst thing is that he leaves the door to Tim’s cell wide open, knowing that the calf won’t be able to do jack shit in his current condition.

Tim hates it here.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Ned steps into the open door to Tim’s cell, his forehead pulled into wrinkles in as thoughtful of an expression as he can muster up.

Tim bares his teeth at him, though the effect is probably somewhat diminished by the fact that he’s still getting pushed around by the machine steadily dicking him down and the subsequent puddle of pre-cum and slick that has gathered beneath him.

Ned shakes his head eventually and exhales on a sigh. On the other side of the wall Tim can still hear the Milk Man murmuring softly but he has lowered his voice considerably so he is not able to make out what exactly he is telling the other calf.

“That was very naughty,” Ned tells him. He comes inside and grabs his thick gloves from where he’s tucked them into his belt. He pulls them on while looking Tim over critically. “You are a very naughty cow, Timmy.”

Tim bristles and pulls his lips once again from his teeth. He’s growling but the sound warbles out of him due to the goddamn fucking machine. It is driving him nuts.

“I’m only speaking the truth. You’re both fucked in the head. No- don’t… don’t touch me!”

Ned has come to stand beside him and has a hand now curled beneath Tim, large palm easily cupping his left pectoral. His forehead is still pulled into those ludicrously thoughtful wrinkles as he shifts his grip a little, not paying attention to the struggle of his victim and carefully pinching one of his nipples.

Tim’s mouth drops open in shock at the intense feeling ricocheting suddenly through his body. Neither just pleasure nor pain, just… feeling swamping him with heat and oversensitivity and taking the breath right out of his lungs.

He’s so focused on that that he does not even notice the fucking machine finally being turned off. His insides are tingling and feeling swollen after hours and hours of penetration. His eyes fill with involuntary tears that he hectically blinks away.

He’s not going to cry. Of all the things that will or will not be happening in his time here, he will not fucking cry. He forbids himself to.

Ned hums thoughtfully. “Still no milk. But plenty sensitive. Well… we’ll just push your session ahead a bit, yes? You seem pretty restless. Don’t want you getting agitated and hurting yourself, do we?”

Tim blinks a few times but the whole place is tilting on its axis and swimming in front of his eyes. He clenches them shut to try and stem the nausea once Ned pulls him off the fucking bench and rearranges him in his arms to carry him bridal-style.

“F-Fuck you,” he manages to choke out but it’s so soft and Ned doesn’t react in any form that he isn’t sure he even said it out loud and didn’t just imagine it.

Tim tries to blink his eyes back open and see what’s going on around them, where he’s being taken, but everything is still tilting and saliva is gathering thick in his mouth, threatening him to loose the odd soft lunch that they get fed here.

When he opens them again it is because he’s being sat down somewhere. He looks around, his hands that are no longer bound behind his back, immediately going for the walls of the… cabin he finds himself in. It’s dark and so close that he can barely lean a little to the side before his shoulder touches the wall.

Ned is standing before him, blocking out most of the light as he carefully curls restraints around Tim’s thighs. Immediately the darkness makes him queasy, his stomach still not having settled from the last bout of nausea.

“What is this?” he asks with a shaking voice. The walls he is touching are cool and so slick he is sure he wouldn’t be able to climb them. Grayson wouldn’t have a problem with it. The bitter thought comes and goes before he really registers it.

Ned answers him unexpectedly before he can dwell on whatever it is his psyche is doing at the moment: “It’s a special little chamber. We can fill it with the hormonal slick. It’ll get things going faster.”

Tim blinks profusely. He watches as first his right arm and then his left get gently pulled down onto the armrests of the chair he is on and fixated much like his legs. He is too overwrought to really fight against it. His brain feels swollen to the point of it lagging behind considerably.

“What?” he finally asks, dumbfounded.

Ned’s face creases again thoughtfully as he finally steps back. “I can’t explain it very well,” he says apologetically. “I can get you the boss if you want him to tell you?”

“No,” Tim says quickly. His whole being revolts at the thought of the Milk Man getting anywhere near him. He looks up at Ned, the lights high up in the factory ceiling are right behind his stupid little bald head, blinding Tim.

“Alright,” the faceless giant in front of him tells him still with that same unfailingly gentle lilt that sets Tim’s teeth on edge. “Try to breathe through it, okay? The boss said that they kind of stopped this little chamber after only a couple test trials. It’s… overwhelming? But very effective.” Ned turns his shadowed head around in what looks like thoughtful consideration. He lifts a hand and gently pats the side of the chamber. “Means we got some brand new equipment for once!”

That is… true. None of the other stuff is looking anywhere this futuristic or is this rust free, but here they are. Tim musters a mirthless grin. “Fucking lucky me, am I right?” he hisses.

The sarcasm goes straight over Ned’s little triangular head. Or maybe he just ignores it in favor of pulling the door securely closed, his voice coming through the thick glass muffled: “Only the best for our to-be cows!”

.o.

Overwhelming, Ned had said. Overwhelming wasn’t even the half of it.

The second the ‘hormonal slick’ is being pushed into the chamber, Tim realizes what is going to happen. The smell clues him in immediately; that faintly sweet, weirdly fruity fragrance. A little bit like strawberries maybe? Or cherries?

He’s smelled it before; in one of the few calf rooms that he’s used during an unusually aggressive bout of fuck hunger. They’ve had a tube of that stuff there, designated as lube. He’s read through the packaging because he’d be caught dead before he just smeared some unknown substance on his body, nevermind anywhere around his dick or - at the time - sweetly aching hole.

Stimulating. Healing. Used in top cow factories to facilitate the process of genetic engineering!

Tim’s stomach drops. He tries to lurch up and out of the chair but is immediately reminded of the restraints holding him down. His heart rate picks up a notch, pulse feeling like it is hammering right behind his teeth.

From somewhere outside his cell he can hear Ned’s voice floating over: “Easy now! It only just started! Calm down or do you need me to sedate you?”

No. No sedation. The thought of getting fucked around with while unconscious is scarier than anything these fucks could actually do to him.

Tim closes his eyes and tries to breathe through him, that sweet fruit scent permeating his senses.

He can do this. He can.

Chapter Text

The slick doesn’t have any intelligence – it’s just fucking sophisticated lube – but it feels like it does. It feels like there’s invisible… things on his body; licking up his shins and brushing against his knees and sucking on his goddamn toes.

Tim has his hands curled into fists and is fighting against his bonds with vehemence long before the thick goo is finally creeping over the edge of the seat and is touching his swollen, overworked hole. His eyes go huge and his mouth opens wide but he’s… kind of sure there’s no sound coming out? He wouldn’t bet money on it.

The liquid creeps up into him in a way that makes it feel like it wants to be there. Like there’s an eagerness to this stupid fucking lube as it moves past his unresisting rim and starts to fill his intestines warm and tingling. He can feel it coating his swollen walls and starting to work its healing magic and he hates how enjoyable it feels.

It coats his balls and soothes them from their damn ache since being incarcerated in this place. He’s been trying so hard to fight the creeping orgasms with only partial success.

His dick is next. He whimpers, trying to lift his hips and shift them away, give himself more time to figure things out and wrap his head around it, but the bindings around his thighs keep him secured to the seat.

Tim’s mouth drops open again once the viscous gel coats his cock, his tongue lolling out when the first silky touch starts to creep into his goddamn piss slit.

“F-Fuck,” he whines, high-pitched and embarrassing. He clenches his eyes shut but only for a second before he realizes that the darkness makes this much, much, worse, so he rips them open again. His chin hits his collar bone and he stares down his body, watching the unrelenting rise of the goo. It feels like thousands, millions of mouths on his skin; lapping, suckling, all too alive.

His body looks so normal just sitting there but the feeling is driving him quickly up a wall. Especially as it feels like he is getting fucked in the oddest, most passive way possible and his cock is tingling from the inside out.

“Stop!” There’s a pathetic cry ricocheting through his temporary cell and it takes him a few seconds of wheezing breaths to realize that he was the one begging. The goo has reached his ribs and is still steadily rising further up. Once it laps at the very bottom edge of his pecs, Tim cries out again: “Stop! Please! Puh…” he tries to choke down a sob, his arms trembling as he keeps fighting against his bindings. “Stop, please…” he repeats with a crack in his voice.

He moves his torso forward because that’s the only motion he can still do but when that briefly dips his nipples beneath the level of the thick goo, he throws himself back again, knocking the wind out of his own lungs.

“Stop!” he cries out. “Stop it! Let me go! Stop it!”

His ears ring from his own cries. He can hear Ned’s voice distantly; dulled due to the chamber Tim is currently sitting in, only furthering this sinking, horrible feeling of total isolation.

There are once more tears itching in his eyes and he blinks them away desperately. His earlier mantra sitting at the forefront of his mind as he feels the thick slime enveloping his chest. It feels like there are twin mouths wrapping around his nipples and lovingly suckling on them.

I’m not gonna cry. I’m not gonna cry.

The need does somewhat recede but instead he can feel himself come. Just like that. Without warning; without him having the possibility of stopping it. He’s simply coming and his body shakes through it, eyes rolling into his head.

His head thumps back against the contraption. The pain radiating through his cranium helps a little bit to keep him in his own head, but not by much. In a way it makes it just that much worse because he is aware of how helpless he is. How he can do nothing but sit there and let himself… let himself…

Let himself get molested by some slime.

Tim bites his lips hard enough to draw blood. It starts dribbling down his chin at which point there’s a soft crackle of a speaker and Ned’s voice floating down to him from wherever: “Shhh… calm down. Don’t you feel so good right now? Don’t you feel better? Just don’t fight it, okay? The boss said that this would really help you. Like prepare your body. You know. For the modifications. How does your chest feel?”

Slowly, Tim pulls his teeth out of his own flesh and pulls his lips back to show a mirthless, bloody grin. “F-F-Fuck you,” he stutters out through his clenched teeth, hands balled into fists.

He will not answer their questions. He will not be complicit in what these sick fucks are doing. But fuck… fuck, his chest. His chest.

It’s on fire somehow while being submerged in the silky soft lap of the thick slime enveloping it. It feels like just with his cock it somehow found tiny little openings through which it could press itself right into his body.

Which could not be, obviously. But when he looks down, his chest does… it does look bigger. His heart pounds faster, mouth going dry. He does not know what he’s panicking most about: The swelling of his pecs and the odd sensation that goes along with it, or the fact that the slime is still rising and the sickly sweet fruity scent is so close and cloying that it makes him want to vomit.

Just when he’s about to screech that he’s about to drown, the goo finally, finally stops rising. It’s lapping at his collar bones, completely enveloping and caressing the rest of his body.

Ned said that the people who had developed this torture chamber had only done a couple of test trials before deeming it too overwhelming, and he can absolutely see it. He feels like he is in need of crawling out of his own skin.

He’s come but his cock is still desperately hard, pulsing and hot-yet-cold, and his chest feels swollen to the point of pain. His nipples are plump and look downright inflamed when just five-or-so minutes earlier, they had been so completely, absolutely normal.

He’s biting his lip again but not as hard this time. His mouth is trembling and there are tears pricking his eyes yet again. He’s such a cry baby. He’s such a… such a cry baby.

Tim clenches his eyes shut, willing himself to calm down and breathe through it but that calm, detached part of his realizes that he is actively having a panic attack.

He tries to remember what he read about those; how to help other people. He doesn’t know whether he can just force himself through it. It’s not like he has a lot of options right now. It also doesn’t help that thinking about his little extracurricular reading sparks that same kind of vague embarrassment in him that it always does.

What… you think you can help Batman? Be his new little Robin? Are you training for the possibility?

Tim whimpers into the echoing silence of the chamber and starts to rock back and forth; the only self-soothing motion he can do at the moment, despair gnawing at his insides.

Chapter Text

~*~ 4 days, 1 hour, 32 minutes ago ~*~

~*~ 32 minutes before the abduction ~*~

Tim winces when he pushes into his apartment and, subsequently, into the muggy air inside. He drops his gym bag to the floor and hurries to throw the windows open. It does not give a lot of reprieve but the night air is still soothing on his flushed face when he stays for a moment and just breathes in.

There’s the sound of car horns close by and the wailing of sirens far off but those are sounds that don’t even register to a true Gotham citizen. Tim stays put at the window for a while, just not thinking anything in particular.

He’s pushed himself in the gym today and he can feel the delicious lethargy that came with it but he also knows that his muscles will be screaming at him the next day.

It’s worth it to stay in shape, though.

Stay in shape for what? that mean little voice in the back of his head croons. For Batman?

Tim flushes and pulls back from the window. He turns resolutely away and starts dragging his sweaty gym clothes out of his bag and chucking them into the hamper. He tries to keep resolutely not thinking about anything but now that he’s standing in his tiny bathroom and realizes he’s got more time on his hands before he has to go to bed, it becomes inevitable to consider his possibilities.

He could read a few of the books he brought just to… just to broaden his horizon, but the thought makes him feel embarrassed even in the quiet of his own apartment.

Through the open window his gaze is suddenly drawn to the ominous night sky. There’s the bright light of the bat symbol hanging bold against a few dark clouds. The sight immediately has his throat constricting as he is reminded of the last time he’s seen Batman on the news. He’s looked wrecked. Alone without a Robin.

He’s been drunk, another voice muses. He has not been able to shake that one either. The thought of Batman being depressed and self-destructive and drunk on the job makes Tim queasy.

But it’s not like he can do anything.

It’s not like he can walk up to him and offer himself as the new Robin.

“Okay… fuck it. Food,” Tim mutters under his breath. He grabs his keys, stuffs them in his pocket and stomps back out of his apartment to go and get something from the supermarket. Just get his mind off of shit.

~*~ Present ~*~

The panic is not subsiding. He keeps moving back and forth but the sensation all over his body keeps prevailing and he can’t see a way to get out of the situation. He wants to crawl out of the goo. Hell, Tim wants to crawl out of his own damn skin right now.

He turns his head to try and bite at his arms, get some form of sensation that isn’t the prickling fullness of his rectum or the pathetically sensitive swell of his pecs, but he can’t really reach anything, so he has to keep biting at his cheeks.

It helps somewhat, coupled with the back-and-forth motions. By the time the door to his cell is ripped open and Ned grabs at Tim’s jaw to pry his teeth apart, Tim feels a bit floaty and out of it.

“Bad cow. Bad,” Ned mutters. His forehead is pulled into those ridiculous frown lines again. He’s hissing, letting go of Tim’s face and starts to wipe hectically at the goo that is clinging to his clothes from him standing in the wave of it sloshing out of the chamber.

“You’re not supposed to hurt yourself. You did so well until now.”

He reaches for Tim’s head again but Tim lets it roll to the headrest, his muscles feeling curiously lax, his head warm and foggy. After the intense sensations of the panic attack, he is now just… floating.

“How are you feeling?” Ned asks him as he undoes the bindings that had cut deep into Tim’s skin. Tim opens his mouth thoughtlessly and a small wave of thick blood dribbles out and over his chin from him biting at the insides of his cheeks and his tongue.

He replies, though, to the surprise of both Ned and, ultimately, himself: “Good.”

What’s even more surprising is that he means it in that moment. He’s just… floating. Lax. His body feels hot and full without being fucked for one damn second.

Ned looks at him weird; like Tim is the deranged one and not him and his fucking boss.

“Can you stand?” Ned asks him softly, circling Tim’s wrists with his huge, meaty hands.

Tim’s face twists and he wants to tell him that ‘of fucking course you idiot!’ but he is yet again surprised when his knees suddenly buckle as Ned pulls him up on his feet and instead of just… like… standing there, Tim’s knees immediately buckle.

His legs feel like jelly. His whole body feels unresponsive. He tries to muster up the panic that should come with it but he must have completely tuckered himself out in the chamber just now because his brain is still just soft and floaty and everything reaches him at an odd delay.

Ned lifts him wordlessly up into a bridal carry and only when they’re halfway toward the cells that house the calves does Tim grunt and knock his head into the asshole’s chest. At least that’s the intention; what comes out is just him rolling his head, his mouth throbbing vaguely in pain.

His head lolls forward, bloody chin against his collar bones, staring at his chest because it’s right there and there is nothing else to do.

It looks… bigger than before. Even outside of the slime. His nipples are puffy and still tingling in a very distracting and vaguely upsetting way. In a this-feels-sexual-when-I-don’t-want-to-feel-sexual way.

Tim swallows thickly, stomach roiling when that only fills it with more blood. He groans, mouth hanging open, everything aching.

Ned looks at him in that weird way again. He sits him quietly down on the bench of his fucking machine because there actually isn’t any other surface in Tim’s cell to sit or lie down on. He’s expected to get fucked at every moment. Waking. Sleeping. Eating.

Tim sits there, slumped in on himself, hands slowly moving to touch his arms that are tacky and sticky from the slime.

He loses some time then, sitting there, floating, because when he’s touched at the shoulder and Ned tells him softly to ‘open up’, he does so without thought, lifting his head and only then noticing that Ned has gotten a large syringe from somewhere.

He lifts it and puts the blunt nozzle against Tim’s lower lip before squirting the see-through content right into his mouth.

“Don’t swallow it,” he says far too late because he’s a goddamn idiot. “It’s no problem if you do, though. It’s not toxic. I got more.”

His huge hand moves to cover Tim’s mouth before Tim’s brain registers that he’s begun to gag and try to spit out the exact same slime that he’s been sitting in just moments before.

Ned smiles crookedly and says as an explanation: “Healing qualities.”

That doesn’t mean Tim will just take it, though.

Chapter Text

Tim is trying to fight it but his own body is betraying him. Try as he might, he just can’t shake himself out of the odd cotton-y sensation that has enveloped him. He’s not even thinking any thoughts; not really. All that does happen is he is feeling things, all of them unpleasant, and all of them centering around the fact that he’s getting his mouth held closed while it is filled with the slime.

The ache has subsided almost immediately, replaced with an odd hypersensitive tingling that has his cock lifting like the stupid, brainless thing that it is.

He doesn’t want to swallow the slime. It tastes just like it smells: sweet and overwhelmingly fruity. His stomach roils, clenching hard enough that some of the goop actually is dribbling out from his nose and starting to choke him.

Tim lifts his hands, intent on clawing at Ned’s arm to rip his hand off his mouth but all that he manages is to vaguely hold on to it.

“...What is happening here?”

Ned’s hand vanishes. Tim leans forward and opens his mouth. He does not puke; the whole mess just simply falls out of him as he starts to catch his breath. Then the voice registers and his eyes flick up to stare at the Milk Man.

He’s an odd little man. Short and skinny in a way that Ned is huge and hulking. He has a mild-mannered, kind of sharp face that reminds Tim of a rodent because he does not want to admit that the bastard is handsome. He does not want to admit any positive qualities. Like that he looks very put together and his dark eyes have a way of looking sympathetic as if it wasn’t him specifically that put Tim and the other calves through this ordeal.

He doesn’t want to admit that his words have a habit of getting under his skin. That he’s effortlessly charming and that it doesn’t surprise him that a fucking idiot like Ned would follow him into this whole mess. (Nevermind that he must be paying his idiot goon cold, hard cash.)

Tim tries to say something but his mouth still isn’t operating quite like it should be and his body is actively struggling against him trying to pull himself out of this odd headspace.

Ned is gesturing a bit helplessly at him with one of his large hands. He gives off the air of a child trying to tell their parent that they weren’t the one responsible for whatever fuck-up happened.

“I put him in the new machine and he got himself so worked up, he started bitin’ his tongue off.”

Milk Man frowns. He looks thoughtful, not moving an inch from his space right inside the door. He has his hands folded behind his back and while Tim is reasonably sure he does not have a weapon back there, he still feels threatened. He can’t help it.

“I see. He acts very… odd right now, though, doesn’t he?” Milk Man says with that gentle cadence. He looks like he is worried and Tim feels sick. He gathers more of his saliva and spits it out on the ground because it still tastes like that slick. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to eat fruity treats again – but the ache in his mouth has miraculously vanished.

“Yeah,” Ned confirms, scratching the back of his head. “He just kinda stopped all of a sudden? Got all… uh… soft.”

That for some reason makes Milk Man’s face light up. His mouth stretches into a wide grin, dark eyes flicking from Ned to Tim who shies away before he can force himself to stay still and stoic.

He frowns, annoyed with his own treacherous body.

Milk Man finally takes a step forward. He pulls his arms from behind him and gestures in the air, clearly excited by the development as he says: “Is that so? Fascinating. Wonderful! Did you use any of the trigger phrases?”

“Uh no. Kinda didn’t have much time to implement ‘em yet? Don’t think he’d react to ‘em much.”

The ratty face lights up in excitement, dark eyes glittering as he rushes forward, his arms outstretched like he wants to pull Tim into a hug.

Tim, despite the softness that has enveloped the edges of his brain, recoils, his arms coming up in defense. Still, Milk Man grasps him by the shoulders, his hands overly warm on his skin as he affectionately squeezes him and leans down until Tim can see that there are goddamn freckles on his nose.

He hates them. He hates them and he hates this goddamn asshole that looks so excited it makes him twenty years younger.

“You wonderful, wonderful cow-to-be! You are exactly what I am talking about here! This ease with which your body complies to its natural conclusion! It is yearning for its ideal state of being; so much so that it puts you into a subspace simply for finally getting offered what it needs to change. No-” he corrects himself, frowning as his gaze slides away from Tim and up above his head. He’s staring into the middle distance as he slowly rights himself back up, his hands still grasping a hold of Tim’s shoulders. “It’s not a change. It is a… it is a development. You and all those other wonderful calves. You all already have inside you what you need to become more. To become whole.”

Tim presses his lips into a tight line. He wants to jerk his arms up and knock the disgusting hands off of himself, but his body is too sluggish for anything so grandiose. Instead he just weakly pushes Milk Man off and the other, too caught up in his own fantasy, lets it happen.

“You are insane.” His voice is more steady than he thought it would be. The words sound so garbled in his head that he does not think they will even be understandable, but the serene expression on Milk Man’s face shifts a little and he finally glances at Tim’s eyes instead of just his general… everything.

“Pardon?”

Tim swallows. He pushes himself into a bit more of an upright position from the slump he had been in, though that very distractingly rubs his ass against the hard bench he’s on. His hole feels perversely swollen, the puffy rim and insides prickling still from the slick clinging to him.

“You are holding us all against our will. You are doing something wrong and you don’t even realize it. So you are insane. And, like every other insane, evil fuck, you’ll get what’s coming to you. Sooner or later. Batman-” now it is his turn to bite his lips and shut the fuck up, a sick feeling of shame curling through his abdomen and settling up high in his chest.

Milk Man looks intrigued. “I am not hurting anybody. The only people hurting here are you calves. You hurt yourself. Both literally-” he gestures at Tim’s current position and the blood still caked to his chest and chin, “-as well as simply by being born this way and not getting the needed help to realize your full potential.”

He looks sympathetic then. Honestly sad.

“Batman sees it, too. The work I am doing. Or else he would be here right now, right? Yes. Just… relax and accept.”

Tim, stewing in anger, would never.