Stealing_Kneecaps

In 2012 I painted the top image: Rise

BloodyMary comic based on "It's Worth It" by HulkJanitor (me) on Ao3.

They wear suits, but they don't even know basic etiquette.

bruise.

Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.

Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.

"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—

"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.

Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"

Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.

You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."

Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"

You've never seen an alpha react like this.

You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.

....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.

At night, when the phantom-sounds of gunshots and screaming get too loud, he curls the string around his fingers and stares at the striking red. On days where konig wants to love anybody but himself, he holds that red and sends it all his love.

A promise there's someone out there who would hold all the ugly, terrifying parts of him and love him anyways. Love all of him.

He doesn't notice when it happens, caught up in the middle of an op. He leaves base with a red string, and sometime between then and returning back it's...gone.

His soulmate dies before konig can meet them.

He...loses himself a bit. Who would want him, who would love him if not you? He can't cope without that red string.

No one comments on the bracelet konig wears constantly nowadays. It's striking red, beads reflecting a deep wine in the sunlight. When he feels stressed, angry, bad, he runs his fingers over the bracelet.

bruise.

bruise.

Which is how the team ends up cramped in the back of a van, knees knocking together and bodies tense from the way you've been...coping.

"Baby, please, hold on a bit, yeah?" Kyle grunts, sweating nervously on top of the general heat in the van. Of course the A/C is broken. He grabs your hips, trying to stop you from straddling his thigh and failing miserably "base is a few hours out, then I can help. Just...not here."

"Hours. Kyle." You hiss, wrenching his hands off to grind against his thigh and hissing through your teeth at the pleasure "fuckin. Hours. I'm not waiting."

"I know, I know baby—" he tries to soothe, already chubbing up at the desperate little whines you make, still fully in gear while you seek pleasure. You tuck your forehead against his neck, inhale the scent of him, strong after such a long op and easier to focus on amongst the smell of the others.

The others, who make no attempt at being polite while they watch. Soap is already rubbing himself through his pants and ghost looks moments off from pulling himself out. Price snorts at the half-effort gaz puts into pushing you off, head tilted back and breathing deep to try and control himself.

"Let the sergeants have some fun, garrick. Not like we haven't seen soap do worse."

"That's— that's different—" gaz tries to argue, knowing damn well it isn't. Not when you're holding gaz tight, hips working faster as you find a good spot against his harness to rut against. "Fuckin' hell–! ...okay. okay, yeah, c'mon baby—"

You're all too eager to climb into his lap properly, whining when he drags you hips away to undo various buckles. With a laugh, ghost leans in to help hold you still until gaz can shirk your pants down just enough to slip a hand into your underwear.

"Yeah? Feel good?" Gaz huffs at the way your entire body jerks, one hand circling around his wrist like a vice. No way in hell is he removing that hand until you're satisfied.

It's a testament to how well gaz knows you that he's able to have you on the brink in a few short minutes. Fat tears rolling down your face in anticipation. Your orgasm has you gasping, moaning loud and unashamed while you ride it out, entire body shaking. Gaz kisses you on the temple, lets you down to rest against his chest "there we go, that's what you needed, hm?"

....only for you to groan, hips moving again, much to the shock and excitement of the rest of the team.

Penetration does not equal submission. The simple thing of ‘having a penis’ and then going ahead and sticking it in somebody does not equate to that person’s submission.

It is not a sword. I will not keel over just because you inserted it in me.

And so, I sincerely think you should consider:

—A Jason Todd who may be inside you but he’s crying and whimpering and whining the entire time and he just can’t help it. He wants more, he wants less, he wants to breathe but he doesn’t want to stop. He needs commands—genuine commands in order to do anything more than give uncoordinated thrusts of his hips.

—A Dick Grayson being forced to have sex with a man—his brother, as in, you—either by ‘bad guys’ or through sex pollen means. And who ends up riding him ‘till the poor thing breaks.

—An omega Tim Drake who sure may be in heat and who sure is in his nest with you but he isn’t trapped here with you. You’re trapped here with him. Because Tim is nothing if not a planner.

—A Damian Wayne who was so sure he knew what he was doing then ends up having to have you teach him everything after he cums inside you far too quickly.

—A Bruce Wayne whose son found out they were attracted to men a little too late in life but is too scared to try and bottom so Bruce then offers to properly teach him how to properly have sex with a man.

You both meet in a mer sanctuary, you having been rescued from an aquarium going bankrupt and ghost under treatment for a boating strike. You've never seen another mer before, but the strange creature in your tank undeniably is one, that much you instincts tell you.

But....but he's so big, bigger than anything you've seen before! You doubt he could ever comfortably fit in your tank! Just looking at him makes your fins flutter nervously, hiding in the rocks on the shelf built into the pool.

He keeps peeking into your cave, chirping and churring in a way that makes your instincts perk but you don't really understand. Safety? Pod? You don't know.

Meanwhile, ghost is losing his mind.

This strange mer is too damn small, and he keeps trying to ask "are you okay? I'm safe, did they hurt you?" But all it does is squeak like a pup and hide!

Ghost can't fit into the tiny cave with the mer, and his instincts are already freaking out because he's separated from his pod! He needs to protect the weird pup!

....how the hell the workers intend to care for you when ghost is at risk of drowning anyone who tries, they have no idea.

The only problem? You have no clue what is and isn't socially acceptable for a werewolf to do.

The guys aren't exactly sure how to tell you that obsessively sniffing everyone's clothes is...weird. creepy. Because you being creepy is better than remembering the way you screamed during the transformation, right?

So they let you curl up in gazs hoodie, taking a sniff to mutter "woah, I like this. You smell so good, gaz."

It's worse when you decide to do it in public, still getting used to your new heightened senses. You don't hesitate to cuddle up to soap, astonished by how warm he feels, nose tucking into his neck. Cedar, cinnamon, gunpowder and his distinct musk all filling your nostrils.

Your instincts, too, are completely out of your control. You bark and whine and huff whenever they tell you to, even when it's considered...taboo to indulge in certain instincts publicly.

Like play-biting on ghosts arms whenever they are vaguely within range of your teeth, similar to how gaz sometimes acts, but you don't mind doing it in the middle of a meeting. Though you're wiggling happily with a phantom-tail common in most recent transformations, so ghost does nothing to stop you.

Truthfully, the team is glad you're so preoccupied in your new identity. Too distracted to notice the way they've been acting odd, sneaking off more often either alone or in pairs, coming back smelling odd which only makes you want to sniff them more. They've all agreed it's best to let you figure yourself out first, what with how disorienting a transformation can be, especially one as traumatic as yours.

Because really, who was going to be the one to tell you that by werewolf standards you've been violently flirting with the entire team?

Not that he directly says it, but even an SAS operative is hard-pressed to hide the subtle flinch of touch from his fellow teammates at all times. Skin always covered, always positioned away from people, it's an unspoken rule that no one touches ghost unless mandatory.

So why the hell does he let you, the new secretary, get away with it?

"Oh, sir! Hey, I needed an updated copy of that file–" you'll catch him in the hallway, hand on his bicep to get his attention before you lose him in the crowd. The strangest thing? Ghost actually stops and listens carefully. No tensing up or glaring at all.

Or when you happen to be next to him in line for dinner, you have no qualms bumping your shoulder into his side in lieu of greeting with full hands, already saying "hi, sir! Yknow, I was looking over those reports, and I really appreciate how you—"

It's an absolute mystery to the team. How you ghost is more than happy to be practically manhandled by you in crowded spaces or simply casually touched in conversation. There's only one logical explenation.

Ghost has a crush.

After that, it just becomes more obvious. How he angles himself closest to you in a group. How he subtly leans into your touch on certain days.

Curiously, gaz asks you about it one day. A casual water cooler ambush, designed to look purely coincidental when he interrogates "oh, you and ghost talk often, don't you?"

"Hm? Oh, ghost? Yeah! He's a great friend!" You smile, all wide and unassuming. of course you have no fucking clue, because ghost is damn difficult to read even to trained soldiers. You go on to smile to yourself, fidgeting with the manila folder held against your clipboard. "I'm honestly shocked he tolerates me so much, what with being just some secretary. But he's nice to talk to, yknow?"

...and it seems you are just as horribly enamoured by him. How the hell neither of you has figured it out is beyond the team.

Only for him to end up rutting against the matress while you straddle the back of his thighs, pushing your whole body weight behind your palms to work out the tough muscle.

You never see John relax like this, groaning in delight when you push particularly hard at the spine. Every thrust of his hips has his ass grinding against your crotch, not that you mind when he's so soft and pliant.

You doubt your old man will be up for anything more than a nap after this but...doesn't mean you can't imagine all these delighted sounds in your room afterwards.

The shudder and high keen he lets loose when he cums in his briefs will permanently haunt you.

Well, he doesn't do aftercare for himself. John has the decency to wipe you off and make sure you're okay, you wouldn't keep coming back to him otherwise, but when you try to look after him? Complete shut down.

"C'mon, sir, let me take care of you—" you beg for the third time, giving price your best pleading eyes. You run your hand over the hair on his chest, one leg hooked over his waist in that way you know he secretly likes.

"I'm fine." He grunts, shutting down already. Tensing up, about to push you off and escape like he always does when you lean foreward.

"Awww, no fun, sir. At least a kiss?" You pout, holding his jaw and pressing your lips to his. The faint taste of smoke and whisky on his tongue, mixed with the flavor of you.

Price jolts suddenly, pulls back, eyes narrowed "what the hell did i just swallow?"

Your delighted smile is the last thing price sses.

....only to wake up...still in bed? But, no, the sheets have been changed, and price feels different. Mouth minty, teeth brushed when he runs his tongue over them. He smells clean, too, as if he took a shower. Not to mention how for once his knees don't ache to the core.

He narrows his eyes at the ceiling. His wrists are cuffed to the bed.

...there's a weight on his chest, fingers curling into the hair between pecs.

"Glad you're awake, sir. Have some soup cooling off for you." Your voice drifts up.

Really, price should have expected it. That the one person willing to sleep with him consistently is also willing to fucking drug him for the sole purpose of aftercare.