#implied future noncon

She dropped his chin, her fingernails raking against his skull as she ran them through his unkempt hair. "Take him to Alor. She'll know what to do with this mess. Then ready him in his chambers for my use."

I'm ... not being killed. The bag had only been concealing him. He let out a breath, and tears slipped out. He wasn't sure whether they were from dread or relief or sheer exhaustion.

He could feel Ochvlita's eyes on him. "You did wonderfully with him, Venja. Well done."

Venja preened, bowing. "It was my pleasure, my lady. I'll have his highness prepared."

Baltar felt as if in a daze as Venja refitted the bag and pulled him back to his feet. He shuffled along compliantly, weariness weighing him down more with each step. His sedentary rut had atrophied his body, and he was lightly winded by the time they arrived at their destination.

A damp heat curled against his skin, smoke and fragrance on the air, as they stepped through a doorway. Baltar was granted his sight again and he found himself in a tiled room with a lavish inset bath A smoking woman sat on a chair before a vanity with a young man at her side.

"Dovche's balls," she swore upon seeing Baltar. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Venja shrugged. "Clean him up."

The woman, presumably Alor, held a hand to her forehead in consternation. "Alright," she sighed, taking a long drag from her smoke. "Alright. Time to work." She twisted and snuffed the pipe out.

"I'll help," Venja said.

"No," Alor said, standing up. "Uncuff him and wait outside."

Baltar's heart thudded painfully and he went still, barely breathing. One did not refuse Venja.

Venja scowled. "He's under my supervision."

"I cannot work with your positively turgid aura hanging about," Alor proclaimed dramatically, squaring up against the man. She held out a slender hand. "The key, if you'd be so kind—or would you like to explain to our queen why her wishes have been delayed?"

Scowl etched deeper, Venja reluctantly produced a key. Alor's long fingers plucked it from his hand. "Far be it from me to interrupt with my turgid-ness," he said. "I'll be right outside."

Venja stepped out, leaving Baltar alone with strangers. Between the removal of physical support and the unknowns of the situation, he felt the loss of his chaperone keenly. He leaned his weight onto his right leg as his left knee's ache increased.

"What a loathsome man," Alor muttered under her breath, then turned a critical eye on the mess before her. "Now, darling, your hands." She took Baltar's hands, removing the chain linking them. She held it off to the side while still holding Baltar's left hand, and the unknown young man stepped forward to take it from her.

"Fingers are crooked," she murmured, taking his right hand for comparison while frowning. "Hm. Nothing to be done for it. Let's get you out of these clothes and into the bath." She pulled him by the hand.

Baltar followed her anxiously in a shuffling limp. The result of her command was clear enough but did she want him to undress himself or...?

"Can you—do you want—?" the young man asked, gesturing to Baltar's clothes.

Tears welled up in Baltar's eyes and a tremble ran through him. Venja made the decisions, and Venja wasn't here, and Baltar had no way to signal him, or tell these people the arrangement.

A long moment passed before Alor said, "Alright... well. Olire, undress him. Gently now."

As Alor took the decision away, Baltar let out a shaky breath of relief. Olire nodded and stepped forward, hands only a little hesitant to strip Baltar. The man froze when he saw Baltar's scarred torso. Alor took in a sharp breath as well.

His throat choked with tears again as they looked at his ruined body, hands shaking at his sides. The shame he had believed stripped from him still lurked there, waiting for new eyes.

Alor cleared her throat and Olire nodded at the unspoken order. He helped Baltar undress entirely, then wrapped a long rectangle of off-white fabric about his waist, presumably for modesty. Olire and Alor shucked their outer clothes as well, and were left in similar attire.

They guided Baltar into the bath. His foot slipped on the first step, but Olire and Alor caught him, supporting him the rest of the way.

Blissful heat enveloped him as he gratefully sank onto a bench beneath the water. Everything instantly felt lighter, and a content sigh escaped him.

"Cleaning time," Alor said, and the two of them began to work. Olire took Baltar's arms while Alor started at his head, collecting water in a basin and dumping it over him. Their ministrations, while brusque and efficient, had a gentleness he hadn't felt in an eternity; Baltar melted into their touch, particularly as Alor massaged lavender-scented soap into his scalp.

He flinched as Olire went over his ribs and his most recent scars, still painful to the touch. Olire started, hands falling from Baltar. "Sorry," the assistant murmured, using the softest touch to clean that area. Slowly, Baltar eased back into relaxation.

Once he was clean and rinsed off, Alor guided him into a chair. She combed through his hair, scissors at the ready. Meanwhile, Olire filed and buffed nails.

As bits of hair fell on Baltar's naked shoulders, an overwhelming heaviness weighed on him once more and tears slipped out. The man in the mirror, hollow and gaunt, was an ugly, wretched thing. Prince. What an ill-fitting name.

Alor dropped some oil onto his head, spreading it with a comb before using a hand towel to soak up the extra and tousle his reinvigorated hair. "That's better," she murmured, sweeping his shoulders clean with a soft-bristled brush. She paused afterwards, a couple of fingers tracing a thick scar. "Venja never oiled these or massaged them, did he?"

Baltar blinked and looked up at her, surprised to have been asked a question. Confused, he shook his head.

Alor's lips pursed and she set her tools down, glaring at the door. "Of course he wouldn't do something that doesn't directly benefit him," she muttered. "Then again, I wouldn't expect that troglodyte to know such things."

Olire caught Baltar's confusion, and explained, "The mistress asks because oil and massage can soften and flatten scars, which improves the look."

"More importantly in this instance, it frequently decreases stiffness and pain," Alor added, frowning. "I'll speak to Vian."

"The palace physician," Olire said for Baltar's benefit.

"But that won't be tonight," Alor sighed. She fetched a neatly folded bundle of clothes and set them in Baltar's hands. "Go ahead and dress."

Baltar complied slowly, the construction of the clothes not entirely familiar to him and his fingers struggling with dexterous tasks. Olire stepped in to help, and soon the prince was clad. The clothes improved his reflection somewhat, hiding his frail frame and the scars upon it. The clothes were roughly his size, but not incredibly flattering as they were not tailored to him.

"That's all we can do for tonight," Alor said, a hand resting on Baltar's shoulder. She glanced towards the door, hesitating before she looked at the prince through the mirror again. Quietly, she asked, "Would you like to stay here a little longer?"

The words caught Baltar by surprise, and he unintentionally met the woman's gaze in the mirror. The offer of a moment's respite wasn't much, and he could tell that she recognized that, but even the thought of kindness after so much cruelty was... overwhelming.

He hunched over, covering his eyes with a hand as jumbled emotions rose up within him. Do not ask this of me, was all he could think. She didn't understand what she was asking, for him to... to make that kind of decision, to actively decide to desire—to revive that part of him that was defiant, the part that did not yield to whatever Venja wanted of him.

Alor sighed above him, and he heard a striker. He looked up to find her taking a pull on her now-lit pipe. "He sure fucked you up good, huh?" She shook her head, blowing out a curl of smoke. "Motherfucker."

"Mistress?" Olire asked uncertainly.

She shook her head. "Nothing we can do, kid. Go tell Venja to come get him."

A moment later saw Venja's return to Baltar's side. He immediately ruffled Baltar's hair, as if to reclaim ownership over the things that had changed. Baltar leaned into the touch, anxiety abating with the familiar presence.

Set to one side, ignored, Stick wrings his hands as Master Richard crosses the room, to the part of the display that she does mind. The tray of tools is gleaming silver, ominous in any light. The tools aren’t all steel, but enough of them are to make her flinch when they roll beneath Master Richard’s toying fingers. She lifts one foot nervously, like a bird trying to find rest, and rubs her foot against the opposite calf. The gesture is so young, so unguarded, that it nearly brings her Stick to tears.

“Come here, girl.” Master Richard slaps his thigh like he’s summoning a dog, and Stick hates him then, with a bright white helpless intensity. The hate fades under the worry as he watches her rock to and fro on the balls of her feet, revolting against herself as her deepest ingrained impulses pull her both forward and back.

A loud, dramatic sigh has both of them balking. “Are you really going to be difficult? Come on now, Lily.”

The name has a magnetic effect. She takes one tiny step toward him, then another. “That’s it, Lily.” His voice is coaxing, soft. “Good girl.”

A small smile curves up her face, and it’s so genuine that Stick has to look away. He turns his gaze to Master Richard, watches the man scoop a serrated blade off the mirrored tray, still grinning at her as she approaches.

Seeing the flash in his hand, she freezes, and Stick wants to sing his relief. “Ah.” Master Richard makes a sad face, but Stick knows he isn’t sad. “So, it will be like that, after all.”

She doesn’t reply. Stick doesn’t either. Times like this, no one expects him to speak.

The knife dances in Master Richard’s fingers. He makes it play, makes it flash, makes it seem deceptively pretty in the warm glow of lamplight. Stick knows better than to be hypnotized by tricks like these, but she seems almost drawn in by it, eyes wide and fascinated.

She still won’t take a step forward.

Rolling his eyes, Master Richard closes the distance himself. She is too well-trained to flee from his approach, but then, she isn’t the one in danger, this time. No, it’s Stick who feels the cold press of a blade against his throat.

Across the room, she catches her breath, like she feels the kiss of steel along with him.

“Go on now, Lily.” The smile in Master Richard’s voice is self-evident. It doesn’t matter that he stands behind stick, his face out of sight. Stick knows he’s smiling, and what’s more, Stick knows which smile it is – the smug one, the one Master Richard wears when he knows he’ll get his way. As Stick watches, helpless to do anything but hold his breath, Master Richard does get his way.

Movements jerky as a marionette dancing for their master, she moves across the room toward the bench. She isn’t trained for pain. Not like Stick is. She isn’t trained for pain, and she isn’t meant for pain; she’s meant for sweetness and softness and only the best. If he could take the pain for her – if Master Richard would let him take the pain for her – if she herself would let Stick take the pain.

The unfairness of it makes Stick want to scream, but he doesn’t. He stands, still as a rock.

“Well, at least Greco’s doing his job,” Dennison says. 

James frowns and looks down at his shoes, noticing a bright smear of red blood across the polished leather. “You can kiss his ass while he’s getting Employee of the Month. I’m over here trying to make sure 501 doesn’t kill me.”

“Stop bitching. You know what she needs? To be thrown around. Show her that she’s not as tough as she thinks. We’ve been treating her like she gets all this extra shit because she’s oh-so cool and tough. Kick her around.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past week?”

“Try harder.”

James waves his hand at Dennison. “Go fuck off to vanilla Romantic land and enjoy your trainees who don’t actively try to kill you.”

With Dennison gone, James steps back inside the training room and locks the door. He turns to look at the girl kneeling on her floor. 

There’s a pole in the center of the room. Her arms are tied behind it, her torso is lashed to the metal with thick rope. Her calves are tied to her thighs, and each ankle is tied to the pole, forcing them to spread slightly. A thick leather muzzle covers the bottom half of her face, and the bit is cutting into her gums and making small drops of blood slip out from under the muzzle. She growls at James as he approaches. 

James laughs. “Can’t say you don’t deserve this. Don’t try to talk, it’s useless.” He crosses the room and sits down in a chair across from the pet. “You’re a Romantic now. Not a Guard Dog. Nod if you understand that.”

501 pauses for a minute, then jerkily dips her head down. 

“Good.” James leans forward. His phone buzzes in his pants pocket, a reminder to call his mom and thank her for sending over the photo album of their recent beach trip. But for now, all his attention is on the girl in front of him. 

Not really a girl, more of a mutt. An animal. Soon, a pet. She won’t be calling her mom tonight. The only photos taken of her will be from her owner, if he wants. James hopes they’re humiliating. He hopes 501 suffers. 

501 snaps at him, lurching against her restraints. 

It dawns on him all of a sudden, fast and overwhelming and delicious. “Oh, wow.” James taps his fingers against the arm of the chair and smiles. “What’s going on with you, 501?”

She makes a pathetic, muffled noise and lurches forward again. 

“You want me to touch you, pretty thing?” he asks. “Want me to hurt you? Cause that’s what you’re made to do, right? Take punches for your owner? Like a Guard Dog.” This revelation is life changing. She’s a natural, a natural masochist. Wonderful. 

501 nods, trying to yank herself free. 

“Yeah, no. Here’s what’s going to happen instead: I’m gonna leave you here, just like this. I’m not going to hurt you, 501. I’m not going to do anything. I’m just going to walk away.”

The pet’s eyes widen with shock. Her fear is palpable in the room and James drinks it up. He loves his job, man. He loves his fucking job. He stands up from his chair, circling the girl. Each attempt to free herself only makes the ropes tighter. He squats down, studying 501’s green eyes, brown hair. “Hunter was right. You are a pretty one. Guess I understand why he wanted you as a Romantic.”

501 takes a deep breath, as much as she can with the muzzle. Her head tilts to the side like she’s sizing James up. 

James chuckles. “Little natural masochist. That’s so cute.” He gets closer to 501, a mere inch from her face, and 501’s breathing is hitching and growling. “Good thing that’s what your prospective wants. But I can tell, you know. You like it, pretty thing. You like when me or Greco beats the shit out of you, don’t you? Maybe it’s cause you were a Guard Dog, it was your job. Or you’re just my little masochist.”

501 shakes her head. 

James pushes down his anger to study the trainee again. He likes to find out what his trainees are really thinking and use it against them. 501, she’s not the easiest to read, but James is good at his job. She’s confused. She’s scared. And she really, really doesn’t want to be here.

Not all trainees come of their own free will. 

And she only wants to be hit if it’s in a real fight, if she can hit back and go home afterwards. 

She’s never going home. She doesn’t even remember her home. 

James leans forward and kisses her, right on the muzzle. His lips leaves a wet spot on the matte leather. 

501 makes a horrible, strangled sound and thrashes her head back. Her skull makes a hollow sound as it strikes the pole she’s tied to. 

“You’re a Romantic,” James says, standing up. “You’ll need to get used to much worse than that.”

A single tear slides down 501’s face, melting into the muzzle. 

“You can try and be tough as much as you want.” James sits back down at his desk. “But it’s not gonna work. You’ll break for me. I’ll take all that useless anger rattling around in that empty head and turn it into something productive. Only one thing that you’re useful for, pet.” James delights in the shudder that rolls over 501. “You’re gonna sit there until you’re good and ready for me. And then we’ll start.”

James turns his chair to his desk. He likes having a trainee whimpering in the background, no matter how quiet. It helps him focus. He takes one last look at the wet spot on 501’s muzzle before opening his laptop. Fucking perfect. The feral ones are fun to break, 

He opens his laptop to an email reminding him about the confidentiality of 728501’s contract. 

Not all trainees come of their own free will.

"Now Whumpee, that's no way to act, I'm letting you clean yourself up. Don't I deserve some gratitude?” Whumper said, their voice dripping with venom.

Whumpee tried to spit a reply, but the gag muffled their retort. Whumper smiled and opened a heavy wooden door. 

"I had Henchman prepare a bath. I know how much you hate a hot bath and cold water is such a pain to keep cold, so this is perfectly room temperature.” Whumper said, letting the door close behind them. “Now, all we have to do is get those pesky clothes off of you.” They dragged their eyes over Whumpee’s body, staring at all the bruises and scars they’d made over the weeks that they’d had Whumpee. 

Whumpee stopped fighting and their eyes widened, their mind already creating horrible scenes for what Whumper was planning.

Whumper waved their hand dismissively, "Oh, don't worry. I won't have you here. I've got a much better place for when you're ready for that.” They folded a towel over the back of a chair and smiled, almost sweetly.

"Now take off your clothes or I'll do it for you, and I won't be as gentle as I have been."

Whumpee's hands shook as they pulled their shirt over their head. They took off their pants and stood in just their underwear and gag.

"Come now, Whumpee, you know I meant all the way.” Whumper said, walking up to Whumpee.

Whumper ripped Whumpee’s underwear off of them, their nails cutting into Whumpee’s hips and legs as they did so.

Whumpee screamed behind the gag and Whumper closed their eyes. "Do you know what those screams of yours do to me? It almost makes me…” Whumper slid behind Whumpee and embraced them, almost like a lover would do. Tremors shook Whumpee’s body as Whumper's hand traced circles over their chest, "Now,” Whumper whispered. "Let's get this gag off so you can scream properly. Who knows, you might wake Henchman."

Whumpee heard a soft “click " and the gag fell around their neck where it stayed.

Whumper, still standing behind Whumpee, lifted Whumpee at their waist and carried them to the tub. They nipped Whumpee's earlobe with their teeth and whispered, "If you're good, I'll leave you alone tomorrow."

Whumpee shuddered but stayed still. Whumper gently put Whumpee in the tub and grabbed a washcloth. They wiped Whumpee down, going over the places where Whumpee’s breath hitched several times, Whumpee whimpered everytime Whumper touched the new cuts on their legs, so naturally, Whumper wiped over them more than anywhere else.

Whumper stood up and backed a way to look at Whumpee in the blood-stained tub.

“There we go, all clean.” Whumper purred. "I was hoping you'd say something about it, since you’re usually so perceptive, but this isn't water. Tell me, Whumpee, do you know what perfluorocarbon is?” Whumper smiled cruelly as they jolted forward with their hands out in front of them.

They shoved Whumpee into the tub, tilting their head back when Whumpee struggled under their hold. Whumper allowed them to the surface before pushing them back down, several times over. Whumpee's thrashes slowly weakened before they laid still under the perfluorocarbon’s surface and Whumper left them in the tub.

“Rest well, Whumpee, I'll see you tomorrow."

---

The trainee only wore two items, a high stiff collar to keep him angled correctly, and a thick silicon training gag stuffed in his mouth and locked around his head.  

The Handler cupped the boy’s cheek and ran his thumb over the end of the training gag.  

“Two birds, one bullet, or whatever.  I don’t have to hear your defiant screams telling me you didn’t sign up for this.  You will sign, whether you want to or not.  And secondly…” The Handler pushed at the end of the gag, shoving it just that much further into the trainee’s mouth.  “You get to work on taming that gag reflex of yours.”

The Handler smiled a bit as he saw the boy’s gag reflex kick in.  

“Still have a ways to go, don’t we trainee?   Perhaps you shouldn’t have been such a stubborn little brat when we first introduced this aspect of your training.  I know we’ve gone at a pretty fast pace, but the client wants you trained on an accelerated time table.”  The Handler moved his fingers up to the electrical burns at the boy’s temples.  “Shame we don’t use the old drugs, but the electrical stimulation to the frontal cortex seems to be just as effective at erasing you.  You still have several more sessions, but I’m seeing progress.”

The Handler turned the boy’s head this way and that, enjoying the way that different positions, with the extreme angle of his neck in the collar, forced his gag reflex to engage.  

“You pretty boys are all alike.  Chess pieces, pawns, for the rich and famous.”  He looked into the trainee’s watery blue eyes.  “Better you than me.  That’s why you’re there and I’m here.  I saw how the world works and decided to get on the winning side of it.  You didn’t even know there was a game being played, let alone that there were sides to pick from.”

The Handler let the boy’s chin go but the trainee barely moved in his high collar.  The man idly checked his watch.  

“I’ll be back later this evening.  If I can move your head around and you don’t gag, perhaps you’ll earn some nutrition.  If not, then maybe tomorrow.  I need to see a bit more effort on your part, understand?”

A single tear trickled down the trainee’s cheek as he nodded the fraction of an inch the collar would let him move.  

“Good, you’ll also be getting your barcode and number designation tomorrow.  So I suggest you really work on suppressing that reflex so you can sleep better.  Because this…” The Handler tapped the end of the gag, “Isn’t coming out any time soon.  The Client wants you delivered with it.”

Looking bored himself, the man grabbed a half-spilled, worn box of toothpicks from somewhere in the mess of miscellaneous things on his desk. “See how many of these you can shove up inside him.” With a flicker of an amused smile, he tossed it in their direction. And without another word, he continued pinning and writing, and taping up the box.

Arion’s stomach flipped. With pleading eyes, he looked sharply up at Andras as he approached. He shook his head silently, voice too hoarse to form words. Usually, it was Damon who did this. Damon was out hunting for other arivies. He’d be gone for the rest of the day. Surely, Arion thought, Andras and Kai wouldn’t hurt him like this. Not while Damon was gone. Andras and Kai were the ones who threw punches, the ones who tied him down just to beat him without resistance. They wouldn’t… they didn’t want to do what Damon did. They just liked to see Arion bleed and cry. They rarely ever went out of their way to humiliate him.

This time was different. “Ho-ho,” one laughed. “Now that’s an idea.”

The other reached to roughly tousle his hair. “Something a little different today, huh? Exciting, isn’t it, rat?”

Arion’s breath caught. His hands shook. Tears pricked at the corners of his vision. Afraid to be hurt worse if he didn’t, Arion nodded.

-

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