Training Assassins At Ballet School Sounds Like A Good Idea. They Learn To Control Their Body. They Learn

wow lesbians.......

If my ocs were real and I walked into a room with all of them I'd immediately get jumped

The Memory Circuit MASTERLIST

⎉: @chaotic-orphan @morning-star-whump Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

The Memory Circuit [I] TW:

The Customer Is Always Wrong [II] TW: sex work, intoxication, dissociation, emotional numbness, implied exploitation.

Get In Line, Mister! [III] TW: physical assault, attempted sexual assault, substance use, internalised trauma, psychological breakdown, imprisonment, coercion, manipulation, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Good Morning, Sunshine [IV] TW: police brutality, physical assault, vomiting, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Bite Down [V] TW: graphic depictions of physical and psychological torture, child abuse, grooming, sexual violence involving minors, institutional exploitation, non-consensual medical/technological procedures, trauma flashbacks, violence, captivity, dissociation, systemic abuse.

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ART!!!!

Collar and the Crown

⎉: @whump-in-the-closet thanks for the prompt mwahahaha

TW: abuse, coercion, humiliation, non-consensual control, psychological torment, physical pain, power imbalances, dehumanisation, forced obedience, implied sexual threat, references to past physical torture and branding.

The dining room gleams with opulence. Gold leaf detailing. Velvet chairs. Candlelight dancing through fine crystal. It smells like roasted meat, sweet wine, money. Roses colouring rot.

Whumpee stands at the centre, drowning in the spectacle. Their black turtleneck clings to them like armour, the fabric stiff with sweat, stretched too tight across their ribs. Jeans rough against their skin. Plain. Deliberately so. Everything about them sticks out sorely in the midst of the splendour.

Their posture is rigid. Neutral. Perfect. They’ve practiced this. Rehearsed it in the mirror until their muscles ached.

They don’t look at anyone.

Whumper stands beside them, smiling like a man unveiling a masterpiece. His suit is immaculate—blood-red tie, black silk gloves. His hand rests lightly on Whumpee’s back. 

A leash beneath a lover’s touch.

He taps his glass with a fork. The sound is sharp, crystalline. The room hushes like a curtain falling.

“My friends,” Whumper says, eyes sweeping the table, “I promised something special tonight. And I never break a promise.”

He turns to Whumpee, smile widening.

“Come closer, pet.”

Whumpee obeys, jaw ticking once.

The movement is mechanical. Inside, their gut tightens.

“If you flinch,” Whumper mutters, low against their ear, “I’ll gut you here on the floor.”

They stiffen.

The room watches, entranced.

And Whumper begins.

He unbuttons the turtleneck slowly, reverently, as though undressing a bride. One button at a time. The fabric falls away from the collar—metal, thick, functional. It gleams in the light. It hums softly.

“Oh,” someone says, voice slurred and intoxicated. “He’s collared. How darling.”

The shirt slips lower.

A scar on the shoulder. Long. Surgical.

“This one,” Whumper begins, his voice rich, “was from a lesson about disobedience. They were quite… expressive.”

He traces it with his gloved fingers. Whumpee flinches.

Too late.

The collar bites. Just a flicker of pain down their spine. Enough to make them inhale sharply.

Whumper doesn’t pause.

More skin is revealed. More marks. Scars that twist and curve like a topography of pain. The brand, raw and angry, slashed across their chest—his title, forever.

“I’d love to get my hands on that,” someone murmurs at the table. “Such craftsmanship.”

Whumpee’s hands clench. But they keep quiet.

And then—eyes.

In the far corner of the room, someone stands. Out of place. Rigid. Pale.

Whumpee’s heart lurches.

They know that face.

An old nemesis. Once a rival who swore they’d destroy them—

And now—they just watch.

Frozen.

Whumpee’s stomach turns.

Whumper presses a glass into their hand. Wine, dark and viscous.

“Drink,” he says, low.

Whumpee doesn’t move.

“Now.”

The collar flashes again—bright red.

Agony sears down their spine. Their knees buckle. The wine sloshes in the glass.

Whumper steadies them.

“Don’t spill,” he rebukes. “You’ll ruin the carpet.”

Whumpee raises the glass. It shakes in their grip.

The wine touches their tongue like fire. It burns going down. Too strong. Too much. Their throat rebels. Their eyes sting.

But they drink.

A drop spills down their chin.

Whumper catches it with his thumb, wiping it away.

He turns them to face the guests.

“Raise your glasses,” he says. “To discipline. To devotion. To the beauty of supremacy.”

Glasses clink. The sound is obscene. Triumphant.

And Whumpee?

They stand there, collar humming, chest bare, body marked with every lesson learned too late.

Their face burns, flushed too deep, too loud, shame trying to scream its way out.

Someone laughs. “What else can they do on command?”

The person in the back—the one who knows—hasn’t moved.

Their expression is blank now, guarded.

But they don’t come forward. They don’t speak.

And that hurts more than anything.

Whumper leans close, lips brushing Whumpee’s temple.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he says. “They adore you.”

His hand slips down, settling just above the waistband of Whumpee’s jeans.

“Shall we give them more?”

Whumpee trembles. Their legs feel like glass. Their skin screams. Their mind is a hurricane.

But still—they stand.

Because the alternative is worse. Because there is no alternative.

The applause rises again, thunderous, gleeful.

And Whumpee, trembling and silent, is swallowed by it.

Home is where the hurt is - Cover announcement

Here we go! We're in the final stages, the manuscript is finished, the cover is done and I can finally share it with you all.

I will have a paperback and ebook version of the book available this summer! It will be sold through Amazon all over the world.

Release date to come soon!

before you stab someone: THINK!

how can you make it Tender?

how can you make it Homoerotic?

how can you make it Implicitly intimate?

how can you make it Noticeably a metaphor for sex?

how can you make it Kind of gay?

Can you do a prompt about the Hero being apart of a team and Villain is forced to work with the Hero's team after being kicked out of their own villian team. The members of the Hero's Team doesn't trust the Villain but the hero does, mostly because the hero thinks the villain cute and reminds him of someone.

Very inspired by prompt 339.

Corrupted By a Pretty Face

The alarm blared across the spaceship. Red lights flashed on and off. The hero put down their sandwich. What was it now? They looked down at their watch. An incoming call was coming in from their second in command. The hero left the dining bay, running, and picked up the call. Their second’s distressed face projected above the watch. The hero held up their wrist as they ran.

“What’s the issue?” The hero said.

“Your fugitive!” Their second shouted. Veins were popping out of his forehead.

The hero sighed. “What has the villain done now?”

“Come and see for yourself! We’re next to the greenhouse.”

On the plus side, by the time the hero got there, the flashing lights and the blaring alarm had turned off. On the other hand, half the crew was standing there, everyone glaring at the villain. The hero slowed down, trying to piece together what had happened from everyone’s faces.

“This is why we don’t just pick up every criminal we-”

The second cut himself off when he saw the hero. Everyone else saw them and quickly scattered. Except for the second and the greenhouse head. The hero approached them. They gave the villain a quick look. They looked very pretty, as always. But also very guilty. Not a good sign.

“Okay. What happened?”

“Disaster, captain!” the greenhouse head said. Her eyes went wide. “They sampled the hybrids!”

‘The hybrids’ were several cross-plant breeding projects the on-ship farmers were working on. They were an innovation, considering the mixed plants were from different planets. A project like that could get you access to any planet across the galaxy. They took a long time to grow, and only 5 out of 100 would ripen well. So they were saved for the most important diplomats across the Milky Way. And the villain had eaten some.

“You’re joking,” the hero said.

They looked back at the villain. The villain blinked for a second, remembered what they had done, and took a deep bow of apology. Mostly, the hero thought, to avoid eye contact with the three people staring daggers at them.

“I’m truly, deeply sorry, captain. I didn’t know the fruits were of significance.”

The hero had to tamp down a laugh. The villain’s tongue was purple with fruit juice.

“The fruits,” the greenhouse head mocked. “They’re scientific marvels! Why, I-”

“Hey,” the hero touched her arm. “How about you take a minute. Survey the damage. Get back to me later. Okay? I’ll deal with them.”

The greenhouse head looked even angrier, but she nodded. “Okay, captain.”

She stomped back into the greenhouse and slammed the door. The hero gestured at their second to get lost, too. He frowned. The hero gestured again. He rolled his eyes. 

“I hope you finally see what a mistake this was,” the second said.

Then he turned on his heels and walked away. His heels clicked down the corridor. The hero rubbed their temple. The people on this ship sometimes acted no older than five.

“Hey. Look at me.”

The villain finally broke their bow and sheepishly made eye contact. The hero tilted their head, surveying the villain up and down. Hopefully the villain would think they were just assessing the situation. The hero looked into the villain’s eyes again and started walking backwards.

“Follow me.”

The hero did this sometimes. They knew this ship with their eyes closed. And it was more convenient looking at someone while they talked. Bonus, it made the villain focus on them, trying to see if the hero tripped up. After watching the hero make two flawless turns, the hero finally started the interrogation.

“Tell me what happened.”

The villain rubbed their arm. “Okay, so, like I missed mealtime, right? So the dining bay wasn’t serving food anymore.”

“There’s always food. Make a sandwich.”

“But I didn’t want a sandwich.”

“Fine. So you went into the greenhouse?”

The villain nodded. “I was just picking some fruits for a snack.”

“And you didn’t notice the giant ‘don’t touch’ sign above the hybrids.”

“I don’t think so? Or I ignored it. I’m not sure.”

Of course they weren’t. The hero came to a sudden stop. The villain almost ran into them. The hero turned to their left. The room was numbered 38625B. Their office. They pressed their thumb to the scanner. The door slid open.

“Come in,” the hero said, moving inside.

Their office was a desk with high shelves on either side. They contained books, gadgets, and pictures from across the stars. Behind the desk was a mounted painting of the outside of the ship. The hero knew the villain thought the painting was a little over the top. But the hero loved their vessel.

The hero sat down at their crowded desk and had the villain sit across from them. The hero went into a desk drawer and rooted around. Finally, they pulled out a sheet of paper. They put it on the desk so the villain could see it. It was the agreement the villain had signed a few months ago, when they had just boarded the ship. It was an agreement to behave according to the ship’s code of conduct. The hybrids were explicitly mentioned. The hero plucked a pen from their overstuffed pencil holder and pointed at the clause.

“You’ve done some strange things on this ship. Spreading greenpox-”

“I didn’t know I had it when I boarded!”

“-and making the soap in all the bathrooms explode everywhere-” “I was just testing their durability.”

“What about almost killing Lucky?”

The villain rubbed their neck. “My bad. But dogs are contaminated with a million diseases.”

“That’s what his shots are for. Remember how you didn’t have any for greenpox?”

“Okay, point taken.”

The hero continued. “But messing with the hybrids? Clear violation of the code of conduct.”

“Trying to kill the dog wasn’t?”

“We’re not supposed to have dogs on the ship. So.”

“I knew it!”

“Anyway,” the hero tapped the contract. “I have grounds to kick you off this ship. Abandon you on the next sparsely populated exoplanet and let you find your own way.”

The villain took in what the hero said. It gave them pause. “But. . .you’re not going to?”

The hero balled up the paper and tossed it in the trash can next to their desk. “Nope.”

The villain stared for a second. “The crew’s not going to like that.”

“Which is why I’m going to draft up a new contract,  without hybrids, and we’re going to pretend that was the agreement all along. Like I forgot to add it.”

“You never forget anything,” the villain said.

“I almost never forget anything,” the hero responded.

The villain reached out and clasped the hero’s hands. The hero looked down at where their skin touched and tried not to blush. This must be a custom on the villain’s planet.

“Thank you,” the villain said. “How can I ever repay you?”

“By behaving,” the hero deadpanned.

They pulled their hands back. The villain was smiling wide. “I don’t know why you’ve decided to help me, but I’m eternally grateful.”

The hero smiled back. “If I left you, you would just find another gang to get abandoned by, and we’d find you again in six months trying to rob us to make ends meet.”

“Hey,” the villain said. “Rude.”

“But I’m not wrong.”

The villain didn’t have to know how cute the hero found them. Or that they reminded the hero of everyone back home they had a crush on. The villain would probably tell everyone, and the crew wouldn’t take kindly to the hero giving someone they found attractive special treatment. But boy, did it make it hard to look at the villain’s face and stay mad. If the hero ever even was mad.

“Okay,” the hero said. “Get out of here. I don’t want to see you leave your quarters until tomorrow.”

“But-”

“I’ll bring you food later! Just get out of here.”

The villain nodded. They stood up, bowed once more, and quickly shuffled out. The hero leaned back against their chair and sighed. Why did they always fall for criminals? It was going to get them in big trouble one day.

Then again, you only live once. The hero hated to say it, but they were looking forward to visiting the villain’s room later.

Kinda fucked up that we all coo and sympathize with "former gifted kids" but never talk about the students who had to stay late after school or over the summer for remedial classes/clubs, who struggled to get above a C, who were given up on or punished. Who tried so hard to understand or just couldn't. Who were grouped with the "stupid kids" (a classmate called us that in remedial math btw)

Autistic kids and adhders who can't relate to their gifted peers and are constantly alienated by them. Kids who struggled in school due to dealing with a chronic or mental illness or physical/learning/developmental disability. Those of us who have had to drop out of highschool or college. Kids who worked so hard and wanted to be seen as smart, but never were. Who watched as their peers seem to fly by them in school, while they were left behind. Who were bullied and put down by those in the gifted and honors classes. Whose confidence was absolutely destroyed by education.

I love you all and I'm so sorry the school system failed you. I'm sorry you weren't properly accommodated and given the education you deserved. I'm sorry people put you down for something that they never had to fight for.

Hello! Would you be willing to write about someone who finds out that their roommate and childhood best friend is actually some kind of supernatural creature? Preferably m/m but its okay if you’d like to change the genders.

Have a nice day!!!

"You're...uh...wow."

Maybe Holden should be horrified, but all he could really do was stare, dumbly entranced. The staring wasn't that different to normal, if he was going to be really horribly honest with himself.

But Atlas also wasn't normally crouched near stark-bollocks naked in the middle of their dorm room. He didn’t normally have dark, gorgeous wings unfurling from his back. He didn’t normally stare at Holden with eyes that had gone from blue to literally black too. Hungry. Heated.

Holden hastily shut the door behind him before someone else on the floor saw.

"Are you, uh, okay, man?"

His best friend was, very clearly, not okay. His gaze tracked every small movement that Holden made.

"You," Atlas growled through his teeth. "Are not supposed to be here."

"Right. Yeah. Uh. My class was—" Holden lost his trail of thought as he continued to stare. "God,” he said, a little dizzy, “you look incredible."

Five-year old Atlas had been funny and brave. Nineteen-year old Atlas also had the absolute gall to be stunning on top of that. It was, frankly, terrible on a night out. On his own, Holden did okay. When he was standing next to Atlas though, more and more as the years passed by, he may as well have been a potato. He couldn't even hold it against anyone. He did enough trying not to stare himself.

But...he definitely hadn't noticed the wings before. He would have noticed wings, right? Even with that smile and those cheekbones to distract.

He realised, dazedly, that he'd drifted closer. One step, two step, three, until he was standing right over Atlas. Close enough to touch.

"Get out." Atlas sounded strained. "Now." His fingers – his claws – dug into the threadbare carpet.

Holden wanted to run his fingers through Atlas's blond hair. He wanted to kiss his parted lips, the line of his jaw, the beautiful curve of his throat. He wanted to touch every inch of Atlas that he could. He wanted Atlas's hands on him, sure and just as smitten as Holden had been for years, and he'd do anything, offer anything if—

"Holden."

The sharp snap of his name cleared Holden's mind a little. He shook his head and backed up. "Sorry. I—"

What the hell was he doing? Heat rose to his cheeks, mortified.

There were a lot of reactions one could have to seeing their best friend suddenly sprout wings, but Holden was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to just drool over his roommate like some kind of neanderthal. He'd done such a good job of not letting his stupid feelings impact their stupid friendship until stupid now too.

It wasn't like he'd never caught a glimpse of Atlas without his clothes before. It had never made him like – he would never have – but would it be so bad if he just—?

No. Something was definitely wrong.

Holden whirled around, heading back for the door. He'd opened it only a crack when Atlas's hand slammed down on it, shutting it again. The lock clicked as Atlas bracketed him with an arm on either side. They weren’t quite touching, but they were close enough that he could feel the heat of Atlas against his back.

He hadn't even heard Atlas move. His breath hitched.

Atlas groaned. He let his head thunk against the door, above Holden's left shoulder, as he drew in ragged gasps.

Holden heard him swearing and muttering under his breaths. He caught a few words that’s sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody scheming bastard vampires’ and a much more familiar ‘shitshitshit’.

Up close, Atlas’s new cologne was…was it cologne? Holden’s head felt cloudy again. He dug his nails into his palms, desperately shoving down the truly ridiculous urge to turn around and kiss Atlas immediately.

“What the hell is happening?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You have wings. You have – I feel –”

“You’re supposed to be in class for the next three hours!”

“My class was cancelled,” Holden said. “Some last minute—”

Atlas caught hold of his hips, spinning him as if it was absolutely nothing, pressing him back against the door.

The bit of Holden’s brain that wasn’t too busy with oh, yes please reminded him that Atlas was not that bloody strong. He should not be able to do that. He always skipped the gym when Holden went, despite looking like that.

“What are you?” The obvious question finally penetrated the fog.

Atlas’s attention lingered on his lips, seeming…distracted.

“Incubus,” he murmured. He’d always had a nice voice, but in that moment, that word, it was like caramel. Sweet on Holden’s senses. “God, you’re pretty. Sharing a room was a terrible idea.”

It took a second for the actual response to register, let alone the rest.

Incubus.

“What?” Holden yelped.

It was all some elaborate joke.

(Atlas didn’t do pranks.)

It was impossible.

(Those wings looked very real, no matter how impossible they were.)

How had it taken 14 years for him to notice his best friend was an incubus?

(Did that mean he didn’t really have a crush on his best friend? It was just – what he was?)

Atlas’s fingers grazed just slightly beneath Holden’s jumper, blazing hot against the skin above his hips.

Holden asked no coherent questions whatsoever. He didn’t even manage an incoherent word. Every reasonable thing he should have been considering vanished in a haze.

His best friend was an incubus? Sure! Whatever. Nothing mattered except the fact that there was really far too much distance between them. Atlas’s mouth was right there and – Holden couldn’t have said which of them initiated the kiss, but it was ravenous and he was putty against the door. Head empty. All need and greed and wanting. He finally got to tangle his fingers into Atlas’s always annoyingly perfect hair and –

The lock clicked.

Faster than Holden could fully comprehend, the door was open and Atlas had bodily shoved him into the corridor. He landed sprawling and ungraceful on his butt.

He had a second to peer up, bewildered, at the look of absolute raw desire on Atlas’s face before the door slammed shut. The lock clicked again.

The texts pinged on his phone a moment later.

Don’t come back until I say so.

Will explain later.

Sorry.

Well, crap.

Holden pressed a hand to his mouth, catching his breath and his sanity with Atlas out of view. Then he went to the uni library to research everything he could about incubi.

By the time Atlas texted him that evening, he was ready.