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touyota · 11 months

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The Orcas' Tale - Chapter I

Excited to finally start! I haven't written in a while so I felt a little rusty, but I still hope I was able to convey the conflicting feelings that come with meeting these creatures ♥ Enjoy! (Please remember that the polls are only active for a day!)

Fandom: Original Content Pairings: Yandere!Orca Mermen x GN!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Monsters, Violence & Accidental self-harm, Non-consensual touches, Animalistic behavior, Mention of blood/claws/sharp teeth, Hinting at death/non-con/killing of animals/near drowning, Long post

"In fact, you don't want them to think about you at all! Otherwise —ey w—t l— —u ——!"

Straining yourself, you tried to hear what the voice was telling you. A sudden waft of nausea overcame you as you concentrated hard on making out those last, vital words. Your eyes snapped open as pressure squeezed your brain inside your skull, and you barely had time to gasp as your body instinctively threw itself to the side, choking and spitting out water from your lungs and stomach.

Through your blurry vision, you could only see gray. Feeling hadn't returned to your hands to notice the little gravel digging into your palm as you clawed at the stone surface, trying to find hold in your disorientation. Slowly, with every cough you made, the pressure on your head subsided, leaving only a pounding headache and your fight or flight instinct in control of your body while you freed yourself of the wretched water inside the spaces it didn't belong. That was until you finally regained the feeling in your body. The pebbles pressing into your skin, threatening to break it.

The hands on your body, holding you steady.

"This was a stupid idea," an eerily familiar voice sighed, the pressure on your stomach and lower back intensifying. Confused and disorientated, you rocked your head from side to side, trying to see. Trying to find the voice that was different from the one you heard before opening your eyes. But your vision was still blurry, and you couldn't make out anything, even with splashes of color passing your view.

"It's not stupid just because we have never tried it before," someone else, someone you already knew, hissed, and you tried to remember who it was to no avail. A hand on your collarbones, fingers spreading all over your chest, didn't lock your movements but didn't allow you to fall over either, as they kept you slightly elevated.

"W-Who…" you sputtered, followed by another cough, another spill of water coming from who-knows-where inside you.

"Urgh, well, it's alive, at least…"

Pressure on your ribs made you fall back on your legs, sitting upright. You were swaying back and forth, worse than you ever had on the ship that transported you out on the North Pacific Ocean for your studies… Right… You'd been working out on the ocean, and then something happened. You couldn't get back to the boat, and they didn't do a headcount before leaving. You'd been left there. For how long? Gulping down spit or water—not sure what was in your mouth at that point—you tried to remember, but your memory was as blurred as your vision.

Did your crew come back? Were they the ones helping you back to your feet? You should thank them. Had they left you at the mercy of the ocean, who knows if you could have made it long. As much as you loved the deep, blue waters, they were just as risky and unpredictable as any other nature-related job. Accidents happened, and you weren't mad you were left behind, but you were still thankful they came back and saved you.

Slowly, taking the time to adjust yourself, you turned around, the hands allowing you the room to move as you pleased while they stayed ready on standby if you fell. Focusing your eyes was still hard. The space you were in dimly lit and unfamiliar. But when you lifted your head, squinting your eyes as hard as possible, you could finally concentrate on what was ahead of you.

Instantly, a cold shiver ran down your spine.

Your fight or flight mode was still intact as you jumped back from your position, your body slamming into a cold and hard wall of something, your headache briefly making space for other pain before returning full force. You didn't know what to expect, but you expected the familiarity of your kind. Human faces, human bodies, humans.

These were not humans.

It needed the extra blow to your head to jump-start your memories. Memories of the little orange boat you had been stranded on, of unknown voices speaking to you, promising the help you desperately needed. Uncanny figures that intrigued you and eventually lured you to the edge, claws that dug into your clothes as they pulled you where the light couldn't reach. A tongue down your throat that helped you breathe and then… darkness.

That's right, at the cusp between life and death, you had simply passed out, completely at the mercy of these creatures that now reared out of the water, hands and claws reaching for you from all sides. There was no escaping them, no way out, their black skin glistening in the blue light coming from the walls being the only thing discerning them from the shadows around you. All you could do was close your eyes and wish to wake up. Realize this was a bad dream on a dreadful night. Wake up from it, realizing you left the TV on when you fell asleep, subconsciously listening to horror movies. None of this was real.

But when the hands wrapped around your ankles, wrists, and shoulders, claws too close to your throat to not fear them slicing it open, webbed fingers both sticky and slick, you realized this was not a dream you could wake up from. Not a nightmare to banish once you opened your eyes again. This was reality.

It took you a moment to regain this clarity of mind, the hands lifting you away from the hard surface you had slammed into and setting you down on something soft, the fabric almost slippery. They wouldn't let go until you opened your eyes, staring at your left hand as you let it slide through the fur beneath you, knowing the feeling well enough to discern it. "Seal…" you muttered, the softness of it astonishing you at that moment. All the horrors your mind could imagine disappeared with the gentleness and warmth you felt around you, sitting on such precious fur. It soothed some of the shock and weariness that kept you tense and on alert.

"The human likes it," someone cooed, the voice giddy as you heard water splashing alongside it. That finally snapped you back to reality and the situation you were in. Gulping once again, at least there was no more water clogging your throat and airways. Realizing that helped to gain the courage to look up, straight ahead at curious eyes watching you, leaning on the ledge you were seated on, giant bodies hidden halfway inside a pool of water. Every jolt of their muscles caused a small wave to splash against the others next to them, but they didn't mind. Why would they?

Mermaids.

You remembered it now all too clearly—their voices, faces, actions. Knowing folklore tales as much as any other human but always denying them to your scientifically driven mind, it was almost laughable you fell for their lures, their promises of help. It was true your options were limited, but it felt like you betrayed yourself by still believing them. Then again, that was the whole thing about mermaids, wasn't it? They were able to lure in even the most experienced and resistant of humans at their whim, to kill and eat them. However, dwelling on your idiocy and not concentrating on the situation at hand wasn't going to help you now, either.

Watching them for a few seconds, you jumped from their faces one after the other. Orcas, they called themselves, and strangely enough, they looked like it. Like a weird mix of a human and an orca, but you could still see both parts in them and discern either part at a glance. The markings in black and white of an orca, the face and body like a human. Muscles just like a professional athlete, but a tail hidden from sight that you were sure would be exactly like that of an orca. They were decorated in adornments that allowed one to believe they had the same aesthetic needs as humans. Still, their sharp teeth lurked behind their lips, and their fingers ended in claws that reminded you there was just as much animal in this mix.

Looking away was dangerous but necessary, and luckily, as your gaze panned around the room, they only ever seemed to lean further over the edge, trying to see what you saw, before sinking deeper into the cool water again, wary of your gaze falling on them. Either way, you appreciated their discretion, despite hearing their little clicks and whistles at each other echoing through the space. It wasn't a small room, cave-like and branching off into more carved-out areas filled to the brim with things. But if you remembered the size of these creatures right, they'd have to squeeze together if they all wanted to come sit on the same ledge as you. You found the room to be made of hard, solid stone, a blue, bioluminescent shine of a climbing plant with little bulbous blooms on it, illuminating the cave sparsely as it spread on the cave walls. Part of you would have loved to study this growth, but it wasn't the right time.

Beneath you was the seal fur, and you tried to ignore the gruesome acts you knew orcas did to these creatures, thanking it silently for softening the spot you sat on. But now that you had time to look at the splashes of color from before, you noticed they were fabrics hung from the walls. Sails and flags mingled with more furs. Crates, both wood and metal, some more decayed than others, stood off to the side, but you also spotted some out-of-place items like golden goblets and jewels strewn about.

"Where… Where are we?" you asked warily, feeling a sense of dread as you couldn't find a discernable exit or connection to the outside, like a window or door. You had a bad feeling about this, but at this point, it came as no surprise that this situation didn't seem to get better even after you accepted this as reality.

"In our–"

"Home!"

"This is our cave!"

It was a desynchronized answer, but it did the trick. Though that didn't explain where exactly you were, just their connection to this place. Still, scanning the ledge you sat on, you found three sections laid out with fabrics and furs, the stone ground creating gaps between them. Considering the size of these creatures, it might be a squeeze for all of them to fit, but it did look like the three had their beds laid out.

The sound of excessive splashing made your head whip forward, the merman in the middle lifting himself out of the water and on top of the ledge. It was the first good look you got at any of their bodies, and you had been correct with all your assumptions about them. He had to crawl on his hands to get the massive part of his upper tail over the edge, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, it looked almost like a natural movement as he put himself in a seated position. You were already cowering backwards, not needing to accommodate the creature, but feeling less safe now that it was out of the water.

But before you knew it, his hand reached for your ankle.

The feeling of having to cave in to someone else's demands was terrifying, choking you with fear of the unknown especially considering it was a monster you were dealing with. But even without you trying to scoot away, your leg was painfully stretched as the merman began pulling you back closer toward him. "Are you feeling better now?" he asked. You were surprised about the concern he voiced, thinking about how contradictory it was to be given kind thoughts while you felt like prey in their eyes.

"Yeah…" you mumbled, twisting your ankle carefully, inconspicuously, hoping he might be enticed to let go. Instead, this seemed to have been the magic word, the orca on the right jumping out of the water with much more force and less elegance than the one in the middle, landing belly down on the ledge and immediately reaching for your arm. "Finally!" he rejoiced, squeezing and pulling at your underarm, both actions reckless and painful. Now you had two limbs of yours being yanked, and the gaze you shot the last merman of the three was almost panicked as he sat up on the ledge as well, back facing you, but his eyes on your free left leg. With a careful hand, he let his fingers graze over your skin, jolting away as goosebumps spread in the wake of his touch.

Their hands were a horror in themselves. Webbed fingers sticking to you and yet sliding up and down your skin, unable to find hold unless pressure was applied. These creatures had no sense of gentleness, probably used to very different forms of touches and holding than a soft, easily breakable human like you needed. Their curiosity was their drive, but it made you feel sick the longer their touch remained. Occasionally, they'd coo or chortle in awe while all you could concentrate on was trying to soothe the sore muscles inside you by adjusting and twisting your body to accommodate their hands.

Even though you were intimidated by just looking at them, fear clawing at you almost as much as their hands did, you decided enough was enough. While they were stronger than you, you had the advantage of knowledge. If they were any bit as much orca as they said they were, they probably had the attitude of their animal counterpart, making them believe they were above everything. But they weren't above the element of surprise.

So when you were sure they were mesmerized by your meager body compared to theirs—the third merman even back to prodding at your leg after being startled by the goosebumps—you took a deep breath and then pulled. Pulled as hard and fast as you could, very much aware that if they weren't sufficiently distracted, their reflexes would probably have dismembered you. Luckily, you were able to get away even as their claws snapped after you, your eyes meeting that of the middle merman briefly as you scrambled to your feet, backing away until you found a wall to steady you. Your knees were shaking, but after a few milliseconds, the merman suddenly gripped a shoulder of each of the ones next to him, his claws visibly digging into their bodies. The others snapped out of their reflex just barely after the middle one, looking at him instead.

"No fun," the one on the right groaned, sinking back into the pool of water. "What good is it if we can't play with it?"

His eyes appraised you briefly, a displeased expression weaved onto his face, turning into a snarl when you met his gaze. "I thought you found us interesting, no?"

Lifting his tail fin out of the water, he waved it back and forth, but contrary to what you remembered, no tracker was punched into it; only a gaping hole remained. And yet, you immediately understood what he was trying to say. This was way worse than you thought, as you realized they used their leverage of maybe being able to tell you how to get back to land to make you do what they wanted, no matter what that meant for you.

"Don't you want to go home?" the merman teased, a smug grin revealing the rows of sharp teeth behind his lips and confirming your realization. It was terrifying but even more so frustrating. Swallowing hard, you tried to find some reasons with the other two, but while one had now fully turned his back to you, the other seemed just as displeased as the one in the water.

"Maybe we should just eat them," the one in the middle pouted. Your mouth almost fell open seeing this creature actively avoiding your eyes, crossing his arms, and pursing his lips in a pout. All just because you refused whatever they were trying to do? How could they not understand that their actions might be wrong? You had never seen a grown man pout in your life, but you couldn't decide if it was worse on this creature or on a man of your own kind.

"What do you think, Nerrocan?"

For the first time ever since you met them, you heard one of them being addressed directly. The merman in the middle looked at the one who sat with his back to you, and you took a moment to appraise his form. Broad shoulders, coated with black hairs that reached below the shoulder blades but did nothing to hide the monstrous amount of muscles weaving under his skin. A dorsal fin stuck out from where his human spine must have transitioned to the fish one, and you caught yourself almost reaching out to touch it, confirming the strangeness of this lifeform. It was curiosity more than a reflex, but both were dangerous down here, locked with these strange creatures.

"Nerrocan…" you whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop. Their white ears perked up, glances snapping to you from the corners of their eyes and over their shoulders. They seemed less alert than surprised, but you clasped your hand over your mouth anyway, feeling as if you were the rude one for speaking so casually to someone you didn't know. Slightly embarrassed, you caught Nerrocan's gaze, looking away before he could, but you scolded yourself for the mishap, missing the shine he had in his eyes as you called out to him.

You expected some reaction. Cruelty packed into words by Nerrocan that would give the other two the 'go' to do what they planned with you. Or maybe a verbal lashing for daring to speak to him. Perhaps even some hope as he held the other's back, making the unknown threat you felt from them disappear. From the looks of it, he was just as fearsome as the others but showed less interest in you than his fellow mermen. It was hard to understand how different lifeforms thought, but you had still hoped to be able to communicate with them on the same level as with any other sane human being, even just for the sake of the similarities between you two. But you were wrong.

Nerrocan said nothing. He merely shrugged his shoulders slightly, barely visible in the dark. More than half of his body was coated black, so it was no surprise you couldn't see it move much, only when the blue light shone on it. However, you did catch the glance he threw back over his shoulder at you, and you wondered if he understood the devastation you felt visibly on your face. All hope shattered.

"Nerrocan, you're so fucking boring. Can't you go along with what we want to do just once?" the merman on the right complained, his words a sharp sound, somewhere between hissing and lilting.

"Shut up, Lyr," the one in the middle ordered, and for a moment, you could see the merman named Lyr snap his teeth at him like a beast warning another. However, when the middle one lifted his hand—presumably to hit the one on the right— Lyr scooted away and out of reach. Before you knew it, Nerrocan vanished in the water, and you watched as Lyr scanned the pool below him before hissing and slipping out of sight. You had a feeling that something must have been going on that you couldn't see, but you knew better as to go and look where they had gone.

Especially with one still remaining.

The merman took a deep breath, breathing out before giving you a—what you could assume was meant as a mood-lifting but came out as a terrifying, mocking—smile. "Look, we don't want to eat you. But we hoped you were a bit more… fun."

"I don't even know what that is supposed to mean…" you mumbled, pressing yourself more to the wall as the merman sighed, scooting a bit higher on the ledge and closer to you.

"Look around you," he directed your attention, gesturing around the cave. "We brought you into our home and made sure you'd survive the dive. Don't you think you owe us something?"

"I didn't ask you–"

"Well, you would have died up there, you know that, right?" His interruption felt like a cold splash of water to your face, but his words hit you even harder. They sat in your stomach like a big stone. One that would sink you if you were left alone in the ocean rather than help you swim. Being demotivated was one thing. But at this point, you were pretty much helpless. You would have died without them but with them… there was no guarantee you would survive these guys, either.

"Look."

Raising his hands, the merman tried to ease your fear of him—in vain. With a small hopping motion, he elevated himself further towards you, and you, with no place to back up anymore, held your breath.

"We know humans. You guys are curious and want to know more about us. All of you are. You are always prodding in our territories, trying to find us, and when you do… well. You do this."

Lifting his tail fin out of the water, he waved it back and forth, curling it enough so you could see the red blinking light coming from it. The tracker. You definitely didn't just imagine its existence, and slowly, you let out the breath you were holding, looking him in the eyes. This was more of a conversation than you ever had with any of these guys, and you decided to face it.

"Humans aren't even that tasty," he noted, assuming your weariness was rooted there. He wasn't entirely wrong.

"Then what do you want from me."

His grin spread a bit wider at your questions, his eyes sparkling with the knowledge he got you, like a fish drawn to a hook. Inching closer, you barely had time to shift your attention to the two heads that popped out of the water behind him, exchanging glances before directing their focus on you. "You see, we saw humans before. Cute ones—like you! But none would let us explore them a bit. We are oh-so curious about those things you stand on. About your tiny parts and soft body. You're so…"

"Human," you finished his sentence, goosebumps spreading all over your body as you exposed yourself, unwillingly aware of your weakness being your very existence. The merman scanned you with his eyes, almost undressing you with how intensely his gaze burned on your skin. It was an unnerving feeling, one of mutual understanding of how different you were. Weak. Vulnerable. Powerless. Them even communicating their plans was their form of showing mercy. Because if they wanted, they could have easily forced you into it as well.

"Yes," he chortled, seemingly content with you understanding their desire. You couldn't imagine that this was all they'd ask of you, a memory of the voice you heard before waking up in this cave returning to you.

It hasn't been that long since another tribe—who was it? The sharks?—had been… blessed with an unusual mate.

You wanted to suppress the implications echoing in these words, hoping and wishing this wasn't what these orcas intended to do with you. You couldn't fear something that hadn't happened yet, or else you might lose the last bit of rationality in you that would get you out of this situation, no matter how much anxiety tried to paint the gruesome pictures of possibilities. But you needed to know. Needed to hear it from them, even if the promise was empty. If you wanted to build any kind of trust, this would be necessary, even if the betrayal would hurt twice as much.

"If I agree will you take me back? Back to this place you know, where I can return to my kind? Promise you won't kill me?"

Nerrocan was the first to return to the ledge after disappearing so abruptly. You hadn't noticed it at first, but when he looked at you, his gaze shifting to your legs for a few seconds before looking back up at you, you noticed the split lip he now had, blood trickling from it as the blue light grazed him. "Promise," he answered for the three of them, gaining a sharp glare from the other two. Lyr, too, came back up on the ledge, merely resting his upper body on the stone and propping himself up with his arm.

"Aren't you gonna say something when he's undermining you, Krill?" he asked the merman in the middle, and now, finally, you had names for all three of their faces.

"He won't do it again. Right, Nerrocan?"

The spoken to let out a huff, but when Krill took a deep breath, Nerrocan opened his mouth, submitting as told, "Of course, Krill."

"Well, now that this is out of the way, shall we begin?" Krill asked, his gaze sticking to Nerrocan for just a moment longer before returning to you. Putting on a calculated smile for you—as if he was trying to imitate human behavior—all you felt was another shiver running down your spine. You braced yourself, getting a grip on your shaking hands by curling them into fists. The faster this was over, the quicker you'd find out if they'd keep their promise. The faster you'd be able to get home and sort out this mess your life was in.

"Okay…" you whispered. Once again, your word seemed to be the one they had waited for, all of them leaping forward, closing in as you let out a surprised squeak. "Stop!" you yelled, shielding your face with your arms and trying to hide behind them out of fear of the approaching predators. To your surprise, the sound of splashing water and bodies moving ceased. When you pried your eyes open, the mermen had stilled, their muscles barely flinching under the intense tension running through them. Their expression was grim, worse than before, seemingly unimpressed with your reluctance after you gave them the go. It seemed their patience was running thin, but what else were you supposed to do?

"Not all at once… please?" you tried to explain yourself, their bodies remaining still for a moment. Lyr was the first to break the silence, groaning loudly in annoyance as he slipped back. Nerrocan said nothing, merely pulling his hands back to his side. He had come the closest to you—especially your legs—and even Krill put some distance between you two, sighing loudly before driving his hands through his short hair.

"Choose then," he ordered, and there was no hint of teasing or playfulness left in his voice. His eyes remained wide open, staring as he waited for your answer, his body so tense you were scared he might pop a vein. Krill seemed to be the least amused about all of this, but the dirty looks of the other two were just as chilling and pressuring. "Choose who you want to "play" with first, then."

It was an amicable choice that seemed challenging for the three, but they made it your choice nonetheless. Your eyes dragged over all their faces. Nerrocan, the quiet one of them, who seemed very interested in your legs and not much else. Lyr, who was already back to grinning, his casualness paired with the intensity of his gaze drilling into you, making him seem a little unhinged. And Krill, whose word seemed to stand above the others, but whose words could never make him trustworthy to you.

You had to choose one before their patience with you would finally run out.

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touyota · 1 year

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//breeding, very heavy focus on impreg + pregnancy/motherhood stuff, sort of in conjunction with [this post] as well as [this post]

Happy (one day belated) Mother's Day, let's celebrate the joys of motherhood :)

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Childe has no concept of a small family. At least, not of it being acceptable.

It's part of the culture of certain nations' rural areas, Snezhnaya being one of them. Everyone in the rural, smaller town regions strives to have big families. Maybe it originates from a rougher climate leading to a need for ensuring the survival of one's lineage, or something like that, but regardless, for Snezhnayan men, having a lot of kids is one of those masculine pride things, and by contrast, not having lots of kids is unthinkable, shameful even.

So, of course, he's long since decided on having a large family. He's wanted it for so long, but his work has prevented him from following the other tradition that rural areas and smaller towns in all nations are known for... you know, marrying and starting to have kids practically the millisecond one reaches adulthood.

He's young, sure, most people would think him too young for that sort of thing, but in his mind, he's grown up seeing people marrying and starting families at very young ages to be normal, expected. Which means he's missing out on what he's more or less entitled to. He knows from visits home that all the kids he grew up with are already marrying and having kids at his own age. But is he going to let his position stop him? Of course not. So, truthfully, he had this in the back of his mind for some time, and he just so happened to take the opportunity that presented itself.

In other words, you were just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and just so happened to not only fit a list of physical preferences that caught the wrong person's eye, but also just happened to be so defiant, so resistant, and far too often cold and mean. Perhaps if you hadn't been, he might have left you alone. If you had just entertained his fantasies, even in word only, he might have had a bit of pity on you, felt a shred of guilt at the thought of tearing you away from your life.

How ironic that a defense mechanism you intended to deter him, would have ignited the very urges you wanted to extinguish, an unintended consequence of applying normal tactics to a sick mind.

But regardless, you just happened to meet, and thus now you're here. That's what he tells you, after whisking you away and bringing you to live with him, constantly pulled from one dark room to another between his room on the ship, Fatui bases, hotels in various regions, and every other place he spends the night. Not with that exact wording of course, no, he's got that excitable, almost childish romanticized view of things, he portrays it as aligned fates, that you were destined to cross paths at the right time.

It's part of one big long spiel you get. The whole you're going to stay here and nothing you can do will change that part is spoken very quickly and nonchalantly, while he treats the other parts with much more importance, namely his intentions for the future.

That being, you're going to have a big family and have lots of his kids. That you'll be a mother. He says it very happily, like you're a young just-married couple or something, like the living scenario you have is normal, like you're here of your own volition.

It does take you by surprise at first — you had thought you were being taken as more of a sex slave than anything, but quickly find you're being treated more like a spouse, in a... really odd way. That, too, is done with a blissful but casual attitude, as if he's almost unaware of the gravity of the crime being inherently committed by having you here... although you suppose people like him are more or less above the law. He announces his arrival when he returns each day, is very affectionate towards you, laughs off any hostility from you as if it's a grumpy little kitten making a fuss, not a human being with a very justified reason for vitriol.

He's very transparent and straightforward with you, it's not like he's trying to slowly ease you into it or enact his wishes without telling you what will happen, no. No deception. No avoidance of the topic. And not a single shred of willingness to compromise.

No consideration of how you may feel about that matter. It's not a discussion, it's telling you. Merely communicating information that is already set in stone. The information is laid on you so fast and suddenly that your mind is left reeling. First you're forcibly fucked and dragged here, now you're being told it's permanent and oh by the way get ready to start the rest of your life as some mother-slave-wife amalgamation?

It's too much for you to handle. What's even more baffling is that even as you protest, he just blows it off like it's nothing, like this isn't an incredibly grave, serious ordeal.

B-but... I don't want--

Ah, you think that now, but you'll be happy, promise.

But... but you can't just do this to me!

Yeah? What are you gonna do to stop me? Haha....

That all still doesn't give you quite the same extent of nausea compared to the next set of information you're given.

Even if you were familiar with the cultural norm, you didn't realize the sheer extent. You knew he had like, what, six or seven siblings? That strikes you as a large number, so it fits with what you're aware of regarding the norm.

You didn't realize that was an average number to them. Not until he told you so, in the midst of his ramblings about your future, when you gathered the courage to ask what he means by "big" when the words big family come out of his mouth.

He pauses, looks up pensively. Well, anything less than five is small, he says, anything from five to eight is about the median, and anything above that is when you finally get to be considered to be "above average". So his family, with seven or eight or so kids total, is kind of in the middle, about average, in his own words.

But he wants a big family. So, you know, gotta at least hit double digits.

He says it very casually, like it's no big deal. He's too excited to notice the look on your face, at least not for a few seconds, finally turning to you after realizing your stunned silence.

Mm? Something wrong?

...That... that's... I can't...

But your protests are quickly brushed off again. Sure you can. Your body is perfectly capable, so what would be stopping you? You're just worrying too much. Don't think about it so much, just... lay back and let it happen.

In most regional cultures of any nation, people do tend to at least plan families — they save up a bit first to make sure they have enough money, they calculate the gap between when they have a first and second child, often not wanting to wait too long so that the children will have more time and similarity to bond, but not so soon that the added responsibility overwhelms the parents.

That's not something that crosses his mind. He has no reason to worry about finances, sure, but he also pays no mind to questions like is this really an environment to raise a kid in? Is the tsaritsa okay with that? Where will they stay?

Eh... that's all stuff that can be dealt with another time. He tends to take the philosophy of crossing bridges when he gets to them. Baby-planning later, baby-making now.

And nothing you can say deters him. Yes you'll be a good mom (don't worry, he'll make sure you behave exactly like he thinks a good mother should), yes you'll be fine, the Fatui has some of the best doctors in the world, so you'll be great health-wise, actually. Yes he has the resources.

And no, he's not waiting. You have this weird insistence on this idea that you should have a period of time where you just... aren't even trying to have kids. Is that normal, where you're from? Do people really get together, get married and live together and not immediately start trying for a baby? Won't that detract from the maximum number of kids you can have in the end? Then why would anyone do that? When he asks that very question, though, you don't really have a good answer, to him at least. You can't just rush something like that, is what you say.

But... of course you can? That's what he's trying to do, rush it so you can go ahead and get a head start and have more and more kids in the future. It's like talking to a brick wall. He cannot process, cannot fathom how people can exist for whom making as many offspring as possible isn't the number one priority in life. Well, whatever, it seems you just have these weird cultural ideas you're not going to let go of, so there's no point in trying to reason with you.

His determination is somewhat obsessive. Even when he's inside you, hips bouncing off the back of your thighs, he keeps talking about it, words slurring as he mumbles something about putting a baby in you, knocking you up, so on and so on, all the while, gripping at your hips and making sure to slam all the way in as far as possible when he finally cums inside you. Maybe he's already accomplished that, who knows, but he has to just keep trying until it's certain, so you only get a few minutes of respite before starting back again.

No condoms. No pulling out, even though you beg for him to do so. Whimpering and pulling at his hair, pushing at his chest, all night long, over and over.

N-not yet, please, I'm not ready, I can't...

Your pleas are partially just for the very sake of not wanting that, but of course, there's also the fact that you realize it will be a death sentence to any hope of escaping him. You've been looking for ways to do it since you were dragged here a day or so ago, you can't let this inhibit you. You just need some more time, just a little bit of time...

You don't get that time.

It doesn't take long. He's young and virile, so, perhaps that's why you don't even get a single cycle from the time you get brought to him. The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. At first, you don't say anything, deciding not to bring the matter up unless he does, partially out of your own denial, and partially because seeing him get inevitably excited will irritate you.

Apparently, they must have some rather atrocious reproductive education out in rural Teyvat too (or, rather, you realize it's probably just fine, and it's more the fact that he probably paid no attention), seeing as he had no idea that that is the standard tell, instead asking you hey, is there a way you can tell if you're pregnant? Do you just wait for your stomach to get bigger or...? and thus, you had to reluctantly explain that.

You can sort of see the gears turning in that otherwise empty head of his. You've been here two months now... you haven't bled at all in that time (he would know, he's been fucking you multiple times a day)... so that means...? You can practically see his eyes light up before he reaches out and wraps his arms around you. He's ecstatic for the rest of the night, won't shut up about all the things you're going to do. You feel sick.

Not that this information in any way impedes him from continuing to empty his balls in you on a daily basis, no. It doesn't slow down in the slightest. In fact, you were sort of hoping he would get turned off the further along you got, since you know that happens with a lot of guys... but not him. No, if anything, you're pretty sure you have more rounds per day the further along you are, sometimes he'll just look you up and down, staring at your belly for a few moments with a haze in his eyes before more or less dragging you over to bed -- and it's not like you can resist much, you're all wobbly as it is...

And, of course, any negativity from you is shut down on the spot. At first, he mistakes it for nervousness -- don't worry! It'll be fine! He can recite those words with ease, over and over, telling you to just not worry about it is his default answer to any concern you have. But once you start getting a bit more openly negative, making it clear it's an attitude issue from you, and finally crossing a line when you outright state you never wanted this, and thereby implying the most heartless and callous thing he can conceive of, that you're going to be resentful of him and your child... it's one of the few times you ever see him not all smiles and sunshine about the whole thing. A complete change of expression, face going dark, eyes narrowing. He grabs your jaw with a grip so firm it hurts.

Don't say that.

It's one of the few times you've seen him so serious and firm. It makes your heart skip a beat.

But almost as soon as he says it, he's back to being cheery... ah, you're just grumpy because you're hormonal and all that. You're lucky he has thick skin. Besides, you're too cute to take your grouchiness seriously, haha... what's that look for...?

And soon, you find yourself in a state of dissociation, having to process and accept reality once you have a living, breathing infant in your arms. It's not until that moment that the reality truly sets in, that you can feel your fate being sealed, that you realize this is actually, genuinely the beginning of the rest of your life.

You try not to dwell on that.

It's hard not to, though, considering that you barely get any time to rest, being pestered each day with questions of how many more days left until the doctor said you can have sex again?? Because he's suffering and miserable. He was devastated to find out you can't go back to it in less than 24 hours, no one ever told him about that part. And you don't even seem to sympathize with him, are you heartless? Yes you gave birth five days ago and he's been very loving and taking care of you and all but haven't you thought at all about how this is affecting him? Yes you sucked him off because the whining was getting annoying but it's not the same, he needs pussy you don't understand, why are you looking at him like you're mad— did you just say "weeks?" As in plural? As in more than one week? Surely you didn't mean that, it can't be that long, right? Why aren't you saying anything. It can't be that long, it can't—

So he fucks you like a man starved when you finally give a green light. It does burn a bit, after having gone a while without getting so ruthlessly stretched and pounded as he always does to you. You're pretty sure he doesn't know his own strength, doesn't realize the sheer intensity of the force with which he grips your hips and arms and throat and presses your face into the mattress and fucks into you with such strength the whole bed creaks as it rocks back and forth. You'll be covered in bruises and sore spots in the morning, just from the grip.

And you notice the way his fingernails dig into your hips, holding your bodies as close as possible, the closer and closer you both get. You feel a sense of dread. You try to reach up and tap on his arm.

D-don't cum inside, it's too soon... I need more time, I'm not ready yet, please—

Just a little bit of time, just some time to feel like you can finally breathe, but once again, you don't get that time.

Shh... don't think about it... just focus on how good it feels, okay?

You whimper, but you're incapable of pushing him off, only able to make soft little sounds of protest when he stops fully inside, making sure not a drop goes to waste when he stuffs you with cum. He stays inside you for some time, not pulling out so as to prevent any from spilling. Just like he did before. And he holds you, rubs your back, says soothing little mumbled things about how you worry too much while you sniffle and tremble.

And then there's two.

He does take quite a bit of pride in it. That applies when you're alone too, he likes to lay his head on your stomach laying in bed and will just relax there for a while, grinning like an idiot. But it applies to others too; it's somewhat of an ego boost to have other people see what he views as an accomplishment. He likes showing you off in general, but he's especially happy to parade you around whenever you're very heavily swollen up. It's some sort of ego thing, you guess.

He likes getting to show off the kids too, a testament to a sort of success. It's a very simple-minded sort of pride, almost humorously so, you often think to yourself. A simplistic mentality of look at these! I made these!, almost a childish pridefulness.

Which, frankly, gets on your last nerve, how he loves to run around forcing his reluctant and rather annoyed coworkers to look at his offspring and listen to him ramble, so beamingly proud of the kid that you carried and you birthed and you care for and you feed and bathe and put to sleep, so proud of their existence as if he did anything to contribute to said existence other than being a sperm depository.

And then there's three, and then there's four, and then you get the special blessing of two at once. You think to yourself with bitter humorousness that you're over halfway to the set standard. And then there's another... and another... the realization even strikes you, a few years in, that since beginning your "new life," you've spent more time pregnant than not pregnant, information that you spend far too long taking in the weight of.

It's an incredibly awkward living situation — you basically were granted what used to be a few interconnected rooms they'd house a few bunk-bed-fuls of soliders in, turned into a sort of apartment-esque dwelling. It's where you carry out most of your tasks and live your life. You never get a break, always getting another one pumped into you as soon as it's physically possible again.

With him gone most of the days, and you having no job to speak of, you've essentially taken on a housewife role, and spend most of your day caring for the increasing number of offspring, each and every one of which, to your dismay, quickly proves to have inherited a rambunctious, hotheaded, and far too energetic nature. You will reluctantly admit, he does actually help you out quite a bit when he can, and genuinely enjoys doing so. You suppose you can admit he's actually more involved and enthusiastically helpful than a lot of fathers are... you don't give him the satisfaction of such praise, though.

Still, he's just gone for most of the day on most days, so you have to do it by yourself, or enlist whichever unfortunate newbie soldier has not yet learned to not go wandering around that one area, lest they be roped into helping out that poor slave-mother-girl that lives in that section with all those energetic kids, so they try to warn newcomers... still, some actually still offer to help, if nothing but out of pity.

Most of the time, though, it's just you and the ever-increasing number of children. You felt bad the first time you called one by the wrong name. They all look so much alike — and each one is so close together in age to the next immediate older and younger one — that you get confused sometimes, and it quickly becomes a habit, but they're quick to correct you. And you do end up loving them — you suppose that's just instinct — but sometimes... it's just too much. You can't get a spare second. You feel exhausted.

You're constantly moving, taking care of something. This one fell and scraped his knee and comes crying and blubbering to you, and you're still bandaging that up and mumbling words of comfort when you get a tug on your sleeve from behind you — Mama, I'm hungry — and you barely finish saying just a minute, I'll get you something before another one is calling for you from another room — MamaaaaAAAAAA — and soon you're holding one in each arm (a more difficult task than usual considering you're heavily pregnant again), waddling over to go check on the one that called you, and then another one comes softly shuffling over with a look what I found!, and you know it's going to be something very simple like a cool-shaped rock or leaf like always, but you don't want to hurt the poor thing's feelings and want him to be happy so you stand there smiling and feigning interest and awe and pretending it's the neatest thing ever while your arms start to tremble from the strain of holding two heavy sacks of flesh in each arm -- still trying to soothingly bounce the sniffling one up and down a bit -- and the other one is saying something but you can't make it out because three of them are talking at the same time and oh god where's the fifth and sixth ones because you told them to hang on when you went to bandage the first one and now you don't see either one and is the seventh one still asleep where you left him or not and you start to panic and -- hang on just a second, ______ -- no, I-I mean, ______ -- no, wait, uh... which one are...you're -- uh --

You feel like you're going insane. Each and every day wears you out in full.

When you finally get that rare, wonderful moment in which you can get all of them asleep at once, finally go lay down to try and get a much needed rest yourself... you always seems to have such precise timing, you barely close your eyes before the door opens and you get the announcement that your lover who you certainly must have missed is home, and what do you know, everything is so quiet, this gives you two an opportunity to make another one!

The only downside for him is that sometimes, the existing offspring have a habit of interrupting the sibling-making process... so, sometimes some poor underling (rather, usually, they need at least two or three to control them all) gets saddled with a command to entertain and herd the harbinger's offspring when he takes a day off, giving you two a day to yourselves... not to go out or anything, no. You usually spend the entirety of those days in bed, going at it like rabbits again and again.

And again. And again. Sometimes you get summoned by some underling to follow because his superior needs you for "something important," which you both know is just getting fucked over a desk or in a hallway closet because he has needs you know, and it's torture to have to wait until he can come back for the evening. Stuffs you full of cum and rests his head on your chest for a moment to recharge (they're so nice, all soft and swollen, more or less perpetually so these days), before sending you back, promising to hurry and come back for the night as soon as possible.

Oh, and you don't even get the respite of having him gone at times whenever he has to go abroad. No, he brings you with him... yes, all of you. He insisted, and eventually the few authorities above him gave in and now reserve a few extra rooms all next to each other on the ships and hotels. You don't mind that too much. It's basically just a vacation for the lot of you, and that's what you tell the kids it is too... at least they're more easily entertained than usual by looking out the window, which gives you chances to rest.

Ajax likes those trips too. He's usually more worked up and frustrated by the end of the day, and what better way to blow that steam off than to come back and breed your wife-pet again and again? He smiles when he tells you you should use these trips to set a new goal of making at least one kid in every nation. You know better than to think it's a joke.

When the people you're allowed to interact with and meet ask you how many children you have, you often have to pause and recall what number you're on now. Regardless, the answer always makes people's jaws drop. At least most of them know not to ask you why, since they seem to be well aware it's not a choice on your part. Sometimes people commend you for it, say something about how it must be so hard. Your eye twitches. You have no idea. Haha.

Everything happened so fast, the full weight of it all doesn't really dawn on you until one day, for seemingly no reason. Woken up in the early morning by crying, the same way you're woken up roughly 9 out of 10 mornings, groggily shuffling out of bed, tending to whatever the issue is before shuffling back to bed... you catch a glimpse of yourself in the window, the dark circles under your eyes, and for once, the rare sight of yourself not heavily swollen up. Still, your face is exhausted, the sort that sleep can't fix.

The reality of it settles in — you've been so busy with everything happening, you never really got to process how much time has passed, how deep into this life you've settled... you supposed in the back of your head, even after accepting the current reality, you kept this mentality that you'd still find a way out one day, but in that moment, you realize all too late that that will never happen. Even if you had the chance — and looking back, it occurs to you now you've had many chances to run — you could never bring yourself to abandon them... you get the sense that's part of his intention. It's just never really settled in in full until this moment.

Still, all you can do is stand there, trying to despair, but almost too numb to do so... you let out a heavy sigh and let yourself fall back into bed, pulling a blanket back over you and settling back into the warmth. Your weight falling onto the mattress makes it bounce a bit, causing your bedmate to stir, groggily moving closer to you, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close.

He murmurs something asking you if the kid is okay, you say yes, and then it moves onto asking what time it is, you say you don't know but it's definitely not time to get up just yet... on it goes, both of you with your eyes closed and words coming out groggy and mumbled. You can almost sort of enjoy the soft tenderness of the moment, if you forget a lot of what went into this life you live.

The exchange draws quiet after a moment, and you begin to drift back off to sleep, slowly breathing in and out in time with the rising and falling of the chest pressed to your back. You're just about to slip into slumber once again when you feel the arm wrapped around you move, hand coming to rest on your hip and slowly trail down your thigh.

Hey, I want another baby....

482 notes · View notes

touyota · 1 year

Text

Malebolge

Yandere/Dark Morax x Reader

WORDS: 18.2k

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And thus, here it is.

Important note that I'm largely basing this on [[this post]] I made ages ago about a conquered and captive goddess!darling during the war era because 1) it has never left the back of my mind since making that post, 2) I have watched way too many of those Chinese historical palace dramas where they're essentially confined to the palace and I find that very hot and 3) utterly brutal war era Morax >>>>>>>

Warnings/Notes: DARK CONTENT, fem reader, noncon/rape, captivity, rough sex/pain/more or less physical abuse, moderate but not full-on asphyxiation, draconic features (namely claw-like nails, horns, and most importantly dual reptile dick because I am both incredibly degenerate and greatly appreciate that this seems to be a not uncommon HC so I know I'm not alone), double penetration (vaginal/anal), degradation, forced cultural assimilation, brief mentions of death scare/past death scare, Xiao is there for like .008 seconds with no dialogue

Also I have learned more about lizard mating in the past week than any human should ever have any business knowing so if you want lizard seggs info I now know way too much of it

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Malebolge (n.) ( /mælˈboʊldʒ/):

The Dantean 8th Circle of Hell. An inescapable cavern.

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You winced at the slightest of shifting, the unconscious action creating a sting that stirred you from a deep slumber.

In the half-awake state, you grunted as you shifted again, this time rolling more onto your side, but the soreness merely shifted with you.

There was no position in which you could be comfortable. No matter what way you lay down, there was pain. Stinging pain, aching pain, throbbing pain, a multitude of acute points of pain dotted all over your body. As it always did, the painful sensation began to pull your mind into the waking world.

Your back and hips were scratched. That was the stinging pain. Marks where claws had gripped into your flesh, leaving inflamed, reddish lines over your flesh.

Your thighs and sides where bruised from crushing grip. If you lay on your stomach, your chafed and swollen nipples would sting even at the lightest contact with the sheets, and the position would only intensify the perpetual dull, throbbing ache inside of your body, internal bruises and the muscles of your orifices pulled and stretched and rubbed raw to the point they never ceased to ache.

It was nothing compared to moving, to the deep ache in each limb with the slightest of exertion, but even at rest, with no movement at all, a dull, throbbing ache pulsated across your body.

It wasn't the physical pain itself, though, that was unbearable. Pain was part of life. Pain was something every entity that lived long enough was all too familiar with — for deities like yourself that lived often longer than they could even recall, life was full of quite a great deal of pain.

What you hated about the pain, rather, was the way it always triggered a deep swell of bitterness and anger in your chest and stomach. What it meant. That it brought on a surge of emotions and thoughts far more unbearable than the soreness itself.

"Mm—?!"

You inhaled a sharp breath as pressure pushed against your stomach, a force that pulled you backwards across the sheets. Your back pressed into a soft warmth — not without sending a shooting pain across the surface along your spine, where the muscles had been pulled to the point of soreness from strain, a sore internal ache of your sphincter from stretch and wear, and a sharper sting against the irritated, raw flesh of your backside and the backs of your thighs.

The arm locked tightly onto your body, upper arm crossing over your stomach, forearm turned and pressed against your chest, all keeping you in your place. You could feel a gentle, slow rise and fall of the chest pressed to your back, bare skin on bare skin, without any layers of clothing separating your bodies.

Your eyelids just barely parted, only to squeeze shut once more at the morning light shining directly into your eyes. A small ray of light, given how small the tiny, high-up, barred window was, but it managed to be ever so inconveniently placed right at your frame of vision. You grunted at the burn, but it served to pull your consciousness out of the haze of drowsiness and into full alertness. There was no telling exactly what time it was, but the sun was up enough that you would likely be getting up very soon anyway. Those attendants — some of them devout human servants, some subjugated higher beings — always came by at a consistent time each morning to bring food and water, which often was your wake-up call each day.

You closed your eyes once more, trying to ignore the stinging and throbbing that ran all across your body, hoping to maybe get a few more minutes of sleep.

You shifted slightly to alleviate awkward positioning, rolling further onto your side, only to grimace as the shifting of your pelvis reignited a soreness, a dull ache not on the outside flesh, but a deep internal bruising. Your body jolted and stiffened, toes curling and face contorting with the pain.

But as you began to relax your muscles again, as the pain ebbed away, your brief jolting seemed to have awakened your bedmate, feeling a stirring and shifting behind you, the arm around you shifting in its position. The movement caused you to roll onto your back. Your eyes slowly opened again, and a soft noise escaped your throat.

You went still, thinking that it was a momentary unconscious reaction, but after a moment, the bedsheets shifted again as Morax moved, slightly propping himself up on one elbow, high enough of a point to look over to your face from above. Perhaps you could have closed your eyes and feigned sleep, had you thought to do so, but your instinctive reaction was to turn your head and raise your gaze up to that which looked down at you.

You were given a soft smile.

"Did you sleep well?"

The question, although you sensed genuine well-intent in it, was biting, almost mocking. You felt your jaw clench and irritation rise in your chest, fighting back the urge to become immediately spiteful.

As always, you had had trouble falling asleep, waking up multiple times in the night. The throbbing kept you from drifting off, and you hadn't been allowed to get up and wipe yourself clean of the slime sensation of fluids leaking out between your legs, thus forcing you to deal with the unpleasant, icky feeling all night — which now persisted as an equally unpleasant dried substance tacked on your inner thighs. Even after you'd fallen asleep, the slightest of movements in your sleep would jolt you awake with soreness. The same routine you underwent each and every night.

And yet—

"Yes..."

—was the word you forced out of your mouth, equally forcing the corners of your mouth upward, albeit weakly.

"Mm." He lowered himself back down, gently extending the arm that had been around you once more, turning you to face him and pulling you closer. A soft sound came out of your throat, but you made no effort to pull away. Your face came to rest against the god's chest, forehead brushing up against his collarbones.

"There's no need to rise just yet," he continued, stroking a hand up and down your back — not without running over sore spots, but only lightly. "You should rest a while longer. You're undoubtedly worn out."

Once more, you had to bite your tongue to prevent saying something you shouldn't in response to the implication of the words and the vague feeling of degradation it carried.

The touch of bare flesh to bare flesh was an electrifying sort of feeling. Whether or not it was so in a positive or negative sense was, of course, dependent on the circumstances, but even if you could forget or disregard all of the circumstances you yourself were under, just the mere sensation consumed your sense of feeling. Touches from another person lingered in a way that touching objects or the feeling of one's clothes on their body did not. The brushing of another person's skin up against vulnerable areas usually kept covered would maintain a lasting feeling of awareness of that touch, lingering for a while thereafter.

And, of course, that touch of bare skin carried with it a sense of shame. A sort of subtle reminder. Of course, that was not even really the intention, seeing as you naturally fell asleep this way, but you were certain he knew the feeling it invoked in you, and even more certain that he found your embarrassment satisfying. Even now, you swore you heard a sort of heavy exhale in amusement as you stiffened when your bare abdomen pressed against his. You suppressed a shiver as your sore, inflamed nipples brushed against his skin, but couldn't help the grimace of your face. You tried to close your eyes, thinking perhaps you could sleep again.

But then, you stiffened further as he ran his hand down your back once more. Your shoulders bunched up, your breath hitched.

The motion was so gentle. Fingers barely brushing over your skin.

Nonetheless, those same soft, gentle touches of his fingers running down your back ignited a residual, burning pain. After a moment, he transitioned to using a finger to trace over scabbed scratches running down your back, as if it were a pattern. The hand trailed lower, softly meeting your hip, causing you to jolt as it bumped onto a bruise.

It then came down further still, to grasp at the fleshy, soft curve of your ass. Just the mere contact to the spot stung. The flesh was raw and sensitive to every little touch. Even the sheets brushing against the flesh sparked pain. You inhaled a sharp breath through your nostrils, one you were certain could not have gone unheard, but was not acknowledged nonetheless.

But it was so gentle. The touches were so light and so careful, as if handling something of great fragility. It was almost impossible to believe they were the same hands from which the pain originated.

He exhaled, breath warm against your face, and tilted his head down, grabbing your own chin to tilt yours up. His hand rested on your hip. Your heart began to beat faster.

And then, just as your lips were so close to meeting that you could feel their warmth, there was a knock on the door. You both turned your heads over to the sound, but you lay still as he stood, threw on the robe beside the bed, and walked over to the door, opening for a mere moment and exchanging a brief murmur of acknowledgement before taking something into his hands.

Right. This would be around the correct time, when you were brought food each and every morning. You weren't certain if it was merely customary for the harbor people to eat their meals in their bedrooms, or if it was just done to keep you confined to one room as much as possible... but if you had to guess, it was very likely the latter.

You let your eyes close again, only vaguely processing the distinct sound of a tray being set on the table at the end of the room, and the footsteps coming back over to you. His hand slid underneath your form and lightly pressed upward, prompting you to sit upright, which you obediently followed.

The shifting caused the sheets to fall down from your body, exposing your bare chest. It wasn't as if it really mattered, all things considered, but you nonetheless raised your arm up across your breasts to cover them to the best of your ability.

Your own robe was right there, well within reach, having been carelessly slung over the bedpost to your side. It would be a simple extension of the arm to grab it and pull it onto your body, to cover your nakedness.

But you didn't dare do so yourself. That was, you knew from experience, one of many possible missteps that risked upsetting your master. It was doing something on your own, determining something for yourself. Such a simple act was a transgression, because it was an assertion, a nonverbal declaration that you would and even could take an action, transition from one state of condition to another, not only without explicit permission to do so. Likewise, it not only made an assumption that you would be permitted to do so, but it was also an assertion that you could do anything at all for yourself, a notion that you were supposed to leave no possible implications of being the truth. Such a simple, brief action would be an act of both defiance, arrogance, and independence alike.

Thus, you stayed perfectly still. After a moment, thankfully, it was retrieved for you, and you held your arms out weakly at it was secured around your body. After another moment of hesitation, knowing not to leave the bed of your own volition as well, you waited until you were gently held at the waist and pulled to the edge, a non-verbal command to stand. You stood and waited for the hand on your back with the lightest of a push, a motion permitting you to walk over and sit. You murmured your thanks as you were handed food, and bit your tongue when you were given an affectionate — and that much more belittling — pat on the head.

You swallowed your food without really tasting it, a mechanical process you went through each day to keep yourself alive (and, of course, because the prospect of a hunger strike would certainly not be well-met). The atmosphere as you ate was quiet, outside of the light sounds of utensils hitting the ceramic and the faint sound of your chewing. It was an awkward, heavy sort of silence, but silence was, in a way, good. Silence, boredom, they were neutral. Not particularly good on their own, but they were also an absence of anything negative. All far superior to less pleasant alternatives.

But you couldn't distract yourself from the sense of shame this morning ritual always carried with it. It was so domestic, so compliant on your end, perfectly trained to a set routine.

It was not only your own demeanor, though, in which the calmness and gentleness of it bothered you. Just as you did not create conflict or instigate any unpleasant interaction, neither were you presented with any hostility, cruelty, or aggression, so long as you performed your role without any mistakes or resistance.

But you almost wished you were.

Your long life had by no means been sheltered from witnessing the brutality of the world, even if you had thankfully not been subjected to it prior. You'd seen various gods and deities of different kinds, many of whom would savagely beat and maim subjects and underlings, even kill them, without a second thought. Inflicting the most unfathomable suffering on the lesser creatures for no purpose other than amusement.

That had not been the case with you at all.

The draconic Lord was not needlessly ill-natured, but perhaps that would almost be preferable. Any interaction always ended up with a burning feeling in your chest of humiliation, always spoken to like a stupid child or animal ➖not in a cruel sort of degradation and condescension, but an endeared, affectionate sort, that made it all that much more unbearable.

At least with an outwardly cruel master, you would be able to find solace in spite, feel a sense of dignity that came with hatred for an oppressive figure. The form of degradation you were forced to endure, however, was not like that of a tormentor or oppressor that would maim and brutalize their subjects within an inch of their life at random for amusement, nor do irreparable harm to their bodies by starvation or mutilation. Likewise, there would be a sort of pride you could maintain if you were kept in horrid conditions; if you were imprisoned in some filthy dungeon, starved and beaten and barely kept alive, enduring that would be a mark of pride. It would validate you as an opposing force, you could look your tormentor in the eye knowing you did not succumb, you could still hold your head high.

Yet, you were kept healthy and well-fed. Everything you were given to wear was of utmost quality, and most often pure silk, gliding smoothly against your skin with every movement. Your conditions were those of a life many mortals and immortals alike would dream of having. And you were never treated with severe, true violence — nothing that would break your bones, nothing that would injure you to the point of needing medical attention or threaten your life.

And yet, in its own way, that in and of itself felt like its own form of degradation, in part because it was all forced upon you, unable to be denied even if you wished. To be cared for in such a way, but given no agency of your own. Treated like a prized possession, and yet almost nothing that happened in your day, almost nothing you yourself even did, was of your own volition, all forced upon you.

It was, you knew deep down, the life of a pet. Perhaps better analogized to a child or a toy, but nonetheless looked down upon as a fragile, helpless, stupid creature; inferior, yet simultaneously treasured and treated with a sense of affection.

And yet, all the same, your body was sore, scratched and bruised, pinpointed spots of throbbing and aching and burning pains littered across your flesh, and deeper aches still from the insides of your bodily orifices.

In many ways, it was one of the worst parts of each day, to come out of the dreaming world and be confronted with the multitude of little indicators and reminders of your subjugation. Every aspect of your life had been moulded into matching the culture of your ruler deity, stripped of your own, which had had, as you'd learned, a great deal of differences, despite not being geographically too far apart. Nonetheless, you were eating their food, wearing their clothing, sleeping in a bed and a home of their architectural style, speaking their tongue. And above all—

"____, today will be a bit different from your usual routine."

Your jaw clenched.

Yes, that was what you hated the most. That name. It felt offensive, insulting, to have been robbed of the name you had used for centuries, only to have another forced upon you. You didn't get any say in what it was, it was merely assigned to you from the moment you had come. The phonology itself was very obviously derived from their linguistic culture, replacing your own, taking from you the last and most basic, fundamental part of your individuality.

But you said nothing. You looked up, raising your eyebrows in an inquisitive expression.

He placed his palm on top of your head, in what you supposed was intended to be another affectionate gesture.

"I have important matters to attend to today." His voice was of his usual, neutral tone, gentle but deep.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment before giving a single, soft nod. That was one of many common phrases that each carried their own implicative, secondary message, left unsaid but understood nonetheless. If a given day contained a great deal of matters deemed important, that would often mean you would spend a great deal of your day sitting in place, listening to a bunch of people talk about subjects of no relevance or significance to yourself, quiet and still like a lifeless doll. Only present to be seen. The 'important' descriptor meant nothing to you in and or itself, as no matters that were dealt with here ever meant anything to you, it was merely attached as a means of getting a message of its own across: that the tolerance threshold for any ill-intended behavior, outbursts, or any other form of acting out was temporarily far lower, and that consequently, any such behaviors would hold significantly higher penalties than they usually held.

"Alright."

Your voice still came out hoarse. It wasn't as if there was much else to say. You couldn't bring yourself to care enough to inquire further, and there was no sense in raising some sort of objection to the matter.

Rather, perhaps there was reason for it in spite alone, but it was a scene that had played itself out so many times in the past that at this point, it would merely be like rereading the same book for the hundredth time, the same words and actions and events played out again and again. Even if the resentment in your heart urged you to be defiant out of sheer emotion, at this point there was almost a sort of boredom to the idea, one that your emotions were, at least for the moment, not strong enough to override.

Sometimes you would act out just to alleviate boredom with the usual routine, so it was merely a matter of, upon any given day, which option sounded more appealing. After a long streak of good behavior, the days would become boring enough that creating chaos and conflict was entertaining... then the consequences of that would put you into another streak of compliance, and the cycle continued. Right now, you decided against it. You merely raised a cup of water up to your mouth, savoring the coolness to your throat as you drank what remained of it.

That was, however, not the full extent of information you were to be given. He set the cup in his hand down on the table before adding more explanation.

"I'll be meeting with... adversaries, and I would prefer to keep your existence unknown to them." He straightened his posture where he sat. "You are to stay in here for the day. I will be back by nightfall. Understood?"

You merely gave a soft nod, not taking your gaze off the floor until you saw movement. He leaned forward over the table, coming down to grab at your jaw, tilting your head upward to force eye contact. You felt a sudden jolt to your gut as your eyes met. While clearly not actively upset, his expression still communicated displeasure, eyes narrowed and face otherwise unexpressive and flat, lacking the faint smile of contentment he so often wore. His voice was firm as he spoke again, repeating the question with greater emphasis.

"Do you understand?"

You nodded frantically. Were it not for the tension of the moment, it might have been a touch comical how his fingers squished at your cheeks, distorting your speech.

"Y-yesh, Mash-ter..."

He exhaled a slow, deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes. His grip grew soft, coming to gently cup your cheek instead.

"Very well, then."

He leaned further forward, ever so softly pressing his lips to the top of your forehead for a brief moment before standing up and turning around, making his way over to the door. "Should you grow bored, there's a good deal of reading material on the shelves behind you." He turned around to shut the door behind him. This time, as your eyes met, he gave you a soft expression, corners of his mouth upturning just slightly. "I'll send for someone to bring you food and water in a few hours. I'll try to return as soon as possible."

You nodded. You tried to put on a similar expression in return, but your mouth twitched with the attempt. "I understand."

You had to force the words out of your mouth. What you truly felt went unspoken aloud, but the spite remained in your head nonetheless.

Please don't.

And once the door shut, you were left in what felt like a suffocating quiet. A tense, uneasy atmosphere, despite the stillness and silence of the room.

For a moment, you merely sat perfectly still, staring forward with dull eyes and an absence of mind, no thoughts of any kind beyond a sort of static buzz in the back of your head. With your life as it was, it was all too easy to slip into that foggy state, lulled into a waking sleep by the mundaneness and emptiness of everything you did, to the point that your brain was easily able to achieve a state of nothingness.

But after a moment, your eyes began to dart around the room. Your gaze fixated on your own shadow for a moment before you turned your head to the side, as if expecting to see something different from the same layout as always, as if something would change. Of course, it hadn't; the only windows remained high enough that you'd need to stand on your toes just for your fingers to brush against the bottom edge, and were covered by metallic bars at that.

And while the light just so happened to shine perfectly into your eyes from where you rested each day in bed, the small size of the windows and high placement left the room very dim even in the middle of the day. You supposed this room had been intentionally built for the purpose of keeping someone in. It certainly performed that function adequately.

Your heart rate was increasing. The subtle awareness of your situation began to slowly trail to the forefront of your mind, still largely held back by a profound fogginess that went beyond sleepiness.

Your eyes did graze over the books at the other end of the room, but you had no desire to even pick them up. Such things had ceased to hold any interest. These days, the mere notion of most activities seemed dull, uninteresting. You doubted the subjects of the material would be of any particular interest to you, anyway. You merely sat still, turned your gaze back to the door.

There was an unspoken understanding about the situation; you had seen in his eyes before he left that he knew you understood. It was a trial of sorts, a test. You had not been left entirely alone before. On normal days, you were dragged around from place to place, often meeting with all sorts of people whose names and faces you made no effort to register in your memory. Kept in your master's lap to be looked at, to be seen and displayed. You usually sat perpendicular to him, so that you could lean onto his chest and close your eyes and block it all out.

And when you could not be with him, when it was time to go to combat in the chaos and war of the world outside, or otherwise doing something you could not partake in, you were left with an attendant outside your door. And yet, when he had opened the door to leave, you could see there was no one outside. That, and telling you outright that an attendant would come along in a few hours was in and of itself a subtle double-message, intended to inform you that that meant, logically following, that there was no attendant watching over you at that moment, that you were going without supervision.

This was, thus, you immediately concluded, a test to see if you would stay in place, if you would still be in the room when he returned. A test of obedience, loyalty, and perhaps, how much you feared him.

It was only natural, thus, as that realization settled in, that your mind began to race with uncertainty. The mere thought, naturally, triggered an immediate impulse. Your innate instinct was to launch yourself out the door that very second and go bounding away down the hall.

Yet, of course, the more rational part of your consciousness halted that impulse with a sense of wariness and caution. If it was indeed a test, which you were more or less certain it was, that also meant there was almost guaranteed to be a sort of insurance measure for the possibility of your failure. There could very well have been guards posted by the door, intentionally placed so you wouldn't have seen them when it was opened. Hell, for all you knew, he could have very well been lying about any obligations, and merely be waiting right outside the door, ready to catch you in any act of disloyalty. It was likely that any doors to the outside would be locked or barred. There could be a physical trap of some kind, too. That was perhaps that being the most humiliating possibility, invoking the thought of being forced to sit in an obvious display of your actions and wait to be found and freed.

You gave your head a quick shake to clear your mind, halting the train of thought in its place.

The safe thing to do was nothing. With action, with hope, came risk, and with risk came rightful fear. Doing anything other than staying put was sure to end poorly. To even think to intentionally violate the standard of behavior you were being blatantly tested for was incredibly foolish and naive. You imagined that such an attempt would be the absolute worst of transgressions you could possibly commit, and the mere thought of irreparably crossing some sort of line made you shiver.

Drop it. Forget it. Leave it be.

You repeated the words to yourself, over and over, trying to quell the impulse. It was for your own good.

...But there was nothing wrong with just poking your head out the door, was there? Even if you were immediately met with someone, you could easily say you thought you heard something and were just checking to see the source of the sound. That was as good an excuse as any.

That alone couldn't hurt. It would just be for a second. Just to look.

Slowly, without much active thought, you found yourself rising to your feet. You swallowed, and took a deep breath.

In a way, you almost hoped you would open the door and see someone standing there. At least then, that could be the end of it. Any faint hope could be extinguished, you could return to the comfort that came with helplessness, knowing you could not do anything. When that window of opportunity didn't exist, there were no what-ifs, no fear of missing out on an opportunity, no conflict of what to do.

But as your hand slowly pushed the door open, you were only met with a dark hall.

The halls were, by contrast to the room, far more dark and unsettling. Windowless spaces only illuminated by a few lamps along the walls.

You turned your head left, then right, analyzing both halls. The left one ended very shortly with an opening to another two options to turn down subsequent halls, while the right one carried on for some distance before doing the same.

But what you did not see, was any presence other than your own. There was no one. Only emptiness.

You felt something, though. Something beyond your primary senses. A subconscious, skin-crawling feeling, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, that made you feel cold all over. As if being watched, even surrounded by emptiness.

A nauseous feeling crept up in your gut. You shut the door in haste, shakily stumbling backwards as if having been shoved. You lowered yourself down to sit on the ground once more, legs feeling too uneasy to keep standing. The door seemed to loom intimidatingly before you. It was so close, and yet, the thought of stepping outside of it on your own felt foreign, somehow wrong, as if some extreme action that no one in their right mind would do.

No. There was nothing, you had seen so yourself. It was merely the feeling of dread becoming too much, holding you back. You were letting paranoia go to your head.

And that brought back the self-directed frustration, anger. You were letting fear get the better of you. You had literally seen with your own two eyes that there was nothing outside. You could walk out, and no one would know.

There was a burning sensation in your chest. A long-forgotten, supressed feeling. Your dignity and pride... how pathetic was it to not even take this opportunity to do something? Even if you couldn't get out, you could at least look around, familiarize yourself with what was around you. Yes, you likely wouldn't be able to find a way out today, but at the very least, scouting it out would be incredibly useful for the future.

To stay here and cower in submission and obedience... would that just go on forever/ In the back of your mind, you had always made some sort of automatic assumption that you would, one day, get out. You had always thought about the future in those terms, wondered what you'd do or where you'd go when that happened. The sudden, intrusive thought, even merely a passing one for just a brief moment, that this would be permanent...

Just as the thought crossed your mind, your eyes trailed over to a mirror on the other side of the room, the vertical sort that extended to the floor.

You sat in place for some time. Unmoving, staring at your own reflection, letting the minutes pass by in quiet, transfixed, unable to look away.

Your eyes looked dull and tired. Your body was slouched over, like a limp doll left to sit on the ground. You scanned every inch of your body. The way your hands rested limply in your lap. The scratches on your back that you could see the ends of where the loose robes had fallen down to expose your shoulders. Taking it all in. It felt like nothing more than a husk, soul long since departed.

Every little detail was a mark of ownership over you, a claim to your life, body and soul, a statement that they all were no longer your own. As if stripping you of personhood, redesigning your exterior and your habits to serve as a perpetual reminder that you were defeated, broken into submission.

And in that new, reconstructed person, there was no place to have any pride. Any dignity or self-respect was out of place, it did not belong, it was not supposed to exist anywhere within the new object that had been created. It was a smudge on a fine painting, dust on a shelf, dirt on a toy -- it would be unhesitatingly wiped away, ensuring that the respective possession of value was free of such undesired impurities. Leaving behind only a flawless object that would perfectly serve its purpose, to be used as it was designed to be.

A painting's was to be looked at, a shelf's was to store, and a toy... it was to be played with, used for the enjoyment of its owner.

Some time passed. Many thoughts came and went, miserable, bitter, and shameful. You sat there and stared. At some point, your eyes began to slowly close, your head felt heavy and cloudy, and your body relaxed...

But it was then that you seemed to snap out of your transfixation, shaking your head. You'd nearly gone to sleep sitting up, and would have wasted the day away. Such falling asleep during the day had become something of a habit at this point, often sleeping for far longer periods of time than necessary or even healthy, just to escape from the waking world.

Your chest felt tight with shame. No. You wouldn't allow that. To just sit there and be a good, obedient pet. Your sense of pride, whatever remained of it, couldn't allow that. The you from before wouldn't have allowed you to become like this, would be ashamed of you for inaction.

You rose to your feet once more and, with a deep breath to steady your nerves, made your way back to the door, opening it once more. After turning your head once again, checking to ensure it was still empty, you looked down at the ground, where the pattern of the floor transitioned over a straight line dividing the room and the hall.

You hesitated for another moment. The fear was still present, even if you did your best to go on in spite of it. It felt daunting, like some tremendous act.

But you stepped over it nonetheless, tiles cool on the soles of your feet. And then, you were left standing.

You left the door open, just in case someone came along and you needed to rush back into the room. You turned your head in each direction.

You had been down the left hall plenty of times, you were fairly familiar with the layout of the estate, having intentionally made sure to commit it to memory, should there be any possibility of finding an exit.

The right hall, however, you'd never been down. But not only was it so expansive it was difficult to take it all in, there was also the fact that as far as you knew, it only led to more and more rooms, you could see doors in a line down the walls as far as your vision extended.

It was still morning. If he said he would be back before nightfall, that meant you had a great deal of time. Although you were told there would be an attendant to bring you a midday meal, but even that would be at least a few hours away, even with you having wasted... you estimated around maybe two hours idly sitting in the room.

Even if you couldn't get out, you could at least pace yourself to go explore a bit and memorize what you found, trying to mentally keep track of time and return before someone came. If someone found you outside, then, you could claim you were searching for an attendant to request water or food. That was perfectly realistic, wasn't it?

As you took the first steps, a shiver ran down your spine. There it was again, that intense feeling of unease, something beyond the fear of being seen. Some sensation, some sense that made you twitch, eyes darting all around. There was still nothing. And yet, your heart rate increased even further than the nervousness already paced it, your breathing grew heavier and faster. You took a few more cautious steps. The feeling persisted, and in a way, seemed to direct you, a subconscious way of feeling the direction it was coming from, controlling your gaze to follow the sensation. Following what seemed like the silent command of that sense, your head tilted upwards to the rafters of the ceiling.

For just a moment, the slightest of seconds, you caught a glimpse of something. A dark, humanoid silhouette, barely distinguishable the surrounding shadow, crouched down on the rafter beam and leaning forward. Bright yellow eyes that shone out in the darkness, wide open and staring at you with eerie, gut-wrenching intense focus.

A spike of panic lurched through your chest. You inhaled a sharp gasp and took an instinctive step back, your frame of sight disoriented and blurred with the movement.

And then, as your vision refocused, it was gone.

You blinked a few times, rubbed at your eyes, and looked again. Yes, there was nothing there.

You exhaled the air you'd been holding in, a shuddering breath. You reached a trembling hand up to the spot where your neck met your jaw, pressing two fingers down into the flesh to feel just how hard and fast your heart pounded.

It was merely your own paranoia getting to your head, imagining things. You had to shake it off and keep going. Your footsteps hastened.

You still slowed yourself down as you reached a dark corner, slowly poking your head over the bend. Nothing down the next hall, either, nor could you hear any footsteps or faint chatter or anything that would indicate another presence. It gave you at least some boost in assurance, steadying your walking.

And the next corner, and the next corner. It was as if there wasn't a soul in the whole, massive building, despite there usually being servants to the god that moved around performing various tasks, and guards as well. The Geo god spared no effort in maintaining subjects to keep everything in this place in line, whatever said place was. You knew it was not the real world — that was how the realm had been, by whatever means, indued with some sort of ward that had left you unable to use your own divine power from the moment you were brought in. Many gods had similar dwellings... but they could all be entered and exited, and this would be no exception.

Still, it almost felt too easy. Following the widest hall and keeping to the right side seemed to lead you exactly the way you wanted to go, into areas silent but still dimly lit enough to see. After what seemed like a torturously suspended wait, you halted in place as you rounded the next bend.

Your heart began to pound not merely in fear, but excitement, an exhilarating buzz in your chest that elated your spirit. This hall did not end with another curve, but instead, a door.

A set of large double doors, to be exact. It was a deep red, the wood intricately carved, the frame equally designed with obvious devotion and craftsmanship. Larger and more eye-catchingly ornate than any of the doors lining the hallway, and set at the very end of the hall, looming before you in an almost unnerving perfection, picturesque in a near perfect symbol of the end of your short journey.

That was, of course, indicative of a front door.

A door leading outside.

You could feel your heartbeat throughout your body, each pulse a pounding in your chest, a rush through your throat and extremities. The tile was cold to your bare feet as they slowly, cautiously stepped forward, each footstep just the lightest and faintest of sounds.

Your hand turned the knob and pulled. It was quite heavy, as could be expected from the quality and authenticity of the wood used for such a large entryway. Still, with a tug, the door slid on its hinges towards you. Your shoulders tensed up at the low groaning sound of the aged wood.

The sunlight was nearly blinding, just the mere sliver that came through the gap to which you'd opened it, no more than the width of your hand. The sudden burn caught you off-guard, and you stiffened as your eyes reflexively shut, taking a moment to adjust before slowly, barely parting your eyelids once more.

As your eyes quickly adjusted to the light, you could make out the myriad of colors that composed the natural part of the realm, green all around of grass and plants, the blue sky dotted with puffy clouds.

The sun not only brought its light, but also a pleasant warmth that swept over the narrow vertical line of your body that the light shone upon. As you inhaled, your nostrils were filled with the invigorating fresh scent of dirt and sky and life, the air itself warm in your lungs.

For the briefest of moments, you stood perfectly still, taking just a single second to bask in the euphoria gracing your senses even in spite of your nerves.

But you couldn't just go running out, no, that would be foolish... right? You had no idea how to get out of this realm from here, and would certainly be seen by some guard or attendant or another if you recklessly walked out in broad daylight. If you were caught, it would be ages before this sort of opportunity would come again.

But it couldn't hurt, surely, to just peek around the door, to poke your head out and get a better look at your surroundings. You pulled the door a bit wider, just enough to fit your head through, holding the edge of the door propped open with your forearm.

There were no visible persons outside, either. No guards, no humans nor beasts. Just sun and grass and decoratively assembled stone and masonry that carried on for a ways into the distance.

And more importantly, you could see in the distance, at the end of a winding trail, a glowing pillar of light. The devices that led in and out of these ethereal realms. You had seen plenty in your time in godhood.

In that case... even if there were guards beyond your frame of sight, if you made a run for it, you could probably reach the end. And once you were out into the real world, surely even with your limited combative capacity, you could still utilize the abilities you possessed to get far away and ward off any pursuers. You could run far, far away, find a new land to live in. You could feign being a regular mortal and live life alongside them to conceal yourself. You were not the sort of overly-prideful deity that would consider such a thing to be an insult; in fact, such a prospect didn't sound bad at all.

It was all far too perfect. You found the corners of your mouth turning upward on their own, unable to conceal your excitement even if you had tried. Perhaps the higher beings in Celestia had taken favor on you, or decided to compensate you for your unjust persecution. Your breathing was so heavy that your shoulders and chest rose and fell with each respiration. Your eyes watered. It didn't even feel real, it was all so sudden, your mind felt frozen in shock. Your whole body was filled with a tingling sensation, your head felt lighter than air. You pulled your head back through the door, reaching back for the handle and pulling it wide enough to slip your body through, watching as more light poured into the dark hall.

A startled grunt came out of your throat as your body was jerked forward by the door slamming shut, pulled by your hand still gripping the handle.

The harsh sound of the door forcefully hitting its frame echoed across the vastness of the hall, bouncing off the walls, ringing in your ears.

You stood frozen stiff, still slightly leaning forward from the motion. Unmoving as a statue, paralysis seizing your body. It felt as if even your heart stopped, every organ and vein in your body completely gone still. There was a tightness in your chest, a heavy feeling in your gut, as if your stomach weighed your body down. Your hand was still latched onto the door handle, grip having gone limp, but arm still stiffly extended, unable to move if you tried.

A distinct, straight strip of shadow darkened the area just before you, blocking the light from above. As the echo of the door crashing back into the frame faded, only silence remained.

Your eyes slowly trailed upward. With hesitancy, a slowness out of the cold, heavy feeling in your gut. Delaying the inevitable, torn between frantic urge to know and yet desperately wanting not to. Suspending the few precious seconds of intentional ignorance.

A hand was pressed against the door, having shut it with force. The flesh of the arm outstretched above you from behind gradually darkened in color downwards to the hand that was pressed flat to the surface of the door, the end of each finger tipped with curved, thick claws, rather than fingernails. The fingers curled just a bit, with the slightest sound of a scrape against the wood.

An arm extended out directly above your head, trailing back to something behind you. You could feel a radiating warmth against your back, just shy of brushing against you, so close that you could even detect it without the primary senses, some sort of innate ability to sense presence.

Your jaw was slack, lips parted just in the slightest. Your mouth opened wider, as if to say something, but nothing came out, throat choked and tight.

Until, that is, you felt something brush against the top of your shoulder. The other arm extended forward, crossing over the shoulder to reach for your face.

Muscles across your body twitched and tightened, your eyes blew wider open still, body stiffening even further as a series of sharp pinpoints slowly, lightly came to rest on the flesh of your face, fingers gripping your jaw. Not too harshly, nor lightly. A perfect balance; not enough to cause real pain, but just heavily enough that you could acutely feel the sharpness of the ends pressing into the soft flesh of your face.

And with that, your stillness ceased. Albeit still stiff, every inch of your body began to tremble.

Your lip trembled. Your eyes began to water.

The silence felt like it would crush you, a heavy nothingness for several seconds.

"...And just what are you doing out here?"

As involuntary as your shaking, high-pitched, fearful little sound came out of the back of your throat. Pathetic and shameful. The sound of your own voice in your ears made a hot, bitter feeling of shame course through your body, amidst the fear that seized your entire being. Your mouth opened, twitching as you tried to speak.

"A-ah... I..."

Any words you could have summoned felt caught in your throat. You went silent, unable to finish. A few more moments of tense silence passed. You stood in place, unable to bring yourself to turn around.

The hand on the door retracted, slowly moving downward. The arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you so that your bodies now touched. The body behind you leaned forward and downward, just enough to speak directly into your ear, face brushing against the side of your own.

"You're quite a ways away from where you were told to stay." He slowly drummed his fingers against the narrowest part of your waist. "You must have wandered out by mistake and gotten disoriented."

In a quieter, lower voice, so close to your ear you could feel his breath as he spoke, he finished,

"...Is that right?"

It was, of course, blatantly facetious. Pretending as if that were even a reasonable explanation, a sort of mutually understood, mock disingenuousness. Transparently so, no actual effort to make you think he was truly ignorant, mutually understood to be a slow torment.

There might have been a right answer and a wrong answer. Perhaps both were right or wrong, or perhaps neither was either. It was a question to test your reaction, see if you would be spiteful or obediently meek. Even so, the submissive option was also a wrongdoing of dishonesty.

But in your panicked impulse, that was the option you rushed for nonetheless.

"I..." You swallowed. "Y-yes, I... I was just..." You looked down, only to see with your own eyes how badly your body trembled. Another matter came to mind. "I... I thought you were with...?"

He waited a moment to respond. "...I was." The cold ominousness and implication of discontentment of his tone made you wince, but he spoke again before you could stammer out some insistence of your innocence, or try to apologize. "However, the guardian I had set for you came to inform me you were wandering around the halls, so it's adjourned for the day."

You grinded your teeth. You had seen something after all, it wasn't just imagination.

Why had you thought otherwise? Of course, of course he wouldn't have left you completely unsupervised. Thinking so for even a moment had been an act of supreme foolishness. You chastised yourself in your head for such stupidity. It was even placed up towards the ceiling with, no doubt, the exact intention of making you believe you weren't being supervised. It felt almost malicious.

Even aside from that matter, hearing those words made your heart sink further, knowing that having to deal with you had interrupted something of utmost significance. For one, that implied that, considering the risk of being interrupted, that he actually, genuinely had believed you would be obedient. Secondly, having disrupted something of importance made your transgression that much greater of an offense, and no doubt, thereby deserving a retribution that much more severe. You could feel your heartbeat across your body, in your throat, in your head, in your limbs, a harsh, intense pounding, pumping adrenaline-laced blood through your system.

But you remained silent. It felt as if something was stuck in your throat, blocking your breath and speech.

A few moments passed. No doubt intentional, dragging out the moment, not granting you the mercy of being spared the torturous dread. And then, the hands detached from your jaw and waist respectively.

"Alright, now. Come."

His arm reached around your back, hand coming to rest on your waist, pulling you forward in manner both gently slow and lacking in force, yet the touch itself firm. His voice was calm, but cold, commanding. It was not aggressive nor harsh, nor loud, nor rough. His facial expression was not only equally calm, but even pleasant, the sort of expression that was just the slightest upturn of the mouth, but more of a smile in the eyes, almost amused. No contortion in anger or disgust.

Morax did not need harshness. Perhaps other gods and rulers and masters might. To require a booming voice and a snarl to one's tone, a forceful aggression and volume and threat of intense violence to instill submission. For others, fear had to be enforced on the subjects, they had to be made to cower.

But not him. He could speak in such a calm voice, and still expect to be followed. It was not an indicator of a lack of power, but the opposite — knowing that you knew that power without having to have it repeatedly demonstrated. Knowing full well you were terrified regardless, perhaps more so with the eerie aura of the calmness. Knowing you had no choice but to follow, that submission was already won, and that there was thus no need to do anything but simply command it. That the possibility of such a direct command being disobeyed did not even cross his mind. A quiet form of dominance only knowable by those at such an apex of power and supremacy that obedience came as naturally to their subjects as breathing.

And that was the thought that infuriated you so, so deeply.

Your heart felt as if it had stopped, a wave of cold that ran through your blood. Pure and unadulterated fear amalgamated with a deep, swelling bitterness, coursing side by side through your veins. Your jaw clenched harder and harder, your hands curled up into fists.

There was something else, though, beyond that. A heavy, burning feeling in your chest. Pressure that had built up, near the point of bursting. All the humiliation and subjugation you had compliantly endured, a foul taste of embittered fury and brutalized pride. You recalled your hollow, tired appearance in the mirror.

You'd been so controlled by fear from the moment you were captured by the other — admittedly far superior — deity, meekly complying most of the time, outside of a few outbursts and moments of defiance that were so infuriatingly written off as immaturity or merely being a brat, treated with indignation and a sort of condescension that yes, once more you thought to yourself that you wished was crueler, that would have been less humiliating and hurtful if you were treated like an enemy or a slave rather than a disobedient child, an unruly pet.

What would the 'you' from before had thought of your willingness to simply bow your head and follow...?

You took a step backwards, pulling yourself out of the grasp of the arm around you.

Perhaps, in part, it was mere reflexive instinct. But there was also force to the action. Intent. Driven by that same swell of resentment, so strong it overrode your dread. You took an uneasy stance, one foot behind you and the other forward, prepared to take another step back.

You both came to a halt. Your eyes met.

You still trembled, but you stood your ground.

The pleasant expression fell from his face. His eyes became half-lidded and narrowed, shoulders shifting downward as the arm that was around you came to rest at his side. There was an ominous edge to his tone as he spoke.

"...Surely you do not want to make this more difficult than need be?"

His gaze felt piercing. Your eyes darted downward.

"I..." You swallowed. "I just..."

It wasn't as if there was a point. Even if you were to turn around and bolt, you wouldn't even be able to get the door open before you'd be caught. There was no practical, logical point to resistance. There was nothing to be gained, and there was certainly a great increase in your imminent suffering if you did not.

And above all, you were consumed by dread, a fearful anticipation. Perhaps that, in part, was what kept your legs locked still, a desire to delay the inevitable. But above all, your pride demanded your resistance.

"...I don't..."

You tried to speak. You could summon the words in your head, at least. Words you had thought before, when you would lay in bed at night, playing out pathetic revenge fantasies in your head where you told him exactly what you thought and felt, like you were some kid imagining yourself standing up to a schoolroom bully you knew you'd never have the gall to face in reality. You'd say that you were sick and tired of being debased and degraded, that you weren't a toy, that you wouldn't tolerate being talked down to any longer, that you weren't an object to be owned. The fantasies always ended there, as you were unable to even imagine a scenario in which the aftermath of such an outburst ended well for you.

You couldn't get the words out. Perhaps in large part due to intimidation, but even still, because you knew that to some extent, many of those statements were wrong. In the most realistic sense, you were owned. That was how the brutality of the real world functioned. The superior ones exerted their strength, and in turn, the weaker ones submitted... or else, were eliminated. If one could successfully imprison and force the other to their will, they essentially did have claim to ownership.

Thus, you merely stood your ground. It was all you could do to look up at him with anger, however obvious the fear alongside it may be, on your face.

He merely huffed, closing his eyes for a moment. "Be reasonable." He turned his gaze back up to you. His eyes narrowed further. "...You will follow, willingly or not. I am extending you the opportunity to demonstrate remorse, and you would be wise to take it."

You remained still, and stayed silent. The quiet weighed down on your chest, as if to crush you. Part of you wanted to give in, a survival instinct to submit and obey, an urge to run forward and fall to your knees in a display of repentance. But you suppressed it, and remained in place.

He paused a moment, waiting for a response, but upon receiving none, he gave a deep sigh, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"Three."

Your jaw clenched. The bitter fury rose up like a punch to the stomach.

Of all the things he could have said, to do that, to instigate this degrading routine you'd become so familiar with, was probably the worst.

Your heart beat harder. The very nature of the act strengthened your impulse to rush forward, the setup itself being to intimidate you with gradual increase of threat. Perhaps it was because you knew that, and how degrading it felt, that you managed to stay still.

"Two."

His voice grew a firmer edge with the single word, audibly colder and deeper than the first.

Your fingers curled, clenching your hands into fists. You grinded your teeth. You could feel your eyes water, but with all the willpower you could muster, you refrained from breaking down, from giving in.

But you did give in, at least in a way, to the fear. You couldn't keep looking him in the eye. You turned your gaze to the floor... but it didn't stop you from being able to see his face in the edge of your vision. Given the look on his face, you wished you had turned your head entirely.

He was silent as seconds came and went, having well surpassed the implied time limit. Staring at you with narrowed eyes and a displeased expression.

"...How childish."

When he took a step forward, your panic surged back anew, and you stumbled backwards, but to no avail. His hand locked around your wrist, and the pretense of gentleness momentarily disappeared as you were jerked forward with immense force. You didn't even get the chance to stumble, the force with which you were slung was enough that your feet left the ground and you crashed down to the floor with a frightened yelp, catching yourself on your forearms. As soon as you hit the ground, your shaking hands scrambled to push you back up, but just as you began to shuffle onto your hands and knees, you gagged as your weight was pulled off the ground by a hand grabbing the back of your robe, causing the front to choke you by the throat. Your feet stumbled to find purchase on the ground, but they were pulled off the ground once more, leaving your legs flailing in the air. You went airborne again for a moment as you were thrown upward, retching as your body was slung over his shoulder so that the bone slammed against your stomach.

The journey back seemed so much faster than your initial one, given your shorter legs and how cautious you'd been. You hadn't realized just how short the distance you'd traveled really was until that moment, as the return passed so quickly you became aware of just how pathetically short of a distance you'd truly gotten. You cried out and writhed, less out of a conscious decision, and more pure panic triggering some innate instinct. You were fairly certain you got out a few strained, stuttered words — wait and stop and no — but you received nothing in reply.

It was over in a matter of minutes. The door was still hanging open as you'd left it, but was shut with a harsh sound behind you. You cried out as you were unceremoniously tossed down, body weight slamming into the mattress so that it bounced back for a moment from the impact as you lay stunned on your back.

Your elbows pressed down to prop yourself up. You barely lifted your torso upwards before you were slammed back down again by a crushing force to your chest, claw-like nails digging into the flesh around your collarbones. He came to loom over your form from above, leaning with one foot on the ground, the other calf bent at the knee and resting weight onto the mattress.

“Your ingratitude is boundless, isn't it?” He remained perfectly still, looming over you even as you began to writhe. “To think, I could have killed you. There is no reason you shouldn't have met the same fate as every other—" his grip tightened, enunciating the next word in a sudden increase in irritation to his voice, betraying the faux pleasantness up until that moment, "foolish little pest that thought to challenge something so far greater than yourself."

Your eyes nearly squeezed shut with the strain of your struggling. The words made your lip tremble, your eyes burn. Every time the memory was invoked, you felt so utterly stupid, shameful over your own naivete.

You grabbed at the hand on your chest, and pulled with every ounce of strength you could summon, the full and utmost entirety of your strength.

It didn't even seem to be noticed, much less affect him in any way. The hand did not budge, nor did his face show any sign of strain, no indication that your full strength took even a modicum of effort to restrain.

"But I had favor on you," he continued, voice returning to a quiet coldness, "and took you to be my own." His other hand reached back up to your face, gripping your jaw with force and acute pressure as each nail dug into the soft flesh. “I chose…” his voice lowered to a murmur, “…to allow you to live…” he pushed your head back, “…under very, very simple conditions.”

Your body trembled beyond your control. He watched you struggle, golden eyes half-lidded and cold, lacking any sign of empathy. You felt a surge of dread spike in your chest as the nails dug into your flesh, just shy of piercing the skin. After a moment, he finished,

“...Do you recall what those conditions were?”

Your lip trembled. The last remnants of pride you possessed fought against breaking down.

Yes, you recalled perfectly. You had so quickly rushed to agree to comply, out of pure, pathetic cowardice at the terror of the moment, in a desperate attempt to have your life spared.

The way it was brought up felt so, so shameful. Yes, you really would prefer outright cruelty to this. It was, at least, more transparent, more direct.

The way of speech he possessed was somehow far more soul-crushing. Such a calm, low voice, and yet tinged with an unmistakeable condescension. But the tension in it had slowly increased with each word, like an ominous, vague shadow growing closer and closer.

Each beat of your heart sent a heavy pulse through your head, you could feel the blood as it circulated around your temple and back into your throat, over and over. Your body felt so cold.

You forced the words out, voice hoarse.

“To… to remain here in this... this realm…”

He didn't hesitate to press further. “And?”

“And… and…” you swallowed. Your voice began to tremble, audibly on the verge of tears. “To… to obey your... every word."

"...That's correct." His voice was still so calm, low and rumbling. As if it were a regular conversation, as if he wasn't holding you down. Nonetheless ever laced with that sense of condescension, belittlement in the pretense of the feigned pleasantness. "Now... I could be remembering incorrectly," his thumb rubbed in a back-and-forth motion against your chin, "but I believe that I very specifically instructed you to wait in this room."

You felt sick. You bit down on your lip, inhaling as deeply as you could to fight a sense of nausea.

"...Am I mistaken?"

You shook your head back and forth rapidly. Your eyes squeezed shut, tears collecting and pooling around your eyelashes. Your voice came out strained and cracking. "No..."

It was the best reply you could give. A lose-lose situation, where any answer you could muster was a bad one, yet the honest answer was, at least, hopefully the lesser of the possible offenses.

And with that answer, finally, that slowly-increasing tension, the underlying malice, reached its peak. As if that shadow caught up to you, the pretense of calmness and faux-gentleness dissipated. You saw his eyes narrow further. The hand on your chest moved upward. Your heart skipped a beat, a chill pulsated through your blood, but you had no time to react.

"Enlighten me, then. Why, exactly..."

His palm slammed down onto your throat. Your eyes went wide with panic, your hands reached to grasp at his arm.

He spoke the next words with gritted teeth, voice still low in volume, but now with an unmistakeable rumbling harshness to his voice.

"...Did I find you where you were?"

Your initial instinct, without conscious thought, was to struggle, back arching as your body lurched against the hold. It only caused you greater pain, pressure digging into your throat. You took a gasp to the best of your ability.

If you had thought it through, perhaps it would have been evident that what you said next was a poor choice, but much like your writhing, in your panic, your first instinct was to placate and defend yourself.

"I wasn't doing anything bad, I just—"

You cut off with hitched breath as his fingers curled into your neck, sharpness nearly piercing your flesh.

"Do not lie to me."

Your lip trembled. You swallowed to the best of your ability.

"I'm sorry..."

The grip tightened, cutting off your airways nearly entirely.

"It was a question. Answer."

Of course, he already knew. You knew that, and he knew that you knew. It didn't need to be said. It was not so much a question as it was a command -- not merely to "answer," but to admit, to confess. And that was, realistically, the only valid option you had.

"Because I... I wanted to..." You took as deep of a breath as you could, swallowing, shuddering on the exhale. "I..."

You went quiet for a moment. You took rapid, shallow breaths, mouth opening and closing as you struggled to speak.

"You...?"

It was mocking, but frustrated tone in his voice, clearly growing impatient. He seemed to, at least, realize you were struggling to speak, and thus the crushing force to your throat loosened.

Your fingers curled against the sheets as bitterness swelled in your chest once more at the insult inherent to how he spoke to you, the audacity to express impatience when he was the very reason you struggled to speak. The push and pull of fear and anger often wavered back and forth, one overtaking the other for a moment. Each was reactionary, the emotion that won over at a given moment for a given response each dependent on what was said or done to you. The anger had been building, pressurizing, but finally burst as it did — anger was always the emotion that would come out in one sudden, explosive moment, only to retreat as soon as the fear always won back over. You knew that, and could have predicted the cyclic movement of the two, but in the moment, it won out nonetheless. You had intended to finish with saying you wanted to run, or perhaps a more dishonest answer, but a more spiteful sentiment overcame you.

"Because I wanted to!"

Taking advantage of the sudden absence of pressure, you lurched upward to the best of your ability. His hand still caught your movement halfway, forcefully grasping your shoulder, but you curled yourself upward to come closer to his level, almost halfway sitting up, propping your weight on one of your hands outstretched behind you, the other you reached out and, to draw him closer as well as keep you from being pushed downward, actually lashed out and tightly locked your grip around one of the horns at the base of his skull. Your body trembled, this time in a deep, furious rage, as you took more heaving breaths. Your nose scrunched up with your expression of fury.

"I can do what I want! You don't own me, and I don't have to do a goddamn thing you say, you—!"

You cut off.

Rather, you couldn't speak another word. It felt as if you were choking, even with the absence of a weight on your throat.

Once more, a reactionary compulsion. Those spiteful outbursts were always so brief, so easily shut down, any prideful spirit crushed without effort by the factor of sheer intimidation.

In that moment, it was the look on his face. The eyes went half-lidded, expression blank, not outwardly, visually angry, but displeased, unamused. Much like with everything else, it was far more terrifying to you than any outward anger you'd expect from anyone else.

Silence fell over the room, only the faintest sound as he drummed his fingers on the other hands against the sheets, a sedentary stimulus.

"...Go on."

The simple phrase was ominous, foreboding in its cold, low tone.

You clamped your jaw down, shoulders bunching up as you released your grip and shrunk back, back hitting the headrest of the bed. Your throat felt tight, as if blocked, obstructed. Your toes and fingers curled in a fearful instinct.

"...N-no, I didn't..."

"No." He reached out and took your face in his hand, thumb digging into one side, fingers into the other. "You were going to say something else?"

You tried to shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. "No, I wasn't — I didn't mean that, I didn't—mm!"

You whimpered as your midriff was pulled forward, and head downward, effectively pushing you back down onto your back. There was a sharp pain as one of the claw-like nails just barely pierced a layer of flesh from the force, not enough to bleed, but enough to feel the distinct sting, the sort of cut that would leave a raised-up, reddened line down your skin for some time to come.

Your chest rapidly heaved up and down with panicked breaths. Your eyes blew wide, staring upwards into those that looked down at you with an intimidating darkness. Your hands lifted upward, as if to push him back, but merely rested in front of you, fingers curled and trembling, uncertain and hesitantly refraining.

"In that case," he rested one hand on your shoulder to hold you down, "I will extend you significant grace," the grip tightened on the enunciated word, just enough for you to feel it, "and allow you to start over. Try once more."

His other hand reached for your throat once more and pressed down. A sharp inhale of surprise proved you could still breathe, albeit greatly restricted, as if sucking in air through a straw.

It was at that moment, though, that the worst possible thought came to you. It hadn't occurred to you until that moment, but at the reminder he gave about how your situation came to be to begin with, the thought did flash through your mind, the worst possible consequence. That created an entirely new degree of fear. Your whole body seemed to sink into the mattress.

Your mouth opened, but you had to squeeze your eyes shut to manage to get the words out.

"I was... trying to..." Your voice lowered to a quiet whimper, a natural desire for avoidance. "Run away..."

Your chest convulsed, but you could only inhale a small amount of air with each breath. You began to feel lightheaded. Only pure fear and uncertainty kept you conscious.

But with that increased fear, any room for dignity was long since gone. Tears pooled in your eyes and streamed down your face. Your voice came out in a pathetic, miserable, pitiful whimper.

"Don't... don't kill me... please..."

It was not the first time those words had left your mouth. Perhaps there was even a comedic, ironic factor to the similarity, the repetition of the words parallel to the repetition of the scenario you found yourself in.

Yes, it was very much like this. His hand had been on your throat then, too. You recalled it perfectly. Defeated and battered, literally crawling on your knees before you were lifted up by the neck and slammed into the wall. You recalled the way your body tensed as the cold tip of the spear pressed to your chest right below the breast where your heart rested, just enough pressure to break the skin, the way a slow trickle of blood had trailed down your side. Tears and snot had run down your face, your breathing was rapid, heaving gasps, your legs had pathetically kicked and flailed, your hands had clawed at the grip.

You were not told outright that you would live, no. In hindsight, that had probably already been determined, but you weren't told so. There had been the same suspense, making you wait, enjoying putting you in abject terror as your life flashed before your eyes.

Perhaps it was because you had been cocky, overly confident in your capacities, that that torment was extended. For someone who took such gleeful thrill in conquering, it made sense to relish in the way you begged and struggled. It was the same words. Very basic ones, of course, standard, probably what any conqueror of such prowess had heard a hundred times.

Don't kill me, please don't kill me...

Likewise, you could still hear the mocking tone to his voice, see the gleam in his eyes.

You're right. It would be such a waste to kill you when you can be put to good use, don't you think?

And he had given you that same smile. The same one you received whenever you cried, whenever you were blubbering out apologies for some misdeed. Whenever you begged for anything, whenever you shivered and cowered and curled up into him for warmth or comfort. Whenever you succumbed to pleasure forced upon you, melted into a drooling, twitching, barely-responsive mess. Seemingly soft and mild, but the longer you looked, the more and more apparent became the undertone of sadistic pleasure.

The same one you recognized now, as you dared open your eyes, even through the blur of your tears.

It was always the same. Even in the softest and most gentle of moments, there was still that same gleam to his eyes.

"You want to be forgiven, then?"

You sniffled. "Yes..."

Another pause. Drawing the moment out. Making you feel every second of anticipation.

"Mm."

His hand detached from your throat. You took a deep, gasping breath.

But just as you began to recover, he took a fistful of the robe around you, pulling you up from the bed, setting you down — not letting you fall, but taking care to actually set you on the ground — onto your knees. He sat back down on the bed, sideways so that he faced your crumpled form, feet on the ground.

"I'm sure you know, forgiveness is not automatically granted... it is earned." He grabbed your jaw once more, forcing you to look up at him. "Do you understand?"

You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut, sniffling. The soft "mhm" that came out of your throat sounded utterly pitiful.

"Good." He reached down to cup your face, tilting your head to face him, causing your eyes to open on reflex. Just enough to see the amused smirk on his face as he spoke. "Then show me how you intend to earn forgiveness from your God."

It hurt. It hurt in your stomach, your chest. A type of pain so different from the scratches and bruises, an unphysical, deeper pain, an emotion so strong you could feel it in your skin and bones.

But you crawled forward on your knees nonetheless.

"Yes... Master..."

A routine you could move through almost mechanically, although this was the first time you'd performed it so desperately, not to mention the added difficulty of your shaking hands. Leaning your body forward, grasping at buttons to unfasten. You inhaled sharply when one of the cocks hit the side of your face as it sprung from the restraint of clothing.

Your breathing was still heavy and rapid from the adrenaline. You took just a moment to take a few shallow breaths, but otherwise didn't hesitate to shove it into your mouth, desperate to placate and do what you could to lessen your Master's fury.

It was like some sort of divine torment from Celestia itself that you had to deal with something... you supposed the best word would be reptilian, in the anatomical realm. Your body was fully humanoid, mating organs designed to align to an equally fully humanoid body of the opposing sex. You didn't even know draconic creatures possessed two cocks, and each of nonhuman size at that, until you were firsthand forced to become aware of that information, via being doubly impaled unexpectedly. There was some control over the degree of form such beings as him took, varying transformative levels that could be achieved at will, and you were sure it was entirely possible to maintain the fortunate human trait of having only one -- but that was a luxury you were not granted.

You took a gasp for breath as your mouth detached with a popping sound, turning your head and immediately taking the other into your mouth, reaching to work the first with your hand, aided by the residual lubrication of your own saliva, and the existing layer of... whatever it was, some sort of mucin-like lubrication that coated them already. Your hand couldn't fully wrap around it, couldn't close so that your fingers would have touched, instead trying to twist your wrist as you moved your hand up and down.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to force it further into your mouth, but your body stiffened as it triggered your gag reflex when it hit the back of your throat, not even half of it in your mouth. You tried to inhale as much air as you could through your nostrils, summoning the mental willpower to try and force it past the barrier of your throat.

You must have hesitated too long, though, or perhaps your effort was merely too poor to be sufficient. Your eyes snapped open when you felt a hand on the back of your head, but you could only let out a soft sound before your head was shoved downward.

Your stomach retched in involuntary reflex, abdominal muscles spasming as you tried to adjust. Your eyes watered once more, blurring your vision. Another hand latched to the back of your head, and pulled your head back before shoving it back down again. Over and over. It took all your focus and willpower to prevent yourself from getting sick, although you still managed to make some sort of sucking motion with your mouth, more out of mechanical instinct than active effort.

And it was painful, it was sore, from having had the same thing done shortly before. Like a wound being reopened over and over, there was never enough time between occurrences for you to heal from the bruises and scratches and stretched muscles of the former occurrence before it repeated.

After a moment, your head was pulled back all the way, a popping sound as your mouth detached. You took heaving, ragged breaths, desperately trying to suck in air before your head was guided to the side and the action repeated on the other, jerking your head up and down again, filling your throat to the point of a burning pain as it stretched. You could physically feel it stretching the walls of your throat, in and out, over and over. You began to feel lightheaded as you failed to sufficiently inhale through your nostrils.

"...Now—"

Your head was pulled off with harsh force. You took a long, heaving gasp for air, but within the same moment, you were jerked back upwards.

The movement was so fast and forceful that you were too disoriented to even process it. Your balance teetered, your stumbled as your arms were each held, fabric pulled off, stripping you down, before slamming your body back down onto the bed face-down. Prodding your legs with a gentle kick forced them wide apart to balance yourself, his hand pressed down on your back just below the neck, so that the soft whimpering sounds you made were muffled by the sheets. You grimaced as the nails dragged a short ways down your spine.

You grimaced, face contorting with the sting as you felt something prodding against the already raw flesh of the entrance of each orifice. "Wait, wait, I'm not—AH!"

Despite everything else being so prolonged and dragged out, this time, you were not granted a single second of hesitation or anticipation, no doubt intentional, so that you had no opportunity to mentally prepare yourself, so that the disorientation made the feeling of impalement come as a sudden shock.

You were unable to suppress a squeal as they both slid into your body at once, one into your cunt, the other into your ass, stretching already sore and spent muscles and pressing against bruised flesh, albeit the latter more innately discomforting and foreign, the stretching sensation far more intense. The sheer stretch of the size would have been painful even if your insides weren't already hypersensitive and rubbed raw. Your legs spasmed, kicking as a reflexive instinct, leaning your full weight forward.

You took rapid heaving, gasping breaths, trying to turn your head to the side so that your breathing wasn't inhibited and suffocated by your face pressed downward into the mattress. The noise that came out of your throat was strained and miserable, a long, high-pitched cry.

As another natural reflex, your body's first instinct was to get away, to remove the intrusion penetrating your insides. Your back arched downward in an attempt to pull yourself off, desperately clawing at the sheets, but you were grabbed at the hip and pulled back with force, sheathing fully inside you.

It felt full. Like your body was stuffed beyond its capacity, that there was too much within it. Intrusive, setting off some innate sense of alarm triggered by forcing something into your body of a size that it wasn't designed for; even for just the cock stuffed into your quim, the object itself registered as something foreign rather than a natural process of all living beings. The muscles reflexively clenched down and spasmed. Your breathing had just barely begun to slow as your body adjusted, before you stiffened at the friction against your insides as the intrusion pulled back, sliding out of your body.

You struggled to form words coherently. "Wait, wait—"

And squealed, a high-pitched cry, when his hips slammed forward again, driving back into your body once more. The movement felt as if it sent a shockwave running up your spine, from the point of collision to your insides.

His fingernails dug into your hips. The sharp ends broke the skin.

Again, and again. The friction burned, but the most intense sensation was the fullness and the impact — pain and soreness, but also unmistakable, unavoidable, natural pleasure that sparked with each movement as it rubbed against some specific spot inside. Your legs trembled from the intensity of the sensation, your mouth hung open, both drawing in gasping breaths, and spilling saliva out of your mouth, dribbling off your chin onto the sheets.

You had almost begun to melt into the pleasure when a harsh smack made you jolt. The sound bounced off the walls, the pain was a harsh sting where the palm of his hand had met the soft flesh where your backside and hip met. Your body lurched forward again, but was once more harshly pulled back to impale you again.

You made a pained sound, teeth grinding. "Ah, mmn— I'm sorry, I'm so—"

Another jolt of pain, leaving a hot sting against the flesh. You whimpered.

A third. A fourth. A fifth. It hurt. You squealed and cried out, struggling to form borderline incoherent begging. It did not help that the flesh of your ass was already so raw from similar previous corporeal punishments, for a range of offenses so broad and the offenses themselves so numerous you couldn't recall them all. Each inhale you took in had a coarse, ragged sound to it, as if choking on air. You sputtered out pleas and apologies, before your shoulder was grasped and pulled you upward, so that your knees rested on the mattress, and your torso was almost upright, slightly leaning forward. The thrusts to your insides slowed, more so grinding into your body, but did not cease.

"I still have difficulty believing you understand the severity of your offense."

"I do!" Your voice cracked as you spoke. You could hear how pathetic your own pleading voice sounded. "I really do, I promise, I'm sorry!"

There was a sigh, you could feel the fall of his chest against your back.

"You are so very fortunate," he continued. "You're taken care of to the utmost, you're given the highest standard of life one can have..."

"I know! I know, I, I am, I-I'm grateful—"

You cut off in a squeal with a harsher thrust, nails scraping down your hip so forcefully your face contorted with pain.

"You expect me to believe that, when you were preparing to throw aside everything I've given you?"

"I..."

You didn't have an excuse, and in your current state of mind, overwhelmed by pain and pleasure and fear and anger, there was no way you could summon such complex thought as to come up with one. Your brain could only come up with the automated, mechanical responses, the rehearsed phrases and words you were supposed to give, that you were trained and conditioned to give over the course of time -- I'm sorry, please forgive me, I won't do it again, so on and so on.

Thus, unable to come up with anything better, you merely hung your head, shoulders shaking with sobs as you gave the only answer you could think of.

"I'm sorry..."

He sighed again. "That's the best answer you can give, then?"

But after a pause, he added, with a smirk you could hear in his voice even if you couldn't see it,

"Or are you just too overwhelmed to think straight?"

You only whimpered. It was too much. The fullness, the soreness, the sparks of pleasure, it all was too much put together, overloading your brain. You shook your head, not so much in a negatory response to the question as it was just an expression of your desperation and clouded mind.

You grunted in surprise as you were lifted by an arm around your waist, coming to be set down so the balls of your feet touched the ground — although they shook so badly they were virtually useless, the vast majority of your weight supported by his arms. Your body was bent forward at the waist, one arm around it to support you, the other coming to grasp at your throat, essentially holding you up. Another thrust made you squeal again, feet stumbling against the ground.

Even in your overwhelmed state, the realization felt like a punch to the stomach.

It was no coincidence, no mistake, that you were positioned this way. Bitter, helpless fury swelled in your chest.

The exact same position you'd been held in that first time, squealing and crying and cursing as you were relentlessly fucked out in the open, before a multitude of your own subjects and other deities caught up in the combat.

It was true, as he'd said, that you had made a mistake that cost you. The other gods that you'd faced were, by comparison, so utterly weak, even non-combative deity a like yourself had managed to fend them off. You had known stronger gods existed, but the degree was such that it was beyond your ability to fathom, a level of strength far beyond what you ever would have imagined until you came to know it firsthand.

Thus, when the draconic god had approached you, you didn't feel threatened. In fact, you had felt insulted when he had given you a choice. That you could be spared from death by agreeing to relinquish your rule, and submitting to subjugation without resistance. And that otherwise, you could die fighting.

That was the first time you recalled that smile. You didn't even remember exactly what you said, but you hadn't even hesitated. Something to the effect that you would kill him, take him down, something of that nature.

That same grin, a soft chuckle. But lacking in excitement. Not the way one would laugh and grin before facing an opponent that would still be a thrill to fight. Instead, amused, as if finding it cute.

Is that so?

Even back then, the tone, the notion that you weren't even being treated as a worthy opponent, that he wasn't even worried, had enraged you, and in foolishness, you had rushed right into conflict.

It had lasted less than a single minute. To even call it a fight was not entirely reasonable; it was more you being slung around like a ragdoll across the near vicinity, over and over until you were beaten down to the point of immobility. A matter of seconds, before you were caught crawling, pressed up against that wall. And after your begging, after your pleading, you'd found yourself just like this.

The balls of your feet barely touching the ground, weight held up almost entirely by the hand on your jaw and the arm latched around your waist, desperately clawing at the former out of pure instinct with one hand, the other helplessly reaching behind you and pawing at the hips that slammed into yours, pushing back as if it would do any good, as if your weak pressing would actually stop the movement. Body weight tilted forward, knowing that you'd fall flat if he were to let go, only serving to further the feeling of panic.

At least now, there wasn't an audience gawking at the sight, but the degradation burned in your chest all the same.

It must look so miserable, so pathetic. If you had maintained your resilience and pride — then, and now — you would have stayed still. If you could endure it with a straight face, without making a sound, without struggling, that would have been a powerful move to play, would have wounded your tormentor's own pride, a metaphorical spitting back in his face. That should have been what you had done.

But you were weak. You squealed and flailed. Obscene sounds came out of your mouth, lewd and pained at the same time. Tears streamed down your face.

You did struggle, but to no avail. Writhing, kicking, flailing with every ounce of strength you could muster did nothing, the movements continued as if you were perfectly still.

The absolute utmost of your strength was nothing.

It was a feeling of complete and utter helplessness, futility, weakness, unlike anything else you'd ever known in the span of your lengthy existence.

And you knew you would never be able to exact revenge, would never be able to satisfy the anger. You could never exert it, release it, feel the relief of catharsis that came with finding a way to exert the negative emotion.

Beings such as yourself lived indefinitely. If you had been human, you might have been able to longingly wait for the day that death could relieve you of your humiliation and bitter anger.

But with power came responsibility, and with allowances came restrictions. That escape was a mercy you were not allowed, nor would he ever allow any circumstances under which you could do so yourself. A bedroom ceiling far too high to even reach, a mirror unbreakable — you had tried — and never given anything you could turn on yourself.

The hopelessness was crushing.

You stumbled over your loose footing, a few rapid steps to rebalance what little of your weight rested on the ground. Perhaps having had the thought to do so from that, the hand around your waist reached downward, hooking an arm under your knee and lifting up, so that your thigh nearly touched your chest, only a small portion of your weight left on the ball of the other foot on the ground. With that, each thrust went deeper into your body, you gasped and cried out at the impact.

As you adjusted, you let your head fall, hanging down limply. It was all too much, too overwhelming. The pleasure and pain receptors of your mind were overloaded, your thoughts began to grow hazy and dull, a sort of blankness that consumed any coherent or complex thought. The pleasure and pain was all there was, the only thing you could process besides the high-pitched cries from your mouth and the distinct sound of wet skin slapping on skin each time his hips met your backside.

His arm tightened onto your waist, and for a brief moment, you were lifted up into the air, whimpering as you were shifted over just a single step or so, not removing himself from you in doing so. The movements started up once more within a second, albeit slower, drawn out, and your body held more upright. You caught an object out of the corner of your eye, and automatically squeezed your eyes shut, turned your head away in a desperate attempt to avoid it.

You could feel his breath against your ear.

"Look at you."

You squeezed your eyes shut harder, rapidly shaking your head. You didn't want to.

But as his hand gripped your jaw once more, this time directly digging the sharp claws into your skin, your eyes opened on reflex at the pain, and you were met face-to-face with your own reflection once more. And once your gaze locked on, despite initial avoidance, you felt as if you couldn't look away.

You were disheveled, limp-looking, as if an inanimate object, dead weight barely kept in balance.

You could physically see his cock inside your body, a bulging shape in your abdomen that looked unnatural, almost grotesque. The flesh around your eyes was swollen and darkened. The scratches visible on your side and hip were irritated, reddened and swelling, but the cuts were shallow, and only in one particular scratch, just a bit deeper than the others, did the tiniest trickle of blood slowly ooze out.

Looking at your face, though, was the worst of it, made that same burning, all too familiar of a feeling, begin to swell. Saliva trailed out of both sides of your mouth, tears and snot ran down your face. Your eyes themselves were irritated and reddened, more tears accumulating, giving your eyes a glassy appearance that reflected what little light poured in.

You stared directly into the reflection. The hand on your jaw, the dullness to your eyes. The way your hands weakly clawed at the arm on your waist. The way even now, albeit merely grinding, the bulge in your stomach shifted, and you could just see, from your angle, where the smallest sliver of the base of his cock was the only remaining length not buried deep inside.

It all seemed to culminate. A knot in your stomach, a weight on your chest. Your lower lip trembled. You felt your body shiver, limbs trembling, as more, heavier tears ran down your face.

His voice was low and quiet, but so unnervingly deep as it was, a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, you could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke.

"Do you understand?"

It was not preceded with a statement of what, exactly, was to be understood. Yet, you did understand nonetheless.

There were many ways to have put into words what that which you understood was. A few different details of things he may have meant. Maybe telling you something about you, something about him, something about the past or the future or the nature of things itself.

Perhaps that was, rather, exactly why he didn't say anything more — because there was no singular, exact statement to be understood. Many, many things that could be said, many aspects and demonstrations of the same concept, merely worded in different ways, but all ultimately the very same.

Any of those things that could be said, all amounted to the same, basic thing: a statement of order. A superior and an inferior, a better and a lesser. Each one true to its place in a million demonstrable ways.

And that, you did, in fact, understand. Even if you wished you didn't have to, wished you could be ignorant to it, and live without the unending, crushing weight of what you knew your place was.

You squeezed your eyes shut and nodded your head, sniffling. "Mm-hnn..."

There was a moment of pause before you heard a response.

"...Very good."

You inhaled a sharp gasp and let out a soft cry as sharper, faster, rougher thrusts resumed, reigniting both the burn and pleasure sensations deep inside your body as it was bent forward once more. You bit your lips between your teeth in an effort to muffle the sounds you made, but this was quickly noticed, and the way his nails dug into your jaw was a command in and of itself, even if you didn't automatically gasp from the pain. With that moment of opportunity, his thumb slid into your mouth, pressing onto your tongue and effectively holding your mouth open.

"Ahh, ah— hah—"

The wanton noises, thus, came without much restraint, albeit muffled and distorted as you tried to form syllables over the protrusion in your mouth, holding down your tongue. You had no resistance left in your body. You merely clung to his arms, one hand planted on each, weak and barely even noticed, not in any way inhibiting him from moving them.

The noises increased in pitch as his other hand reached up from its place on your waist, pinching and rubbing at one nipple, then another, keeping the forearm itself firmly pressed to your abdomen to support your weight.

"Don't take your eyes off yourself."

You had shut your eyes out of the pure intense sensation, but forced them open again. Forced yourself to look into your own eyes, to see your body bent and fucked and claimed. Even the blur of tears didn't mask the miserable shame of your expression — nor the lustful dilation of your pupils, eyes half-lidded and filled with an empty haze of pleasure.

You felt warmer and warmer, a distinct pressure, tingling sensation inside. Your breaths became heavier, louder, faster, your body began to shiver intensely, and your legs squirmed and twitched.

"Not yet."

You let out a long whimper in response, desperate and needy, only to cut off in a gasp as he grabbed your jaw again, forcing your eyes directly forward. This time, your gaze focused on his own reflection — your stomach twisted at that same damned, loathsome grin.

"What do you say?"

But your fury was weakened and exhausted, your spirit beaten and broken. You put up no resistance.

"I'm sorry, M-Master..."

It was bitter on your tongue, like poison in your throat. You hesitated, not wanting to finish the plea out of pure shame, but the physical sensation was quickly becoming overwhelming. The wet, squelching, smacking sound of skin on skin reverberated in your ears, a lewd sound that only triggered further innate senses of pleasure.

"P-please let me... let me cum..." Your head hung downward, your expression contorted with strain. "Please..."

"Don't look away. Look at yourself when you beg."

The command was firm and cold. You bit your lip, but slowly rose your head, forcing yourself to endure the humiliation of the act demanded of you, watching your mouth move with your words.

"Please... let me cum..."

Your lower lip trembled, your eyes stung. The shame of the words felt like a knot in your stomach. You watched as your body moved back and forth with the force of the thrusts, taking in the pleasure-hazed stupor evident on your own face. The warm pressure was unbearable, taking all your willpower to prevent climax.

"Mm." He pulled your torso back from your position where you'd been bent forward at the waist, leaning forward to meet in the middle, so that he could speak directly into your ear. In that moment, you felt him smile, felt his mouth against the side of your face.

"Cum for your God."

The high was an intense one, a euphoria surging through your body from the inside. You gasped for breath. Your insides clenched hard, a reflex that, had you been able to control it, you would have prevented, given the sheer size you clamped down on was such that the muscles strained painfully with the act.

The sound from your mouth was not quite suiting of the word 'erotic' — it was obscene, uncontrolled and unrestrained, high in pitch and accompanied by such trembling and strong involuntary spasming that your feet completely gave way, unable to even stand, held up entirely by an arm that caught what would have been your fall. Your eyes rolled back, and saliva practically poured out of your mouth as your head tilted forward, riding out the high until it was over.

There was not anything to take in with your senses, or any thoughts to be had, mind gone blank, a sort of fog of nothingness. The room seemed to spin. Your tongue lolled out of your mouth, head limply hanging downward. Your eyelids felt heavy, slowly closing. Even if something had been said to you, you wouldn't have even heard it. Weight suspended, it felt as if you were floating in the air.

After a duration of time you could not be quite certain of, the high began to dissipate, the adrenaline and dopamine slowly ebbing away.

In their absence, pain began to bloom across your body. The sting from the friction at the entrances of your holes, already so sore beforehand, now burned like fire. Your insides radiated a throbbing, dull pain, battered as if having endured a beating from the inside.

You gasped as the fullness suddenly disappeared, sliding out of your body with a wet, squelching sound. That feeling was always one of the most unpleasant parts of the experience — a hollowed-out feeling, insides clamping down on nothing, spasming and twitching as the muscles began to readjust. A mix of viscous fluids oozed out of each orifice and began to trail down your thighs. Both discomforting, grotesque sensations that made your muscles tense, that made you shudder as you exhaled, only to inhale another sharp breath as a finger trailed up your inner thigh, collecting the semen that ran down your skin before stuffing it back inside of you.

Your feet touched the ground once more, but your legs trembled in exhaustion and aftershock, a violent shivering far more noticeable than that induced by emotion. As the support around you disappeared, you stumbled forward, legs giving out beneath you and folding as you crumpled to the floor, catching yourself on your hands.

"Ah, you poor thing..."

Spoken as if he was not the one to inflict the state upon you, spoken with affectionate, endeared pity. A hand rested atop your head. You were nothing more than a pitiful little creature, in tears over a bit of pain.

You didn't make any move to swat it away, though. Your arms felt as if they were made of stone, heavily weighing down from your shoulders. Your shoulders heaved with each heavy, deep breath you took. All you could manage was to let out a low, quiet whimper.

There was a moment of pause before he stooped down, wrapping arms around your body, lifting you up and setting you down on your bed, sitting upright, albeit slouching forward as soon as you were let go of.

He gave a heavy sigh.

"So fragile... you can't handle anything further. It will have to wait."

Even in your stupor, the statement registered with a vague, distant sense of alarm. You tilted your head back up to him, making a soft little sound, inquisitive and confused.

He titled his head, eyebrows raising with a look of vague surprise.

"...Surely you did not think that was a punishment?"

You didn't respond for several moments. You stared straight forward at him, blinking, slack-jawed and limp. Your eye twitched. Your voice came out small and soft.

"...Wh... What...?"

"...That was..." his hand grasped at your chin and tilted your head upwards. "Merely reconciliation." He smiled, speaking every so casually, but not without that detectable tinge of mirth. "I've done nothing to punish you yet."

Your body twitched all over as you began to curl into yourself, shrinking back with wide eyes. You felt cold all over. You couldn't determine if it was from the sweat on your body, or going into a dreadful shock.

"But that being said," he added, "as I just said, you may lose consciousness if carried out now, and that is obviously unideal. It will have to wait."

Your lip trembled as you tried to speak.

"But I..."

You grimaced at the dry soreness of your throat, that much more noticeable now that the adrenaline was wearing off. It did not go unnoticed.

"...Ah. Don't worry, there's water nearby." He stood back upright. "It's close enough, there's no need to bother some servant with something so trivial. I'll get it for you myself, just one moment."

He spared no hesitation to walk over to the door once more. But then, he stopped.

"...I'd like to imagine it doesn't need to be said, but..."

He turned his head back towards you. A pleasant facial expression and voice, but a clear, subtle threat to his words.

"...you will not leave this room in the meantime."

You stared blankly forward for a moment, only hesitating over the near-comedic value of the statement, almost laughable in the most bitter of ways. You slowly nodded.

"Y-yes..."

He merely gave you a hum of acknowledgement, and stepped through the door.

The door closed. You were left sitting still, staring blankly ahead at nothing. Your limbs, eyes, and body still gave the occasional twitch. A bead of residual sweat trailed down your temple, making the faintest of sounds as it hit the sheets. The whole area between your legs gave you a discomforting, gross wet sensation, fluids drooling out of your holes. But in the moment, you couldn't bring yourself to so much as lift a hand to do anything about it, merely sat still and wallowed in the sensation.

You turned your head to the side, only to catch the image of yourself in the mirror once again. Your dull, empty eyes, even visible to themselves as they stared back and forth at each other in reflection.

But after a few moments, you let yourself fall flat on your back into the mattress, limp and numb, and closed your eyes. You laid still and silent in a half-conscious state, the deep ache across your body pulling you in and out of the brink of sleep.

------------

2K notes · View notes

touyota · 1 year

Text

Maelstrom

A birthday gift to my very best friend and the loml @iwaasfairy

Vash the Stampede x female reader x knives millions

w.c 6.4k

tw: incest, half sibling cest, non-con, yandere, blood, gore, lots of death, violence, choking, smut

The tread of your boots across stone echoes quietly with each footfall.

The castle is near silent, the servants scarce, the guards roaming elsewhere. You know their schedules and routes as you know these passageways; like the back of your hand. Even so, you draw your cloak tighter around you, keeping to the shadows where you can.

The air around you is thick and heavy. A tension that hangs like a black cloud, spreading throughout the castle.

It won’t do for you to be discovered tonight.

Another set of stairs and the narrow passageway between the kitchen, the bakehouse and the pantry lies between you and the exit, from there, you’ll have to skirt the walls of the keep to reach the stables. Beyond that… There’s enough water in your knapsack for a day or two, jewellery from your bedroom – wrapped in another of your dresses to keep the precious metals and stones from clinking and drawing unwanted attention – to trade for food and lodgings.

And the note from your mother, tucked away in your pocket, safe.

Your mother’s cousin rules Octovern to the east, your father’s staunchest, and strongest, ally remains the neighbouring kingdom of Augusta, which lies south. Whether or not news reaches them before you do, your safest bet lies with either of them.

At the sound of voices ahead, you flatten yourself against the wall, heart thudding against your ribs. When you were a child, sneaking through the castle was a game played with three, and the consequences of getting caught no worse than a slap on the wrist, another of your governess’s droning lectures.

Shadows pass – two chambermaids darting through. Neither girl notices your presence, heads bent low, whispering between themselves. In your head you count to thirty before slowly peeling yourself away to continue.

There’s no time for fear, no time to mourn for all that’s been ripped from you.

Down the spiral staircase, through the passageway and then left. Your dress swishes along the floor with each step, every breath seeming too loud – surely your heartbeat must echo as well, the thunderous beat near deafening. Nerves and anxiety eat away at you.

You have no choice but to keep going.

At the end of the hall, past the kitchens – quiet, now that dinner has finished and the preparations for the following morning are yet to begin – lies the door to your freedom. If you can get there, make it outside and through the courtyard without catching the guards’ attention, and if the stables are clear and the horses don’t startle, if nobody hears the pounding of hooves as you flee through the south gate, perhaps–

Through the darkness, a glint of steel.

The sharpened edge of an all too familiar sword draws at your throat, halting you in your tracks. Your blood turns to ice, a blistering chill sweeping through as a tall figure emerges from the alcove behind you.

That tiny, impossible spark of stupid hope within your chest – it dies, smothered before it truly had a chance to catch and burn. Your eyes close, shoulders rising and falling with a trembling resignation.

The man sighs.

“And here I almost believed you when you promised to behave, Princess.”

—

You’re fourteen years old the first time another human being dies in front of you.

Death in and of itself was nothing new. When your grandfather passed, you’d sat beside your mother in the funeral hall and stared up at his waxen body, lying too still, too pale upon the altar. You’d witnessed boars and rabbits, lambs and cattle slaughtered for grand feasts, crows and other carrion picking at animal remains on the long road to the southern reaches of the kingdom. On the odd occasion, knights would be badly injured at tourneys, and you’d later find out that they succumbed to their wounds, dying in the medical tents pitched for that very reason.

So no, the idea of death wasn’t a foreign concept to you. It was one thing to understand it, another entirely to experience it in all of its unflinching brutality first hand.

You’re going to die.

The man holding a knife at the end of your bed tells you as much.

“To kill a child is a terrible, ugly thing,” he rasps, eyes wide in the flickering candle light, hollow, already haunted by the deed he’s yet to commit. He shakes his head. “I have no choice. May the gods forgive me, I– I have no choice.”

In your nightgown, bedsheets and blankets drawn up around you, sheer terror closes its fist around your throat. You should scream. Try to run, or fight, somehow. Move.

Do something.

You can’t.

You’re going to die in your bed, defenceless and terrified, unable to so much as eek out a cry for help. How pathetic.

As it turns out, shouting isn’t necessary. The man in your bedroom makes it all of a single step when there’s a gentle knock at your door. “Princess?”

The man’s focus snaps to the noise, and in that split second, the tight chord of panic loosens around your neck enough for you to regain your voice.

“Vash,” you gasp. “Vash!”

The door to your chambers bursts open, two figures barrelling in. Your assailant, realising that his window of opportunity is fast closing, lunges towards you, knife outstretched. There’s a desperation to his movements. What matters now isn’t stealth, nor survival. No, the moment that knock sounded, his fate was sealed, all that’s left is to ensure that he completes his task and dooms you alongside him.

He doesn’t make it beyond the foot of your bed.

With a violent snarl, Knives crashes into him at the same time that Vash leaps for you, and as they clatter to the ground and Nai draws his sword, it’s Vash’s calloused hands that cup your cheeks, drawing your face towards his.

He smiles at you, sweet and angelic. “Don’t look. Don’t look, just focus on me, okay?”

You’re too stricken to think of disobeying, even if the deceptively gentle hold would allow you otherwise.

You hear it, though; the wet gurgle, the sound of steel slicing through flesh. Knives’ disgusted huff, wiping the blood from his blade on the dead man’s sleeve.

Later, standing in your parents' solar, wrapped in a thick dressing gown, listening mutely as your father demands answers from the twins, from Roberto and his Castle Guard – of which the twins technically belong – you find yourself staring at Nai’s white cloak.

The deep crimson stain that’s splattered across the fabric, soaking it through.

He’d moved without hesitation, brutally cutting the intruder down, hadn’t thought to apprehend him for questioning or to be locked away and forgotten about in the cold, dungeon depths. No, Nai had acted on instinct (or was it anger?) alone and gone straight for the kill, a fact which seems to bother his Commander more than it does his King.

Now though, situated between the two of them, Vash’s pinky grazing against yours, and a haughty looking Nai angled between you and everyone else in the room, you tell yourself that you should be grateful.

Nai was protecting you, as he and his brother and all who serve within the Castle Guard have sworn to do. Without mercy. Without fear. Without hesitation.

By the King’s orders, what has been their unofficial posting for years becomes official; the twins are not to leave your side.

—

“Tell him you don’t want this.”

You bite back a sigh. You’ve been at this for what feels like hours now, doing nothing but talking in circles.

Basking in the late spring sunshine, skirts hitched up, shoes and stocking cast aside, your bare legs dangle from the dock into the lapping waves below. “I can’t.”

“You have before,” Vash counters.

“It’s different this time.” He knows that it’s different. Vash may be many things, stupid isn’t one of them.

Truthfully, the moment you’d received the summons from your father, your suspicions were piqued. After near on two years fraught with tension, teetering on the edge of all out war, negotiations had begun with the Kingdom of December.

Beyond gold, jewels, the promise of aid and access to trade routes and raw materials, what solidified the intention of goodwill and trust was the promise of an unwed princess.

And while Vash wasn’t wrong, you had, on the few occasions your father had broached the subject of potential suitors before, managed to wheedle your way out of an engagement, there would be no such consideration this time around.

Yet it’s Knives, seated at your back facing the opposite direction, who gives voice to your thoughts. “Without a marriage to the Crown Prince, December will renege on any proposed treaty long before they’ll honour it. They’re snakes; as duplicitous as they are opportunistic.”

Well, you wouldn’t have put it quite like that.

You suppose you can’t blame him, though, attitudes towards your neighbours to the west seem to sour by the day, particularly within certain factions of the Castle Guard. Only yesterday you’d overheard Legato spitting similar sentiments to Zazie, the two patrolling the halls outside your chamber.

The King is craven for bowing to their pressure. December are no better than vermin, and you don’t make peace with vermin.

“What choice do I have, when marrying him ends this quickly and without bloodshed?” you ask instead.

What choice do you have when your King commands it?

Beside you, Vash gives an uncharacteristic frown. As though his features were not made to hold such expressions, it quickly shifts, smoothing over into a decidedly thoughtful look as his attention returns to the water, the wide, glittering ocean laid out before you.

“We could leave,” he murmurs after a moment or two. “Go anywhere. Juneora, Voldoor, May. You won’t have to get married then, not to anyone you don’t want to.” He knocks his shoulder against yours, grins when you glance over to meet his gaze, “We could do anything we wanted.”

Knives scoffs, the noise edged with a razor sharp, biting amusement. “We could wipe December from the map. Then you wouldn’t need to be traded like a bargaining chip in the first place,” he quips.

You smile in spite of yourself, more than used to the twins’ behaviour.

“As tempting as those options are, this isn’t something I can simply walk away from, and besides, Nai’s right. Without a wedding the treaty won’t stand a chance. I won’t risk open war.” Or, perhaps more accurately, your father won’t. You sigh again, “Anyway, it’s… too late for that. The King tells me I’m to leave by the week’s end, with the wedding to happen within the month.”

Which means leaving not only your family behind, but the two of them, as well.

Roberto’s been assigned to accompany you to the capital, once the wedding is done, though, he’ll return to July and you will fall under your new husband’s protection. There’s no place for either Vash or Nai in December – much as the mere thought of separation has your heart wrenching.

“You’re the princess, the only legitimate heir, how can he–”

“I was never going to rule July,” you interrupt in a gentle voice, taking Vash’s hand in yours and squeezing it. He sounds near distraught at the prospect of you leaving to marry a foreigner – of you leaving period – but it’s one you’ve long since come to accept. “Not in my own right, anyway. If it wasn’t December, eventually it’d be another kingdom, another prince. Uncle will inherit the throne after my father, and his sons after him.”

Such is the law of succession.

There’s a derisive noise at your back. “Your uncle’s a lazy drunk, and your cousins are thickheaded morons.” Nai rises then, moves to shadow his brother, dropping down on your other side, snatching your other hand to entwine with his in his lap, his head falling to your shoulder.

He’s never been as open with affection as his brother. For the first year or so of knowing him, you were certain that the ash blond boy despised you, only ever speaking when necessary, glaring at you whenever you had the misfortune of being stuck in his presence.

Abandoned as infants, left at the barracks of the Castle Guard (bastard sons of a foreign whore, so the gossip says), a certain amount of animosity towards the daughter of the King was hardly surprising, yet his own brother, his other half, flocked to you like a moth to flame, leaving Knives with little choice but to suffer your presence silently. Over time, however, he softened, and in rare moments such as this, when needs win out over perceived vulnerability, Nai takes what he wants with little regard for anything else.

“The blood of the King belongs on the throne, not in some foreign land. You’re better served here, with us.”

His tone is absolute, the words iron-cast. Unyielding as they are, they ultimately change nothing. Come weeks’ end you’ll leave for December, for a marriage with a foreign prince whom you’ve never met, and it may well be years before you return to them.

Vash scoots closer, clinging to your left side, and you let your head rest upon Nai’s, staring out at the harbour and the boundless oceans beyond. There’s nothing left to discuss. Nothing that can stop the wheels now that they’ve been set in motion.

I’d change it if I could, you want to say. But I can’t.

—

The first sign that anything is amiss is Legato Bluesummers at your door, shadowed by the smaller Zazie.

“Your Highness,” he greets with an empty smile and short bow, “you’ve been summoned.”

For reasons you can’t yet put a name to, the tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand on end as you take the former’s offered arm, stepping out from your chambers.

You don’t ask where Vash and Nai have disappeared to. After the other morning down at the docks, your guards have slowly but surely withdrawn from your side, more often than not leaving Livio or Wolfwood to watch over you in their stead.

Initially, the realisation that you’d been cast aside had stung.

You get along well enough with both, Wolfwood’s blunt and brash manner proving to be endlessly amusing, whilst Livio tended to bring a calmer, kinder quality you appreciated in the stressful buildup to your departure from the kingdom.

As competent as the two were, and as much as you enjoyed their presence, they weren’t who you truly wanted to spend your remaining days with.

It was Vash, slipping into your quarters late one night, who explained that it was the Commander’s decision, not theirs, to pull them both away from you.

Yet the explanation, while it soothed some part of your bruised feelings, had not softened the blow of their absence, a gaping wound that, as the nasty voice in the back of your head liked to remind you, you would soon need to become adjusted to.

Legato says little, leading you along.

Zazie, however, is all smiles, pleasantly chattering along.

It’s only after a minute or so that it strikes you that you’re walking in the wrong direction.

“– says the King’s an oaf and the Prince is uglier than the back end of a pig. Have you been to December, Your Highness? It’s a wasteland. Nothing but trash and barren desert for miles and miles and–”

“Sorry,” you interrupt, shooting Zazie a polite sort of half smile. To Legato, you ask, “Are we not heading to my parents’ chambers?”

Legato looks down his nose down at you, “No. You’ve been summoned to the throne room.”

“Oh.”

Your stomach twists, a peculiar sense of apprehension taking hold. You can count on the fingers of one hand how many times your father has summoned you to the throne room over their personal chambers at such short notice.

Legato’s hold on your arm tightens a mere fraction, and you think back to that night, startling awake to find a strange man in your quarters, knife in hand. The cold dread that crawled down your spine, paralysing you as fear – true, genuine fear set in. Nervously, you glance to your other side, at Zazie, flanking you, his hand now resting upon the pommel of his sword.

He smiles broadly back at you, blue eyes sparkling.

“Legato,” you begin, unable to hide the quaver of your voice.

“Hm?”

You swallow, draw in a shallow, uneven breath, “Legato, I– I think I’d like to return to my room now.”

“My orders are to take you to the throne room, Your Highness. That’s where we’re going.”

On whose orders, you don’t ask. Roberto was as loyal as loyal came, and whatever this is – whatever fate awaits you within those four walls – he cannot be a part of, of that much you’re certain.

Surely if the plan is to kill you or harm you in any way, they needn’t have dragged you from your bedchambers to do so.

And though your legs begin to tremble, each step like wading through thick mud, and your heart picks up a jittery beat, you have no choice but to keep moving. Against one, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Against both, there’s not a hope in hell of you getting out of this unscathed.

You’d never thought that the sight of the wide double doors that lead into the throne room could fill you with such horrible dread.

Legato’s grip is now bruising, and he pulls you close as you reach the entryway. “Relax, Your Highness. Just do exactly as you’re told, and all will be well,” he murmurs, and the warmth of his breath tickling your skin is at odds with the cold laugh that follows.

Nothing, however, can prepare for the sight that awaits as the doors are forced open.

Against your will, the first thing your eyes are drawn to are the bodies on the floor. The garish pools of blood, splattered and seeping across the marble stones. Your uncle, head cleaved nearly in two. His wife lies nearby, her throat slit, a curtain of blood spilled down her front. All four of their children – your cousins – eyes wide and unblinking, cut down where they stood, the oldest in pieces.

And you remember the bright red stains on Nai’s cloak that night, the flecks of it marring his lovely, porcelain skin as your eyes shift from the corpses on the floor to the thrones themselves. To Knives, standing at their foot, his sword at your father’s throat.

To your mother, a ghostly pale but for the reddening mark at her cheek, gagged and bound, kneeling before Vash – her eyes widening into saucers at the sight of you.

“Princess,” the oldest drawls, a smirk, cold and pitiless, curling at his mouth. “Good, you’re here. We can begin.”

Against your will, Legato pushes you forwards, marching you into the heart of the room. Vaguely you register the other members of your father’s Council, similarly held at the mercy of the Castle Guard.

Monev. Gray. Rai-Dei. E.G. Leonof. Elendira. Livio. Razlo. Chapel.

Wolfwood, his foot planted into the back of a severely beaten Roberto, forcing him to the ground.

It feels like a nightmare you’ve stumbled into, so absurd, so horrific that it cannot possibly be real. “I– I don’t understand,” you gasp out, choking for breath as your eyes quickly fill with tears. “I don’t understand! What have you–”

You can’t finish the sentence.

Helplessly, you turn to Vash – always the more compassionate of the two, the kinder. The pacifist. Vash, who steals away into your room in the dead of the night to keep you company for hours on end. Vash, who makes you laugh when you’re on the verge of tears.

Vash, who held you so gently that night, cradling your face in his hands when you were terrified beyond belief. Don’t look. Don’t look, just focus on me, okay?

Soft blue eyes meet yours, wrought with dismay. The guilt must be eating away at him, for he can’t bear to hold it for long, his gaze hastily flitting away, shoulders drooping.

His brother holds no such burden.

“You will.”

With a vicious kick to the back of his leg, Knives sends your father crashing to his knees with a pained yelp, quickly grabbing him by the hair to wrench him upright, the sword at his throat an unwavering presence.

“I offered you a choice,” he continues. “Abdicate, and you’ll live long enough to see your daughter marry.”

The King, a trail of blood oozing from a cut on his lip, clenches his jaw and says nothing.

“Refuse, and I’ll carve that craven heart of yours from your chest and make it a wedding gift of my own.”

Somebody scoffs, and all attention snaps to a thin, weedy man you recognise as one of your father’s chancellors, a Lord whose name you never bothered to remember. “July will never acknowledge that girl–” he spits it, spits the word out as though it’s filthy, “– as Queen. Nor would we take some foreign bastard in her place.”

For as long as you’ve known them, from boyhood to now, you’ve never spoken to the twins about their parentage. Never prodded, never asked, and they never offered anything up.

You don’t dare breathe.

But Knives grins, wide and terrible. “Foreign bastard? Son of a whore, son of a wench, son of nobody and nothing?” He laughs and tightens his grip on your father’s hair. “Go on, tell them. Tell her,” Knives’ eyes snap to you, “the dirty little secret you’ve kept from her all these years.”

And though Nai uses his grip to jerk your father’s head in your direction, to force him to acknowledge you, he admits to nothing. Utters nothing. Over the sound of your mother’s muffled sobbing, you realise that ultimately, it’s unnecessary. The truth – and all the shame that comes with it – is written plainly across his face.

Knives and Vash are the King’s sons. Firstborn.

Your half brothers.

A strangled sort of noise breaks through the deathly quiet, and it takes you a second to register that the sound came from your own lips.

Vash calls your name, a soft, desperate plea that cleaves through the pain and the shock, the lightheaded haze and the ragged, violent pounding of your heart. He’s begging you – for what, though, some sort of reassurance? For you to look at him?

For forgiveness, as your mother cries at his feet and your uncle’s family lies slaughtered before you?

Knives may be the one holding his blade to your father’s throat, but Vash’s hands are no cleaner than his. The blood of your family clings to them both.

Why would they lie to you? How could they so easily betray everything? Every promise that they made, every vow that they took?

You don’t understand.

Tears fall quicker than you can blink them back. You take one stumbling step forward, only for Legato to roughly yank you back in place. “We’re not finished yet, Your Highness.”

“No? Nothing to say?” Nai sneers, shoving your father away in disgust. “Your silence is as damning as any confession, I suppose.”

He rounds on the Chancellor then, extending his sword towards the gathered nobles that make up the Council. “Personally, I don’t give a shit what you choose to accept or recognise. By his death or abdication, I will succeed my father as King alongside my siblings as is our divine right. If you take issue with that, make no mistake, I have no qualms carving me and mine new thrones from the bones of dissenters.”

No one utters a word.

Satisfied at the terrified silence his proclamation instills, Knives returns his attention to the King, crawling now for his wife across the blood soaked floor.

Your heart lodges itself firmly in your throat, any attempts to wriggle free quelled by the steely grip Legato keeps on your arm as Nai huffs in irritation and follows after him, hauling your father back up to his knees.

“One last chance, old man. Give me what I want, what I am owed, or I will gladly ascend to the throne over your butchered corpse.”

The King looks to his wife, stricken and sobbing, wailing through her gag, and then to you, his resigned expression communicating what words cannot. You sense what’s coming before he opens his mouth, and Vash’s voice echoes in your head once more.

Don’t look. Don’t look, just focus on me, okay?

“You’ll make no more a worthy king than you did a worthy son.”

The resulting snarl shatters what’s left of your pitiful, broken heart, and in one violent swing, Knives lops off your father’s head. Watching his headless body collapse to the floor amongst a gruesome spurt of blood, his head rolling across the marble floor, a potent mix of nausea and hysteria rises within you.

There’s only so much shock one person can handle in such a short period of time.

Darkness swallows you whole, and you succumb without a fight.

—

You wake to the feeling of fingers carding through your hair, and the warm, familiar comfort of your own bed. For all of a few seconds, you revel in the bliss, stretching like a cat, the beginnings of a smile taking shape on your mouth–

And then, as though you’ve been tossed overboard, doused suddenly into an icy, tumultuous sea, the events in the throne room crash over you, forcing you into alertness.

Your eyes fly open, jerking away from the body lying beside you with a shuddery gasp.

Vash, propped up on his side, watching you through pretty, ocean eyes, has the nerve to look hurt as you scramble to put distance between you.

“Hey– hey, it’s just me, relax.”

As though it being ‘just him’ relieves you of any of your anguish.

“Y-you lied to me… you killed him!”

The blond frowns, bottom lip jutting out like a kicked puppy, “That’s not– We didn’t want to lie to you, I swear. We always planned on telling you the truth… eventually.”

He pushes himself up into a seated position, folding his legs beneath him and slouching forward in an almost childlike manner, resting his chin in a propped up palm. “Nai–” You flinch at the name, memories of his rageful face, that snarl swirling their way up to the surface, and Vash pauses, head tilting to the side as he studies you.

His mouth opens, only for the wrinkle between his brows to deepen and his lips close as he seemingly thinks better of it.

The action repeats a few times. He’s trying to find the right words to justify betraying you and murdering your family in cold blood – the ones that won’t send you running, won’t make you hate him, a process which apparently is proving trickier than he must have imagined.

Licking his lips, he lets out a sigh and tries again, “We didn’t have a choice. We tried everything, we went to the King and begged, and he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t listen. This was the only way we could keep you with us, don’t you understand?”

His voice is soft, so, so soft.

This is the Vash who held you in the dead of the night when you woke from nightmares, screaming. The Vash who carried you back to the castle on his back when, as children, you’d tripped on an overgrown root playing in the forest and sprained your ankle.

The one who swore up and down that above any and all vows he’d ever take, he’d be your knight first. Him and Nai.

“You think,” you begin, your voice deathly cold, “that I want anything to do with you after you butchered my father, beat my mother–” and suddenly, you break off, eyes widening.

It isn’t the way Vash winces under the seething bite of your condemnation, but rather the sharp pang in your chest, the sudden, stark reminder of what’s missing that renders you mute.

Quickly putting the pieces together, Vash hastens to reassure you. “She’s fine. We, uh… she’s being kept in her quarters for now– just until the wedding, I promise!”

A captive, then.

… No, that’s not quite right. They’re not keeping her captive for the sake of it. Vash might pretend to hold some sanctity for life, but Knives certainly doesn’t. They’re keeping her as leverage.

A cold chill runs through you. “…Wedding?”

He perks up then, visibly relieved at the change in topics.

“Tomorrow, before the Coronation. We– I’m actually kind of supposed to be helping with all that right now but you’ve been out for almost a whole day, and,” he shrugs somewhat sheepishly, running a hand through mussed blond locks, “I wanted to be here when you woke up.”

You swallow down the bile creeping up your throat, let your nails bite into the skin of your palms to keep them from shaking. “We’re… you want to–”

They’re your brothers.

Acting as though he can’t hear you, Vash finally pushes himself to his feet. “I’d stay and keep you company if I could, but lots to do! Nai’ll kill me if he finds out I’m slacking.” He laughs again, the noise ringing hollow in your ears.

You don’t have time to move out of the way as he closes the distance between you in three quick strides, pulls you close and plants a kiss to the corner of your lips, humming contentedly as he draws back.

“You’ll be good for us, won’t you?”

You nod faintly. Mechanically.

Vash smiles, a blinding grin that lights up his entire face and twists deep in your core, and pats you on your head.

“Don’t worry about a thing, ‘kay? Me and Nai’ll take care of all of it.”

—

A few hours later, the guard opens your door to allow one of the servant girls to slip in. Short, waif-ish, with midnight hair tucked away beneath her cap, she clears her throat and keeps her head bowed as she sets down a tray laden with food you can’t possibly imagine forcing yourself to swallow down in front of you.

“You should eat, Your Highness.” Deep blue eyes meet yours. “It’s important you keep your strength.”

She leaves with a curtsy, the heavy door closing – and locking – behind her.

You find it folded beneath the basket of bread; a scrap of paper with a message written in a familiar, delicate hand.

Run and do not look back – not for my sake. I love you, my darling girl.

Be safe.

—

“Are you going to cut off my head too, Nai?”

The blade lifts, but before you can breathe a sigh of relief, you’re yanked around and shoved back into the stonework, skull cracking against the wall, the wind knocked out of you.

Knives watches, cold and impassive, as you gasp and heave for breath, finding no purchase but his shoulder to steady yourself against whilst you wait for the burst of pain to subside.

“Did you think I would spare that whore of a Queen if you’d slipped away in the night?” He leans in, pressing into your space, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, and adds in a whisper, “That I would not take the time to rip through this castle and slaughter every last one of those pathetic servants you hold so dear as punishment before I came to drag you back to us?”

You shudder, halfway to a sob, jolting forward. And though he catches you, a strong arm curling around your figure to draw you flush to his side, Nai laughs.

“You’ve always been so naive.” Sheathing his sword, he strokes the back of your head tenderly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “My sweet, stupid little sister.”

The door to your freedom lies less than twenty feet away when your half brother’s hand slips from your waist and slides down between your entangled bodies.

You’re confused for all of a heartbeat, ‘til the sound of fabric rustling – laces being yanked through the eyelets of his breeches– registers in your head, and your blood turns to ice.

Trapped between his imposing frame and the wall at your back, there’s nowhere for you to go. Your eyes widen, breath catching in your throat. “N-Nai–”

His mouth crashes to yours, swallowing up the tremulous plea as, with his cock successfully freed, he hitches up your skirts, lodging one thick, muscular thigh between your legs to keep them from closing.

It’s nothing like the kisses you’d shared with the strapping stable hand two summers ago, this is violent and it hurts, his teeth too sharp, tongue demanding as it forces its way between parted lips

The taste of warm copper flavours the kiss – your blood or his, it’s difficult to say.

And still he groans into your mouth like he’s enjoying it, breath shivery, taking his cock in hand and pushing you more firmly against the stone wall behind you.

There’s no preamble, no preparation. He cares little that you’re out in the open, that any number of servants could walk by and see this – or perhaps that’s the point. The mushroom shaped tip of his cock, thick, veiny, flushed a dusky pink, catches at your entrance just once, and then, with a sharp, brutal jolt of his hips, Knives’ cock plunges inside of you.

Agony, searing, burning agony ripples throughout your entire body. You wail, body seizing up, and having no choice but to clutch at him you do so, clinging to him as hot tears well up and spill down your face.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, the curse a filthy prayer, offered up in benediction.

Bruised, torn flesh stings as he slowly pulls back, paying no mind to your whimpers and wincing, the near incoherent string of pleas and apologies that falls from your lips.

Your tears, though – those he licks from feverish cheeks with a deranged fervour.

Empty and burning and aching and wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Nai, please! Plea–” you choke back a scream as he slams into you again. The blood now coating his cock should make his passage easier, yet it does nothing for your own pain, the walls of your pussy stretching to accommodate a girth it wasn’t prepared for. It feels as though you’re being impaled, ripped in two by the cock thrusting inside of you, and all you can do is stand there on weak, trembling legs and take it.

“Stop whining,” he growls.

You’re so distracted by it, by the vicious, urgent pace your half brother picks up and the scraping of the rough stone at your back that irritates with every thrust that you hardly notice Knives’ lips moving to suck open mouthed kisses along the junction of your neck.

Not until his teeth bite down, and you cry out.

Laughter rumbles through him, mocking and cruel, though his tongue darts out to soothe the abused flesh, a fleeting kiss to your hammering pulsepoint.

There’s no chance that the noise of your frantic coupling hasn’t drawn attention, and yet nobody comes to investigate. No servant, no guard.

No one will disturb you now.

Knives’ hand – the one not braced on the wall beside you – yanks at the neckline of your dress to palm at your breast, fingers tugging at pebbled nipples, greedily squeezing the soft, supple flesh.

Your pussy clenches down on him in response, and Knives’ swears again, drawing you closer, fucking you deeper. The burning in your lower half shifts, a thread of traitorous pleasure winding through your core as his cock brushes a bundle of nerves inside of you–

And you moan.

The sound is unmistakable, even amongst the harsh slapping of skin against skin and Nai’s own ragged breaths.

You moaned for him.

He stills, glancing down at you as though he’s noticing you for the very first time. In the dim, flickering light of the passageway, his pupils are already dilated. At that moment, they darken and blow out completely. He seizes your jaw in a bruising grip, wrenches your mouth to his and kisses you like your lips are salvation itself.

Your arms wind weakly around his shoulders, nails sinking in to anchor yourself against something – anything – as he loses control.

Pleasure and pain entwine. You can’t think straight, can hardly breathe between strangled moans and the fresh wave of tears that spill from your lashes as your pussy clamps down and squeezes him tighter with each thrust.

And Knives is relentless. His cock throbs inside of you.

It burns so deliciously, you cling to it – you’ve never felt so betrayed by your own body.

“Mine– tell me,” Knives demands, parting from your lips to meet your glazed over eyes. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Oh gods, you want to, if only because saying those words means surrendering to this dizzying, violent pleasure–

A whine sneaks past your bitten lip.

“N-no!” you shudder out.

“Lying… Little… Slut…” he snarls, punctuating every word with a vicious thrust. “Say it!”

Yet even if you wanted to, you’re prevented from doing so by the hand that abruptly encircles your throat and tightens. Your mouth falls open, choked little noises filling the air as you fight for air that won’t come. Stars of black speckle your field of vision, the edges darkening with every agonising second that crawls past. You can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe.

He fucks you through it, watching you jerk and flail beneath him. “You’re mine.”

“Nai–” you manage to gasp out, clawing at his hand.

Suddenly, his grip loosens, a dizzying rush of oxygen flowing down to your lungs – just in time for his hips to stutter and his orgasm to hit, spurts of hot, viscous cum painting your bruised insides. Yours follows a split second later, a shuddering, toe curling burst of pleasure that crashes over you in waves–

You hurtle too far.

Instead of a hazy afterglow, something fractures inside of you.

The tears come first, a shattered sob ripping its way free. Grief and anger, hysteria and agony, they burst forth like the breaking of a dam, and you can’t hold it back. It overwhelms you, drowns you under its weight, your body turns boneless and you crumble into Nai’s arms, clinging to him.

Broken, bruised, trembling like a leaf, you can’t stop.

You sob, and you sob, and you sob, choked and raw and gut wrenching. You sob until it feels like you’re going to throw up.

And Knives lets you. Presses his forehead against yours, holds you close in that dark, empty passageway, his hand stroking soothingly up and down your back, and lets you cry.

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touyota · 1 year

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Guard #400

a/n: It is time… for Pantalone ♥♥♥ I was actually really looking forward to this one lol, he just fits a little too well in this whole prison scheme (I guess all Harbingers do hahhaa). Also I won’t deny any longer just how badly I want to be railed by that guy. Just… just give him to me mhy, now, gimmi gimmi. If he ever does come out as a playable character I might just C6 him because damn. He’d demand it and I’d just be Sir, yes, Sir! Woof woof.

Fandom: Genshin Impact Pairings: Yandere!Guard!Pantalone x GN!AFAB!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Dub-Con, Forced Exhibition, Slapping), Abuse of authority, Manipulation, Long Post

[Prison Project Introduction & How to request | Pinterest Moodboard]

“So? Have you made your decision?”

Pantalone slowly rose from his chair, uncapped his fountain pen, and placed it on the paper you recognized as the contract he had offered you before. Gesturing his hand to the document, he added, “The offer still stands, but I’m not sure for how long.”

He was growing impatient. You could hear it even through his honeyed, service voice, unfitting of a man in his position. The few slow strides were so confident, as if the contract’s content didn’t concern him in the least, no matter how nasty and inhumane it was. He was a man that knew what he wanted. And even worse: He knew he was going to get it.

Circling around you, you felt his warmth in your back, a hand brushing from your hip up your side, resting on your waist as he stepped up next to you from behind. “Let me guess—no one else wanted to employ you? Poor thing.”

His taunt felt like an ice-cold blade stabbing into your gut, twisting around in the form of a delighted chuckle. Pantalone hadn’t been your first choice of employer. You thought the chief of finances of the prison you had been sent to wouldn’t have interest in someone locked up for embezzlement. But your options of other jobs had been so few, most of them refusing you even before you asked for a position, that eventually you put your doubts aside, trying your luck with this man. However, the job he had for you was more punishment than going to prison not guilty already was. You just wanted to earn some money to make your life here more comfortable and save some for the hardships you’d face once you got out.

He wanted a sex slave.

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touyota · 1 year

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Guard #300

a/n: This took me three rewrites before I got it to this point that I like. I also decided to cut out the whole meeting part I had planned to safe on words, and I am sooooooooooo happy I did! Much better, gonna do that more in the future :D Thanks for requesting, enjoy!

Fandom: Genshin Impact Pairings: Yandere!Guard!Albedo(?) x GN!AFAB!Reader x Yandere!Guard!Albedo Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Dub-Con, Cunnilingus, Grinding, Dirty Talk, Aphrodisiac), Stalking, Double Trouble, Long Post

[Prison Project Introduction & How to request | Pinterest Moodboard]

“Let me get you some water.”

Heaving a long sigh, you sat down at the edge of the bed, slumping over as your body finally began to release some of the tension you felt while running for your life. The mattress was so soft compared to the walls and floors you had crashed into, trying to escape from your cellmate. Somehow, you had managed to get out of the cell before he could get his filthy hands on you, but everything after that was a mere blur in your memory. You ran. And, apparently, you ran very far.

Far enough for the guards to take notice and come looking for you.

Glancing at the blonde man in the room with you, his uniform worn improperly compared to the other guards. With the first few buttons of his shirt popped and no jacket in his close proximity, he could have passed as a shabby lawyer or someone working in the background just as well. But with his name tag in view and how he had been the first to pick you up, you were almost sure he was one of the people keeping you inside this prison regardless of his looks. Leaning down, he ripped through plastic to retrieve a bottle of water from the stack for you. Strangely enough, his looks and actions made you feel relieved it was him who found you. Everyone else seemed so callous and uncaring for your circumstances. It was nice that someone a little more concerned was assisting you now, listening when you told him you couldn’t go back to your cell and calming you down with few but meaningful words.

That had been all that you wanted all this time.

Being framed and apprehended had been bad enough. Your prison sentence and transferring here was already a nightmare you wished you didn’t have to dream about. But then—as if you hadn’t suffered enough—they placed you in a cell with a psycho who had ’murderer’ written all over the mad expression on his face. That had been your final straw, and before you knew it, you were gone and lost in the endless corridors of the unfamiliar place you were forced to call your new home. If only there had been one person to listen to you, it might not have turned out like this.

But Albedo listened. Even when you were stammering and out of breath, barely holding on to your sanity, he waited for you to explain yourself coherently. He didn’t push and didn’t force you, easily convincing you that he might just be the nicest guard in this prison. Things were looking up again, his presence like the light of the sun in this endless darkness you were feeling.

“Why did you run?” he asked conversationally, and you forced yourself to stay on your best behavior and not just fall into the soft blanket and take a nap even though your exhaustion was begging you to. He was still a guard, and you didn’t want to be rude and get on his wrong side now. You heard him crack open the water bottle, but he remained facing away from you for a few moments, so you at least didn’t have to speak directly to him.

“My cellmate… he scared me.”

“How so?” His question was so innocent. Much too innocent considering he had to know how this prison was.

“It’s just… I… I never dealt with anyone like this before.”

Humming in acknowledgment, Albedo finally turned around, an opened, sparkling water in his hand that he handed you. The bottle was cold to the touch, and you could already imagine the water running down your throat deliciously. Greedy to have a sip, you set the bottle to your lips and took a big swig. And another one, emptying half the bottle in two gulps. It felt exactly how you imagined it to be, and after all you’ve been through, it was heaven.

All the time, you could feel Albedo’s eyes on you. It was natural he’d watch over you, considering your relationship as guard and prisoner. Yet, you tried to ignore the weird feeling of his gaze raking over your body, watching every gulp your throat made and the subtle licking of his lips as you wiped water from the corner of your mouth.

“Thank you,” you mumbled after emptying the bottle, your body endlessly thankful for the drink. You hadn’t thanked him at all yet for picking you up and taking care of you when you were at your lowest. Now that you finally got some help and rest, your body was heating up its gears again, and you were sure you’d be able to walk away on your own in a few minutes. In fact, the tension was subsiding, and you even managed to relax your breathing and heartbeat again after what had seemed like a run from death.

“My pleasure,” Albedo returned, and you looked up at him, seeing a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. But you returned his smile in kind, until he walked in front of you and knelt down, the sudden closeness seeming strange. However, when he freed one hand from his glove, you felt an electric shock zapping through you as his hand wrapped around your calf, squeezing it once.

“You’re still very sore,” he noted, and you realized he was merely checking your body, suddenly making you feel really dumb for the heat tingling in your cheeks, your core clenching. “I should check you for bruises, just to be sure. Do you mind taking off your overalls for me?”

Albedo stood up again, removing the second glove while waiting for you to react. Your eyes were caught up on the rebound of the leather glove, a smacking sound ringing out and making your breath hitch. Somehow you felt strangely aware of everything he was doing, and even though you shook your head to get a clear mind, you couldn’t snap out of it.

“I- I don’t think that will be necessary…”

“As a… doctor and a guard, I ought to make sure you are okay after that mad sprint across the facility. You don’t have an athletic background do you?”

“No…”

“So. Please remove the overalls and your pants.”

“Pants, too?!”

“I need to check your legs for torn ligaments or the like.”

The heat in the room seemed to increase with every dryly spoken instruction from him. To his credit, he didn’t sound like some bad guy. He made it sound like the most normal thing in the world as he told you to undress. Even though your head felt on fire, the room spinning lightly, you hesitantly began to follow his instructions, slipping the overall off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor before slipping your hands into the waistband of your pants.

A gut feeling stopped you from progressing. Something felt wrong, perhaps the place you two were in or the increasing heat all throughout you as your nails scraped against your skin. But your hesitation didn’t seem to concern Albedo much as he tapped his fingers on his leg, waiting silently but impatient for you to continue. Alas, you didn’t move anymore, which prompted him to finally react.

“Does your back hurt?”

He made a quick step forward, his hands falling to your shoulders, and the pressure increased as he guided you down. “Sit down. I’ll help you.”

Before you knew it, you faltered under his touch, falling back on the mattress. His hands replaced yours as he hooked his fingers around your waistband, pulling your pants down effortlessly. Shame from being exposed so suddenly made you tense. Still, Albedo, with his inquiring gaze dragging over your legs and up to your hips, wasted no time examining your calves with his hands again, a delicious pressure applying to your muscles mixing with the warmth of his palms.

“Relax,” he muttered, his breath teasing your skin into goosebumps, your breath hitching and causing him to look up. “Are you feeling okay? You’re looking a little… flushed.”

His comments were enough to make you stop staring at his lips that were so close to your body. Close enough that you could imagine them leaving trails of kisses on you. The enticing pain of teeth digging into your thigh and the hot lick of his tongue.

“It’s… It’s fine,” you stammered, unable to think straight. Where did these thoughts come from? You didn’t even know this man, much less wanted him to… do things with you. Or did you?

“It’s okay,” he chuckled, and suddenly, that bad feeling in your gut changed into an alarming nuisance. But it was already too late. It couldn’t reach your mind anymore, which already reveled in the feeling of his hands slowly driving up your legs. You didn’t even notice him coercing you into giving him more and more access until he could kneel between them comfortably. All you took note of was how well he handled you, leaving tingles everywhere he touched. Albedo managed to tickle the space in your brain that was wanting more and more of this for your own pleasure, shutting every other disagreeing voice off.

“We–” he interrupted himself, and for a moment, he dug all his fingers deep into the flesh of your thigh. An uncalled-for sigh escaped you as the pressure increased and disappeared teasingly, ending in a shuddering breath as you tried to play it off. “I,” he corrected, “waited a long time for this. Let the pill do its work. I made it just for you. Just so you could enjoy it, Darling.”

“Do we–”

As if you knew it, the kiss he planted against your inner thigh felt like an invitation to heaven. Light and sensual, creating a strong need for more and a wetness in your panties that you hoped he wouldn’t notice with how close he was to it. “Do we know each other?” you quickly finished your sentence, biting your lip as Albedo continued the path of his lips towards your core.

“No,” he chuckled. “You don’t know us.”

“Then…” Interrupted by your own gasp as Albedo grabbed your legs and spread them further, you completely forgot your question, all of your body burning up and, at the same time, tingling with electricity. His nose left a cooling, soothing (and all the more pleasurable) trail as he dragged it over your body with a deep inhale, and you were pudding in his hands, no matter where he decided to slip them as long as it was on you.

“But we know you. Park Street, right across from our home. You like to dance through your kitchen in the morning, and I’ve always longed to be there with you.”

Another kiss, with lips as eager as they were devoted. A shudder vibrated through your body, making your toes curl as you felt Albedo go at it, pecking you again and again, almost reaching the nook between your legs and hips. And when he did, you couldn’t help throwing your head back, overcome with the pleasure of his body worshipping yours as you moaned loudly, your core clenching as if you were filled with a love that wasn’t your own.

"Albedo too, he…“

"W-Wait-!” You managed to snap out of it for a moment as that man spoke of himself as if he wasn’t Albedo. “I thought… you are…”

Even though you felt as if the pleasure was blinding you, you didn’t miss his lips curling into a wicked grin before he pressed them against your inner thigh again. The next thing you felt was a hand rising from beneath your thighs over your hips, arms curling around your legs until he had you in a secure hold, hard to wiggle out of.

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touyota · 1 year

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I have one minute left of Monday as of writing this intro, but I have not had a Momcon Monday in ages (which is criminal) and "what if the Kamisato father still died but Kamisato Mama never died" thoughts have parasitically wormed their way into my brain and taken hold, therefore I cannot be held legally responsible for the degeneracy of this post.

After what I learned in a Japanese history class I took in college, I imagine Inazuma to have a similarly very incestuous history >:) Also obvious canon divergence, this kinda ignores the canon Kayo

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For any Inazuman family, the firstborn son is the pride of the household. It's sort of a traditional value, that great attention, care, and importance is placed on said firstborn son. While this may be very beneficial in some ways (other children in Inazuman families often resent their firstborn brother, feeling he gets more attention and priority than them), this advantage is greatly counterbalanced by the sheer amount of stress, responsibility, and expectations placed on the son.

Having only two children is an abnormality, as noble families tend to be fairly large (albeit smaller than they were in some eras of the past). And only one son, even rarer. It places the utmost stress on your son, to an extent you feel a bit of guilt -- perhaps you should have had another boy just to alleviate some of his burdens?

Regardless, you try to be there in the ways he needs you to be, to be a source of comfort and a shoulder to lean on. That, too, would be perhaps a bit frowned upon in Inazuman nobility culture... it tends to be a rather uptight and strict culture on such things, and Teyvatan nobility in particular often encourages pushing children to their limits, hardening them, but you can't bring yourself to be too harsh. People still tell you not to make him turn out to be weak or soft.

Even so, that turns out to not be the case at all. As Ayato grows, he is no exception to the standard – capable in every matter, intelligent, strong, skilled in combat and wit alike. You couldn't be more proud. You make sure to tell him so, and everyone you know, for that matter. People frequently say similar things to you, I wish my kids were that well-behaved, if only my son cared about his studies like yours... on and on it goes, and in truth, it does make you feel that much more proud. He's wonderful in his behavior towards you as well, always so pleasant and thoughtful, going out of his way to check on you, get gifts for you, include you in his life. He even speaks highly of you to others, especially when praised -- ah, but I would never have done so well without my mother there to encourage me.

But life can drastically change overnight, and it does.

Death, particularly of the head of a household, is a particularly volatile, uneasy time. He’s incredibly stoic throughout, and takes charge of things very quickly. That, too, is something you're quite proud of, how quickly he adapts and takes over, and the efficiency with which he does, far surpassing what would be expected of someone his age.

Things are a bit awkward at first, though, because he replaces the role of your husband, while you remain in the same role as always, right beside the head of the house, which is now him. It just feels a bit strange, looking to him as and having many of the same partnered functions as you once did to your husband. For example, you are expected to remain side-by-side for all important affairs and meetings being held at the estate.

You don't contribute very much, merely supposed to sit there quiet and demure unless addressed or during the more casual socialization that occurs after important affairs are dealt with, but it would be socially embarrassing for someone of his status to appear in front of guests alone, as having either a wife or other matriarch of the household present is the expected standard. Still, although you know it's your responsibility, it just feels... strange.

Soon, however, it starts to feel something different entirely, due to your son's unexpected behaviors - humiliating.

It catches you off-guard, at first. You would never expect it from him, who has always praised you, held you in some degree of reverence and respect, always done as you asked.

It quickly seems to change, though. As he begins to take his father's place in dealing with other significant figures in local politics, he talks about you in front of others in a way that makes you feel degraded, as if you were an animal incapable of understanding he's even talking about you. You voice concern over what seems to be a disadvantageous decision being made with a major political power, trying to interject in a way that is as appropriately as you can manage, seeing as you're not supposed to talk much, but you can't let it go unaddressed... but your son just waves his hand dismissively, smiling.

Ah, you'll have to forgive my mother. She has a tendency to upset herself over trivial matters. He finishes with a chuckle, rests his hand on the top of your head for a moment.

He also gives you subtle warnings and guidances regarding your own words. The custom in your culture is for you and your guests to sit on opposite sides of a table low to the floor, with the head of the household -- now your son -- and the matriarch of the household (that's you, and would be your daughter if you were to pass) sits right beside him. This is an opportune way for him to be sure you don't say anything he would prefer you not to. You'll just be talking as usual, when you get a sudden firm squeeze to your thigh. Telling you that, for whatever reason, whatever you were saying has been deemed not acceptable, or perhaps that you simply are talking too much when your role is more to sit there and smile.

You give your son the benefit of the doubt. You rationalize it. He's young and all of this is so new to him, he probably wants to prove himself and take initiative over the social atmosphere, and would feel embarrassed if you were to to guide the meetings... he wants to feel capable and in charge. You taking over would be belittling to him, he would feel like you're treating him like a child, and you can understand that. That's a good thing that he's being so responsible, isn't it?

Besides, it's not like his behaviors towards you outside of the meetings have changed... until they do, in fact, begin to.

It starts with you taking a deviation in your routine. Not that that in and of itself is a big deal; there's nothing dictating that you have to follow a certain routine or anything like that. You don't have many responsibilities, as your son takes care of business and management affairs, your job is primarily to be present when needed, and ensure the household is being kept in order.

Therefore, you get a great deal of lounging time. One day, you simply felt like reclining to read for leisure in a different spot than usual, opting to sit in the estate's study rather than the foyer. Something done without any consideration to the matter, not thinking it anything that could possibly cause an issue in any way.

You jolt when the door harshly opens, barging through with urgency. Your son sighs when he sees you, shoulders falling as tension leaves his body. You think something to be the matter, that he must have something upsetting him -- is something wrong, sweetheart?

But instead of answering you with some other matter, his eyes narrow.

I have been searching for you for nearly half an hour. You would do well to not worry me by disappearing so.

There's a frustration in his voice you're unaccustomed to, an authority in his tone he has never used towards you. It catches you off-guard, your eyes widen.

O-oh, I... I didn't mean to...

In the end, you reassure him you will not repeat this variation in your usual schedule, at least not without informing house staff so that they can inform him when needed. He didn't seek you out for any reason, though, as it turns out, only coming to check on you.

You suppose you should appreciate these checks, as they continue. The monitoring becomes more and more intense over time. He begins to check on you several times a day, or at least sending a member of the house staff to do so. He requests that you have a consistent schedule, so he doesn't need worry about you.

One day you decide to take some time to yourself, wanting to clear your mind. The family has long had a very peaceful, calming estate grounds pathway to walk on, a natural garden area behind the main building with flowers and greenery and the like, where you often go to walk around in when you have a lot on your mind.

You've done so for years, and it's never been an issue, but you've been so preoccupied that you haven't gotten the chance to do so since your husband's passing... and yet, this time, you're not even gone for twenty minutes before someone comes looking for you.

Oh... him. The housekeeper is such a sweet boy. Always bright-eyed and energetic. And he feels bad for you. You can tell, you can sense it even now as he comes briskly walking up to you, hand held up in a greeting gesture, smiling -- but in that apologetic, sheepish sort smile, furrowed eyebrows conveying a very different message than the upturned corners of his mouth.

Likewise, the choice of words is polite and sweet, and yet, you can hear the unspoken part without needing to hear it.

'Oh, I was just wondering where you were!'

(I was sent to come find you.)

'...has been really worried about you--'

(I'm going to be in trouble if you don't come back.)

'And I was just thinking--'

(He told me to say--)

He keeps this cheery, upbeat sort of tone, but you can feel it's forced. It's just short of audibly hearing what it says on its own: sorry.

And you know exactly why he's the one coming to find you. Sure, part of it is no doubt because he's so sweet and soft, but you know your son's real line of reasoning -- that you wouldn't want to get him in trouble, that you'll feel more empathetic to him than you would towards any regular servant, and thus you'll be more willing to comply from the start. You hate to admit that it works.

Thoma becomes a sort of guardian over you. He's there in the mornings - of course, you have a female servant to dress you for the day, but as soon as you exit your room, he's always there, smiling and bowing his head in greeting, cheerful as always. Polite and respectful, too, always keeping with the formal honorifics and ma'am's and the like, even if you've tried to tell him it's not necessary. He always makes you food and tea in the morning, always accompanies you if you wish to go out (a fairly new pleasure in your life, as your late husband often told you to refrain from doing so, but you figure it can't hurt to visit the city every now and then), often sits with you and your daughter at meals, particularly if your son is too busy with work to do so.

He hovers over you, a constant presence. Ayato even went to the extent of hiring another new servant to help around with the tasks that had usually been under Thoma's responsibility, to give him more time to watch over you. In truth, it's suffocating, but you know he's only following commands, and you tell yourself that you ought to be grateful you have a son who cares for you so deeply.

And thus, your son continues to utilize him to control your own every move.

That is, until a certain incident.

You do get along well with Thoma, really. Who wouldn't? He's a very pleasant boy, easy to hold a conversation with, bright and energetic while also amiable and easygoing. He's content with talking about pretty much anything, goes wherever you want to go, never complains.

And usually, he's very well-prepared, but of course, everyone will make mistakes every now and then. Thus is how the two of you get caught in the rain, returning from a leisure stroll along the road. The poor thing apologizes a hundred times on the way back for neglecting to consider the possibility of rain and failing to bring an umbrella, taking his jacket off to hold over your head the whole time, but the rain is particularly heavy, so much so you both end up soaked anyways.

He frantically runs to fetch towels, still nervously apologizing (even though you told him it's fine each and every time), getting you multiple towels to dry yourself off. He leaves so you can dry your body off and change your clothes, but even after you return to the living area, sitting by the fire at the back-center of the room, he helps you rub a towel over your scalp and shoulders, arms more or less wrapped around you, leaning in, bodies a few inches apart.

It's at that moment Ayato passes by. Not intending to stop, merely walking past seemingly in a hurry, but his eyes flicker over to you two as he passes, and he comes to an abrupt halt. He's quiet for a few moments. He's a composed young man, never the type to show negative emotions too outwardly, but you can make out a distinct look of displeasure on his face, mouth pulled taut and eyes narrowed. After a moment, he questions what happened, in a calm, but cold voice. You're the one to explain before Thoma can say anything, wanting to defend him, thinking your son is upset over you getting caught in the rain, perhaps.

I see.

It's all he says before turning and walking off.

...You don't see Thoma very much anymore after that. Well, you still see him, he's always around doing some task or another, but he doesn't come to visit you anymore, and even when you see him and speak to him, he sort of leans away from you, keeps an arm-length away from you at all times, smiles and speaks in a sheepish mannerism for a few minutes before coincidentally remembering something he's forgotten to do and leaves to go do that. It hurts you a little. You want to say something to Ayato perhaps, but in truth, you're uncertain how to approach him... was he truly that upset over you getting rained on? Or was it something else? You have trouble making sense of it. Regardless, surely he's overreacting.

He seems so uptight lately. You imagine he's under a great deal of stress. He used to be rather lax and easygoing, but these days he seems to be more easily upset. Ayato's "bad moods" are nothing compared to someone of a less pleasant disposition, he merely gets cold and quiet and a bit harsh with his voice and words, but nonetheless, as your child, you know him well enough to know these things indicate he's upset.

He gets into such a mood more and more often, often nitpicking about the things you wear and do, getting unnecessarily upset if you fail to inform him of your activities and location, insisting you stay in the same places at the same times each day for him to come by so he can briefly check on you.

It's unnecessary, and frankly rather obnoxious. But once more, you're unsure of how to bring the matter up. Perhaps he's merely undergoing a strenuous period of time, and will improve once it is over. You hope so.

He assigns more servants to you, first a different female one, then another, and soon you have three, who are constantly following you around, tending to your every need. It's not as if the estate hasn't always had personal servants, but in the past, you merely summoned them when needed, and in truth, you were never the conceited type to have servants do everything, you were more than capable of performing certain tasks for yourself and didn't feel the need to command someone else to do it. But it's never been like this, never so suffocating.

Eventually, it becomes too much.

You need some time to yourself. To appear in public by yourself would be unseemly for your position, but nonetheless, you have to find a way to get some room to breathe... you know he would be furious with you if you were to intentionally avoid contact, to go off into the expanse of nature beyond the estate grounds... but the "what he doesn't know won't hurt him" is a motto you imagine all mothers use at some point when dealing with their children. When the beloved pet was killed by a kick from a horse, so you told the children it ran away. When the country underwent such a financial crisis a decade or so back that even your family had to sell some of their heirlooms to pay for the expenses of the estate, so you told the children they were simply tacky and you no longer wanted them. That sort of thing.

Yes, this would be no different. To leave the estate at night and walk around beyond the grounds for a while, beyond the garden where servants might see you, just to get some time and space to yourself, to clear your mind. You have to wait until night, when your servants are no longer trailing you so closely, but you manage to find an unguarded door to the outside, and slip away undetected.

Almost.

You're just taking the last few steps out the gate when a spear is thrust in front of you, the pole section blocking your path. The exterior guards. They seem high-strung, almost panicked by seeing you out. As soon as they stop you, they tell you to (albeit very politely, prefaced with please, madam, it's not good for you to be out here at this hour) return in side immediately.

You try to reason, and yet, they continue to insist. You give a demand -- Please, this is an order, I am simply going for a walk -- and yet even still, even with such an authoritative statement, they merely shake their heads. They take steps forward, gradually pushing you back inside, until you finally relent, making an exasperated noise before turning on your heel and stomping back inside.

You know your son had to have said something to them. Even your husband never held so much power that the household staff would so immediately and sternly disregard your words.

More importantly, you know they'll tell him. You know he'll be upset.

But you were expecting him to simply address it the next day or so. You didn't think he'd be so angry that he'd come into your room so late. You're pretty sure it's past midnight when you hear heavy, quick footsteps come stomping down your hallway.

Nor does he knock. Your doorknob simply turns, opening the door in one swift motion.

Mother.

If his tone alone didn't convey exactly how unhappy he is, the force with which he shuts the door behind him certainly does.

It feels as if your roles are reversed -- you find yourself shrinking back, stammering, like a child caught doing something wrong. You shift uncomfortably on your bed, watching as he sighs, closes his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Don't you realize how foolish a stunt like that was? And bizarre, too, who tries to go outside at night like that? It has nothing to do with you wanting "time to yourself," as you quickly try to defend yourself with, no, he interrupts you before you can finish. You're merely being spiteful. You're bitter about the matter of him having authority over you and giving you instructions on behaving recently, it feels humiliating to you, and you're acting out in some desperate desire to prove your autonomy to yourself, to validate yourself, or perhaps to even intentionally upset him... how utterly childish.

You'll likely do something to escalate the situation just to make him more upset, like going off into the city on your own, putting yourself at risk. Truly, you are so naive, you have no regard for safety.

This is precisely why he will be moving in.

You blink. You take a moment to process his words.

What?

He exhales in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it's a very simple, obvious matter that you're dense for not immediately grasping.

As you know, this room belongs to the head of the estate. It's very obviously designed to be so, given it's center position among all the rooms, size of the bed and the room itself and all that. It's sort of inappropriate for him to still be sleeping in his old childhood room.

You still only blink in confusion.

So... you want me to move out?

He huffs in frustration again, but hearing how soft and meek your voice sounds with those words, his own tone softens, though his words are still stern.

Obviously not. As he just said, he's moving in here to keep better eye on you. That's part of the whole point. You will be staying in the same room and bed from this point forward. You shared a bed with his late father most of your life, yes? This should be no trouble, then. Please, have some maturity.

I'm not a child anymore, mother. I have the final say in how this household operates, and it will make things easier on us both if you cooperate.

You're not sure what part of the matter to protest -- the bizarreness of it all, the fact that sleeping with you is something reserved for a child, the invasion of your privacy.

You say you have no intention of doing something worse like he claims, that you were just going to walk around for a short while. And before he can respond, you interject the obvious question -- that's not... that's not normal, don't you realize that?

He just sighs. You're being needlessly difficult. You know I have the utmost affection for you, Mother, and I've tried to be patient with you, but please be reasonable.

Why would you think this odd? You are family, after all, so no amount of closeness should be strange, there should be nothing to be embarrassed about. His tone as he finishes speaking is firm, making it clear that no further opposition is to be voiced. You find yourself wide-eyed and silent, slack-jawed as he proceeds to not leave, but rather, make his way over to the bed, sitting on the side opposite of you. He reaches out, affectionately putting a hand to rest atop your head, trying to soften the mood after being so firm.

His voice is far more gentle as he speaks again. I do worry for you at night, as well. I know being alone now must be difficult for you... I want to be here for you.

You don't protest further. In truth, he's right to an extent, it's not like it's a stranger or someone unrelated, so it doesn't feel all that unnatural. Still, he's grown, it's been ages since you were last like this... but even then, that thought takes you back to the days he would come shuffling down the hall, tearful over a nightmare or frightening shadow, and would nuzzle up to you all night, and that memory makes you feel warm and happy inside.

It's still awkward, of course, and you have trouble falling asleep with him there. At first you try to close your eyes and pretend it's your husband, but... no, that's too painful to think about. You toss and turn for some time. You keep repeating to yourself that it's not a big deal, even if it feels bizarre. Maybe he's actually stressed, and wanted you for comfort, but didn't want to say so...? That is a possibility. Or, even if it's exactly as he said, that's concern for your wellbeing.

Yes... he's just concerned is all. It's odd, but the sentiment is wholesome, in fact, you feel guilty for being defiant considering it was out of concern for you. You even make a note to apologize to him, the following morning, when you wake up beside him. He just smiles, back to his usual gentle, good-humored self. It's alright... you were merely emotional from stress. I understand. The choice of wording feels a bit degrading, but you know he means well.

Thus begins a rather... odd setup. The next day, you find servants moving some of his belongings into your room. They say nothing, they don't look you in the eye, merely go about their task as presumably instructed. You no longer have the servants following you around either. Instead, Ayato insists you merely stay with him. It will be easier for me to keep an eye on you this way. Really, this would have been easier from the start, but I didn't want to upset you...

You're allowed to do as you normally do. Read, entertain yourself in various sedentary ways. In the afternoon, when your high-class lifestyle has you adjusted to taking a short nap, he returns to the room with you, sitting at the desk to continue his own work. Really, you prefer him to the servants, it feels less awkward, but... he's very nosey. Always wanting to know what you're doing, what you're reading. He sets a schedule for you, ensuring you accompany him everywhere as necessary.

But it begins to become more and more intrusive. You try to take a bath, get some time to yourself, but soon he's knocking on the door to tell you that you've had long enough, and need to get out so you can accompany him to yet another meeting. You try to ask if you can go lay down in your room due to headache, and while he allows it, he insists on accompanying you. If even a servant comes to speak to you, he turns his attention to them too, careful to listen to every word, and you are never granted a private conversation with anyone but him.

You notice other oddities, too. You haven't had any guests for you in ages, despite the fact that you used to have friends and distant family on your side of the family visit fairly often. But since your husband's funeral, you haven't gotten any letters, nor any visitors. You can't imagine he would turn guests away, or intercept the estate's mail for things addressed to you... at least, you hope not, yet you can't think of anything else that could explain it.

You do ask, after finally summoning the gall to do so, but as per usual these days, he just sighs and gives you a vague answer. I have the servants sort through everything addressed to us, Mother. Do you really believe they would withhold anything from you? Somehow, it isn't reassuring.

He begins to personally dictate your choices as well, in ways even your husband never did. You find robes already set out for you each morning, what you will wear thus subtly dictated to you ahead of time. You don't see any point in doing so, but... if it makes him happy... you suppose you can oblige. So you tell yourself, among everything else.

He begins to become more touchy as well. He sits closer to you during your meetings, often so your bodies brush against each other. He often rests his hand on your head now, often touches your shoulder to get your attention. At night, he leans forward to kiss your forehead. And when you sleep, you manage to always end up entangled with each other, you always wake up to his arms on you.

It's all so, so suffocating, it becomes unbearable. You just want a moment to yourself, to do anything without being questioned. You find yourself growing tearful as you lay down at night, lamenting your loss, wishing you could have back your life before, where your husband at least gave you room to breathe, and your son was still merely you son, with no authority over you. You know he's trying his best, and you want so badly for him to be confident and capable, but you can't take it.

And while he's still amiable, still pleasant and easygoing on so many things, you learn that he can snap into that firm, harsh tone at a moment's notice. It's intimidating, truthfully, and for that reason, you tend to stay quiet. You would feel guilty for upsetting him, when he already has so much responsibility. Thus, you let the frustration build. You make excuses for him in your mind. You tolerate it all. The emotions bottle up inside.

It's bound to reach a breaking point, and one day, that point finally comes.

Rather, one night. Not that you do anything wrong by any rational standards. You wake up thirsty, in the middle of the night, and naturally, as anyone would do -- as anyone would do, anyone at all, you tell yourself -- you quietly, slowly slip out of his grasp and out of bed, and make your way down the hall in the moonlight coming through the windows, fetch a glass of water, and turn back the way you came.

You run into your son halfway down the hall. Despite visible grogginess, the moment he sees you, his eyes narrow.

What are you doing?

You halt, begin to shrink back. Out of learned instinct, you feel guilt, despite having done nothing wrong, dread that builds in your gut. Over doing something so simple, so harmless. You stutter as you try to say exactly that, but he isn't having it. He speaks calmly, but his voice is deep and firm.

Come back to bed. I have explicitly told you so many times to not wander off on your own, and yet you continue to deliberately disobey... what am I to do with you...?

And with those words, something inside you snaps. The frustration all comes bursting out at once. Your grip on your glass tightens, you stomp the ground harshly, causing even him to raise his eyebrows in surprise at the sudden lack of dignity. There's venom in your voice as you talk back to him.

I've had enough!

The words come out without intending them. You don't even really process what you're saying, just that you're so, so tired, that you're sick of not having space to yourself, that you won't tolerate being disrespected so. That you think it was ridiculous that he would forbid you from taking walks, that he would remove that sweet housekeeper boy from your side, that he insists you accompany him everywhere. Your eyes well up with tears as you speak, you squeeze them shut.

You aren't in control of me! I am not a wife for you to command, I am your--

But he grabs your jaw. You go silent at the harshness of the grip, your heart skips a beat. The now nearly-empty glass goes falling to the ground, rolling as it hits the rug. His expression is cold and dark and furious.

What you are to me is irrelevant. You are under the authority of the head of this household. Do you understand?

Even in his most frustrated moments, you have never heard him speak in such a low, ominous tone, quiet yet piercing. It strikes fear into your core. You can do nothing but stare up at him. A few moments of quiet pass, your eyes wide with shock, staring into his own. Finally, after moments of crushing tension, he lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head.

...Come, Mother. We're going back to bed.

The grip he takes on your wrist makes it clear you have no choice in that matter. You stumble a bit as you're pulled back into your room, set down onto your bed, turning to light a candle for the slightest bit of light, signifying that he must think you have more to discuss before you sleep again. But before you can lay down, he sits you upright, hands on your shoulders, before sitting down in front of you, not taking his hands off you as he does. You stare in confusion and questioning. He repeats that affectionate gesture, moving a hand to the top of your head, before speaking again.

I understand what is the matter now. Why you're behaving this way.

Your eyes widen further. You can't find your voice. You find yourself leaning back. There's an unsettling feeling in your chest, something like dread, anticipation. You can just barely make out his eyes in the light.

In truth, I refrained for your sake, thinking it would be too soon... but I see now that was a poor judgement. Your needs are going unmet now... I've neglected my own as well, to control myself for you.

His voice is softer as he speaks, then. Still, something about it makes you feel uneasy. Nervous. Your heart pounds in your chest. What?

Slowly, he reaches out. Not to your head, not to your shoulders. His hands firmly come to rest on your waist. Your body stiffens. He leans forward, forehead against your own.

It's too blatant to not understand the atmosphere, the implicit, silent understanding that passes between you without words. It takes you with such shock, you recoil. You scramble backwards on the bed, away from him, looking up to him with terrified eyes. You can't summon your voice, but your expression says what your mouth can't. After a few more moments of quiet, he speaks in a low, soft voice.

...Mother, are you familiar with what was done in our situation, in the old days? At the passing of the head of the household, what would happen in your case?

The question seems completely out of the blue, takes you completely off-guard. Your eyebrows furrow.

Yes, there were traditions for these sorts of things, you knew that much. Traditions that are now no longer observed, that have been lost to time and the changing of social values. In the case of a patriarch's passing, in the Inazuman nobles of old, there was a process that was to be immediately followed thereafter. In those days, the families were huge, having a large number of children. The eldest son took over the estate and all of its affairs, and was to marry if he had not done so already, middle sons would largely proceed as normal. The most notable of old customs, one of a different time and different mindset, that so notoriously earned disgust from present-day individuals looking back, was for the youngest son, who, if the patriarch left behind a widow, was expected to be wed to his own mother.

You have one son. The eldest and the youngest, by definition.

You shake your head. Disbelief renders you stiff. That's... that's from a different time. That's not... you don't do such things now, it's not right... it's vile, it's...

Mother.

That firm tone again. You stiffen once more. You can't help a soft, quiet noise that comes out of your throat. Your body trembles. You jolt as his hands reach out to grab your waist again.

...The attitudes of society come and go, Mother. They change with the times. You needn't concern yourself with that.

His hands pull you back towards him. His hands then reach for your wrists, and pin them together in one hand. He leans forward, other hand on the back of your head to keep you from pulling away as his mouth meets yours. It's only for a few seconds, but in your shock, everything is slow, it seems to pass as an eternity. Eventually, he pulls back, leaning instead to your ear to murmur to you.

It's alright. This will help your frustrations... remind you your place. It is only natural. Try to understand that... forget about everything else but me.

He doesn't listen to you. Words of protest come out of your mouth, but it's as if he doesn't hear you at all. You struggle to speak as he progresses, but your words devolve into shameful, high-pitched sounds as his mouth latches onto your breast, as his fingers trail down your stomach, under your nighttime robes, slip inside of your body. You squeal when your clothes are pulled off. You cry out, you flail, your legs spasm and your breath hitches when you feel him push inside you. Obscene noises spill from your lips until it all goes quiet.

It doesn't feel real. You shiver in place with his arms around you. You stare at the faint light cast on the ceiling. He murmurs soft comforts to you, pulling you close, rubbing a hand up and down your back, but you can't seem to even make the words out.

You don't remember closing your eyes, you merely wake the next morning far later than usual, almost convinced it was a nightmare until the soreness all over your body sets in. Your limbs feel heavy and limp. You slowly turn your head as your son stirs beside you, sitting upright with a quiet groan, leaning forward to kiss your forehead.

Are you sore? I'll have today's schedule adjusted... come, I'll dress you...

As if it's nothing at all, no particularly big deal. You're silent and trembling as you stumble to your feet at his tugging on your arms. You feel hot with embarrassment as his eyes trail over your body, now in full daylight. You stand stiff, still overcome with shock, unable to move more than just the slightest on your own as he pulls your clothing onto your body. He mentions to a servant in passing to get you herbal tea for your aches, not specifying what said aches are from.

And from there, it all falls so perfectly into place. It repeats the next night, the next, and the next. Your protests are quickly silenced with a firm, commanding voice that makes you go quiet, makes your chest swell with fear at the sound. Told that you're being unreasonable, that you're thinking too much about the matter, that you just need to be more open-minded, and you'd realize this is what is best for you. And the next night, and the next night, and the next. Then, during the day, during the time reserved for your afternoon naps. Then, at his desk, pulling you over to sit on his lap, sheathed inside of you as he works, telling you it's beneficial to his progress.

The servants accept it. As time goes on, they seem to slowly figure it out, little by little. You see it in their expressions. For a while their eyebrows furrowed, they looked perplexed whenever he was so close to you, kept his arms around you, whenever they had to come knocking on the door to inform him of something and saw you in there through the crack when he opened it just enough to talk to them. And after some time, their expressions change. The corners of their mouth pull taut.

The trade partners and all the figures of local politics and business that visit your home seem to accept... whatever they believe it all is. It used to be frequent that you would hear them pull him aside, propose an arrangement to marry their wealthy daughters, but he would always politely tell them he plans to put that off for a few more years now. Some acquaintances visiting would likewise ask if he planned to marry soon, and he would give the same answer. They gradually stopped asking. You even overhear two guests once talking to themselves about the matter. He seems content with his mother filling the role of a wife, hah. You clench your jaw and think to yourself that they have no idea.

You're trapped and helpless. Everywhere you turn, there is no solution, no way out. The servants won't help you; even if personally revolted (based on the expressions that sometimes cross their faces, you know they are) they're loyal to their paychecks at the end of the day. They won't let you leave and seek help elsewhere. Everything is locked into place exactly as your son wants it, everything is set up to function as he would have it, with you left unable to do anything about it.

Except for one little problematic piece, one that cannot be fitted into the metaphorical puzzle, yet the image is not complete without its presence, it cannot be removed from the scene altogether, and thus, it creates an obstacle.

Your daughter is a perceptive, intelligent girl. You've always been proud of her, wanted a better and freer life for her than you had. You want to shield her.

It pains you to know that she knows something is wrong. When your son moved into the same room as you, he kept it quiet, but she has noticed, having passed the room several times. She doesn't speak to you much lately, and when she does, it's quiet, she looks at the wall or the ground. Her eyebrows furrow with an expression of confusion and unspoken questioning, but it's only ever so slight, so much so that you know it's only a mild confusion, that she hasn't begun to really understand anything. You want to say something, desperately want to address the silent but unbearable tension, and yet you can't find the words. The tension remains, crushing.

It's the worst-kept secret, anyway, as you know the servants all know something is going on. Even so, it didn't matter if they knew. That wasn't your concern. Above all, you were still hoping to shield it from her. Did everything in your power to appear normal and as if nothing was amiss, just for her. Wanted so desperately to preserve her innocence and happiness, dreading the thought of bringing such a depraved, distressing thing into her life and force her to live in awareness of it. You wanted to spare her that undoubtedly scarring experience. You prayed you could just maintain that alone, that you'd endure anything as long as she could live in ignorant bliss.

One night as you lie in bed on your back, legs slung over your son's shoulders... you hear a sound. Wood against wood, a soft friction, the door sliding. The movement of the bed and wet sounds of his body in yours drowned out any footsteps you might have otherwise heard approaching. Instead, it's just that soft wooden sound... and, as soon as it slid open just the slightest inch, within a split second, it slams shut again.

He stops, equally caught off-guard, head turning towards the door. In the absence of movement between the two of you, you hear hurried, clattering footsteps running back down the hall in the opposite direction. There's a silence that follows as the footsteps grow further and further until they can't be heard.

For once, even your usually composed and collected son seems to lose some composure, eyes wide and face visibly worried. He's never had anything he considered important enough to stop mid-session like this. Even before, when you had company or anything of the sort, he would tell the servants to tell the visitor to hold on just a moment, quickly finish up with you first.

But not now. He pulls out, stands up, throws all his clothes back on in a matter of seconds. I need to talk to her.

Part of you wants to intervene. You want to do something, you don't want him to be the one to say anything to her, are afraid of what he might say, and want to hear whatever he says... and yet, you just lie there. You can't bring yourself to face the crushing shameful feeling, can't bear to look her in the eye. As badly as you want to do something about it, you can't bring yourself to face it, and in avoidance, instead you curl up into yourself, shivering as you grip a pillow to your body, letting tears gather on your eyelids and soak into the fabric.

You never know what he says to her. It takes a long time, though, you know that much. Several hours pass before he finally comes back to bed. He says nothing about the matter himself, only quietly enters the now-dark room, crawls into bed with you (stirring you from having fallen half-asleep), and presses his mouth to yours, resuming your former activities before you can even question anything. You know whatever transpired frustrated him, his grip is intense and his movements are forceful and harsh... but you say nothing. You don't want to ask, you don't want to know.

In the end, though, however it went down, he must have had the final say. Nothing happens to indicate any sort of change. And as for your daughter... she, too, pretends nothing happened, goes about her day as usual. Only now, she speaks more quietly, she won't look you in the eye when she talks to you. It's painful, yet at the same time, you can't bring yourself to bring it up. You're not sure which would hurt more.

You once, accompanying your son, rounded a corner into another room, and caught her talking to Thoma, a hushed but pleading voice, but unable to make out the words. He was a bit louder than her, though, you could clearly make out the replies on his end with each back-and-forth exchange.

I know... I know, I wish I could-- I know. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do... I don't even know what to--

But both fell quiet as the two of you came into their line of sight. Both visibly stiffening. Coming up with quick excuses to walk off, flashing forced smiles and a greeting gesture as they passed you.

You remember how sick you felt for the rest of the day. You lay in bed for hours, and your son was kind enough to stay by your side... and to even breed you more gently than usual, something he seemed to feel was particularly benevolent of him.

It goes unaddressed. Not a soul in the household doesn't know. But it is never spoken, never brought up. No one reaches out to help you. You know your squeals and protests are loud enough to be heard. You see the way the servants refuse to look you in the eye. You feel the bitter humiliation when some even smirk or snicker as you pass. You can't speak to guests outside of your son's perpetual, hovering presence. It feels like drowning, struggling, all while those around you merely watch.

But nothing is ever done. You suppose that, too, is part of the expectations of nobility, to fulfill one's responsibility without question. Your son has done an excellent job of meeting that standard... hopefully you will learn to as well.

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touyota · 1 year

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will you, won’t you

Pairing: Kamisato Ayato x F!Reader

Notes: Inspired by @cinnamonest’s Kamisato Ayato/Teacher modern AU. Please read her lovely piece beforehand for further context! This is an alternate take on Ayato inviting his teacher inside at the year-end event. Please heed the warnings before you read this one.

Warnings: Age gap [ Ayato is 18, reader is 20+ ], student/teacher with the student initiating, drunk sex.

CW: Not sfw, non-con, coercion, manipulation, implied blackmail, power imbalance.

WC: 4k

Taglist: @babyybitchhh, @chelbizzaro

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878 notes · View notes

touyota · 1 year

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°•☆Anything You Wish☆•°

♦️Dark! Geralt of Rivia x Reader♦️

Your father promises Geralt anything he wants for slaying the monsters plaguing your kingdom...unfortunately, the witcher takes that promise quite literally.

CW: Non-Con, loss of virginity, outdoor sex, kidnapping, belligerent tension

Words: ~5k

A/N: I’m really appreciative of all feedback and reblogs.

⚔

The day they came was the day yet another plague struck your kingdom. They swarmed the fields and fed on the dead, even lashing out at the living who came too close.

Men in the surrounding villages couldn’t defeat them. The King’s army couldn’t defeat them. Nothing could get rid of the hungry beasts who run faster than horses and scream louder than banshees.

Even gathering the nerve to approach them is a feat within itself.

Their charred, putrid flesh emits a horrid stench that clogs the nostrils and empties the stomach. Their humongous teeth are as sharp as swords and can tear a human apart just as easily.

They are monsters, nightmarish creatures straight out of the tales you were told as a little girl…only, they are very real.

So real that, at present, one is screeching right in your face. Your ears almost bleed from the loudness of its scream.

Foolish. Stupid. Reckless. Many words could be used to describe your thoughtless actions. You saw much bigger men than you falling prey to the monsters…still, you wished to try. Try to take down just one of the fearsome beasts, prove yourself.

The plan you concocted should have been flawless.

You lured it away from the group with a bird carcass, cornered it, stalked behind it. You were ready to strike, to show your worth. You so desperately want to be…more. Just more.

And now, your sword’s a few feet away, lost in your attempt to flee from the creature. As its rancid, scorching breath fans over your face, your eyes shut.

Begrudging acceptance settles in your chest.

And so it comes, death’s cold embrace. At last, you may join your fallen brother.

You wait and wait as your lip quakes, terror cooling your veins. Surprise sweeps you when instead of the creature’s sharp teeth, your skin is met by a wet, sticky rain.

For a moment, your heart pounds a chaotic symphony as you don’t dare steal a glimpse of what occurs before you.

You should be dead, yet you are not. The understanding that you’re intact, still breathing and still whole, struggles to wade its way through your mind.

Slowly, you open your eyes. A sharp exhale erupts from your mouth as the creature’s guts spill at your feet, a tall, silver-haired stranger emerging behind the slayed remains. Covered in grime and blood, he glares down at your prone, trembling frame. Eerie, golden eyes cut into you harshly.

"Where’s your king?" the man asks, his deep, gristly voice more akin to a bear growl than anything human.

"I…"

The words slump along your throat as you process the broad stranger’s presence. Your savior. He pays you little mind however, grunting in annoyance when you fail to respond. Mud splashes over your tunic as his heavy boots stamp the floor.

Not glancing back at you once, the man takes long strides towards your father’s castle.

⚔

The stench of the creature’s innards still clings to you as you race through the stone hallways of the castle. No matter how much your chambermaid assisted you in scrubbing yourself raw, the gut-twisting scent persisted. Heat nestles in your cheeks as pointed looks land on you, lips curving upward in poorly restrained smiles.

You are the princess, yet your smell is potent enough that even servants and courtiers can barely hold in a laugh as you hurry past them.

Annoyance sears your insides when you finally reach your destination.

Your eyes travel to the middle of the throne room.

The air is drained from your lungs at the sight of the silver-haired, grumpy giant from before. The black plates of his armor are still stained with blood and entrails. His white locks spill over his shoulders, caked with dirt and grease.

He smells even worse than you do.

His saffron gaze trails your steps as you shakily advance. When you scowl at him and almost lose your balance, a crooked smirk unfurls on his lips.

It angers you. Before, he ignored you and now his acknowledgement comes with contempt and mockery.

You regain your composure by lifting your dress and turning away from him. Still, his eye on you is heavy and it makes your stomach clench in discomfort.

You know his reputation all too well. He may have saved you but he’s a brute, a murderer. A butcher.

Your father acknowledges you with a lingering, judgemental stare you try your best to ignore. For one reason or another, his disapproval always ends up finding you. His ire is never quite far behind.

Whatever you do, no matter how hard you strive to make him proud, the king always finds fault in your actions.

Today’s another one of those calamitous days where your behavior draws a frown upon your father’s weathered brow.

It’s no matter. You’re almost certain you slighted him beyond measure the day you were born by simply missing a cock. Your brother’s demise on the battlefield made matters even worse. It reminded him that instead of a suitable male heir, a second son, he only has you.

Your very existence is your father’s greatest disappointment.

All he looks forward to is marrying you off to whomever lord will strengthen his rule most. Then, maybe, you will be useful to him.

"Apology for my daughter’s tardiness, Ser Geralt," your father notes dryly. Daggers pierce your skin when he glares at you, raising his voice, "And much gratitude for saving her from her own foolishness. Even now it astounds me that mine own daughter does not know what a woman’s place is." You plop into the seat next to his, twitching as humiliation scorches your insides. The wood beneath you is hard and uncomfortable, bereft of the nice pillows scattered on your father’s throne.

It’s not the first time you’re scolded for your coarse behavior, unbefitting of your station. Your actions are a perpetual source of strife between you and your father.

If one were to ask the king, even the way you draw breath is lacking.

Your father continues discussing terms with the man. Despite the prickle you feel on your skin, you carefully avoid crossing the stranger’s gaze.

Lost in your churning thoughts, you catch the tail end of your father’s sentence.

"...So we are in agreement, whatever you wish to have once the scourge of hell beasts is dealt with, you can have," your father states. He snorts, a clever glint lighting his orbs. "Within reason, of course, you cannot ask for my crown or all that sits in the treasury. Other than that, you may ask for anything you want, witcher."

The mysterious man hums low in his chest. Silence fills the hall and you lift your head in curiosity. Immediately, his honey orbs lock with yours.

A cold shiver shoots through your spine.

"Anything?" Geralt echoes with a small smile.

"Within reason," your father emphasizes.

You scratch the back of your hands nervously, lowering your eyes again. The expression on the witcher’s face unnerves you, making your chest seize.

He grumbles in acknowledgement. Then, after a few moments, he says, "I’m gonna need a bath."

⚔

When the sky darkens above the castle and all is quiet, you sneak out of bed, as is your habit. Grabbing your cloak and the sword below your bed, you tiptoe outside your apartments. Nihma, your chambermaid, nods at you as you brush past her. No word is exchanged as she slips inside the room while you step into the chilly hallway.

She will get underneath your blanket and snore loudly enough to fool any guard doing a casual patrol. You will give her ten ducats for her troubles, almost two weeks’ worth of wages in a single night, a more than fair trade for the simple task of impersonating you.

You need those ephemeral getaways.

Life within those castle walls isn’t just tedious…it’s stifling. Your father’s expectations and all the duties you’re expected to perform suffocate you.

You dream of freedom and adventure, of sleeping under the stars and living off what the land bestows.

Instead, you are fated to wither away in a cold castle, forced to push out some stodgy lord’s spawn for the remainder of your days.

You shift the heavy sword beneath your cloak, hiding quickly inside an alcove as a guard strolls by.

A sigh of relief departs from your lips when the stomping of his boots dwindles.

You leave your hiding spot and head towards the weapons’ room. It’s always empty at night. When you were younger, it’s where your brother taught you so your father wouldn’t find out. It took so much begging but, in the end, he couldn’t resist you.

Twice a week, you would wake him up and drag him through the dim hallways to practice your swordsmanship.

Your shoulders slump as you let your fingers caress the pommel of your brother’s sword.

The thought of him, slain on the battlefield the year prior, elicits a painful twinge in your chest.

You enter the room and nudge the door closed in practiced silence.

The cloak is tossed over a nearby wooden chair.

You waste no time, beginning as soon as you lift the heavy sword.

You run through each drill, slashing at air on staggering feet. Sweat beads on your forehead as you wave your sword at an invisible opponent. The weight of the steel alone fatigues your limbs. Halting your motions, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.

"Your form is shit," a deep and unfortunately familiar voice utters at your side. A sharp gasp escapes your throat as you whirl in his direction. He walks alongside the stone wall, his honey gaze sizing you up and down.

His attention causes your stomach to wrench uncomfortably. Your eyes linger on the loose-fitting, white blouse he wears and the curling dark hairs covering his broad chest where it opens.

As your gaze drifts down to the black leather pants, latching onto the unmistakable bulge in his crotch, flames bloom in your cheeks.

You lift your eyes to meet his smirking face. A frown wrinkles your forehead as you point your sword at him.

"Did you follow me here, witcher?"

Geralt’s brow arches as he inches closer. He doesn’t seem threatened by you, just amused, mirth twinkling in his saffron orbs.

"You’re hiding…which means your father wouldn’t approve." He appraises you while tilting his head. "That sword is far too heavy for you…" Pearly white teeth shimmer in the darkness when he grins. "and you’re holding it wrong."

Anger overflows, spilling over to your shaky grip. With purpose, you lunge at him. He dodges all your thrusts, gliding over the stones and sidestepping you with ease.

"I do not need help from a murderer," you hiss, angling the blade towards his middle. Again, he avoids your attack. As you lose your balance, the floor fastly approaches in your vision.

You await the inevitable collapse but it never arrives.

Geralt catches you. While one of the witcher’s thick arms snakes around your waist, curtailing your fall, the other wraps around your wrist holding the sword.

You audibly exhale as your back presses against Geralt’s chest, warmth leaking from his frame to yours. You squirm but he is stronger, his solid grip keeping you against him.

His lips skim over your earshell.

"Would you prefer the monsters roam free and eat your people?" he taunts.

You take a pause, breathing through your nose. His musky scent fills your nostrils, turning your head a little.

Your voice bursts out a quivering hush.

"I’m talking about Blaviken. The people you slaughtered."

His raspy baritone rolls along your skin as he lowers his mouth to your neck.

Who hasn’t heard of the infamous Geralt of Rivia and his senseless acts of butchery? Before you can go on, more insults burning your tongue, his fingers tighten around your wrist.

A grimace of pain distorts your features as you almost let go of the sword, but Geralt doesn’t let you.

"You’re slow, princess. Perhaps you’re more suited for needlework than fighting."

"My brother taught me. He was a great warrior," you retort, your pride wounded by his scathing observation.

He scoffs, "So your brother was either a shitty warrior, or you’re a shitty student. Which is it?" A puppet in his embrace, you quake when his warm breath raises the hairs on your neck. "You’re holding it too low. See? This…" He directs your hand, raising the sword while your arm trembles. "Would be better. You want to aim for the neck."

You gasp when he moves the blade horizontally in a perfect line. The decisive, powerful strike could have brought down an actual enemy.

Slight awe radiates through you as you lament, your brows crumpling, "I can’t…I can’t hold it higher."

"Of course you can’t," he whispers. His timbre then lowers, too soft and intimate for your liking. "Like I’ve said…this isn’t right for you."

Bells clamor within you when something stirs against your back, something thick and hot beneath the leather of Geralt’s pants.

You know little of men but enough to sense this isn’t right.

You tear from him abruptly. His arms open, that conceited smirk still engraved on his lips. Meanwhile, your brother’s sword clatters at your feet, slipping from your grasp, or rather Geralt’s you suppose.

Avoiding his disarming stare, you scurry to grab your cloak and rush to the exit.

"It’s late. I should return to my chambers," you quaver, too afraid to glance back at him or wait for his response.

⚔

The following days, you exert tremendous effort to avoid the witcher, mostly confining yourself to your apartments. Returning to the weapons room after what transpired is out of the question.

Your heart still races and your face heats whenever you recall the warmth of Geralt’s body as it wrapped around yours.

So you attend to your daily routine, your tedious duties.

Prayers in the morning, then breakfast with your ladies-in-waiting as they prattle on about some gossip or upcoming tournament that fails to catch your interest.

Father will be upset you refused yet another string of matches. One day, he will tire of simply asking you to do your duty. He will impose, and you will have to oblige, for he is not just your father, he is also the king. His word is law. His suggestions are commands.

At noon, you must pray again. Then in the evening, you practice embroidery and meet with potential suitors.

None of them please you, each one of them dull pretenders, leeches who do not see you as a person, but a tool to wrest more power and influence for themselves and their houses.

By the time night comes, you’ve swallowed the burning urge to run away more times than you can count.

Yet you don’t. You fall asleep, dreams plagued by golden eyes and silver hair. So you wake up angry, frustrated.

It peeves you.

Your dislike for him burns bright, searing your insides. The thought of him is a sour one. Geralt of Rivia makes you sick. Yet he’s at the edge of every one of your thoughts. The ghost of his smug smile haunts your days.

It’s the sight that flickers in your mind as you prick your finger today.

"Princess?" Nihma calls, plucking the needle and wooden hoop away from your fingers. She kneels before your chair and dabs a handkerchief on the blood trickling down your fingertip.

You blink, the daze clearing out. You peer down at your chambermaid’s concerned expression.

"The king awaits your presence, your highness," she informs.

Your brows knit.

"Me? Whatever for?"

⚔

A week and a day. It’s how long it took the witcher to slay the hell beasts, having found their queen’s nest and chopped off her head.

Head that bounces at your father’s feet when the witcher tosses it. He looks a fright, bathed in mud and blood, his silver mane black with the monsters’ remains.

You squeeze your fingers in your lap, quelling the shudder the gruesome spectacle inspires. The crimson eyes are open wide and the beast’s jaw parts in a scream that never will be. Your insides lurch.

"Well, witcher, the realm thanks you for-"

The witcher interrupts your father’s speech, impatience brimming from his tone.

"The deed is done. Now I may request what I wish."

"You may. Within reason."

Your father smiles, as usual thinking himself the most clever man in the room. The breath stills in your lungs, unease prickling your skin. You do not know why but trepidation clogs your throat.

Your hands are tightly clasped in front of you when Geralt speaks again, his deep voice echoing decisively in the throne room.

"I want her."

Your jaw slackens as your eyes bulge. Geralt’s sizzling gaze lands right on you, unwavering and clear in his request.

Of all he could ask for, Geralt of Rivia asked for you.

Your heart bounces when he smirks at you roguishly.

There’s tension amongst the guards surrounding your father. They’re at the ready, hands at their sides, ready to draw their swords.

A laugh of disbelief bursts out of the king. His fingers drum anxiously on the armrests of his throne. A warning is laced in the stiff smile he addresses the witcher.

"You can’t possibly…we can offer you horses, gold, maybe a new sword. Our royal smith is renowned-"

"I want the princess. Nothing else."

The determination in his words staggers you.

"Why?" your father roars. Your chest clenches. Geralt has offended your father. Blood will be spilled today.

A lopsided, cocky smirk twists the witcher’s lips.

"What does a man want with a woman?"

Your eyes widen. Your father’s jaw ticks, a scowl distorting his features. Suddenly, he bolts up from his throne, barking orders at the men around him.

"Guards, arrest him!"

Only one word is uttered by the witcher, annoyance oozing from it.

"...Fuck."

Chaos unleashes in the throne room.

Your father gapes at the display with an expression mirroring yours.

The guards lunge at Geralt and you watch in horror as he uses his uncanny magic and extraordinary battle skill to cut each of them down.

They topple to the floor with gargled sounds, falling like flies.

It’s a haunting, macabre dance, the way the witcher moves, his leather boots gliding across the stones, each of his strikes unwaveringly brutal and precise.

You sidle against a wall, your chest heaving, turning away from the carnage before you. You creep along the stones and almost reach the exit, hoping to sneak away through one of the castle’s many secret passages.

But your attempt at a getaway is ruined when, all of sudden, you’re swept up from the floor. The loss of equilibrium makes your head spin. You realize you are staring at a broad, muscular back, one that is dreadfully familiar.

The witcher sighs, adjusting you across his shoulders as you hit and scratch any part of him within reach. He barely flinches as he marches out of the castle while carrying you.

Two more guards try to stop him but Geralt stuns them with that witcher trick again, and slices their throats in a matter of seconds.

You grow dizzy from your upside down position and the bile rising up your throat.

"Unhand me, you brute," you shout.

Geralt ignores you, finally letting you down once he reaches his horse. Before you can try to flee, he ties a rope around your wrists and lifts you up on his horse.

"You’re heavier than you look," he notes flatly. He climbs on the horse and grips the reins. The animals neighs as Geralt’s boot claps against his side. He briefly turns to flash you an impish smile. "Do try not to fall, princess. I would hate for my pretty prize to break her neck."

It’s the only warning you’re afforded as he takes off on the horse with you at his back.

⚔

You writhe against the sturdy ropes confining you to the oak tree.

Your eyes scour the clearing as your heart clamors in your chest. You swallow and your hoarse throat aches with the motion. No matter how much you screamed, no one came to your rescue.

A few feet away, your captor's hunched over a river. You look away, cheeks heating as he undresses and washes the blood and grime off his body.

Thoughts screech inside your head, panic singing in your blood. You’re at the witcher’s mercy. And his words from before echo sickly in your mind.

You shudder at the prospect of him touching you again, in ways that cannot be erased, in ways that would brand you forever.

You must escape.

Maybe if you wait for the right moment, seize opportunity when it arises…

Clarity pierces through the veil of fear as you devise a hasty plan.

The sizzling weight of the dagger against your thigh emboldens you. After your nightly encounter with Geralt, the pressing need for protection bloomed inside you. You have carried the blade beneath your dress since, secured by a leather strap around your thigh.

"I’m going to untie you. Will you be good, princess?"

You gasp, your head turning toward Geralt’s. He crouches before you with one knee bent. You note he’s dressed down in black leather pants and a loose blouse, having shed his armor. Hints of his hairy chest peeks from the shirt. Droplets of water still drip from his long, silver mane, the damp locks clinging to the sides of his face.

You nod, your heart slamming wildly. Geralt begins to pull the heavy rope loose. Tension courses through your taut limbs. You keep a careful eye on him.

When the rope falls in a heap around you, you rise on tremulous feet.

You stagger before him, struggling to regain your balance. You rub your throbbing wrists.

You examine him. He bears no weapon at his side. It’s now or never. The only chance you might get.

You swallow nervously, taking a deep breath.

Then, abruptly, you shove Geralt with all your strength.

He stumbles backward but doesn’t fall, not like you hoped.

Your feet leap as you dash across the clearing, running without glancing back.

You hear him grumpily mutter "Fuck" under his breath.

You don’t hear him move but you’re caught and thrown into the grassy dirt before you can get too far. A trembling hand gathers the dagger below your skirt.

You wave it in the air blindly.

Geralt crawls over you, scoffing as he grabs your wrist.

He smirks.

"Go on. Aim for the throat."

Your hand quakes in his steely grip as you keep trying to stab him. Desperately.

One of your aimless slashes finally meets flesh, grazing the witcher’s face. It leaves a bright red welt that drips crimson trails over his cheek.

He huffs and pins your wrists above your head. The dagger slips from your grasp.

Helplessness blazes within you as you flick terrified eyes toward the witcher.

He caresses the side of your face, a slanted smile dancing on his lips. His honey gaze drags up and down your shuddering frame, lingering on every part of you.

A deep sigh rumbles through his chest.

"You’re exhausting the well of my patience, pretty princess."

You squirm and scream beneath Geralt as his wide hand latches around your throat. He pins you to the ground, trapping you between his knees and beneath his broad, heavy body. You gasp at the taut, throbbing bulge between his legs. He presses himself against your stomach, his shameless desire blatant.

"Don’t you dare…" you hiss.

He chuckles.

"Such a feisty thing, even now."

Your chest seizes, fright pulsing through your blood, as he shuffles out of his pants above you. He hikes up your skirt, his large, callused hand plucking at your warm center.

Your cheeks blaze. You’ve never been touched there.

He swipes his fingers across your folds, tarrying on a tiny, particular spot that has desperate whines unfurling from your throat. You squirm, tears pricking your eyes, as thick fingers explore you roughly. Your toes quiver as he glides over your soft, tender spots.

He does that for a while, collecting a slickness that starts dripping from your core and spreading it over your folds. You keen at the invasion, water and salt hazing your vision.

It worsens when the pain and discomfort begin to blur into something…more horrifyingly pleasant, warm tingles bouncing through your flesh. Your hips undulate and your lids flutter.

Geralt teases that delicate spot, coarse fingertips caressing your folds. Your thoughts scatter amidst the lustful fog.

"What is…what is going on…" you mumble, scorching breaths rattling through your chest.

Geralt hums, his sharp teeth grazing your shoulder.

"I suppose you truly are a maiden in every way."

Although the blanket of the night has yet to wrap around the sky, stars twinkle in your vision. A sharp wail ripples out of your throat as you clench around Geralt's thick fingers. You wonder if you’re dying, falling and soaring all at once, fiery sparks traveling across your entire being.

His warm breath ghosts over your neck.

"I shall have all your firsts, princess."

Geralt rubs his veiny length up and down your slick entrance, groaning against your shoulder. You cry out as the tip of him pushes inside you. He’s already so large, stretching you painfully. You wonder how the rest of him could possibly fit.

"Fuck, you’re tight," he grunts, straining to bury more of himself inside you. Your core protests the sudden intrusion.

"Geralt, Geralt, please…"

He swallows your tearful pleas with hungry kisses.

"Yes, princess, utter my name just like that, until there’s nothing in your head and on your tongue…but me."

You whimper when he sheathes himself inside you to the brim. Fire consumes your walls. Tears flood your vision as Geralt snaps his taut hips into you bluntly.

The wolf pendant dangling from his neck sways above you.

He gives you no time to accommodate him, snarling as his large body ripples above yours, his damp, silver locks sagging over your chest.

After a long while, you quit begging. It yields no results. In fact, he thrusts into you more ferociously, his honey orbs darkening with lust whenever you demand he stops.

He remains inside you for hours. The crisp forest air grows chilly and the pale moon crests in the sky above your writhing forms.

Yet the witcher’s hunger never abates.

He robs pleasure from you until you’re on the brink of collapse, time melting amidst the befuddling surge of sensations.

And when you do collapse, it’s with Geralt’s cock inside you, still pouding your core, his animalistic growls vibrating along your flesh and his heat mingling with yours.

⚔

The smoky scent of meat tickles your nose as the light of dawn pierces through your shut lids. You stir awake with a frown, an aching soreness etched in your limbs. Your chest twinges as you peer down at your torn dress and the mess of dried blood and cum still staining your thighs.

As your gaze darts about, it lands on Geralt’s broad back. He’s tending to the fire, already clad in his black armor.

Alarm engulfs you.

You suck in a sob and strangle the flood of tears. Agony escalates as you crawl over the dewy grass, inching towards the edge of the clearing.

"You can either warm my cock or be supper for the wolves. Your choice, princess."

You freeze at his nonchalant warning. You whirl toward him, bolting upward with an enraged scowl. You vacillate, your abused core aching whenever you move.

"My father will hunt you down…"

Geralt finally turns. He rises to his full height. Your stomach sinks. A slanted smile decorates his lips as he leers at you.

"The same father who sought to sell you off like a donkey?" he mocks. Your face ignites with shame as you shoot daggers at him with your gaze. "You meant little to him as a maiden, and now that you're sullied… I'm guessing an actual donkey would be of more use to him." Geralt approaches you as you stumble backwards. Your mouth squeezes in disdain when he tilts up your chin. The rough leather of his glove scratches against your delicate skin. "The way I see it I did you a favor, pretty princess. He’d have married you off to the next lord of bad breath for more soldiers and gold."

Your forehead creases.

"Where will you be going now?"

His eyebrow arches.

"Where are we going?"

Shock parts your lips as your eyes bulge.

"You mean to keep me? I thought-"

"What did you think, princess? That now that I had what I desire, I would leave you be…" Glimmers of mirth sparkle above a sea of gold. "What makes you think one would ever tire of such a sweet royal cunt?" The sinful dip of his baritone unleashes goosebumps across your skin.

He frees your face and goes back towards the makeshift camp, collecting his scabbard and other meager belongings. Feet rooted to the grass by stupor, you stare as Geralt saddles his horse.

"Little town a day's away on horseback. Bruxa problem. Hefty reward." The corners of his mouth lift slightly. "Nice brothel with cozy rooms."

"So I'm to be your whore now?"

Geralt snorts.

"Better a whore than a donkey."

"I could slice your throat in your sleep, witcher."

Geralt walks towards you again. Once he’s in front of you, he surprises you by wrapping a warm cloak around your shivering frame.

His knuckles drag along your cheek.

"Then I look forward to those peaceful nights, princess," he replies dryly.

Your pulse thrums. There’s not an ounce of fear in the words he just spoke. In fact, there might even be a hint of thrill.

⚔

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