Fairy tales
As a child, your parents told you bedtime stories. They told you such fantastical tales about horrendous monsters and dashing knights, about colorful princesses and wicked witches. You would sit, curled up beneath your sheets with drooping eyes and an ever-curious mind. You would fall asleep with gentle words of a happy ending within your mind like a soothing balm.
For years, you would dream. You would play pretend, again and again. When you were small, you were a princess high in your tower awaiting your prince. Sometimes, when you felt brave, you were the knight, off to save a princess of your own.
Yet, as you grew older, the stories in your mind changed with the reality of your world. Your personal bubble, encroached upon by the cruelty of your surroundings, found comfort within your sojourns into fantasy. The dragon curled around your tower evolved into a protective figure, keeping others out rather than keeping you in. You became the monster instead of the slayer, wicked and powerful and beautiful.
You are an adult now, and while such stories give you little respite, you think of them often. Late at night, in your rare moments of lonesome quiet, you wonder what it would be like to have such strength.
When you first met Jackson Morrison, you had been gently infatuated by his rather princely ways. He was—is—a Commander, the face of Overwatch, your superior. He was charming within the eye of the public, with a silver tongue and a smile that had made your heart race that first time. You had started to fall down that sweet trail, so eager in your youthful naivety.
Jack Morrison is no prince. He is no knight, despite the pretty pictures he has put up for the world to see. He is as monstrous inside as he is charming outside. The first time you had been privy to his horrendousness, you had been both terrified and helpless. It started with a dinner and a glass of wine that had left you heavy-limbed and light-headed.
Jack had been so sweet, at first, that meticulous mask still in place as he guided you to the bed. He laughed at your stumbling feet, gentle and whiskey-smooth against the column of your throat. You started to truly panic only when he began to undress you, the burn of it almost distant even then. Weak hands shoved at his shoulders, fingers finding no purchase on the broad expanse.
You heard the slap before you felt it, tasted the vivid burst of copper along your palette. The pop of it rand in your ears, and for a moment all you could do was stare at Jack, dumfounded. Once again, he laughed at you, though there was nothing jovial in the sound now. You watched, eyes clearer than they had any right to be, as the Commander’s mask slipped away. For the first time, you say the man for what he truly was, and you screamed, until he silenced you with an unforgiving hand.
He took you that night, the first time of many. He delighted in your pain as much as your pleasure. He cored your innocence until none was left, leaving only his essence in his wake. He called you princess, and babygirl, and sweetheart. He told you such sweet things as he tore you apart, only to kiss away your fearful tears.
Jack Morrison is the monster your parents never told you about. You know it, now, with the man between your thighs. He holds your legs high, your body bent nearly in half as he tears you open once more. The position is too close, too intimate, and he leans in to kiss your with a red-smeared mouth. The marks on your body ache with each movement, delicate half-moons of his teeth. You almost whimper at the tangy, metallic taste of yourself on his tongue, but the sound would only incite him further.
He strokes your cheek almost lovingly, thumb trailing over the split along your cheek. His hips snap against yours, violent, and you gasp when he hits your cervix. “You’re doing so well for me, princess,” he breathes against your lips. “Such a good girl for me. You’re going to make a beautiful mother.”
noice