I don't know if it makes sense but I don't like enemies to lovers. I like one sided hatred who would like to remain enemies, but due to the circumstances, they have to be dependent on their enemy.
The most common example would be a hunter turned vampire who only can drink the blood of the original vampire who turned them because they refuse to drink the blood of innocent human. Physiologically, the relationship is not balanced enough to call mutualistic, it is commensalism at best, one can even be called parasitic. However, the one who is pleased with the situation the most is the original vampire.
Revolution is not a tea party–Yandere Concubine x fem reader 3.5k
Contains- gaslighting, unbalanced power dynamics, abuse, referenced past non/con
It began with the rain, in time when the chroniclers write about what has occurred, they will embellish it. That the dynasty fell like lightning striking the ground, but in truth, it began with the patter of raindrops on the tiled floor outside the pavilion.
You woke up with them, and in the dim light of the bedchambers, you squinted, trying to reorient yourself with the space beside you, still warm with the indent of a body once being beside you. With bare feet pattering against the floor, you find your master where you tend to do, in the study with the floor tiles lifted. There's a stillness in the air, a silence as though you two are the only souls here, while the palace, no matter the time, is always a beehive of people and sound. Something has shifted.
“You should have stayed in bed,” he mumbles without looking up at you, fingers clutching a scroll, unsealed, like it's a sword “I have things that must be done,” you don't ask what things, you just stand in the doorway awaiting any order he may give you to either come forth or return to his bed. Instead, he looks up at you, “Prepare my clothes for the day. I will not be returning back to bed ”
Then came the rumours, spread around the palace like wildfire. That an official or a nobleman sent word outside the palace that the taxes are to increase one more, that the emperor is demanding more tribute, more gold, more crops, more sons and daughters. The stores of grain and rice aren't to be opened this year for distribution as relief. That there is to be another senseless invasion of another nation. One by one they get embellished further and further. In the bathhouse, you hear a kitchen girl tell you that she heard tell that the servants' rice is to be further stretched with millet and barley. Yet there is abundant food within the kitchens made for the emperor's banquets. Another lady in waiting for a different concubine tilts her head to mutter that her mistress has been receiving many letters from her noble family recently, but that these letters have all been confiscated by palace guards before there was a chance to open them. Words swirl throughout the palace as if on air, picking up more from every new mouth until a mumbled remark from one maid about her smaller portion of rice transforms into a whirlwind of fear that every meal is now to be cut in half, so where is the extra food going?
You mention those to the concubine one night as he pushes one of his bowls onto you, telling him what you hear from a friend who heard from her own friend and so forth. While normally when you speak of such stories, he would raise his thin painted brow and ask you of what friends you could possibly have, here he listens with a smile. Chopsticks moving to place some braised beef from his bowl into your mouth. “The fear of hunger is always a present one, but when it is felt more sharply, it causes people…” he trails off, pausing as though in thought for what to say next, as though he doesn't have the answer to his own question “, fear is a powerful motivator.”
You don't ask him to elaborate, he wouldn't give you any semblance of an answer.
Next came the whispering of dissidents beyond the palace walls. That people were taking to the market in the capital, to voice their anger. Outside the outer walls separating everyone within from the rest of the world there were now checkpoints for merchants as they lined outside. The first thing you noticed was the guards had changed, there were more of them round every corner. New in ill fitting uniforms and quick to their tempers. Rules that before went unnoticed were now being enforced strictly.
You encountered it one evening while accompanying the concubine on his afternoon walk through the imperial gardens. Holding the parasol above him as always, half a step behind with your head low. Responding to all the little comments he makes. How garishly one of the noble consorts wears his hair, obviously in an attempt to mimic himself for the emperor's favour. Half paying attention you stumble forward, tripping on the train of his robes and ripping the silk.
You don't notice it before a thick hand hits the back of your head knocking you forwards and jolting the parasol to the ground. The confusion comes first at what just happened before the smarming pain. You try to look up but are met with another blow before you can figure out what is happening.
“Do you believe your life is even worth that silk you just ruined,” a man's voice. No, a boy, barely out from training and desperate to prove himself “are you so stupid you don't realise you should be begging the illustrious noble consort for forgiveness this moment instead of looking at the floor like an idiot!” his voice breaks from the strain of yelling, becoming pink from his own body undermining his performance of authority. A hand is raised once more before interruption
“Impudent dog!” Your master yells “how dare you raise a hand to my servant, you have no right to do so.” He strips the torn outer layer and throws it to the floor “let this become cleaning rags for all I care I have a hundred others if I so wish, just as there are a hundred more dogs eager to replace you once I speak to his imperial highness about the upstart new guards that think themselves an authority on my household. I discipline my household without the barking of a mutt in my ears.” His eyes turn to you cold enough to freeze your blood. “What's another physical reminder to remedy carelessness,” the eyes flit back to the guard. “Perhaps you should share her punishment as a reminder,” He turns around robes swirling around him like a child's spinning top “Come, I want a bath to wash the stink of dog from my nose.” you scramble back to follow him, hands shaking and head pounding from the force of the blows. Returning to the safety of his orbit, one half step behind.
“You're not to leave the pavilion any longer,” he says decisively as though his mind was made up a long time ago. He continues before you have any moment to protest. “Save your breath for blowing on your tea. I cannot trust those dogs not to pounce on you when you seem to be so adamant on being a fool.” His eyes narrow “you cannot afford to be unaware of our surroundings you stupid girl.”
A hand wrapped around your jaw, the thumb pressing into your cheek, nail finding the groove he left in your skin. “Remember all that I've done for you,” his eyes are bright with an ecstatic fervor that borders on religious “it will come to fruition soon. Every single sacrifice will be returned to me tenfold, but” his grip deepens into your flesh “I will not risk anything happening to you, my one weakness being exploited. So you are to stay from here on inside this pavilion. Do I make myself clear?”
“What are you planning?” You manage to force the words that have been haunting your brain for nearly a year. He smiles, a fox within his face. As he leans in to kiss your scarred cheek as though for luck.
Then came the smoke, the smell of it wrinkling your nose when you opened the pavilion windows wanting to let clean air in. You'd not left the building in three days since the door was locked. Staying close to his side and watching how calmer he seemed to be the more tension crackled through the air. The smoke didn't come with silence however. It didn't come cleanly. Stories of riots came just as much as stories of violence, that the emperor ordered unrest to be put down without mercy.
“Theres less rice today,” you mumble handing him his bowl stuffed full with his allowance “less merchants are being permitted to come in” he looks at his bowl, then to yours – stretched with vegetables. Hunger has never been a stranger to you, but you learnt from childhood how to hold it far from your door.
“You shouldn't go without,” he picks meat from a plate on his right side to hover it in front of your mouth “we won't starve,” a smile like a cat's, “but others will feel the bottom of their bowl much sooner than we shall,” you accept his offering, chewing a moment before swallowing. You've never become used to fullness. “Have you heard any new talk today, hmm?” Tilting his head as he questions you as if you weren't anywhere but his side. He's grown comfortable, you realise now. How he feeds you with his own chopsticks. Domestic even, a man with his pet.
You don't know how to answer that. All you hear now is silence, whispers in low doorways from the other loyal servants in the pavilion. All you see are scraps of characters you somewhat recognise in his letters. If you studied them longer perhaps you'd put together what he wants you to, but to admit to what you see requires a bravery long since stamped from you.
“I would like something to drink,” you say clearly. Surprising yourself. His arched brows perfectly raise themselves, somewhat in mockery of you. That you're always sure of, that he sees you like some little endearing creature that entertains him.
“A drink,” he muses, as if the concept requires so much thought behind it “my little maids asks me for a drink,” he sets his chopsticks down, without a sound as they lean across the porcelain rest “so a drink you shall have.” he makes no other movement. You reach for the teapot only for him to tut and shake his head. “fetch my plum wine, you know the one.” He will entertain your silly asks of him but you know he's never going to let go of the joy he gets from watching you serve him.
You set the two cups carefully on the lacquered table, about to open the bottle when a gong rings loud and clear. Porcelain slips from your hands only for you to catch it before it shatters against the floor. A familiar announcement that had never stopped to startle you.
“Clumsy girl.” There's no bite to his words as
The eunuch's voice rings loud and clear outside as your master takes your chin in his fingers “did I not tell you that we would be having… company?” He draws the word out , unwinding it like a length of rope. This time rather than fear, the concubine's eyes glitter with something you can only call anticipation. His hand falls from your face and you piece together why he insisted this entire day about your appearance being just as perfected as his. For him to be painted like the same dancers he calls whores under his breath.
You forgot there's more than one way a man can starve.
You can taste your heart in your mouth, looking frantically around the room wondering where you could hide. Where you can wait everything out like a hunter in its shell until you're safe to come out once more. That luxury, however, is not afforded to you “Stay,” his eyes flicker to you. “Stay as you are and where you are. I want to give him a show.” Your blood runs cold at his words but you offer no resistance – being a good little maid as you've always been for him.
There was only two times in this life that you were to come face to face with the previous emperor. The first time you were caught between the crosshairs of men with more cruelty than compassion. The only thing that saved you was how willing one was to destroy the others interest in you
The second time you were able to realise with a sickening clarity that he was going to die tonight. The jade emperor is a man as most men are. You don't know why such a statement was terrifying to you.
“The wine,” he repeats and it's like you're struck back to the land of the living as you hold the bottle out. He takes the bottle from your hands. Pouring it into the two cups meant for you and him before the peace was commandeered by the silence of oppression
He motions for you to approach them. Once your in reach he pulls down on your face as if to present you in all your barely masked terror
“She's a pretty thing still, despite her face, is she not? I like to surround myself with pretty things, little indulgences.” An indulgence. That's what you are, isn't it? An indulgence like candied hawthorn for him to wrap his teeth around and bite down hard
His majesty's eyes flicker up and down your frame trying to remember someone as nameless as you. How many servants have passed through his hands you wonder. You've seen the joy those hands take in breaking down what he claims to favor. So what of the disposable ones? Where do they go once he's done with them?
“The maid? I remember now” he squints “not necessarily pretty but I like delicate things. Was it true? You took a blade to her face out of jealousy? You always have been a jealous thing. Spiteful.” he smiles and you feel the bile rising in your throat “Girl, turn and face me.” you have no choice but to obey.
Jealousy is one term to use in describing the concubine. You've known since you began serving him that the half a hatred innate to him towards everyone else within the harem. That he considered himself better than the rest of them, manifested in snide remarks and bribes so those who have the misfortune of entering his presence are neglected and shunned. Oh but there's no love lost between him and the emperor. How can something be lost when it wasn't there to begin with
There is only lust and hatred. Lust in the emperor's expressions as he watches you once more and you're brought to mind of the boys in your village who took pleasure in drowning kittens come spring. Hatred in the set of the concubines jaw and the heaviness of his blinks
“You always have her following around you, a little shadow. You should lend her to me if you find her so pleading, I'd like to know how she meets your high standards,” his hand stretches out ready to paw at you but falters. Falling numb to his confusion. The emperor turns his head towards the concubine. Recognition fading slowly into his eyes as he looks at the cups on the table. How only one had been drunk from.
“Does the wine suit your tastes?” He doesn't drink, just watches with a smile. The practiced smile you've watched him paint on his features every day. You've never seen it crack before “I was saving it for a special occasion,” he stands taller than you've ever seen him before, holding the very same decorative dagger from the night he pinned you down beneath him.
He turns to you, eyes bright “open the window I would like to show his highness something, the reverence sticks like gristle in the teeth ” you scurry to obey, fingers fumbling at the latch as the sounds of a mob too close for comfort echo into the chamber. “They've begun to storm the outer palace already haven't they?” His robes sway as he walks forward, the silk rippling like waves from his form, a vengeful spirit brought to life. “It was easy truth be told, people are quick to put their blades up when harvests fail and rumours spiral. When the chaos clears and the generals bow down to me I will be the hero who slew the tyrant and opened the grain stores. I will take all that you called yours and make it mine.”
You didn't expect there to be so much blood. For it to flow syrup slow and stain the yellow silk like blossom. He doesn't die just yet. The scream goes unanswered, all the guards have abandoned the emperor or are distracted. You remember the pig, every year when winter would come how your mother would prepare the knife to do it quick. You'd put your head under the covers trying to block out the scream from your ears to no avail. Until you were older and she told you it was your turn to learn. You never knew it would sound like a man, or that a man sounds the same as the struck pig
The concubine doesn't have the steady hands of your mother, however instead his shakes with ecstatic fervor.“You do not understand how much I've longed to do this, to watch the light leave your miserable cruel eyes. You would have lived longer were you not a threat to the one thing I possess.” The blade twists in deeper and you don't know how to respond watching the son of heavens blood spurt all over his silk. Body shaking and hands clamping over your mother to keep your traitorous screams inside. You're cemented too much to the floor to turn away from the sight before you
“I never thought I could hate a man more than my brother. But then I met you, handed off like some little whore and that's what you made me into.” He pulls the blade out before returning it back to its place over and over “ I should thank you really, if it wasn't for your shortsightedness I would not have the entire world at my access. I will ruin your pathetic legacy.”
“You killed him,” you state the cold truth as though you're still not fully aware of the crime you just witnessed. Treason is meant to be punished, meant to result in nine branches of execution. But the emperor is dead. No one willing to hold a blade up in retribution, all too occupied with saving their own skins.
“Will there be any mourners? Any person in this entire who will not rejoice at the declaration that this slaver is dead. You starved as a child from his selfish policies, don't tell me you're so foolish to feel empathy for someone who would take you between his teeth until you're torn in two.”
“The wine, you were going to let me drink it” you stammer, the gods only know what sudden bravery fuels your accusations. He only laughs, coming forward to pinch your cheek between two knuckles, smearing something sticky on your skin.
“You wouldn't even swallow a sip of that, I thought it would be funny to watch you sputter on something so strong like a child.” With a laugh he turns back to the body, kicking it upright. You don't know what possesses you to approach and cover its face- its not kindness maybe it's the sense of decency that seemed to evade nobility. Or more selfishly it's the fear of those dead eyes staring up at you.
“Don't sully yourself by touching his blood ” you don't have the fight in you to tell him how he is saturated in the emperor's tainted blood. How you can feel it smeared lightly on your face.The dagger is abandoned to the floor as your master lifts up the heavy imperial seal. Separating it from the cooling corpse at his feet. The shadow of your fears now made into grey flesh.
In truth your position is still the same as you've feared. A plaything in the claws of a man who thinks himself to be a god. But the devil you know holds you gently to his side in bed. Feeds you from his own plate like a cherished pet. He'll marry you soon, so he's always sworn in the dead of night, rubbing a circle onto your shoulder. You're the girl from a hamlet high in the mountains, from the hungry northern provinces with features too plain for slavers to sell you to a brothel. You- the girl scarred by his very hands, who learnt how to write her own name. You will be empress, the phoenix sat beside the dragon. The gods are cruel are they not? How much they take from you, and what they give you in return will never forgive the hollow absence of all that was once in your heart.
You're broken from your thoughts as he calls your name out.“Come, let us address what remains of the old court before others swoop upon it,” a thumb wiping the blood from your cheek. “Let them see my sweet empress and seethe.”
And so you obey, half a step behind him as you've always done
This fic made me question my everything. So, if I say I like being called "a stupid girl," not a good girl or a bad girl, and squeals every time I see it written, what issue do I have? Mommy issues or Daddy issues?
yandere!billionaire who blackmails you into being his trophy wife
yandere!billionaire who gets you to decide everything in his life and in the future of both of your lives, while he watches you like a hawk.
yandere!billionaire who slightly harass every employee into pampering you everywhere you go because you have to have the most satisfying experience always
yandere!billionaire who grabs your face and makes you look at him whenever you zone out at the nice restaurants trying to pretend that you aren't with him
yandere!billionaire who always have to have his arms around you or the chair you're sat at
yandere!billionaire who has to be around you, trapping you, touching his thigh on yours, the etiquette around his peers being damned as long as he feels you are under his control. not that he sees it as control. he can't have you thinking he goes a second without you on his mind
yandere!billionaire who wants you to oversee everything even though he has an housekeeper, ignoring his employees, only paying attention to what scents you like, how you like the lightning, how you like your food and how you treat people, making no judgements, only watching you and loving every behvior and any slight reaction you give, loving that you are at his reach
yandere!billionaire who wants you to actively decide everything on your wedding day, party and honeymoon even though he has a group of planners who could take care of everything because you don't get to seat the most important moment of his life out, he has to see you being present and engrossed. he loves to see the stress of it consuming you. he sees it as a proof of your love for him
yandere!billionaire who wants you to call the shots on the construction of the house you're going to live in after you're married, even though there's a group of the best and most expensive architects at your disposal, serving as your servants and he observes you intently, feeding obsessively off of your vision for the background of your future married life and the maternity you are going to be forced into
yandere!billionaire who can't stop holding you while you get to your honeymoon country, has you on his lap on the private jet, feeding you and then tightly gripping your face as he fucks you on the leather seat of the jet, forcing your cried out face to keep looking at his unblinking eyes that doesn't seem to get tired of watching you
yandere!billionaire who cages you the moment he has you folded in a mating press. eyes never closing not even as he shudders from cumming deep inside you. the thought of getting you pregnant with his firstborn and heir seemingto get him to cum again right after. you know he is trying to impregnate you and you think he is done but goes limp as you realize he is behaving like a plug. he takes deep breaths, trying to maintain his cool, thumbs digging on your hips, before starting to thrust again and whispering that he has to make sure and you know exactly what it means
it's the first night of the rest of a life you never chose
Revolution is not a tea party–Yandere Concubine x fem reader 3.5k
Contains- gaslighting, unbalanced power dynamics, abuse, referenced past non/con
It began with the rain, in time when the chroniclers write about what has occurred, they will embellish it. That the dynasty fell like lightning striking the ground, but in truth, it began with the patter of raindrops on the tiled floor outside the pavilion.
You woke up with them, and in the dim light of the bedchambers, you squinted, trying to reorient yourself with the space beside you, still warm with the indent of a body once being beside you. With bare feet pattering against the floor, you find your master where you tend to do, in the study with the floor tiles lifted. There's a stillness in the air, a silence as though you two are the only souls here, while the palace, no matter the time, is always a beehive of people and sound. Something has shifted.
“You should have stayed in bed,” he mumbles without looking up at you, fingers clutching a scroll, unsealed, like it's a sword “I have things that must be done,” you don't ask what things, you just stand in the doorway awaiting any order he may give you to either come forth or return to his bed. Instead, he looks up at you, “Prepare my clothes for the day. I will not be returning back to bed ”
Then came the rumours, spread around the palace like wildfire. That an official or a nobleman sent word outside the palace that the taxes are to increase one more, that the emperor is demanding more tribute, more gold, more crops, more sons and daughters. The stores of grain and rice aren't to be opened this year for distribution as relief. That there is to be another senseless invasion of another nation. One by one they get embellished further and further. In the bathhouse, you hear a kitchen girl tell you that she heard tell that the servants' rice is to be further stretched with millet and barley. Yet there is abundant food within the kitchens made for the emperor's banquets. Another lady in waiting for a different concubine tilts her head to mutter that her mistress has been receiving many letters from her noble family recently, but that these letters have all been confiscated by palace guards before there was a chance to open them. Words swirl throughout the palace as if on air, picking up more from every new mouth until a mumbled remark from one maid about her smaller portion of rice transforms into a whirlwind of fear that every meal is now to be cut in half, so where is the extra food going?
You mention those to the concubine one night as he pushes one of his bowls onto you, telling him what you hear from a friend who heard from her own friend and so forth. While normally when you speak of such stories, he would raise his thin painted brow and ask you of what friends you could possibly have, here he listens with a smile. Chopsticks moving to place some braised beef from his bowl into your mouth. “The fear of hunger is always a present one, but when it is felt more sharply, it causes people…” he trails off, pausing as though in thought for what to say next, as though he doesn't have the answer to his own question “, fear is a powerful motivator.”
You don't ask him to elaborate, he wouldn't give you any semblance of an answer.
Next came the whispering of dissidents beyond the palace walls. That people were taking to the market in the capital, to voice their anger. Outside the outer walls separating everyone within from the rest of the world there were now checkpoints for merchants as they lined outside. The first thing you noticed was the guards had changed, there were more of them round every corner. New in ill fitting uniforms and quick to their tempers. Rules that before went unnoticed were now being enforced strictly.
You encountered it one evening while accompanying the concubine on his afternoon walk through the imperial gardens. Holding the parasol above him as always, half a step behind with your head low. Responding to all the little comments he makes. How garishly one of the noble consorts wears his hair, obviously in an attempt to mimic himself for the emperor's favour. Half paying attention you stumble forward, tripping on the train of his robes and ripping the silk.
You don't notice it before a thick hand hits the back of your head knocking you forwards and jolting the parasol to the ground. The confusion comes first at what just happened before the smarming pain. You try to look up but are met with another blow before you can figure out what is happening.
“Do you believe your life is even worth that silk you just ruined,” a man's voice. No, a boy, barely out from training and desperate to prove himself “are you so stupid you don't realise you should be begging the illustrious noble consort for forgiveness this moment instead of looking at the floor like an idiot!” his voice breaks from the strain of yelling, becoming pink from his own body undermining his performance of authority. A hand is raised once more before interruption
“Impudent dog!” Your master yells “how dare you raise a hand to my servant, you have no right to do so.” He strips the torn outer layer and throws it to the floor “let this become cleaning rags for all I care I have a hundred others if I so wish, just as there are a hundred more dogs eager to replace you once I speak to his imperial highness about the upstart new guards that think themselves an authority on my household. I discipline my household without the barking of a mutt in my ears.” His eyes turn to you cold enough to freeze your blood. “What's another physical reminder to remedy carelessness,” the eyes flit back to the guard. “Perhaps you should share her punishment as a reminder,” He turns around robes swirling around him like a child's spinning top “Come, I want a bath to wash the stink of dog from my nose.” you scramble back to follow him, hands shaking and head pounding from the force of the blows. Returning to the safety of his orbit, one half step behind.
“You're not to leave the pavilion any longer,” he says decisively as though his mind was made up a long time ago. He continues before you have any moment to protest. “Save your breath for blowing on your tea. I cannot trust those dogs not to pounce on you when you seem to be so adamant on being a fool.” His eyes narrow “you cannot afford to be unaware of our surroundings you stupid girl.”
A hand wrapped around your jaw, the thumb pressing into your cheek, nail finding the groove he left in your skin. “Remember all that I've done for you,” his eyes are bright with an ecstatic fervor that borders on religious “it will come to fruition soon. Every single sacrifice will be returned to me tenfold, but” his grip deepens into your flesh “I will not risk anything happening to you, my one weakness being exploited. So you are to stay from here on inside this pavilion. Do I make myself clear?”
“What are you planning?” You manage to force the words that have been haunting your brain for nearly a year. He smiles, a fox within his face. As he leans in to kiss your scarred cheek as though for luck.
Then came the smoke, the smell of it wrinkling your nose when you opened the pavilion windows wanting to let clean air in. You'd not left the building in three days since the door was locked. Staying close to his side and watching how calmer he seemed to be the more tension crackled through the air. The smoke didn't come with silence however. It didn't come cleanly. Stories of riots came just as much as stories of violence, that the emperor ordered unrest to be put down without mercy.
“Theres less rice today,” you mumble handing him his bowl stuffed full with his allowance “less merchants are being permitted to come in” he looks at his bowl, then to yours – stretched with vegetables. Hunger has never been a stranger to you, but you learnt from childhood how to hold it far from your door.
“You shouldn't go without,” he picks meat from a plate on his right side to hover it in front of your mouth “we won't starve,” a smile like a cat's, “but others will feel the bottom of their bowl much sooner than we shall,” you accept his offering, chewing a moment before swallowing. You've never become used to fullness. “Have you heard any new talk today, hmm?” Tilting his head as he questions you as if you weren't anywhere but his side. He's grown comfortable, you realise now. How he feeds you with his own chopsticks. Domestic even, a man with his pet.
You don't know how to answer that. All you hear now is silence, whispers in low doorways from the other loyal servants in the pavilion. All you see are scraps of characters you somewhat recognise in his letters. If you studied them longer perhaps you'd put together what he wants you to, but to admit to what you see requires a bravery long since stamped from you.
“I would like something to drink,” you say clearly. Surprising yourself. His arched brows perfectly raise themselves, somewhat in mockery of you. That you're always sure of, that he sees you like some little endearing creature that entertains him.
“A drink,” he muses, as if the concept requires so much thought behind it “my little maids asks me for a drink,” he sets his chopsticks down, without a sound as they lean across the porcelain rest “so a drink you shall have.” he makes no other movement. You reach for the teapot only for him to tut and shake his head. “fetch my plum wine, you know the one.” He will entertain your silly asks of him but you know he's never going to let go of the joy he gets from watching you serve him.
You set the two cups carefully on the lacquered table, about to open the bottle when a gong rings loud and clear. Porcelain slips from your hands only for you to catch it before it shatters against the floor. A familiar announcement that had never stopped to startle you.
“Clumsy girl.” There's no bite to his words as
The eunuch's voice rings loud and clear outside as your master takes your chin in his fingers “did I not tell you that we would be having… company?” He draws the word out , unwinding it like a length of rope. This time rather than fear, the concubine's eyes glitter with something you can only call anticipation. His hand falls from your face and you piece together why he insisted this entire day about your appearance being just as perfected as his. For him to be painted like the same dancers he calls whores under his breath.
You forgot there's more than one way a man can starve.
You can taste your heart in your mouth, looking frantically around the room wondering where you could hide. Where you can wait everything out like a hunter in its shell until you're safe to come out once more. That luxury, however, is not afforded to you “Stay,” his eyes flicker to you. “Stay as you are and where you are. I want to give him a show.” Your blood runs cold at his words but you offer no resistance – being a good little maid as you've always been for him.
There was only two times in this life that you were to come face to face with the previous emperor. The first time you were caught between the crosshairs of men with more cruelty than compassion. The only thing that saved you was how willing one was to destroy the others interest in you
The second time you were able to realise with a sickening clarity that he was going to die tonight. The jade emperor is a man as most men are. You don't know why such a statement was terrifying to you.
“The wine,” he repeats and it's like you're struck back to the land of the living as you hold the bottle out. He takes the bottle from your hands. Pouring it into the two cups meant for you and him before the peace was commandeered by the silence of oppression
He motions for you to approach them. Once your in reach he pulls down on your face as if to present you in all your barely masked terror
“She's a pretty thing still, despite her face, is she not? I like to surround myself with pretty things, little indulgences.” An indulgence. That's what you are, isn't it? An indulgence like candied hawthorn for him to wrap his teeth around and bite down hard
His majesty's eyes flicker up and down your frame trying to remember someone as nameless as you. How many servants have passed through his hands you wonder. You've seen the joy those hands take in breaking down what he claims to favor. So what of the disposable ones? Where do they go once he's done with them?
“The maid? I remember now” he squints “not necessarily pretty but I like delicate things. Was it true? You took a blade to her face out of jealousy? You always have been a jealous thing. Spiteful.” he smiles and you feel the bile rising in your throat “Girl, turn and face me.” you have no choice but to obey.
Jealousy is one term to use in describing the concubine. You've known since you began serving him that the half a hatred innate to him towards everyone else within the harem. That he considered himself better than the rest of them, manifested in snide remarks and bribes so those who have the misfortune of entering his presence are neglected and shunned. Oh but there's no love lost between him and the emperor. How can something be lost when it wasn't there to begin with
There is only lust and hatred. Lust in the emperor's expressions as he watches you once more and you're brought to mind of the boys in your village who took pleasure in drowning kittens come spring. Hatred in the set of the concubines jaw and the heaviness of his blinks
“You always have her following around you, a little shadow. You should lend her to me if you find her so pleading, I'd like to know how she meets your high standards,” his hand stretches out ready to paw at you but falters. Falling numb to his confusion. The emperor turns his head towards the concubine. Recognition fading slowly into his eyes as he looks at the cups on the table. How only one had been drunk from.
“Does the wine suit your tastes?” He doesn't drink, just watches with a smile. The practiced smile you've watched him paint on his features every day. You've never seen it crack before “I was saving it for a special occasion,” he stands taller than you've ever seen him before, holding the very same decorative dagger from the night he pinned you down beneath him.
He turns to you, eyes bright “open the window I would like to show his highness something, the reverence sticks like gristle in the teeth ” you scurry to obey, fingers fumbling at the latch as the sounds of a mob too close for comfort echo into the chamber. “They've begun to storm the outer palace already haven't they?” His robes sway as he walks forward, the silk rippling like waves from his form, a vengeful spirit brought to life. “It was easy truth be told, people are quick to put their blades up when harvests fail and rumours spiral. When the chaos clears and the generals bow down to me I will be the hero who slew the tyrant and opened the grain stores. I will take all that you called yours and make it mine.”
You didn't expect there to be so much blood. For it to flow syrup slow and stain the yellow silk like blossom. He doesn't die just yet. The scream goes unanswered, all the guards have abandoned the emperor or are distracted. You remember the pig, every year when winter would come how your mother would prepare the knife to do it quick. You'd put your head under the covers trying to block out the scream from your ears to no avail. Until you were older and she told you it was your turn to learn. You never knew it would sound like a man, or that a man sounds the same as the struck pig
The concubine doesn't have the steady hands of your mother, however instead his shakes with ecstatic fervor.“You do not understand how much I've longed to do this, to watch the light leave your miserable cruel eyes. You would have lived longer were you not a threat to the one thing I possess.” The blade twists in deeper and you don't know how to respond watching the son of heavens blood spurt all over his silk. Body shaking and hands clamping over your mother to keep your traitorous screams inside. You're cemented too much to the floor to turn away from the sight before you
“I never thought I could hate a man more than my brother. But then I met you, handed off like some little whore and that's what you made me into.” He pulls the blade out before returning it back to its place over and over “ I should thank you really, if it wasn't for your shortsightedness I would not have the entire world at my access. I will ruin your pathetic legacy.”
“You killed him,” you state the cold truth as though you're still not fully aware of the crime you just witnessed. Treason is meant to be punished, meant to result in nine branches of execution. But the emperor is dead. No one willing to hold a blade up in retribution, all too occupied with saving their own skins.
“Will there be any mourners? Any person in this entire who will not rejoice at the declaration that this slaver is dead. You starved as a child from his selfish policies, don't tell me you're so foolish to feel empathy for someone who would take you between his teeth until you're torn in two.”
“The wine, you were going to let me drink it” you stammer, the gods only know what sudden bravery fuels your accusations. He only laughs, coming forward to pinch your cheek between two knuckles, smearing something sticky on your skin.
“You wouldn't even swallow a sip of that, I thought it would be funny to watch you sputter on something so strong like a child.” With a laugh he turns back to the body, kicking it upright. You don't know what possesses you to approach and cover its face- its not kindness maybe it's the sense of decency that seemed to evade nobility. Or more selfishly it's the fear of those dead eyes staring up at you.
“Don't sully yourself by touching his blood ” you don't have the fight in you to tell him how he is saturated in the emperor's tainted blood. How you can feel it smeared lightly on your face.The dagger is abandoned to the floor as your master lifts up the heavy imperial seal. Separating it from the cooling corpse at his feet. The shadow of your fears now made into grey flesh.
In truth your position is still the same as you've feared. A plaything in the claws of a man who thinks himself to be a god. But the devil you know holds you gently to his side in bed. Feeds you from his own plate like a cherished pet. He'll marry you soon, so he's always sworn in the dead of night, rubbing a circle onto your shoulder. You're the girl from a hamlet high in the mountains, from the hungry northern provinces with features too plain for slavers to sell you to a brothel. You- the girl scarred by his very hands, who learnt how to write her own name. You will be empress, the phoenix sat beside the dragon. The gods are cruel are they not? How much they take from you, and what they give you in return will never forgive the hollow absence of all that was once in your heart.
You're broken from your thoughts as he calls your name out.“Come, let us address what remains of the old court before others swoop upon it,” a thumb wiping the blood from your cheek. “Let them see my sweet empress and seethe.”
And so you obey, half a step behind him as you've always done
A foreign man comes to visit your country for a business trip.
It was very last minute. The guy who was originally supposed to go to the conference had to cancel, they needed someone to take his place, and he was just the one guy who happened to not have any major meetings on schedule for the week, so here he is.
It's nice to visit a new place and all, but he would really prefer to be here on a vacation, and not locked in a hotel conference hall for the foreseeable future. The flight got delayed twice, it's past midnight already, this country is on the other side of the ocean and thus the trip itself was several hours in a cramped seat with other passengers making way too much noise, he's worried about having to make some needless presentation he's completely unprepared for tomorrow, and all in all, he's very frustrated.
The higher-ups did go out of their way to mention to him that the culture here is different. Home for him is a very modest, strict sort of social climate. Some things you see might be a little bit of a culture shock, the supervisor told him. Which he only rolled his eyes at — he's seen that one well-known movie set here, so he knows everything about this place. But so far, it's not anything too unusual, just more people out so late than what he would expect at home.
There's nothing better to do than to go ahead and check into the hotel, but as he turns to walk in the direction indicated by the map on his phone screen, something passes by in his peripheral vision. Something that makes him immediately perk up, head tilting upward in an immediate instinct to look.
Your legs were the first part of you that caught his gaze — shorts leaving you uncovered well above the knee, showing off your thighs — but he can see your shoulders and collarbones too. The shirt (or shirt-like thing, it's more like a piece of cloth just to cover your tits) is even cropped short, showing your navel. You yourself are also looking at your phone as you walk, heels hitting the pavement with a short sound in each step.
Oh. A prostitute. Very obvious, given the attire and you being out on the street so late. That's very opportune timing, it would be nice to get some relief after the frustration of a long flight. It seems that just like back home, the whores here make themselves known by advertising themselves in public — except you're showing off more than even the ones at home would. Wow. He's almost stunned into a stupor for a moment, having to shake his head to snap out of it.
Really, it's kind of surprising you'd be walking by yourself. Back home, prostitutes travel in groups, as it's, ah, unsafe for them to walk alone like that. But he's really not the type of guy to do something like drag you off into an alley and take you for free, as tempting as that may be. At least not here, where there seems to be no suitable spots not lit by street lights (he notices this as he contemplates the option), and besides, he's not sure what the legal penalty for that might be here. Some countries take that sort of thing seriously, to his understanding, even for whores.
So he flags you down, getting your attention with a click of the tongue and a come here gesture.
It catches your attention, and you turn your head. You stiffen up as you look him up and down, tilt your gaze to the ground and keep walking, more quickly than before.
Well, that's okay. The culture must just be not particularly sociable here. It would be more ideal for your business practices to be a little more friendly, though. Regardless, he takes it as an indication to follow. He would have preferred you come back to the hotel with him, but you know, language barrier and all, it's not worth trying to ask.
You turn your head back periodically as you walk, presumably to make sure he's still behind you. But you keep speeding up your pace, and it makes it a little taxing to keep up. By the time you reach your place, he's a short distance behind you, and is following you by watching the turns you make from that distance.
He's physically pent up (and very ready to go at it), but too mentally exhausted to run right after you. Thankfully you have to pause a few seconds when unlocking your door, which gives him some time to catch up. You turn your head each way as you turn the door's handle, presumably to make sure he's still coming. You freeze up in place when you see him rounding the corner.
But he's honestly just too pent up and eager for your slow pace of doing things. Not to be rude or anything, but you'll surely understand if he speeds it up a little. He goes ahead and pushes the door open for you as you stammer out some foreign babbling, and he grasps you by the back of your shirt — well, the attire you call a shirt — and shoves you through the door. You yelp as you stumble, still staggering as he shuts the door behind him.
You say some more foreign words in a timid little voice as he grasps you by the wrist, dragging you in the direction of a bed he can see in an adjacent room. Your footsteps stagger and stumble as he pulls. Maybe you're a little drunk or something. That wouldn't be unsurprising for your kind.
You keep saying something. He's not sure if you grasp that he doesn't understand a word coming out of your mouth. It sounds sort of... concerned? Right, it's true that even prostitutes have rules and all that. You're probably telling him he can't do certain stuff. That's okay, he's pretty normal in that regard.
Still, if he were in a better mood, maybe he'd have the patience and kindness to whip out the phone and let you speak into the translator app or something. But it's been such a long day and he's really pent up and would prefer to just get down to business. Sorry.
Your living space isn't too big, so it's easy to quickly drag you to the bed and sling you down on top of it with one firm movement of the arm. You land with a grunt onto your stomach, and you immediately start to push yourself up on your hands (still yapping as if he can understand you), presumably to assume a more standard position on your back. No, it's okay, this is the position he wants. But you won't understand if he tells you that, so he just shoves you back down with a firm hand on your back. You make a little soft sound as your stomach hits the bed again.
The bed creaks as he moves onto it on his knees. He grips the waistband of your shorts, hooking his fingers beneath the elastic of the underwear with it, and jerks both down with one motion. Your knees momentarily shuffle in place, awkwardly and frantically squirming against the hold.
And then you stiffen. You gasp for air, the muscles in your body tense up and go rigid as he pushes his cock inside you, just getting the tip in... so that the rest can go in with one harsh, brutal snap of the hips. You cry out, a gutteral and unrestrained noise, flinching and tensing again. He feels your back muscles convulse against his chest, your legs flail, you grip at the sheets with your fingers curling. Okay, admittedly that might have been a bit rough, even for you. He mumbles out a quick sorry, though he doubts you understand.
But you'll feel good once he starts moving anyway, so he sets off at an equally harsh pace. That much, at least, he's sure you're used to, so he doesn't have to worry about it being too rough. The bed rocks with the intensity and force of each motion, and there's a smacking sound each time his hips pound into your cunt, your ass and thighs rippling with the impact. He sees your hands desperately reach back behind you, pawing at his hips with awkward, almost pitifully weak force.
As if realizing that that's not accomplishing anything, you reach back as if to grab at his cock (whimpering really cutely, so much so that he wonders if they like, train you to sound like that or something). You're probably taught to do something like that, maybe? Is it a cultural norm to try to stroke him off at the same time? Well, anyway, it's actually kind of getting in the way here. But once again, it would be futile to try to tell you that, so he pauses only for a brief moment, grasping your wrists and pinning them together behind your back.
You feel tighter than expected. You must not have had too many customers earlier in the day. The only issue is noise. Since you're working out of your own apartment, he has to consider your neighbors, and it would be rude to disturb them.
And you do, in fact, make quite a lot of sounds, especially as he speeds up. High-pitched squealing, almost pitiful little whines. Admittedly, it makes a little sensation of pride swell up in his chest, and goes straight to his ego. You probably don't get a lot of clients that are actually good at this and make you feel good.
Still, he has to be considerate. He grasps a fistful of your hair and slams your face into the pillow. This brings about a new sequence of wailing sounds (only now very muffled), your body squirming. He feels your legs kick, the back of your calves making weak impact with the back of his thighs.
There's no need to overreact, though. He's close anyway — he really likes the view from this position. A few more violent thrusts and he comes to a halt, slamming his hips against you as hard as he can manage, releasing your hair to instead grip at your hip, nails digging into the flesh, holding you still against your squirming.
A few moments pass, the standard pause for each of you to catch your breath and come down from the high. He pulls out of you, and your hole twitches with the sudden vacancy, semen drooling out of the slit.
He reaches into his pockets after zipping his pants back up, fishing out a reasonable sum from his wallet to set on the bedside table (you'll have to work out the currency difference, sorry), all as you weakly turn yourself over, sitting somewhat upright, but sort of huddled inward against yourself, still saying whatever it is you're saying.
It's okay. All prostitutes are on birth control anyway, that much is common knowledge. Still, you're saying something in a panicked voice — probably worried about diseases. He doesn't have any of those either, so you're safe. He'll have to explain that later to put your mind at ease.
But not right now. He would love to stay and all, but the hotel has a penalty fee for late check-ins, and he has to be up early tomorrow. Although it's not as if there's much capacity for conversation between the two of you anyway.
Leaving so abruptly might be perceived badly, though. You may be a whore, but he wouldn't want to hurt your feelings or anything. It was really good, and you're pretty. He'll definitely come back for more, as many sessions as he can squeeze in before the week is over.
So he takes a few moments to pull his phone out, types out a message, sets the "output" language to the primary one in this place, waits a few moments as the app spins (you people really need to fix your mobile internet speed, it's way slower than he's used to) and finally it outputs the translated message on the other side of the screen. He turns the phone to you to give you a few moments to read.
I'll come back tomorrow night.
And with that, he makes his way out the door, too preoccupied with thoughts of the next day (and making a note of your address) to even register the look on your face.
Okay so, Ishida made the most obscure reference in Duckweed Pt. 2 (Bookwalker) and I need some sort of record of it to exist outside of Discord. This also makes reference to plot points in Towada's first anniversary novel (now reduced to just a sample as it was published in the recent Tamasaka's Trail of Light 玉阪の光跡 novel), but even the sample does touch on the relevant part to this.
It's about quite a minor character who might prove relevant in the future and also some general Tamasaka history stuff, mostly from the novel. I tried to avoid any game spoilers, but it's long so I put it under a cut anyways. Names in English are changed to first-last order.
Edit to add the free version link
The Tamasaka novel refers to the story about Tamasaka City's (玉坂市) founding when it used to be Tamasaka Town (玉坂町). This gets a bit into real Japanese history so apologies in advance if I oversimplify or say something inaccurate, but essentially, during the Meiji era (1868-1912), Japan transitioned from the Edo-era feudal style of government under the shogun and samurai leaders to a centralized government under the emperor. There were obviously a lot of changes as a result and one was a merge of various smaller municipalities across the country.
This is where Tamasaka’s history starts. So it’s established in the game that Tamasaka was founded after the first Himehiko was granted land to create a playhouse and little theatre town (please see this post for a much more thorough Himehiko event timeline).
But what’s most important here is that the lord who granted him this land was named Matsubara Hiraki (開松原) and that his clan had their own castle and nearby samurai town also called Hiraki (開). Tamasaka Town and Hiraki co-existed until the Meiji period, where they were suddenly forced to merge into one city. There was a big debate over which name this new city would take. That whole story is discussed in the novel where they perform a joint play on how Tamasaka got its name. For now, just remember the name Hiraki.
Then we have this one weekend event with Sou on 8/1. It’s highly missable since it often overlaps with an affection event. Fortunately, @himehikoshrine has a transcript of it they let me use:
8/1 library event
Sou: …
Kisa: Sou…? What’s he reading…?
Sou, what are you reading? Huh? A program?
Sou: Ah, Kisa! Sorry, I didn’t notice you here!
It’s a program from the Tamasaka Troupe. I went to see their show.
Kisa: Really? So, how was it?
Sou: It was amazing! The principal’s nephew and a graduate from Onyx were the leads.
The nephew was the Hime. Everyone was treating him like a king.
Onyx’s graduate played the Hiko who was nicknamed the “Prince of Ice.”
The person who played the Prince of Ice was in the same year as Tsuki… He was really amazing.
Kisa: (He was with Tsuki…)
Sou: But the Hime actor was really amazing, too. He really didn’t resemble the principal.
I guess people born into the world of theater just have a different vibe, you know? Like Fumi.
I thought I could study them, but I just ended up watching as part of the audience.
So I figured I should at least read the interview that was typed up, but…
I could tell the two actors don’t get along from their comments…
Kisa: Huh?
Sou: They were the perfect partners onstage, too.
Actors really are amazing…
Okay so we know there was an Onyx student in the 74th class with Tsuki who is currently at the Tamasaka Troupe as a Hiko (Jack) partnered with a member of the Chuza family line. Also that he’s nicknamed the “Prince of Ice”. Not much to take away from it other than knowing there’s someone from Tsuki’s time currently in the troupe (quite possibly the only one from his year). Until Duckweed pt. 2 drops this singular panel:
From left to right it reads:
In Quartz, the “Treasure of Univeil”
Undisputed champion: Tsuki Tachibana
In Onyx, the “Ultimate Jack”
Prince of Ice: Matsumasa Hiraki
It was a time of fierce battle between the big two Jack Aces.
開松正 Matsumasa Hiraki. I feel like you don’t even need to read Japanese to see how similar it is to 開松原 Matsubara Hiraki. They share a family name and both sound like possible samurai names starting with the same ‘matsu’ kanji.
Considering names in JJ generally seem to have a fair bit of intent, I do think there’s reason to assume Matsumasa comes from the Hiraki family line. Which poses a lot of questions about his family history overall with Tamasaka politics and the troupe and about his personal history with Tsuki. Those two connections make me think he could be significant, maybe in the sequel, but honestly who knows what goes on in Ishida’s mind. It’s also fun that his successor, Kaido, plays the leader of the Hiraki clan in the Tamasaka play.
So either I love gintama that much or I was really bored—I strongly suspect it's the former—to try and identify the hands shown in this panel. I guessed based on the weapon, order, hand shape and clothing—I might be wrong but it was fun...
To your horror, you found out Honey could Aerosolize himself, and that you've been breathing him in. So, he's inside you as much as you were inside him.
THAT'S why you're completely resistant to the seasonal cold, where everyone is sniffling and miserable, you're the healthiest you've ever been. Thanks to Honey, your immune system has an extra helper! And, no wonder he knows where you are at any given time. Honey particles in your lungs also act as some amazing advanced GPS.
Well... I mean. It doesn't take a genius to realize that he's been circulating in your system since you first had him as part of your daily diet. Literally, you would eat chunks of him that would regenerate endlessly. Probably also why you never get food poisoning anymore.
You always wondered how he knew where your things were. At first, you thought he was just fucking with you and "found" your commonly misplaced keys by manifesting them, or teleporting them through his mysterious otherworldly powers. But no, as it turns out,
Honey is on EVERYTHING. He has embedded himself deep into the fibres of your clothes, the electronic configuration of every atom you come across with... It's like literal honey being sprayed onto everything you ever owned, permanently fused, constantly sticky. So that's why he knew where everything was, these inanimate items became prosthetics to him.
Well. There is a use for this though. No more taking out the trash, you can literally just chuck a candy wrapper on the floor and it would... Dissolve. Within seconds, you witness the plastic melt into the floor, never to be seen again.
It could be anything, compostable waste, inorganic waste, even whole broken gadgets like a flat screen tv and random liquid spills would just seep into whatever surface you dropped or flung it to. And it's always things that you genuinely didn't want anymore, if it's like your phone that accidentally slipped out of your hand, it wouldn't disappear at all.
You asked him, where did all the unwanted garbage, disappear to?
Honey would giggle and rub his belly in a dramatic and humorous fashion. "It goes yummy in my tummy! Hehe~"
You try not to think about how you didn't need to flush the toilet anymore and the implications of it.
And the fact that your water bill is nearly nil, yet you still have a supply and flow of fresh, clean, mildly sweet water through your suspiciously shiny taps.
Oh well. Whatever, you're grateful that you always have complete pairs of socks now, thanks to Honey.
You have grown to appreciate and love him, though, when the world gets too much sometimes, you can just... crawl into him. Pawing at his chest or belly until it mysteriously gives way to an opening. From there, you can just burrow in like a maggot would to a pile of rotten flesh, and he would happily accept you inside. The summer heat doesn't bother you at all, it's cool and nice inside him. Likewise, with the winter frost, you're never shiveringly cold when you're inside him.
You now spend your time just exploring the city with him, walking around, and actually affording the things you always wanted with his unlimited money. Everything may appear normal, but the moment you complain that it's getting too crowded, like the story of Moses, the sea of people would immediately part to give you a wide berth to frolic in.
There doesn't seem to be a behavior change; people are still walking normally, talking on the phone, chatting with each other, eating, sipping on their coffee, and minding their own business. It's just as if there was a wall invisible to you, but mundane and expected to them.
This is weird, you don't like this. So you retreated into your personal flesh closet: Honey. You told him to just... spit you out whenever he reaches the shop that you're trying to get to. Honey would simply nod like an idiot and smooch you loudly on the forehead.
some more audio porn recommendations for you my loveliesssss I hope you guys like theMMMM mWUAH
I did my best to curate them but I can't guarantee any of these people dont have other audios with tw. age stuff (its soundgasm, they love that shit there) so do make sure to check individual tags on other audios from these creators
recs post 1
brother/sister audios
lazy big brother tw incest, slight degradation (sooooo cute i really really like this one it feels very real brosis vibes to me mhm)
stoner big bro part 1 and part 2 tw incest, dubcon, semi public (iconic. I know yall have heard the first part for sure but he has 4 parts up and they’re all soooo yummy, gets me off every time <33)
sharing a bed tw incest, reluctant, virgin
mutual crush on big bro tw incest, reallyyyy cute, cuddles (his accent is cute too I really like this one its so all softy n cute)
doing things with your bf makes big budder jealous tw incest, jealousy
brother who’s a king tw incest, yandere, v protective (this one is sooooo yummy I love the way he talks to her it’s so longingly but angry !!! it's sooo sexy)
big bro lil sis where she’s sick tw incest, praise, let nii nii take hang out with you
outrageous dirty talk w big bro tw incest, threatening violence in a loving way, cannibalism mentions? (can’t remember if I shared this one in my last post but one of my all time favorites fRRRRR !!! and this guy has many of my fav audios!!)
med student big bro tw incest, dubcon, abuse of power, medical malpractice (made me feel real objectified and poked and prodded like a test subject, loved itttt <333 really long but a fun listen)
dad/daughter audios
cuddling daddy next to mom tw incest, ddlg core, virgin, very explicit dirty talk too
other
stranger jerking it on the train tw public (just pretty short, fun and flirty! what it says on the tin)
boss/employee but the guy is a golden retriever service dom
recommended in ask or found these but haven't listened through yet!! check out at your own discretion! I'll add them above once I've listened to them <33
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, a smaller frame than that of your master's, barely distinguishable from 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 eerily 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, a 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 eyes, their emptiness visible even to themselves as they stared back and forth at each other in the reflection.
But after a few moments, you let yourself fall flat on your back onto the mattress, limp and numb, and closed your eyes. You laid still and silent in a half-conscious state, exhaustion and the deep ache across your body pulling you in and out of the brink of sleep.
chrollo tries to come across as casual in everything he does, but beneath the calm surface lies a cold, calculating mind. there is a purpose behind every word, gesture, and expression; an ultimate end he seeks one small move at a time. he’s given great consideration to the ideal ratio of time spent together and apart. one of chrollo's greatest strengths is his ability to delay gratification. he's not completely delusional, he understands that getting you to come around will be a process, which requires time and patience. this philosophy is why he's better at stomaching time apart better than most yanderes. in his view, it's a necessary evil. he sees the wisdom in the adage 'distance makes the heart grow fonder.' whether you're willing to admit it or not, you've grown accustomed to his presence. his transient lifestyle brings you to foreign lands, places with languages and customs you're unfamiliar with. you have no choice but to depend on him for everything, be it lodging or food. you can pray for his downfall all you want, but there's no hiding the relief that shows on your features when he comes back later than he said he'd be.
gojo is, in a word, insufferable. he'll sigh and bemoan his misfortune whenever he receives word from the higher-ups that a long job is on the horizon. you didn't think it was possible, but his neediness increases exponentially. wherever you are, he isn't far behind, trailing in your shadow like a dejected puppy. the relief you feel when he's finally gone is fleeting, because he's an avid texter. good luck trying to enjoy a book, movie, or game; it's a sisyphean task. you swear he has a sixth sense for when you're most immersed in an activity to begin an onslaught of texts. expect lots of selfies, blurry pictures, and questionable commentary. now, you may be tempted to block him or turn your phone off altogether. it seems like a reasonable solution. while this might net you temporary relief, it's detrimental in the long-term. gojo can handle any insult you send his way, but he does not take kindly to being ignored. he's a relatively permissive yandere in the sense that he doesn't keep you chained in some dark dungeon (despite joking that he could). he expects an explanation whenever you take too long to reply. to keep your relatively unrestricted lifestyle, it's in your best interest to play along, lest the restraints he's alluded to come into play...
mara has somewhat deteriorated blade's ability to conceptualize time. the curse of immortality on a short-life species is devastating. days, weeks, years, decades, everything blurs into an indecipherable mess. how you experience time apart vastly differs. he tries — and is often successful — at blocking out the yearning he experiences for you when separated by millions of light-years. to him, the yearning borders on madness. it's reminiscent of a mara attack. the similarities have him putting up his guard mentally, like an immune system sensing a pathogen. this grants him limited success. he sees you in everything. the beauty of a planet's native flora, music overheard while walking down the street, even the scent of baked goods he's certain you'd enjoy. you are a living ghost, haunting him wherever he goes. he might not assail you with texts or calls, but whenever he has a spare second, his mind inevitably wanders to you. he has to stay busy or he can feel each second that ticks by, stretched and warped to a maddening degree.
scaramouche has an excellent remedy for this issue. he can't miss you if you're never separated — genius, right? he understands that he's not an enjoyable person to be around, but it's not like you can do anything about it. you're a permanent fixture by his side. if he's sent to another nation, you can expect your essential items to be packed come morning and a ship waiting to whisk you off. early on, he held onto shreds of his pride and tried to act like he could do without you, a farce that ended poorly. having you so far away, where any number of problems could unfold, gnawed constantly at his psyche. what if you tried to run? or if you fell ill, without him to oversee your care? mortals are such fragile, ephemeral creatures; there's no one he can trust to monitor you properly aside from himself. for his peace of mind, you must be nearby, he'll accept nothing less. should circumstances see you driven apart, he'll work like a man possessed until you can be reunited.
Thank you anon! Sooooo, I have decided to compile a female-targeted/yumejoshi masterlist, I'll add this post to my main masterlist soon.
These were the one I could think of from memory, I’ll come back to this list and add to it if I get more, I'm sure I missed a few from my bookmarks. Feel free to add to it in the comments, and I'll try to find and update it! Also, several of these were recommended from anons in the past, so thank you all <3
FYI several links lead to nh*ntai dot net, so be aware of that.
Umekoppe
As per the post anon is referencing, Umekoppe is a doujin group that consistently puts out exclusively good content!
“The Yandere Prince Won't Let Me Slip Away”
(Part One)
(Part Two)
Premise: Isekai/pseudo-reincarnation trope, premise basically explained by the title, MC is isekai'd as prince's lost lover.
"The Sacrificial Maiden Corrupted by Coupling With an Oni"
(Link)
Premise: Historical Japan setting, the "MC is an offering sacrifice to the Creature, but the Creature chooses to keep her instead" trope.
"Until the Trashiest Boy Toy Exorcist Ren-kun Crushes Me in His Embrace"
(Part One)
(Part Two)
Premise: MC is a girl that attracts malevolent spirits, exorcist-kun is obligated to help her ward them off (with orgasms, naturally).
"The Spy Who Ravished Me ~Reborn As a Mafia Princess in a Deadly Game~"
(Link)
Premise: Isekai, MC reincarnated into a game where she knows who the guy who is most likely to kill her is, but in her attempt to avoid getting killed by him, ends up taking actions that make him grow into an obsessive love-hate instead. Top tier, this boy is probably the worst (in a good way) of how all the Umekoppe love interests treat the girl.
"Heibon Onna wa Downer Kami-sama ni Izon sarete Modorenai"
(this one didn't have a translated title, sorry)
(Link)
Premise: MC discovers her friend is a shrine god and wolf-boy. Wolfboy fun times ensue (and in the end she's apparently unknowingly trapped into being with him forever, so that's nice).
You’re Cutest When You’re Pathetic ~Obsessed Golden Retriever Boy Haru’s Disciplinary Sex~
(Part One)
(Part Two)
Premise: Softboy™ neighbor finds MC's phone with lewd stuff on it, gets her confessions in drunk conversations, turns out to not be so much of a Softboy behind closed doors.
Oniben Katze
Another group that also does a lot of fem-targeted stuff.
Serious Sex with my Brutish Boyfriend
(Link)
Premise: MC's lover gets mad over rumors that she's a slut, decides to get possessive and rough over it.
Dog Eat Dog Era
(Part One)
(Part Two/Extras)
Premise: a personal favorite, an isekai'd witch adopts two dragon boys who grow up to have a strong fixation with her and noncon ensues.
Parasite Garden
Makes notably darker stuff that contains more controversial subject matter/themes, so be warned.
The Corpse of a Goldfish is at the Bottom of the Swamp
(Link)
CW: INCEST
Premise: possessive brother wants to corrupt/mindbreak sister to keep her forever (spoiler: he succeeds)
The Neighbor in Room 203 Disappeared Leaving their Keys Behind
(Link)
Premise: stalker girl meets her match, as it turns out the boy neighbor she's stalking pulls a spiderman pointing meme and has actually been her stalker for even longer and to a much greater, darker, and more more extreme extent, and is intent on not letting her go.
My Sweet Bunny Cage
(Part One)
(Part Two)
Premise: tiny girl is kidnapped by a crazed guy convinced she is the reincarnation of his lost pet rabbit.
Other
(artist listed below titles)
If you wish, hypnosis ~Maki-san's secret love therapy~
(Link)
Artist: Meeo
Premise: pretty straightforward, after she doesn't believe it's real, MC's coworker uses hypnosis on her for Certain Specific Purposes.
Sakaki the Lazybones Shows His Talents at Night
(Link) (Contains all chapters' links on the page, you might have to scroll down on the chapter list to see chapter one on some phones)
Artist: Potsunen Jin
Premise: (Another personal favorite) MC's younger coworker, peak innocent idolizing softboy, is in love with her and takes advantage of a situation while she's drunk after watching porn to "learn what girls like." Clingy, possessive relationship ensues.
Lady K and the Sick Man
(Chapter One) (site's menu is a bit awkward to deal with, but you have to click in the corner to view the menu to go to other chapters).
Artist: Rororogi Mogera
Yet another personal favorite, this one does have slight male gaze to it in that it focuses on the girl quite a bit, but it still focuses on the guy way more than the average doujin. Also the guy is an older bigger guy, if you ever tire of the twink/twunk standard in yumejoshi stuff.
Premise: guy moves into an apartment with a ghost lady and just kinda accepts it because he can't afford to live anywhere else, but quickly decides he’s down bad for ghussy.
I Became the True Love Object of Mr. Segawa, Who Has a Huge Attitude and Body
(Link)
Artist: Haruo Haruyama
Premise: very straightforward office coworkers to lovers, coworker is a big guy who turns out to be kinda sadistic, which is good for the masochistic MC.
The Man Who Saved Me on my Isekai Trip was a Killer
(Part One)
(Part Two)
(Part Three)
Artist: Ahan Horihori
Premise: this one got kind of infamous and shock-valued the mainstream crowd due to an animated advertisement I believe, it's essentially self-explanatory from the title: isekai'd lady gets saved by a guy who turns out to be a violent murderer, dark and sometimes pseudo-incesty plot twists ensue.
//Big age gap with ambiguously aged teenage boys, cheating on NPC husband, dubcon (reader is kinda consenting for once lmao but the first time is questionable in how it begins)
I've had this modern AU idea rotting in my brain for AGES anon, I hesitated to make it but you’ve given me courage, bless you anon
Consider Xingqiu + Chongyun and the sweet older lady that lives in the neighborhood… a neglected housewife with a husband who’s always absent, always on “work trips” and being generally suspicious and never pays you any attention…
You have the typical boys-next-door of the neighborhood — well, they're not actually right next door, one lives a few houses down, the other in that fancy rich neighborhood adjacent to yours — but the two come around your house quite a lot. It's kind of sweet how you've gotten to watch them grow up, you remember when they were very little, running by your house with bikes or kites or whatever they were playing with, and watch them slowly get bigger and older, hear their distant voices chattering get deeper and lower over time.
Sometimes you wave, they wave back.
They come to recognize you. They pass by when you're doing yardwork. You exchange a hey, boys! with a mutually enthusiastic hi miss!, and occasionally, you tell them to be safe because it's supposed to rain soon or because it's getting dark, met with a don't worry, we will! reassurance of some kind.
They're so cute, so endearing. You go out of your way to say hi each time you see them.
Eventually, you finally have a direct, up-close interaction — it's a particularly hot day, you call out to them to ask if they want something cold to drink, and they gladly take you up on the offer.
They're so cute, you think. Teenagers now, bright-eyed and full of that youthful sort of excitement and bliss, not yet old enough to be worn down by the difficulties or mundaneness of life nor have a damper put on their overly-positive outlook on life and the world. You find yourself smiling as you ask them questions about school and what they like to do and their plans for the future and they respond gushing with visible excitement and energy.
And then, they swing by the next day, sheepishly making their way up to you to ask if you have any more. You laugh and smile and tell them of course.
The same thing happens the next day, and the next day. You go out of your way to get some teen-boy-approved type of snacks the next time you go grocery shopping, which end up rapidly disappearing from your fridge and pantry.
You learn them, their similarities and differences, their interests and strengths. Xingqiu is more the academic type, Chongyun is more involved in athletics. You listen to them excitedly ramble about the “important” things going on in their lives, high-school level drama and such, the sort that seems to be of a much greater significance and weight to kids their age, who have no frame of reference for anything more serious than that. You give exaggerated reactions of awe and pride when they boast about their achievements, and it does warm your heart to see that that always makes them more excited to keep going on about it.
With that, you develop a very… wholesome sort of relationship. They start coming by more often.
And more and more often. Nearly each day. It's a very strange situation, yet it just feels natural because you get accustomed to it — instead of going back to their own homes, they head to your place right after they're let out from school. You feed them (they're teenage boys, they're eating more in one sitting than you do in an entire day), talk to them, you've even helped with homework every now and then, for subjects you're knowledgeable in. They seem to really love coming over to your house, and, well, you're often very lonely, and you appreciate them as well.
The neighbors have all seen them going to your place each day, some of them jokingly ask how “your boys” are doing. It’s endearing, really, and always makes you smile.
You know it's not exactly normal, but at the same time, if they trust you and depend on you and cling to you so much, they must not have another source for that — from what they've said, both have very busy and/or somewhat emotionally distant parents, which makes you feel bad for them, tugs at your heart, makes you feel like you should be sure to be there for them and be available when they need you. Like you have a responsibility to be there.
Which leads to you taking on perhaps an even greater role of keeping tabs on them, being responsible for them. You even get a call from the school once when one gets sick, asking you to come pick him up, which he thanks you for repeatedly, but still doesn't seem to treat the matter as quite as unusual as you feel it is. Regardless, you find yourself taking him to your house to recover rather than his own, at his own request.
They're almost a little too comfortable, but it's more comical to you than anything — they reach a point where now, they just come sauntering into your house after school, backpacks dumped onto the floor and flopping onto your couch as if it were their own house. One time when you were home alone, you went out to get groceries, only to nearly have a heart attack when greeted with a hello! as soon as you stepped through your front door when you came back. Turns out they figured out you keep a spare key under the welcome mat… they help you put the groceries away, though. Such sweet boys.
Yes, they’re sweet, helpful, bright-eyed, energetic… even if sometimes, they get a little strange.
Nothing that isn't standard teen boy stuff, though, you tell yourself. You find evidence of their presence in oddly private areas of your home — your bedroom door hanging open when you're pretty sure you shut it earlier, an open drawer, missing clothes, so on and so on.
It's odd, but you don't exactly know how to really go about confronting them, the idea feels awkward and uncomfortable. Not to mention, doubt and paranoia cloud your reasoning — what if there's a perfectly legitimate reason, and then you ruin things by making false accusations? What if you're imagining it? You ultimately decide to try and shake off the creeping feeling of something being wrong.
Worst case scenario, they're being… weird. But teenage boys are like that, aren't they? Raging hormones and all. It's a little unpleasant, but you're sure they'll mature out of such behaviors, if that really is the case. It's nothing too serious.
And then they start getting touchy.
When they help you carry things in (so sweet of them, isn’t it?), you notice that over time, they grow comfortable with your arms and hands brushing against each other. They stand closer to you when leaning over to see what you’re making whenever you’re running around in the kitchen (of course, usually accompanied by asking if it's for them or if they can have some), shoulders bumping against yours. They scoot their chair much closer to yours when you’re helping them with their homework, eventually to where your thighs touch.
Waving goodbye when they go home at the end of the day turns into big hugs. Both of them do so in a way that you just can't shake the feeling of being somehow wrong. Xingqiu pulls your chest against his perhaps just a bit too firmly. Chongyun holds his hands lower down on your back than you feel comfortable with. But then they both flash you such sweet smiles and promise to see you later, and your momentary concerns feel trivial.
Your naive belief in their innocence begins to fall apart, though, because Chongyun is significantly less skilled at keeping up feigned ignorance.
The idea that you were being paranoid, or imagining things, quickly begins to fade from your mind when you notice how blatantly sheepish he begins to become as time goes by. He stops looking you in the eye, stammers and fidgets and squirms when trying to speak to you. As if feeling guilty, as if having done something wrong.
Xingqiu is much better at it — almost scarily so. If it were just him, you'd never notice a thing, and you’re not sure how to feel about that realization. You’re pretty sure he could do something right in front of you and then convince you you did it instead, with how flawlessly he can change his tone and expressions and answer questions in ways that not only fail to answer, but give the impression of an answer, then distract away to another topic before you can even think enough to realize what a non-answer the response he gives is.
You only caught onto it one time, and then when you started to think back, you realized how many times he’s done the exact same thing in the past, all without you ever realizing… those rich business families must have some kind of genetic predisposition to conversation manipulation. Still, it’s nothing malicious, he didn’t do anything wrong, you’re pretty sure at least… he just seems to steer away from anything having to do with the odd occurrences of things that go missing or were different from how you left them.
Still, it reaches a point where you really can’t delude yourself.
But it's nothing serious. It's not enough to warrant saying anything. That’s what you tell yourself.
Because if it were that serious, you’d have to say something. And if you say something, well, that’s… hard. Awkward. Difficult to summon the gall for, especially towards two young, innocent boys who have never done anything really bad to you, who have always been so helpful and sweet, who are just being the way boys that age are, right? It’s ultimately harmless.
You’d ruin things between you all, you’d hurt them. You can’t have that. They’re too precious. They keep you company, they help you out, you’ve gotten so used to their presence in your life, you can’t have that ruined. Thus, you say nothing. Yes, it’s all just normal, it’s no big deal. Soon enough they’ll start getting involved with girls their age anyway, and stop messing with you so much.
Except there's one more issue... that thing where they seem to really not like your husband.
The moment he comes up, they both take a negative attitude. Granted, one day you do end up more or less breaking down as you find yourself venting and lamenting your miserable marriage — how he’s never home, how he’s always doing suspicious things that hurt your heart, how he never treats you to anything, never remembers anniversaries or birthdays, never says anything nice to you… you only pause and start stammering apologies when you notice how quiet they both get, but they insist it’s fine, and follow up by muttering about how you deserve better… you smile and pat their heads.
You really meant the whole thing as mere venting, so it makes you feel bad when, seeing as your birthday falls very shortly after that conversation, they both get you things on said birthday. Chongyun’s is something he made himself, albeit on a very low budget, Xingqiu’s is the inverse, some piece of jewelry that’s the most expensive thing you’ve ever owned… and they remembered even when your husband didn’t. It makes you feel guilty, like maybe you baited them by inducing their pity, but they both seem so happy to give you something, and even when you say they didn’t have to do that, they insist they wanted to… maybe it’s alright, then. They were already sweet to you too, of course, but you notice that they give you compliments and such more frequently too.
Regardless, you notice that even before your complaining, they both sort of scowl when your husband is mentioned, even more so after you reveal the rocky state of your marriage. There’s an unmistakable resentment in some comments they make — you start talking about how you’re worried that you spent too much on groceries and will make him mad, to which you get a scoff and a ‘well who cares what he thinks?’, or, when you’re worried the house isn’t presentable enough for your husband coming home, you get a shrug and mutter, ‘he can just deal with it…’
Your husband doesn’t exactly care for them either. You mention it to him because you feel you should, although apparently neighbors already informed him of the matter. You get a few gruff comments about how bizarre and inappropriate it is that you’re letting two teen boys just sit around in your house. Every now and then, you get snapped at in irritation about a piece of a wrapper left on the sofa or a pencil left on the table, how it’s because you let those damn teenagers stay in your house, how you’re draining his hard-earned money on feeding them, so on and so on.
They only actually interact once, seeing as the man gets home so late each day that it’s usually long after both boys have left for the day, but one time their presence does overlap — it’s very awkward. You didn’t hear the car pull up to the house, so when he comes walking in, the two boys quickly get their things together and scurry out the door, all without exchanging a word, although the tension and glaring is palpable. You’re reminded that he tolerates you having them there, and that he had better not come home to find them in his house so late again. You nod your head — but you still let them stay fairly long each day… now they make no attempt to hide their disgust each time you mention your spouse.
Their increasing negativity towards him, their increasing affection towards you — there’s a sort of tension that builds over time. Every party involved feels it, you’re certain, one of those things where everyone knows what’s happening and no one acknowledges it out loud.
By the time it happens, they're so comfortable that it's practically nonchalant, and for you, well, somehow you don’t feel particularly surprised. It feels more like something you knew was going to happen, but maybe pretended in the forefront of your mind that you didn’t know, that it wasn’t inevitable.
Likewise, it happens so quickly that you barely register anything as it happens, it doesn’t sink in as real until it’s too late and you’re already too far into it.
You don’t remember, afterwards, exactly what you were doing — were you helping them with homework at the kitchen table, or were you all watching a movie on your couch beforehand? You’re not sure. You only remember feeling an unusual palpable energy in the air, them looking back and forth at each other as if to confirm to move ahead with some premeditated plan. You remember that it was Chongyun that initiated it, to some extent—
I— I mean, we wanted to, uh, talk to you about something, and, ah…
He seems to lose his words halfway through, and sort of pathetically looks over at the other, as if silently begging for help, which is met with a sigh and a few back and forth comments as you stare on in bewilderment — that ‘no, you were supposed to do that part,’ or ‘no, YOU were supposed to do that,’ so on and so forth, until they both seem to just give up on whatever the plan was and go for it instead.
That’s where it becomes a bit of a blur. You don’t remember which one grabbed you first, which one’s mouth met yours first.
You think you said a few things to deter them, obligatory statements of how I can’t, I’m married and the other standard lines you’re supposed to say because you have some sense of guilt and honor, don't you? You have to deny them the first time, it's only right.
And yet, you’re pretty sure your resistance didn’t last long.
The reality of it all doesn’t sink in until you’re at the point where you can no longer bring yourself to care, too lost in excitement and ecstasy and basking in the feeling of being so intensely desired, until you’re on your knees with one in your mouth and one from behind (although later, you can’t recall which was which at first — they switched up a few times, you’re pretty sure). You don’t even remember how many times they came inside you, only that you felt some vague alarm the first time, but stopped caring soon after, letting yourself be bent over your couch and put on your knees on the floor, letting your mind melt away, focusing only on pleasure and longing and, in the back of your mind, a twinge of guilt knowing that maybe you knew this was what they wanted all along.
Good thing your husband was on another one of his business trips. You’re pretty sure he’d be furious to know you took them upstairs and continued all night long on his own bed thereafter, eventually all falling asleep there too, with you sandwiched in between… only to wake up and go at it again the next morning. It’s Saturday, after all, they have to fill their time with something other than school.
You have different sets of issues, after that day. You’re not worried about their affections being inappropriate — you’ve long since accepted that, now you’re just a little worried about how they keep pressuring you to divorce and move in with one of them (Xingqiu reminds you his family is very very wealthy, this in turn upsets Chongyun, who insists he’s trying to ‘win you over’ which is ‘unfair’ to him). You don’t worry about your missing clothes or their touches, those are no longer an issue… now your biggest concern is keeping their voracious sex drives at bay, which it turns out you severely underestimated, and you have TWO to deal with on top of that, practically getting pounded and plowed at every opportunity.
Then you have to worry about how virile they probably are… you’re not on birth control, seeing as your husband has demanded you have a kid. He might get one, even if not how he expected… and then you have to worry about giving both boys equal affection, lest you hurt one’s feelings or make them jealous… and then you have to worry about your poor weary body, which can barely keep up with them…
And, of course, you worry about the inevitable, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before things fall apart, one way or another. A matter of time before they decide to ‘deal with’ your husband — you heard them use that exact verbiage muttering to themselves, only for them to go silent once they saw you. A matter of time before they do something, and you get the feeling that you're not going to like whatever something is.
Yes, you know things can’t stay in this limbo forever… and that worries you, no matter how much you try to put it off and pretend things are fine and tell yourself you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it, only to find the bridge is growing closer with each day. After-school threesomes on a limited schedule can only keep them content for so long, especially when they've already started to push the limits of how long they can stay, how many times they can go, insisting you can get one more round in before your husband comes home.
At least you’re pretty sure no one else knows. The neighbors still ask you how “your boys” are, and seem to do so with endearment, with no trace of any concern or outrage or disgust.
You haven’t changed your answer in all the time they’ve asked — you always smile and say they’re doing just great. Perhaps that’s even more true now than it was before.
Uwahhh ty anon <3 I had two other requests for more Xingqiu content as well so please appreciate this thought blurb I've had drafted for a while
Something I've been thinking a lot about is that not only is Xingqiu so incredibly petty and picky and controlling, but it's made so much worse by the fact that he lacks self-awareness of it.
Like, he's always been told by adults that he's oh-so-mature for his age, and he's internalized that, made it part of his internal self-image. Not to mention, becoming a successful author isn't something most teens his age have accomplished either — he feels very “adult,” like he's smarter, more conscientious, more considerate than his peers, and better than them for it too.
And it’s true that most of the time, he usually is all of those things, but this makes him entirely unaware of the ways in which he is, in fact, very much immature.
He's picky. He likes to have things the way he wants them. Part of why he fails to realize how picky he is, is due to the fact that all his life, he's usually had anything he wants handed to him, and anything he finds issue with resolved, and it all comes so easily that he's never considered that perhaps it doesn't go that way for normal people, and that perhaps he wouldn't be quite so agreeable if he was ever told “no,” that his agreeableness and easygoing nature is really just due to the fact that he's never faced with anything to be disagreeable about, a near-total lack of resistance to his will. Even outside his family home, usually waving around money or speaking his father's name is enough to get him what he wants.
And being raised in an environment where he's only ever known a marriage dynamic where one specific partner is completely submissive to the will of the other, he's not even prepared to conceive of anything short of it. After all, his parents arranged the marriage to begin with, surely they would pick someone just as agreeable as his mother.
He likes to pick what you wear each day. When the servants ask what you'd like to eat that day, he answers for you. When people ask questions about you, he answers for you too (although to be fair, in those social circles, they usually direct questions at him anyway, as if you're some animal that can't answer yourself).
He always tells you what you'll be doing, where you'll be going for the day, never asking for your preference — it quite literally simply does not even occur to him that you might have one.
It's not malicious, and he's got that usual cheerful and easygoing demeanor about it all, but it's a clear total disregard for your personhood nonetheless, even if not intentional or conscious.
But you can tell there’s a certain degree of stubbornness in him. It comes out the moment there’s any resistance to his will, when there’s a moment where something can’t go exactly as he wants. It’s never directed at you, at first, since you have done everything in your power to comply, but you notice it coming out towards others — that time one of the family servants had to inform him they didn’t have something he asked for because a shipment was delayed, or when they tried to stop the two of you from leaving because his father needed to speak with him first, so on and so on. The sudden change in expression, tone, body language. Crossed arms and heavy irritated sighs, frustration in his voice — deliberate, a tone he knows will only make the poor family servants that much more apologetic. Maybe he likes feeling that power over them, you think.
The first time he hears no from you, though?
He doesn't even really know how to process it. Just a blank stare of stupor, a few blinks, the usual gentle smile hasn't even faded from his face.
…Huh? Come on, get up, like I said, we're leaving…
He reaches down to grab your arm — and you pull back. You swat his hand away. You cross your arms and clench your jaw and say that word again — no.
And there's a long, long pause.
…What?
You feel his hand wrap around your arm, this time too quick to pull back. He says it again, a tone that's merely confused, not angry, still in a state that's struggling to comprehend your resistance.
What are you doing? I said—
And you interrupt him.
You jerk out of his grasp. You scowl and tell him he can leave, that you're staying home, that you're mad and need time alone. You turn on your heel and start to walk away.
Once again, you feel his hand wrap around your arm.
Only this time, it's harsh.
And this time, it jerks you backward with a force that slings you down onto the ground.
There's a few seconds of silence. You hear his heavy breaths from the exertion of the movement.
You don't get to say something like that.
His words are still not angry, per se. Not harsh, more disbelief, almost intonated like a question.
Likewise, his expression and tone aren't ominously dark like some might be. It's more of a scoff, stubborn and still somewhat baffled. More petulance, rather than outrage.
And there's that same shift in expression and posture — the crossed arms, brows furrowed in disdain.
Really, what's gotten into you?
It's said more quietly, almost like a hissing sort of voice, grumbly, bitter. You're still in too much of a daze from the fall to react beyond a surprised grunt when you're pulled back up onto your feet, a few quick swipes of his hands dusting your off and smoothing our your clothes, only for him to notice a newly-formed tear in the fabric from the harsh movement. You get another exasperated sigh.
Now we'll have to have someone fix that…
This time, you're drug forward with force, a firm grasp on your wrist, a subtle threat that this time you ought not pull back.
And this time, as your feet stumbled forward in compliance, your obedience is clearly a source of satisfaction, based on the shift in his expression, the soft hum of contentment. Now that you, like everyone else, have bent to his will, as everything does with enough pushing.
It's good that whatever came over you was over so quickly. That was very unlike you.
Still, of course, he's going to be a bit cold and petty about it for a day or so, and you just know you'll get yet another overbearing mother-in-law lecture when he inevitably goes whining to her about your behaviors like he always does, always getting her to try and teach you how to behave properly, rectify any perceived flaw he finds with you, like a child begging Mom to repair a malfunctioning toy.
Can't have you thinking you could ever do something like that again. You really need to be more mature, he tells you. You can't always have things go the way you want in life.
