? ?(-_-)? ?

Riki hated him. Hated the Blondie who had ripped him from his life, stripped him of his freedom, and shackled him in golden chains.

He refused to obey. No matter how many times Iason commanded him, no matter how many punishments he endured, he never bent. He spat insults, fought back, took every blow with a glare burning in his dark eyes.

The relentless beatings had left bruises blooming under his skin. Whip lashes that painted angry red lines down his back. Fingers digging into his jaw, forcing his mouth open, forcing him to call Iason ‘Master.’

But he never did. Not willingly. Never sincerely.

He was an embarrassment. That’s what Iason told him, coldly, cruelly, every time he lashed out in front of the other Blondies and their pets. “Do you see how disgraceful you are?” Iason would murmur, dragging Riki aside, his grip iron-tight. “You should be grateful I even allow you to stay at my feet.”

But Riki never learned. He always fought, always bit back. Always spit blood onto the pristine floors of Eos, never once bowing his head.

Until he grew tired. Until the fights left him exhausted. Until his body was too worn, too weak, too broken to keep resisting.

The moment it happened, Iason saw it. That shift. That flicker of dullness in Riki’s dark, defiant eyes.

That night, when Iason touched him, Riki didn’t fight. He let those hands roam his body, let them take without resistance. He didn’t flinch when Iason’s lips ghosted against his throat.

He let him have him. Every night.

At first, Iason expected him to be silent, passive, lifeless beneath him. And he was.

But Iason was patient. He ran his hands over the bruises he left, tracing them almost reverently. He murmured against Riki’s skin, low, hushed words of praise: “That’s it. That’s my good pet.”

He kissed Riki’s throat, his shoulders, his jaw. He touched him gently.

And Riki hated it more than anything. Hated how his body betrayed him. Hated how his breath hitched when Iason’s lips dragged along his collarbone. Hated the way his own fingers sometimes grasped at Iason’s shoulders, at his arms, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

He told himself it was just his body responding. It meant nothing.

But then one night, he moved. He lifted his hips. He curled his fingers into Iason’s platinum hair. He kissed him back. He let himself participate.

Iason stilled for only a second—surprised—before a smirk curved at the edges of his lips. He knew.

And Riki wanted to die from the shame of it. But that shame didn’t stop him from riding Iason the night after.

Or the night after that. The night Riki straddled Iason, moving on his own, fingers clutching his shoulders, nails digging into skin. And when he came, he gasped out the word: “Master.”

And Iason laughed. A soft, pleased chuckle as he wrapped his arms around Riki, pulling him against his chest, running his hands up and down his trembling back.

Riki’s body was spent. His breathing uneven. And he did not pull away. He had surrendered. Completely. Utterly.

Iason had won.

The fanart isn’t mine but I couldn't find the original artist.