:eyes emoji:

“Have you done this before?” Paris asked. Delta couldn’t help but scoff, even if he regretted it right after. Of course he’d done it before. It was one of the things he was good at.

Delta put his wrist by Paris’s neck, resting his arm against the shoulder as he rocked against his waist. He took Paris’s hand and moved it to rest on his hip. 

There was a simple logic to it, and one that had almost stopped Delta altogether: You’re not allowed to touch him. He’s allowed to touch you, but you’re not allowed to touch him.

He wasn’t even supposed to look at Paris without permission. In his fantasies, the prince was the one in control, the one who initiated. But that was Delta’s fantasy: if he wanted it to come true, he had to take the first steps.

But it wasn’t really true; there was just verisimilitude. There was desire. Paris gripped his hip a little tighter, moved one hand by his thigh to pull him closer. Good. Good.

Delta lightly cupped Paris’s cheek and leaned in to kiss him. He was so nervous that he had to discharge electricity down through the mattress so that he wouldn’t kill both of them.

It was a quick kiss, almost chaste, until it wasn’t. He came back, blind, feeling Paris’s hands grip at his bare skin, letting himself be played with. Delta had to guide his hand sometimes; he pretended he did not need to, that he didn’t even want him to. Did he want him too?

He bit down light and dangerous on Paris’s lip before releasing, doing most of the work with his tongue again. Delta was lost deep in the tunnels of his own mind, and they let him peer straight through time. He brushed his hand back through the prince’s blonde hair. He could feel the scar tissue through his cotton shirt. He could feel him getting hard through his jeans.

I hate you, Delta thought, I hate you.

In whose voice? To whom?

Paris pushed him lightly back, probably needing to breathe, and so Delta moved down to kiss at his neck, at the collar bones. The touch was exceedingly gentle, considering. He didn’t push Paris to remove his shirt. That wasn’t his place. He just worked around it until he felt enough stiffness beneath him to move again.

Carefully, Delta eased away. He slid down onto his knees before him. This was familiar. This was…

It was admitting to something very dangerous. He was scared that Paris would be mean about it. It’d be so easy to devastate him, to undo everything. Delta bared his neck in full.

He undid the buckle of Paris’s belt and the button of his jeans. It required a strange degree of focus. Delta concentrated on not shaking. He had to keep steady.

There was something very vulgar about it. This was not how he was meant to see him. This was not how it was meant to go. But they could give up on any fantasy of purity. They were already in too deep; the lines blurred. Why not this?

Delta’s hands moved by Paris’s waistband. The body shivered beneath the touch, and this was enough to make him look up. For the first time in several minutes, Delta looked up to read Paris’s expression.

He was scared.

He doesn’t want it, Delta thought. He felt like he’d been shot.

I’m hurting him.

His hands fell away. Delta sat back on his heels, docile again. He stared up in hurt confusion, willing himself to be still.

Paris did not hide his relief. He redressed quickly, breathing shakily.

“…I’m sorry, Paris,” Delta said quietly. There was a terrible heat through his entire body. It burned the most at his face and between his legs. The shame lived like a wounded animal inside of him. 

Paris did not answer verbally. It took a few minutes for him to recover enough to speak.

“Sorry,” Paris echoed eventually. His voice was hoarse. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Stupid idea. Delta looked down at the carpet, ashamed, like he was being scolded. Still kneeling. Familiar.

He bumped his head lightly into Paris’s knee in contrition. Words weren’t stronger than the gesture. It was all he could do.

“I don’t think it’s good for you,” Paris said cautiously.

How unfair. Though he kept his voice soft, and still erred towards apology, this made Delta really mad.

“You can just say if you don’t want it…” he muttered. “Don’t make it my fault. I can make my own choices.”

Paris didn’t answer. There was so much tension in him.

“Can I stay here for a minute?” Delta asked.

Not good for you. Who cares?

Idly, nervously, Paris soothed his hair back, letting him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The second time was easier. He’d consented to try again, and the night was kinder. Delta was drunk off the thought of it — the thought of it working, the circle closing.

It was a relief to see Paris looking more comfortable in his own skin, actually willing to play with him this time. Less afraid. God, did he think Delta was going to bite him the first time? 

That he’d keep going, even when Paris clearly wanted it to stop?

Delta didn’t use people. He tried not to, anyway.

“C’mere,” Paris called him over. Delta practically skipped.

He could be used, though. He was used to it. It felt nice to still be good for something, a reminder he was still wanted. He wished to be needed, needed so badly that nothing could happen without him. Needed so badly that if he were to go missing, everything else would fall apart. But he’d got his shot at that, enough for one lifetime. There was no way he’d get it twice. All that was left now was to play pretend.

Paris tugged lightly at the collar of Delta’s shirt, forcing him closer.

“You’re going to tell me if you need to stop, right?” He asked as he undid the buttons. “Promise?”

“Yes, sir.” Delta agreed easily. All his power still coursed through him. He could stop it at anytime.

Paris kinda glowered at him for the title, but it went on unremarked.

He felt the night air as a draft against his skin, the skin being slowly revealed, unprotected. Delta had exposure enough in the past, desensitized himself to the sensation of being stripped. Even back then, it didn’t always mean pain. 

But exposure had meant pain with Paris, almost universally. At least, when it was Delta’s body on display.

Still, he didn’t hesitate with the buttons, and that was probably for the best.

“Do you wanna pick up from last time?” he asked.

“No.” Delta cringed. “Start over.”

“Fine. C’mere. Watch the teeth, okay? No biting.”

Delta nodded, blushing slightly. But it was less scary the second time.

He straddled Paris’s waist again, finding the familiar groove. His thigh pressed against his hips, felt the ridge there, less pronounced than he expected. Paris’s skin was softer, healthier looking, in spite of all the stress lately. That was a good thing about the both of them; it could never get any worse. Things could never look quite as bad as they had back then. Everything after seemed like a miracle by comparison.

This too, a miracle. Delta followed the order he’d been given, trying very hard not to bite. It was foreign to him. Kali bit hard enough to draw blood. So had Lun. Thus, Paris seemed overly delicate to him, something to be careful while handling. He was definitely being gentler than Delta had expected. 

Delta kept his claws to himself as he let his hands explore the contours of the other’s body. So much of it was familiar. The odd joint of the neck, the small scar on his cheek… Delta could felt scars all up and down the boy’s limbs. New ones, with interesting textures. He tried not to linger. He didn’t want to scare him again. As he slid his hands up beneath Paris’s shirt, he took care to avoid the star over his lung. Secretly, he desired to touch it. But he couldn’t do it without asking, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask. When Paris helped to tear the fabric off, Delta’s eyes continued to drift to the mark. It was so visually striking. He could almost see the arrow where it landed.

“Lay back. Are you spacing out?” Paris pushed him back onto the mattress. 

Delta shook his head, though it wasn’t all the way true. He had a tendency to space out during sex.

“Verbal response.”

“No, sir,” Delta cleared his throat.

“That’s not convincing.”

“I’m fine, Paris. I’m not made of glass.”

“Watch your tone.”

Delta felt himself stiffen a little, felt his stomach drop. Paris pinned him now, and must have been able to feel Delta getting hard beneath him. He smirked.

His fingers prodded playfully along Delta’s collarbones before entangling in his hair. He twisted a few loose strands, hands idly working at a small braid as he spoke.

“Tell me what you want.”

Delta huffed.

“I mean it.” He twisted the braid once, a little painfully. “You wanted this. Tell me what you want from me.”

Delta wanted it to hurt worse. He wanted it rougher. He wanted to give less input. He just wanted to be told what to do.

“…You can be rougher,” Delta said. “Like I said, I’m not weak. You know I can take a beating.”

Paris’s face fell. He let go of his hair.

“I don’t want to actually hurt you,” he said, quieter. Almost shy. “I’m teasing.”

Delta exhaled softly, gently grinding himself against him. He felt the friction in his jeans building, edging closer. 

“Oh, you think you’re cute.” Paris gripped his hair again, forcing Delta to crane his neck back as he lifted himself up on his knees. Delta whined as the friction was removed, whined even more as Paris forced his legs apart. “Bad. You’re not going to goad me into it either, so don’t try.”

“You’re easy to goad,” Delta muttered.

“Mhm. Whatever. Wrists.”

Delta offered them without complaint. Paris slid the hair-tie off of Delta’s wrist and bound them together, before pinning them down onto the mattress above Delta’s head.

“Keep them there, okay? …You’re okay?” 

Delta nodded, blushing. Paris brushed a strand of hair from his face, pausing to check. He wanted to be frustrated, but he found the gesture oddly sweet. It was just a game.

“Verbal response.”

“Yes.”

Paris nodded in affirmation and began to loosen the drawstring of Delta’s pants. Delta closed his eyes, tensing slightly. He expected it to hurt. He didn’t know why he expected it to hurt, if he even wanted it to or not. Another soft whine escaped him.

“Hush. C’mon, use your words.”

Paris wasn’t really making an effort to pin him there anymore, trusting enough that he’d hold still. One hand lingered by Delta’s waist, while the other rubbed gently at the unsheathed bulge. There was undoubtedly some element of a science experiment there, there was always the moment of curiosity. It was a big galaxy. There tended to be some element of surprise with each new partner. To his credit, Paris didn’t comment. He instead fumbled with the clasp his own pants. Delta bumped his leg against him in encouragement. He could sense the faintest trace of performance anxiety, and did not want to be left hanging just because Paris lost the nerve. They’d come this far.

Further up, Delta’s hands worked anxiously in the bindings. He’d opened his eyes, and now stared up at the ceiling, thinking about stars. It was a game. He felt the electricity pulsing through him, felt the power that permeated each inch of the room; he felt drunk off it. He felt hungry. He angled his hips up a little, trying to make entry easier.

Paris slid into him. It was easy; he made it easy. Delta was good for this. Intentionally, he raised his hands up from where they’d been pinned. He managed to trace at the star-shaped scar for just a second before Paris grabbed his bound wrists and forced them back up. He’d used his whole body to force them upwards; Delta felt the thrust further inside him, and let out a soft gasp. For fun, he struggled a little against the pin. Paris didn’t hurt him for it, but didn’t let him go either. The rhythm continued. It wasn’t painful. Not once had it ever been painful for Delta, in all his experience with it. He was always too eager. Too aquatic. He knew he was fucking soaked.

“Good,” Delta said, a little breathily. He’d been told to *use his words*. If anything, Paris needed the encouragement. He hummed softly, in repetition.

His eyes were half-lidded, but he got glances of Paris’s face, flushed rose pink. His eyes were too intense, but they often were. Was he close? Was he enjoying this?

Delta contorted his bound hand to squeeze against Paris’s. He felt the pressure back. And it was clear soon enough. 

He gasped a little, felt Paris shudder over him, felt the sudden wetness between his legs. It was hotter than he thought. They both ran cold, he knew that. Right now, he could feel how flushed and feverish Paris’s skin had become. Delta whined as he finished. Paris was nice enough to draw the last of it out of him.

“You can get up,” he said. Delta nodded, and untwisted the tie that bound his hands. He left it on his wrist, but didn’t have the energy to sit up. His eyes were closed again. That was nice.

Paris was already redressing. He was being quiet and unobtrusive, as if he could escape notice now. That seemed to be his strategy lately. Delta closed and crossed his legs to try and regain some degree of modesty. He accepted the shirt that was passed to him and pulled it on over his bare skin. He was shaking a little too.

“Happy?” Paris asked.

Delta nodded. He was. He got what he wanted. He felt far away at the same time, alien. Power pulsed. It stung him. He reached over to take Paris’s hand, and brought it up to his mouth to kiss the joints of his fingers.

~~~ tags

She reeled back and slapped him. He gasped, shocked and in pain, eyes going wide. He ghosted a hand across the pinkish imprint blooming across his pale cheek. Four thin scratch marks tore cherry red lines through it, where Hanut had let her claws rake down his face.

When he looked up at her again, all of his smugness had worn away. He was dumbfounded, as if he wasn’t asking for it. As if he thought his talk would save him. As if he didn’t know what she was capable of. She let a self-satisfied growl rumble through her chest.

“Now you get to find out,” Hanut told him, “what happens when you act like a brat.”

Before he could protest, she took one of his horns in her fist. Careless and rough, she tossed him to the ground like a doll. Fen landed on his stomach in a heap of fur and indignant fury.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he demanded, grasping for what little power he had left.

“What’s my problem?” Hanut crouched down and picked him up by his hair. He winced as her claws dug into his scalp, and grinned in his face. “You’re the one who decided to push your luck. This?” She grabbed his injured cheek and he hissed. “This isn’t even half the punishment you deserve.”

“Punishment for what? Not sucking off your ego hard eno—ow!”

Hanut pinched his reddened cheek until she nearly felt his skin break under her claws. He scrunched his nose and squirmed and complained and whined, and another proud rumble broke past her lips. Fen had a big mouth on him, which meant it was all the more satisfying to shut it.

“Maybe if you apologize,” she said, “I’ll look over most of your disrespect, and only punish you for talking back.”

“No fucking way,” Fen spat, pouting in his pathetic rage. “I’m not gonna apologize because you’re a huge asshole.”

Hanut flared her nostrils and snarled. For a split second, he looked afraid, like he knew he shouldn’t have sealed his fate so definitively. But it was too late.

“Have it your way, then,” Hanut said, and stood up with intent.

She dragged him across the floor by his hair. Fen kicked and cried out against her grip, trying in vain to escape from his fate. Not even the sharp thawp of her tail across whatever part of his body was convenient seemed to quiet him down. No, he had to make everything difficult for her. But that was fine with Hanut—it just meant she had a pass to make this even more difficult for him.

Every wall in her bedroom was adorned with her hoard, her prized collection of toys, perfectly organized, in cases, on hooks, and in drawers by size, category, and function. Hanut glanced over her hooks adorned with her tools of punishment, debating which ones Fen was the most deserving of. It didn’t look like he’d be settling down any time soon, so it would have to be one she could use while keeping him in his place.

“You really do make everything so much harder than it needs to be,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

“Look who’s fucking talking,” Fen shot back. He audibly winced when she clenched her fist.

“If you had just gotten on your knees like I asked you to, I wouldn’t have to do this.” Hanut picked out a leather paddle adorned with rounded spikes. It was mundane, but it would hurt as much as any of her enchanted tools.

“If you weren’t so damn bossy—”

“That’s enough, you little shit.”

Hanut dragged Fen to her bed, hauling him over the edge by his hair like a cat with her kitten. With one hand she mashed his face into the comforter, head tilted slightly so he could still breathe. She wanted him to be awake for this.

Still struggling, he stomped his hooves, dull thuds reverberating through the floor. His short tail thrashed back and forth, and she raised the paddle right underneath it, The shaggy, dark brown fur of his ass wouldn’t blush pink like his cheeks, but this thing could still teach him a lesson.

“Remember one thing, Fen,” Hanut said. “This stops when tell Daddy you’re sorry.”

She made her first swing.

His first cry was sharply honest. Another loud protest from someone who couldn’t believe this was happening to him, but unable to hide his misery. Hanut waited for his voice to fade to silence before spanking him again, letting him anticipate each strike. His body jolted under her unflinching hand, muscles going taut, fists clenching in shock.

“You’re so—” Fen began, breaking off to yelp. “Fucking mean!”

“I wouldn’t have to be,” Hanut sighed, hitting him to split her sentence in half, “if you would do what you’re told.”

He opened his mouth to complain again, but only choked out, “Fucking ow!”

“You can stop this at any time.” She swung again. “If you say the magic words.”

“Fuck you—ow!”

“Then shut the fuck up and take it.”

Each strike of the paddle made a loud smack against his ass, the thick fur unable to completely dampen the impact. Not even Fen’s howling could muffle it, his cries drained of their resentment one after the other, until only his pained yelps remained. Soon, all he did was moan in pain, pressed helplessly against the mattress.

Hanut punished him in near silence, only gruff snorts breaking her vigil. She kept her claws dug into his scalp, even though he’d stopped struggling a dozen swings ago. His comfort didn’t matter—in fact, his discomfort was the point. She watched her hand with a dispassionate gaze, following the paddle from arc to impact and back again. A shallow indent of diamonds, the same patterns as the dulls spikes, formed in Fen’s fur. She snorted deeply. A trail of smoke leaking from her nose and between gaps in her teeth rose hazily to the ceiling.

 “Stop,” Fen begged. “Please just stop, it hurts.”

“What did I tell you?” She hit him hard, and he sobbed in anguish. “What do you have to do to make this stop?”

Fen sniffed, interrupted by a tiny yelp as she smacked him again. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Sorry to who?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” He twisted under her hand, wet eyes straining to meet hers. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry, please stop hitting me.”

“That’s a good start.” Hanut put a longer pause between her strikes, but didn’t stop. He cried out weakly. “Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for—ah!—m-misbehaving and acting like a—fuck!—acting like a brat.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and rubbed his punished ass with the paddle. “And why did you misbehave, huh?”

Fen whimpered, noncommittal. Hanut raised the paddle again.

“I wanted attention!” he blurted, a frantic look in his teary eyes. “I wanted Daddy’s attention, I was so horny for your cock.” He sniffed hard, rubbing his cheek on the mattress. “I’m a horny slut, I just wanted you to fuck me, Daddy.”

Hanut shook her head, disappointed. “If you had been a good slut, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I know, Daddy, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” Fen blinked, tears streaking down his face. “I’ll be a good slut now, I promise.”

She looked down at her paddle, calculating her course of action. And noticed something wet and shiny across the spikes.

“Spread your legs,” she ordered.

Having learned his lesson, Fen scrambled to obey. He planted his hooves far apart, and put his cunt on display. Hanut flipped her paddle around and dragged the top edge against his folds. It came away smeared with his slick.

“Fen,” she said, looking down at him, “were you getting off on your punishment?”

He sobbed again, nodding pathetically. “I tried not to, but I love when you touch me and I was just so, so horny for you, Daddy.” He mashed his face deeper. “I’m a really big slut.”

Hanut didn’t know whether to be angry or satisfied, and her growl had a little bit of both. It wasn’t enough for him to disobey every order and think it would get him dick, Fen had to ruin his own punishment by thinking with his cunt. His apology was so honest, she couldn’t rightly continue to punish him when, but would his punishment mean anything if he was too horny to learn anything from it?

Then again, Fen provided her with a very easy solution.

“You are,” Hanut agreed. She let go of his head and sparked a bead of magic between her fingers. “You’re my biggest, neediest slut by far.”

With the tiny spark, she flicked between his legs. Fen yelped a little, but his voice shook in a moan as the enchantment around his sheath activated. Hanut’s spell flushed the surgical runes a bright blue, and out dropped his throbbing, leaking neocock.

“And since you’re such a slut,” she continued, “it shouldn’t be a problem at all for you to come while I punish you.”

Fen had barely enough time to gasp What? Before Hanut continued her beating.

The spanks came fast and hard, and now she had no intention of listening for any pleas for mercy. Fen sobbed and wailed in pain, babbling nonsense between his cries. Underneath his torment, though, Hanut heard his lust. His subtle moans, debauched and shameless, as every strike sent ripples through his ass, down to his cunt, and make his cock bounce.

“You’re such a slut,” she said, a little aroused herself at his desperation. “You can make yourself come on anything if you want it bad enough, can’t you?”

Fen didn’t answer with anything legible, voice bouncing as she hit him again and again.

“That’s why you’re my little slut. I know you can come for me however I ask, like any good slut should.” She chuckled as his moaned warbled to a higher pitch. “So come on, show me how good you are.”

Fen visibly tensed every muscle, and came with a hard spank. He didn’t even try to muffle the pathetic, wet cry, as much a noise of pain as it was ecstasy. His neocock splattered cum across the comforter, and remained rock hard where it dangled between his legs. Hanut crouched down to look at it.

“Look at that,” she murmured, close enough to break on it. Fen trembled, his neocock twitched. “You’re still needy, huh?”

“Yes, Daddy,” he whined. “Yes, Daddy, please can I have your cock now?”

She stood up, gears turning in her mind. “Stay right there.”

Fen went completely still. Hanut turned around with a smile on her face.

The spiked paddle went on the “used” shelf, so she could clean it later. To replace it, she picked up a leather-wrapped cane, a startling electric blue with runes etched down the side. From the next cabinet over, she picked out a dildo of the same color, with the same runes.

When she returned to Fen, she set the cane and the dildo within his teary vision. A distressed whine left him immediately.

“I know, Fen,” she cooed, stroking his hair. “But I can fuck you like you want if you come during your punishment. You understand?”

“Y-Yes, Daddy.”

“I’m gonna give you cock, and you’re still gonna come for me. But you need to learn to earn this cock, the right way. Alright?”

He whimpered, nodding into the comforter. Hanut ruffled his hair affectionately.

“That’s a good slut,” she praised. A visible shiver went down his spine.

As Hanut prepped her cane and the dildo, she couldn’t help but admire her work. Bent over the bed, Fen trembled before her. Legs spread, fur rumpled, adorable tears tracking his flushed cheeks. For all his bluster, he was really just a needy kid who would do anything to get her attention, even if it meant disobeying her. It was cute, in its own way, to know that every time he lashed out, all he really wanted was to have one or all of his holes stuffed to the brim with her cock. But every single time she brought him back to his core self, when his true desires were laid bare, it was a hundred times sweeter than if she’d given him what he wanted at the start.

Enchantments activated, the dildo hung in the air, perpendicular to the cane and just below it. Magic pulsed through the pair, runes sparkling with the steady stream of energy Hanut fed them through her hand. She lined up the cane until it tapped the end of it against Fen’s ass, and the dildo slid into his cunt. He moaned wantonly, the sound of a slut getting everything he’d ever wanted.

“I’m gonna give you two minutes to come for me,” Hanut said. “After that, I’m putting these away, and you’re not getting any more cock.”

“O-Okay,” Fen breathed, widening his stance. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo.”

As she slowly pulled the cane back, the dildo followed. It slipped out of his cunt, inch by inch, and his voice wobbled with lust and anticipation. Hanut drew back until the tip had popped free of his hole.

The cane struck and the dildo rammed home. Fen shot up with a wordless cry, arching his back and fisting the comforter. Hanut put a gentle hand on his back, and struck him again. Set free with his only order to come as fast as he could, he panted and moaned and sobbed for her, taking every hit without complaint or compromise. Hanut struck particularly sharp and he yelped.

“Bet that hurts, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes,” Fen sobbed.

“Does that cock feel good, though?”

He nodded, another sob wracking his body. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Can you imagine how good it would feel if I didn’t have to hurt you, too?”

Fen nodded heavily, a broken moan jolting out of his mouth.

“You could have had this cock without the cane, you know. I would have given you an even bigger one to come around.” Hanut watched the dildo fill his cunt easily, barely a stretch for what she knew he could take. “I know you like getting filled with all my biggest, nastiest cocks.”

He warbled and cried, but she knew he was listening.

“I try to make it easy for you, give you simple rules for you to follow to get fucked in all your holes exactly how you want it. But you have to trust me.” She struck him hard, so the dildo would ram him, and reveled at the way his voice broke. “You have to be a good slut for Daddy.”

“I—I’ll be good,” Fen sobbed.

“You’ll be what?”

“I’ll be a—ahhh!”

“Come on, you can say it.”

“I’ll be a good slut for Daddy!” He cried wantonly, and Hanut increased her strikes. “I’ll be a good slut, I’ll be good, I’ll take whatever you want, Daddy, I’ll be so good!”

“Thirty seconds, kiddo, show me what a good slut you are.”

Fen bit down on his bottom lip, furrowed his sweaty brow. His cheeks were streaked with tears, fresh and old, but he didn’t beg her to stop. Didn’t try to wriggle his way out, or touch himself, or ask for a different toy. Fen took exactly what she gave him, took the pain and abuse. He let Hanut fuck him with a cane, gathered all his concentration to make sure he came for her in spite of his body’s protests, and turned it into something even more beautiful than his desires:

His submission.

With ten seconds to spare, Fen came a second time. Hanut paused her strikes to let him come around the dildo like he deserved, cock spluttering between his legs once again. He sobbed and babbled, barely legible, but Hanut knew he was thanking her.

“Very, very good slut,” she whispered. She nuzzled the back of his neck with her snout and he shivered underneath her. “You’re gonna remember to be good from now on, right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” he slurred, face mashed into the mattress.

Hanut accepted his answer, but deep down, she knew they’d be having the same argument again next week.

-

Events Taglist: @foxys-fantasy-tales @thelaughingstag @ceph-the-ghost-writer @auntdarth @srjacksin @alesseia @monstrify @kaitheenbydoesthings @foxboyclit @viscerawrites @void-botanist @theghostofarbyrouse

Athendrolyn After Dark Taglist: @foxys-fantasy-tales @auroblaze @monstrify @thelaughingstag @auntdarth @srjacksin @void-botanist @theghostofarbyrouse

He had painfully — every movement hurt — arranged his legs into a more reasonable lying position as he was moved, and now — if he hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have been comfortable. He didn’t know when he’d last slept comfortably. He’d run out of tears, it seemed, but a sudden rush of gratitude brought him close once more.

»There, that’s better, isn’t it?«

The other was lying in the opposite direction from him, just like resting herdmates would, so he couldn’t see his face, but the sheer size and black-pied coat of the body told him this was the giant who had spared him, in the end. The one they’d called Mac.

He wanted to thank him. Not doing it seemed dangerous, but he still didn’t know whether he was allowed to talk.

He was so exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, but the pain was too much. Or maybe it was the fear clawing through the heavy blanket of tiredness.

Someone was talking to him, and it wasn’t a brusque order or an angry, drunken rant about how worthless he was. They all had done this, nearly all of them. It was so very unfamiliar.

»Here, have something to drink while I dry you up. You’re soaked. That was hard work, huh?« There was a slight twinkle of amusement in the stallion’s voice, but not enough to be outright cruel. Less so as Melay was presented with a canteen containing, when he lifted it to his lips with straining arms — he was so exhausted — clean water. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was.

The invasive touches across his body hardly mattered. He was slow to process it was a cloth being rubbed over him, taking off a layer of sweat. It didn’t even hurt, except on the ever-present bruises on his haunches where the General would beat him, which Mac couldn’t have seen under his copper fur. It almost seemed he was being gentle on purpose.

»I’m Mac,« he announced without stopping. »What’s your name, little one?«

It was a direct question. Melay didn’t want to make decisions, not right now, he really didn’t; but he knew there must be a correct choice here, and no matter how exhausted he was, he had to find it, somehow.

»Whore, sir,« he finally whispered, his voice rough in his throat. It was what the General had called him, if ever he had addressed him.

»Oh.« Mac paused. »That the only name you’ve had?«

Melay shook his head. He was so tired, and he’d chosen wrong, and somewhere inside him, he didn’t want to tell them his name, the first one. It didn’t seem right. Maybe because it wasn’t for a slave. He couldn’t tell.

Before Mac could dig into it further, a new voice interrupted him. »Leave him be. If he wants to keep his name for himself — well, it’s the only thing he has, it’s only understandable.«

»If you say so, Doc,« Mac muttered and continued in cleaning Melay up. »Guess we’ll have to stick with little one for now, then. That alright?«

Melay didn’t know how to answer.

The new arrival laid down on his other side. A hand caught under his chin and raised his eyes, forcing Melay to look at him. Black coat, white stockings on all feet. He didn’t seem familiar. Then again, he had lost track of them.

»I’m a medic,« he explained. »I’m going to have a look at your ass and see if I can do anything for you. I expect you’re sore all over, too, but is there anything else in particular that’s hurting?«

Another decision. He was so tired. Why was he being looked at by a medic, anyway? He felt a tear slip down his face. Maybe he’d just run out of water, earlier.

He shook his head. The bruises didn’t count, they’d been a rightful punishment, and he barely felt them against the rest of his aches now. They were fading, anyway.

»Can you raise your tail for me?«

The medic swore under his breath, and Melay felt he had fucked up by obeying once more.

»I can’t believe she let you do this.«

»I didn’t do anything,« Mac protested.

The medic only snorted, but when he spoke to Melay again — it took him a moment to realize — his voice was as calm as before. »I’m going to apply some ointment. It’ll sting a little, but it will stop this mess from getting infected.«

Melay braced himself, but he was exhausted enough to barely flinch when the ointment stung into what must be wounds. That was good. He didn’t want to make trouble. Why was he being looked at by a medic?

»I’m sure you’re tired, but you should eat something, too. That was a lot of work,« the medic’s calmness cracked over the word, raw anger showing through, »and you’re already underfed. When have you last eaten?«

Nothing bad had happened the last time, so he settled for speaking again. »Last evening, sir.«

»Your voice. Have you had a cough? Trouble breathing?«

»No, sir. I just…« The medic hadn’t asked for an explanation. Too late. »I wasn’t supposed to talk, sir.«

For a long moment, the medic just stared at him, and another wave of terror washed through him. He’d straight up told him he was misbehaving. He hadn’t known Melay wasn’t supposed to talk, but now he knew he’d been ignoring orders.

Mac spat, and at first Melay though he was disgusted with him, but then he followed it up with, »How long have you been with that asshole?«

»Eight years, I think, sir.«

The medic’s gaze softened inexplicably into a look of resignation. »Alright. You’re allowed to talk now, we’ll see how your voice handles it. Eat something.«

»I’ve got some bread for him,« Mac said.

»Great. Didn’t think any of you had the sense. Then get some rest…« The medic looked dissatisfied with something, and Melay would have given anything — not that he had anything to give — to know what he could have done better.

It was too late. The medic got up and walked off to the commander.

»Here.« Mac handed Melay a flatbread. »Have at it.«

There was something flavourful baked into it, some kind of herbs. He wasn’t used to it.

»Do you want to kill him? Is that what you want?!« The medic’s voice rose and leapt across the fire.

»Alright, alright, Doc. It was a mistake, alright?« The commander’s tone almost carried a note of contriteness, but it vanished in her next words. »Now let it go.«

»Get some rest, little one.« Mac gently patted his back. »We’ll be on the road tomorrow.«

Melay couldn’t think about it. He draped himself across the big stallion’s back again.

Comfortable.

»So, do we get to fuck the gelding?« It was the same stallion who had asked first, his greying coat bright in the half-light.

The bandits had, one by one, reassambled around the fire, apparently done with setting up for the night.

»Fine.« The commander, now laid down comfortably and rifling through the papers she’d seized, chuckled. »Everyone gets one ride on the gelding.«

If his heart had sunk at her first word, it plummeted at that. There must be close to thirty stallions there.

»Aw, you don't like that, do you? Tell you what, if you stand pretty for everyone, you'll get tomorrow night off.«

That wasn't how anything worked, he knew that. Not being punished was all the reward to be earned, and time off was unthinkable — a slave had to earn his keep.

But he was desperate to believe it. He’d need it.

Either way, there was nothing for him to do but obey, so he swallowed the tears of sheer terror that were already creeping up his throat, and stood pretty.

He could tell the first stallion’s approach from the cheers of the onlookers; he himself kept his eyes cast down. It would make no difference.

He was surprised by the pat to his ass. Almost a caress, definitely an advance warning. Then he was more surprised by fingers slipping under his docked tail, rubbing something slick around his hole, something the General had never bothered with, before the stallion mounted him.

His muscles tensed under the weight. The General hadn’t done this often enough for him to really be particularly trained for it, but like every time it had happened, he would push through. It wasn’t like he had a choice. It didn’t help that he was so small; the General had liked him that way, so he had starved him during his growing years, and it had worked about as well as could be expected.

»There you are, good boy.«

It was just as puzzling as the first time, but it was quickly driven out of his mind as the stallion pushed into him. He bit back a whimper, forcing himself still while his legs wanted to stumble forward with the force of the thrusts that kept tearing into him-

Finally, with a satisfied groan, the stallion slipped out and off of him. Gave him a pat on his lower shoulder. Said, »Good job, little thing.«

Melay had given up on holding back his tears, and the confusion only added to the pain in his behind and the fear at what was yet to come.

He had no time to catch his breath before the next stallion was on him. His knees wanted to buckle under the force of him climbing on his back. He wouldn’t be able to do this, not for another two dozen or more.

The stallion put his arms around him, like a lover, as he fucked into him. Muttered »There you go, good boy« into his ear, as if it mattered at all.

With every one of them, it felt more like being stabbed with a blade; he was sure, now — after who knew how much time, who knew how many assaults — that it wasn’t just their cum dripping down his thighs. He could only helplessly cry it out and force himself to be still when every fibre of his body wanted to escape. The moments of anticipation — of opportunity, to his baser instincts — between each stallion became their own kind of torture, though outshone each time by the pain of the same injured spots being hit again, again, again.

But the longer it went on, the more the pain in his ass faded into background thrumming against the ache in his legs and back. His whole body trembled from the strain, his legs felt like pudding, and eventually, when one of them — he had lost count — hopped onto him, his hind legs buckled. He couldn’t help it. He tried so hard, but he couldn’t help it.

The stallion landed next to him, standing securely on his own feet. »Whoah! Easy there.«

He wanted to apologize, to beg for mercy, but he still hadn’t been given permission to speak. He just righted himself, sobbing. He would lose the promised night off, if it ever had been real. His legs still trembled, even with the weight of the stallion off.

The stallion who was still beside him grabbed him by his upper shoulder. But the extra pain Melay expected at the touch didn’t come. »Come on, little one, you can do it!«

It didn’t sound like a scolding. It sounded like genuine encouragement.

»You’re getting an extra try,« the commander called over. »Three tries for each of them, sound fair?«

Fair? What did it matter? He had to do what he was told.

But the bandits cheered.

»Come on,« the stallion repeated, and then he mounted him again. Slowlier this time, more carefully. As if he wanted him to succeed.

Melay held out, he didn’t know how. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Even when the stallion finally slipped off, he could hardly get air into his lungs between sobs. He couldn’t do another one, he couldn’t.

But then he could. The stallion was nearly gentle with him, and through the ache in his back and the tremble in his legs he stood.

His legs gave out twice more under the next few — he couldn’t count any more, all there was was to force his body to endure. The second time he fell all the way to the ground, and if the stallion hadn’t pulled him up immediately, he didn’t know how he would have gotten back onto his feet. He’d banged his knees, but it didn’t matter, not when his every joint was already on fire.

Someone, at some point, patted his shoulder as they left off. »Just four to go, isn’t that right?«

»You can do it!«

He couldn’t, he couldn’t do another four, he couldn’t do another one-

He buckled twice under the next stallion. Three chances. He couldn’t fall again, or-

»Come on, little one.« The stallion crept onto his back once more, grabbing on to his lower shoulders as if to steady him.

He trembled so hard it felt like the ground was shaking under him.

The stallion was quick. He’d done it, he didn’t know how, but he couldn’t do another-

»Hang in there, almost done.« The next stallion climbed him with the same care. It wasn’t enough, it couldn’t be. Melay stumbled, but the stallion stayed on his swaying body, holding on to him. »Steady, steady…«

Another was on him before he realized the last one was gone. He couldn’t think anymore. He buckled under the weight, and was caught by the arm, steadied as much as he could be steady on his shaking body.

»Come on.«

He didn’t know how he did it. He barely knew when he’d done it, dizzy with pain and the weakness filling his limbs like ice water. There was nothing left in the world but the circle of firelight and the posse of bandits and maybe, though it didn’t seem sure, the ground beneath his hooves.

The last stallion came up to his side before jumping him.

He was, Melay had no doubt about it, the biggest of the lot. He couldn’t do anything, he just sobbed and sobbed. There was no way. He’d stood pretty for all of them, and now he would fail anyway. It had been a set-up after all; of course, a night off could never have been real, and he had been a fool for entertaining hope, even for one misguided moment.

The stallion was next to him. Melay didn’t look up. There was no point.

»Aw, that’s mean,« someone in the back called. But it was said with a chuckle. He knew no one would come to save him.

»You should have gone earlier, Mac.«

»You know what?« A hand touched his sweat-soaked temple, combed back his hair. »I’m not really feeling it tonight, anyway.«

He was too out of it to process it — or to trust the conclusion he came to, anyway. But the bandits cheered. They cheered, as if they had wanted for him to succeed.

»There you go then, little one.« The commander grinned, her words straightforward enough for him to follow. »You’re done.«