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[rachrar]

Story: An Honorable Man, Except For Him

Pairing: King Storvorn Korik/Thane Stirnetsk (his guard turned jester)

Kinks: Fingering (vaginal), blowjob, ~royal virginity~

Universe: Everia (high fantasy)

Associated art done by AberrantNautes

“Storvorn,” Thane said, hands on Storvorn’s shoulders. Storvorn’s hand paused, about to wipe off the day’s makeup with a wet pad. “What?” “You can’t keep doing this.” Storvorn tch’d. “Yes, I can. Why should I trust some other fool to handle my safety at night?” He continued the motion he had paused, the teal above his eyes fading away in just a few swipes. “Because the only fool in your life should be me, and you should allow your guards to do their duty. You know I’m here to be your jester, not your royal guard anymore, not one that others know. Bringing me into your bedchamber is inviting gossip that you have given your honor to me.”

Storvorn struggled not to show his boredom, though the expression would have fit well on his delicate, sharp face. The man below his dias was wrinkling his hat in his hands as he stuttered through his woes. The open-air days were the worst thing the city offered to the poor; a chance to plead their case and get assistance. Of course, Storvorn did not give a single fuck about what the man wanted, paying enough attention to follow but ignoring the majority of the fumbling “your majesty”s and “begging your pardon”s.

Storvorn was good at hiding his disdain, thankfully. As king, he needed to look like he cared lest the commoners think that their king didn’t want to listen to their desires and might get some idea of rebellion in their minds. He had hated his etiquette training as a child but he wasn’t a fool, he knew it was useful, especially now. The man had been talking for a good few minutes, long enough for the people in line behind him to start to scowl. It was time to move on.

Storvorn raised a hand and the man stopped speaking mid-sentence, mumbling an apology before silencing himself entirely. “I see that you have been wronged, though I also see that the man who has aggrieved you was in a place where he could not win. A sheep is not worth a man’s life and wolves are known to be aggressive when cornered. I rule that the loss of your sheep was necessary to save the man’s life. On behalf of the city and my place as king, I hereby replace your sheep with one of the royal flock.”

The man’s mouth hung open in shock before he nearly fell over in thanks. Storvorn was sure that his sheep were nearly starving, or at least would look so, when given a royal sheep to care for, the replacement plump and large. Storvorn waved a hand once more to dismiss the man’s speech. “It is my pleasure to assist my subjects in any manner that I am able. Speak to the Keeper of the Animals and she will guide your next moves.”

The man was led away by a page and Storvorn had a moment to breathe. The Fool was next in line and Storvorn couldn’t hide his disappointment. What would Thane do now? Storvorn was tired, the day was long and the sun was running from the horizon’s kiss, the last rays of sunshine making the stained glass of the court glow. He didn’t need his jester’s foolishness to frustrate him further. He knew, however, that he could not simply send Thane away. The court was also bored with the commoners prattling on and if Thane made someone laugh, then his job was fulfilled.

Storvorn knew that no matter how terrible Thane’s next jest might be, he couldn’t do anything but give a laugh. It might even be sincere! And yet, he still did not look forward to it. Thane was the last person he knew from home, from Phoseon, and he had a soft spot for the man, the only one allowed to speak his mind before Storvorn (let alone in public) and avoid Storvorn’s wrath. Storvorn closed his eyes to gather himself and flicked aside a lock of coal-black hair before opening them once more.

Thane was on one knee, a hand held out as if hoping to receive a royal hand in his own, his other to his chest. It was a mockery of devotion and Storvorn felt a tension in his temple grow as Thane spoke, face hidden behind his grinning mask.

“Your Majesty,” Thane said, voice carrying through the large space and edging on insolence with the edging of mockery. “If I may speak, Your Majesty?”

Storvorn’s forehead throbbed, a headache coming on. If Thane tested his patience too much, Storvorn was as likely as not to send for the whipping boy. He wouldn’t punish Thane with lashes, but he could use another in Thane’s place and he knew Thane hated that more.

Storvorn inclined his head, giving the expected permission. It wasn’t necessary, of course, but it seemed that it was part of the joke that he was playing.

“I too have lost one of my flock, Your Majesty, a ewe named Ewe.” Storvorn’s expression darkened. “But every time I look for Ewe, all I find is you.” Thane stood, the bells on his hat jangling as he skipped forward to overdramatically lean against the heavy throne, a hand over his forehead in sadness. “And I am afraid, Your Majesty, that as you are Ewe, I must ask you to return to my flock to join your fellows in white. I am sure that Ewe would be much happier in my field and chewing cud rather than being lambasted by so many requests!”

Storvorn snorted, covering his mouth with a hand and looking away at the undignified sound. This time he didn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, purposely exaggerating the movement to encourage the court to laugh. There were some giggles and a few guffaws from the ones trying to garner Storvorn’s attention the most as if Storvorn would be more likely to look at them simply because they found a poor joke amusing.

“Perhaps if you look in a mirror, Jester,” Storvorn said, keeping his tone light, “you might find Ewe in the reflection.”

Thane gasped and fell to the floor as if struck in the heart. Thane’s voice boomed in the space, echoing along the walls loudly and commanding attention. “Your Majesty! How clever you are to turn my jest against me so! I shall never speak again as I have been defeated in the realm of buffoonery, a master of fools sitting before me!”

Storvorn’s jaw clenched as the room erupted into hidden laughter, ladies hiding behind their fans and others not even bothering to hide their reaction to the insult. Of course that would be more amusing than some sheep pun. They all disliked him, Storvorn knew, all looked at him with jealous eyes, especially the duchess, all because he sat on the throne.

The young king waved a hand to the door guards, a few pages and servants stepping forward to the line of people yet to be heard. “The sun has set and the day is concluded,” Storvorn said, voice more firm. “I will hear the rest of the grievances next week. Give your requests to the Court Keeper and those who have been chosen will be seen then, all others will go to the lesser court.”

Storvorn stood, sweeping his cape out to flow by his feet. The rest of the court, who were mostly standing to begin with, bowed or curtsied as appropriate before taking their leave. The room was cleared relatively quickly, Storvorn giving a few nods towards some of the nobles to indicate that they were in his favor and knew that he could use them for some other tasks. He needed only to feed their pride to do so.

Once the room was empty, Thane stood from the ground to kneel before Storvorn, fixing a tie on his boot and speaking quietly. “Earl Grey has his eyes upon the marquess title now that Dumann has been officially declared dead.”

Storvorn acknowledged the words with a soft sound and Thane continued. “Dumann’s sons, Jimmy and James, are still living, and the earl may make moves to change that, though they have not taken the title nor do they seem to care to.”

Thane stood, the bows on Storvorn’s boots neat and even. “I see,” Storvorn murmured quietly, eyes scanning the room. The guards were staring into the distance, ignoring all the politics that they heard. Rather, they pretended to, and Storvorn wondered how much they did hear. Magic was forbidden in the court and the room’s own magic dampened all other spells, so likely very little if anything at all. Why Thane decided to say this in the throne room rather than somewhere more private, however, was a mystery to Storvorn. He acted as though it wasn’t surprising then turned on his heel.

“Come along, Jester,” Storvorn said imperiously. “I have need of amusement and you will serve as entertainment.”

“Have I ever failed you, Your Majesty?” Thane said, skipping down the hallway backward. He knew every turn in the building and many secret passageways so he wasn’t afraid of hitting a wall. Any servant who didn’t move, however, was on their own.

“To amuse?” Storvorn asked. “Often.”

“And yet,” Thane said with a long-suffering sigh, “you keep me. So much joy must be simply from my shortcomings! I will work to do worse just for you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Storvorn said, eyes flashing as he looked at Thane. He didn’t see Thane’s expression but knew that Thane was smirking. He had finally gotten under Storvorn’s skin and the pleasure of seeing Storvorn’s carefully crafted apathy breaking was one of his favorite things.

The doors to Storvorn’s bedchamber opened before he needed to speak or indicate so, waltzing in while the guards took their places on either side of the doorway. Thane followed with a joyous step, smugness radiating off of him like the sun radiated heat. The doors closed behind them, the hinges silent, though they both heard the guards beginning to speak to each other before the wooden barrier hid all sound.

Storvorn flopped onto the chair before his vanity, rubbing at his temple. Thane, all levity in his step and body language dropped, walked up to Storvorn more seriously. “You know that gossip is spreading about this.”

“About what?” Storvorn scowled as he unbuttoned the cape, tossing it over the back of the chair. “That you are in my bedchamber at night?”

Thane nodded, taking the mask off with a relieved sound. The mask was thin but when he wore it at all hours, it made his nose a little sore, and getting fresh air over his skin was the best part of the day. His blue eyes glanced Storvorn over, running a hand through his hair. Nobody saw it day to day apart from Storvorn, a little vanity that he kept from his time in the Phoseon court as a royal guard, but he was meticulous in keeping the sides dyed dark and leaving the top white regardless.

“What does it matter that the lessers speak? They will keep their tongue or find it in my hand should it wag too often.” Storvorn looked at Thane via the mirror. “You need to redye your hair. The roots are beginning to show.”

Thane frowned, moving to stand behind Storvorn, and leaned down to look into the silver-backed glass in an attempt to find the spot that Storvorn mentioned. He shifted his hair a few times before huffing. “My hair is perfectly fine.”

“Of course it is,” Storvorn said. “But since you are here, assist me to change into nightclothes so I may eat without dealing with this stiff fabric in the way.” Thane’s eyes narrowed, realizing he’d been played, but obediently assisted, setting the royal outfit aside in favor of softer fabric, though still finely spun. His hands were deft, assisting only when directed to, and Storvorn was quickly in more comfortable clothing.

“Storvorn,” Thane said, hands on Storvorn’s shoulders. Storvorn’s hand paused, about to wipe off the day’s makeup with a wet pad.

“What?”

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Storvorn tch’d. “Yes, I can. Why should I trust some other fool to handle my safety at night?” He continued the motion he had paused, the teal above his eyes fading away in a few swipes and leaving the emerald of his irises a little duller without the contrast.

“Because the only fool in your life should be me, and you should allow your guards to do their duty. You know I’m here to be your jester, not your royal guard anymore, not one that others know. Bringing me into your bedchamber is inviting gossip that you have given your honor to me.”

Thane took the pad from Storvorn, getting a last wipe over Storvorn’s cheek to catch the last of the powder. Storvorn glared at him before looking away as Thane tossed the dirtied cloth into a side basket. “I tell you this because it’s important and you know that.”

Storvorn was silent, crossing his arms and refusing to respond.

Thane picked up Storvorn’s clothing to set it on hangers for the laundress to gather that night. “Please think about it.” Storvorn sniffled, wiping at his eyes. “Oh, don’t you do that, you know well that I know your tears to be a tool, especially now since your makeup won’t run and make a mess on your face.”

Storvorn’s eyes wobbled, tears pooling in the corners but Thane stood firm. A few moments passed before Storvorn dropped the act, wiping at his eyes to get the water away. He was good at it, at least, and if he had not stopped, there would have been obvious tears dripping down his cheeks. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t trust them. You’ve seen how Maghrebi looks at me.”

Thane didn’t deny that. The envy and anger that simmered in her eyes were obvious every time she met Storvorn’s, hidden the moment that someone might see. The exposed emotion was a threat; Storvorn was not safe from her ambition. “Be that as it may,” Thane answered. “We cannot allow these rumors to continue.”

“It’s too late for that,” Storvorn snapped, his patience fading as he yanked the crown off of his head to drop onto the vanity. “If they’re flying now, then changing anything will make us look more guilty as if I have now heard the tales and decided to send you out in an attempt to hide what I’m doing. The only way to truly quash the rumors would be to either hang you for the crime of stealing my honor or to tell them that I am Flametouched and allow a physician to verify that it is unbroken.”

Thane pinched at the bridge of his nose. Storvorn was right, and when it was Storvorn, being right was often frustrating. The court wasn’t aware that Storvorn was born with a hole rather than a pole, and if they did, then it would be quickly demanded that his barrier, magically bound because of his station to break upon any penetration, be checked. At that point, he would either have to allow the indignity of being seen by a physician or deny and imply that he was unchaste when all knew it was meant to be whole.

When Storvorn had been betrothed to Seth Erelin and moved into the city as part of the oath of marriage, he was but a child of 8 years. Oaths of loyalty and promises of chastity were made upon his arrival, the marriage completed in all ways but one, and he would not have given his honor until he came of age. When the king died, Storvorn had not yet lain with the king, though the day had been fast approaching. He still took the throne as was his right, but had to stay chaste until he was promised anew and his marriage bed filled with another.

The duchess tried maneuvering herself into gaining his hand and had been politely refused on account of mourning, but the clock was running out and his options were closing in. He could claim grief for only so long. Eventually, he would need to suffer the touch of someone that he did not trust and send Thane away from his bedroom at night, leaving his back open to any danger that might lurk in men's hearts. But not now, not yet.

“Besides,” Storvorn said, his voice much calmer as he ran a brush through his hair. “Even if it were true, at least it wasn’t some horse groom or peasant."

Jealousy flared in Thane regardless before he tamped it down roughly, taking the hairbrush from Storvorn and combing the strands himself. Storvorn’s eyes closed comfortably as he enjoyed the man’s pampering, genuine trust in his expression that made Thane’s stomach twist.

The man, barely more than a boy, was paranoid and easily convinced that someone was behind his back with a knife. His attitude had earned him the ire of every single one of his siblings and had fielded multiple attempts on his life; fitting since he had ended his elder brother’s. Thane had stopped the most egregious attack and bore the wound of the battle over his stomach, a deep slash that stung unpleasantly when he stretched too much. But here, Storvorn trusted Thane. Thane could hold a knife to Storvorn’s throat at this very moment and he wouldn’t move, merely complain that Thane needed to use a sharper blade to shave his stubble.

It was something Thane treasured, knowing that he and he alone held Storvorn’s unyielding trust. He understood why Storvorn was so wary of threats, though he did think many of them could have been avoided if Storvorn had hidden his contempt better. He didn’t understand why he was given such faith. He wasn’t the only one to save Storvorn’s life, the royal food tester had done so at least thrice.

“Thane.” Thane looked down to Storvorn, realizing that he had paused in the motions, and resumed. “Why don’t you call me Stor anymore?”

Thane’s hands stuttered. He couldn’t do that. He had stopped when Storvorn had blossomed into a man, afraid that such intimacy as a nickname might give the wrong impression if overheard. “It is inappropriate, Storvorn,” Thane said. “It would seem too familiar.”

“Hm.” Storvorn pushed Thane’s hand away from his hair. “I don’t want to leave for dinner. Bring me food here. I’m tired.”

Thane’s lips curled downwards. “Again?” It was the third night in a row Storvorn had requested his nightly meal in his room.

“Yes,” Storvorn said. “It’s getting cold out and the floors are uncomfortable on my feet.”

“Wear slippers,” Thane said dryly. “Most of the floor has rugs and you will not walk on stone that way.”

“I don’t care,” Storvorn said, and from the set of his jaw, Thane knew that further arguing was pointless when Storvorn was like this. Storvorn would dig his heels in if only to argue and it wasn’t worth the effort of trying to convince him otherwise.

Thane opened the door enough to speak to the guards before closing it. His hand lingered on the handle before returning to stand behind Storvorn’s shoulder. “It will be here shortly.”

“You requested your dinner as well?”

Thane had thought about not doing so but knew it would lead to a fight if he didn’t. “Yes, I did.”

“Good. Now, I want to play chess again. I want to be able to beat you for once.”

Thane smirked. “We will see.”

The chess game went exactly as Thane expected; Storvorn lost and nearly threw a fit after, shoving the board at Thane and knocking the pieces across the small table. It was better than he used to be, having thrown the board more than a few times before, but Thane still gave him a judgmental look. Storvorn pouted, but gathered the pieces anyway, shoving them into Thane’s hands roughly for the man to pack away.

Dinner, at least, was better. It was hard to fail that when a guard was brought in to test every single piece of Storvorn’s meal for poison. Once it was declared safe, the guard was shooed out and Storvorn actually began to eat.

“Why don’t you have me test it?” Thane asked, stealing a bite of Storvorn’s meat, much to his displeasure.

“Because you matter,” Storvorn said absently, focused on trying to do the same to Thane. Thane was too quick and Storvorn was rebuffed until he simply stole the fork from Thane’s hand, a tactic he hadn’t used before and that Thane didn’t expect. Thane processed the words as he watched Storvorn swallow the bite of carrot with a satisfied smile before he passed the fork back over. Thane’s eyes dropped to his meal.

Storvorn set his plates aside on the platter once he was done, stretching. The shirt rode up to expose his belly and Thane had to force himself to look away. He was Storvorn’s guard. He needed to guard him from all threats, including dishonorable thoughts, especially his own.

Storvorn looked Thane up and down and Thane felt like he was on display, Storvorn’s eyes lingering on his arms before pushing his chair back and standing. “You need to change to your night clothes.” He paused. “And I need to bathe.”

“I will take my leave then,” Thane said, glad for the perfect moment to slip away. Storvorn had servants specifically for this task and he did not want to take their place. 

“No.” Storvorn’s voice wasn’t firm or weak, more a simple statement of fact. “I want your assistance to wash up.”

Thane’s brow furrowed. This wasn’t something that Storvorn had asked him to do before, and with the talk earlier, he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with that. “You have your attendants—”

“And one of them burned me the other day,” Storvorn said, cutting Thane off. 

“I’m sure it was an accident. You cannot keep sending your servants away when they make a mistake.”

“Can’t I?” Storvorn padded over to the secondary room, pausing with a hand on the door jamb when Thane didn’t move. “Are you going to help or not?”

Thane looked at the door, debating if he wanted to leave and force Storvorn to deal with it himself. “If I say no?”

“Then you will sit in my room and wait until I am done. But I know how you hate wasting water and you have not bathed today either. Come.” Storvorn walked into the bathing room. Thane leaned forward, running his hands over his face roughly as if it would help. He stood and followed Storvorn.

Storvorn had the taps on, waiting for the large tub to fill and picking out the soaps and towel he wanted for after, the fluffy fabric overflowing in his arms. Storvorn looked over his shoulder when he heard Thane’s steps, eyes widening for a moment. He didn’t expect it to actually work.

Thane ignored the expression and grabbed a towel of his own, setting it aside. He saw Storvorn begin to undress and turned away, hands hesitating over the buttons of his jester shirt, the overbright orange and yellow far flashier than the man ever wanted to be.

“You realize that bathing requires you to be naked, don’t you?” Storvorn said in a lazy drawl. “You may as well strip. I know you have extra clothing in here somewhere, you’ve been in different clothes when I wake in the morning.”

Thane scowled. He needed to remember that Storvorn paid far more attention than his petulant attitude would imply, somehow always forgetting it at the most annoying time. Reluctantly, he went to the linen closet he had gotten the towel from and reached in past the first stack and to the clothes behind. It wasn’t another jester outfit but a more casual shirt and pants, clothing he only wore when his false role wasn’t needed.

He didn’t turn around, knowing that Storvorn was naked at this point. There was a soft splash and Storvorn melted comfortably on the stone seat. “The water is warm, come on.” Another splash as Storvorn tapped at the water.

Thane looked over his shoulder. Storvorn’s eyes were closed, arms on the edge of the in-floor tub, and water up to his chest. There were bubbles that hid the rest of him (thank the Flames) but Thane was going to end up naked without anything to cover him until he was in the water. Thane looked at the clothes in his hands, then shook his head. He couldn’t do this.

Storvorn turned the faucet off without opening his eyes. “Hurry up, the water will cool down and you’ll have to deal with that.”

“I’ve showered in icy water pouring from the mountain tops, Storvorn,” Thane said. “And I have no issue doing so again.”

“There’s no need to anymore, not when you’re guarding me. I give you all my creature comforts when you are by my side.” Storvorn opened his eyes. Thane stood awkwardly, the tall man holding the towel with tight hands. He was still dressed.

Storvorn leaned his hand on a hand, raising a brow. “What, do you think I’d allow you to have a terrible time guarding me? When have I denied you something you wanted?”

When Thane was silent, Storvorn nodded to himself. “Yes. You’re honorable, you get to enjoy what I have, and you are skilled. That’s why you’re such a good guard.”

“I could be a terrible guard,” Thane said as though it could possibly be true.

Storvorn laughed, a short sound of denial mixed with mild amusement. “When you’ve guarded me for half my life and saved it more than once? I doubt it.”

“I could be turning against you. I could set up a coup.”

“You won’t.” Storvorn set aside a ring he forgot to take off, tossing it towards a towel like it wasn’t worth more than most men’s yearly salary. “You’re too noble for that.”

“More noble men than I have been bought,” Thane pointed out, “and not for very much either.” He walked over to pick up the ring, turning it over in his hand. It was beautiful, a deep red ruby in the shape of a rose.

“Yes yes yes, good men have done terrible things,” Storvorn waved a hand dismissively. “But you won’t. I know this.”

“How could you possibly know?” Thane said, exasperated. “You know that I am aware of what happened to the previous king, even if I had nothing to do with it. Why would I not do the same to you?”

Storvorn’s eyes got flinty, narrowed, and sharp. The playfulness of an indolent king faded into a fierce tactician watching pieces on the board move according to his plans. “I know this because you know and you have not turned me over to the vultures circling me in hopes that I might stumble. I know the duchess has tried to buy you multiple times, along with at least one earl. I know you have more than enough information to have me killed and plenty of opportunities to do so. You have all the motives in the world; money, your own title, a return to home. But you haven’t. You’re an honorable man… except when it comes to me.”

Thane couldn’t deny the words. He had been approached and refused the offers, told Storvorn of every one, in fact, knowing that the hangman’s noose swung with only a whispered word in Storvorn’s ear. He had plenty of people who would be happy to pay him anything he asked for in return for a moment of time alone with Storvorn to kill the little king. But he wouldn’t, because just as Storvorn said, he was an honorable man, except when it came to Storvorn.

“Why didn’t you send me away with the rest of your men? Why did you include me in this?” He set the ring on a shelf, hand tight on the wood as if he would fall without the stability of the shelf to keep him upright.

“Because you stayed.” Thane turned around to look at Storvorn, confused. Storvorn waved an arm as though it was obvious. 

“The others left because they wanted to. They didn’t like me, didn’t want to help me in any manner. They found reasons and excuses, or manufactured ones, to run the moment that they could leave my service without shaming themselves. I know that many of them were lying, but I wasn’t going to keep a hateful man at my side. Every single one of them wanted to leave, every one of them but you. You were the only one to keep your post at my hand without resentment. You stayed at my side no matter how I berated you. You never struck me nor made a motion to do so even when I turned my own hand against you, nor when I used the whipping boy to show you my displeasure, knowing that it hurt you more than if I had turned the whip to your back. You care about me regardless, Thane, and so you stayed.”

Storvorn’s emerald eyes were hooded as he spoke and Thane was struck with the realization that no matter how he looked, Storvorn was no longer a child playing with pawns; he was a king making the nobility dance from square to square. He kept the dangers close, for a known threat was better than a secret one, and Storvorn’s attitude brought out every hidden fury to the surface. Storvorn’s very bearing, asinine and grating, was used judiciously as yet another tool in his pocket. It was as though Storvorn changed at that moment from the young prince he had dragged along the long trail, complaining and sniveling that it was cold to becoming a king in his own right. How had Thane been so blind to Storvorn’s growth?

Thane couldn’t keep looking at Storvorn. He undid the buttons of his outfit bit by bit, the fabric loosening until he was naked, still facing away. He had to turn to get into the water, but he didn’t want to present his nakedness to Storvorn. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Please.”

Storvorn didn’t speak. Thane turned around to see that Storvorn had, and not the fake kind that he used when he thought he was being sneaky, pretending to be asleep to avoid getting up early. Thane stepped into the water with nary a splash. “You can open them again.”

Storvorn’s eyes opened slowly, revealing the green bit by bit until he met Thane’s eyes. “I could tell you to do anything, couldn’t I?”

Thane soaped up a washcloth, scrubbing his arm to remove some dried ale that had fallen on him earlier in the day.

“I could tell you to kill someone and you would do it. You wouldn’t tell me no. Oh, you’d try to argue, I’m sure, and you would likely succeed, but you would do it in the end if I pressed you.” Thane’s hand stopped and his jaw tightened, refusing to lie and say that he wouldn’t.

“I could tell you to seduce someone for me to get information. I could tell you to leave me and become a beggar, and I would see you on the street by the castle, doing your best to make sure I was safe. You won’t leave, no matter what I do, no matter how cruel I could be. I could be a murderous tyrant and you would stay by my side. You wouldn’t help me, but you wouldn’t stop me either.”

Thane swallowed heavily and switched arms, his hand rougher as he tried to avoid thinking about what Storvorn was saying.

“If I told you to kill yourself, would you?”

Thane closed his eyes. “You wouldn’t ask me that.”

“No,” Storvorn agreed quietly. “I wouldn’t.”

He was silent now, the only sound being the soft splashes as Thane rid himself of the filth that often accumulated from his performances, some from the nobles purposely knocking drinks onto him for petty amusement and some the sweat of exertion. Storvorn luxuriated in the water, avoiding doing the very thing the bath was for.

Thane was squeaky clean before Storvorn moved to do the same, getting a new cloth to wipe himself down. He didn’t preen or speak, doing what he needed to. He had Thane on a leash— no, not quite, Storvorn mused. Thane was still his own man. Storvorn simply had a man who cared for him so much that he would sooner see Storvorn become a villain than let him die a hero.

Thane took the cloth from Storvorn when he finished his front, pushing him to turn so Thane could wipe down his back. He was delicate, the difference between them highlighted when they were so close. Thane’s hands were rough, a swordsman’s calluses making his skin catch on Storvorn’s. Storvorn, by comparison, was pampered. He wasn’t weak, he had training for many things to keep his body healthy, but it was the muscle of play, not of life. His hand rested on Storvorn’s shoulder, the cloth in hand but not moving.

“Thane?”

Thane moved the cloth to see that Storvorn’s back was scratched. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was too rough. Your skin is red, I’ll get some lotion once you’re out of the bath.”

“Thane.” Storvorn’s voice was firmer but still a request, not a demand.

Thane set the cloth aside. Storvorn had a cowlick by his right ear, he noticed. He’d seen him so many times, how had he missed it? Thane pushed it down only for the wet strands to bounce back to where they wanted to be. “Yes, Storvorn?”

“If I were to tell you to kiss me… Would you?”

Thane swallowed, hesitating and trying to figure out if it was some sort of trap. “Are you asking me to?”

Storvorn thought about that, then glanced over his shoulder. A fragility was in his eyes that Thane had never seen, an unsure vulnerability that made Thane want to reassure him that he was safe, that nothing would hurt him so long as Thane was here. Storvorn looked away again, unable to keep Thane’s gaze. “Yes.”

Thane twisted Storvorn so he could face him, looking down at the boy in his arms. Storvorn’s face was averted, afraid to see refusal, to see disgust, to see that Thane thought him a fool or unworthy. Him, a king, unworthy of his fool! A preposterous idea in any other scenario, but here, the final decision was Thane’s and he didn’t know on what side of the line Thane would fall.

Thane grasped his chin gently, pushing him up. Storvorn resisted for a moment before moving, eyes searching Thane for any emotion. Thane looked uncomfortable— no, when he was uncomfortable he had a tension in his forehead. He looked disgusted— no, else he would have a thinness to his lips and a tightness in his eyes. He was—

Storvorn's breath was stolen as his lips were met with Thane’s, somehow not expecting it. His hand rose to grab onto Thane’s shoulder, hesitantly leaning up as he closed his eyes; a plea, not a command. Who was Thane to refuse his king?

Thane shifted Storvorn over his lap, his back to the edge of the tub and sitting on a step. Storvorn’s thighs spread around his own, keeping his hips from meeting Thane’s by slightly hovering over Thane. Thane’s hand slid into Storvorn’s hair, guiding him in his first kiss, a gentle push to tilt his head so their noses would align with each other more comfortably.

Storvorn’s kiss was tentative and when Thane nipped his lip, Storvorn’s breath caught and he parted for Thane quickly. Thane was gentle, tongue pressing to meet Storvorn’s to entice him to return the motion and Storvorn followed Thane’s lead. Storvorn separated only when out of breath, pressing his forehead to Thane’s, arms around his shoulders. “If I were to tell you to touch me… would you?”

“Are you asking me to?”

“Yes.”

Thane’s hands lowered to Storvorn’s chest, thumbing over the hard nipples. Storvorn bit his lip, wiggling in place as he pressed into the pinches eagerly. Storvorn’s arms tightened around Thane, thighs spreading. Thane’s rising cock grazed along his clit and up towards his belly, the length making it a long, slow motion. Storvorn keened brokenly, a sweet sound that Thane planned on hearing again and again until Storvorn lost his voice. “Thane!”

Thane’s breath was shallow, chest feeling tight. He flicked at Storvorn’s nipples to watch him squirm, drinking in the view of the king on his lap, the way he mewled for more. He dragged his hands down Storvorn’s sides to his hips, thumbs following the curve of his pelvis. Storvorn’s head fell to Thane’s shoulder, panting against his skin. “Thane, by the Flames, I— I—”

“Shh,” Thane said softly, “I have you. I’ll always have you.” Storvorn nodded, nuzzling into Thane and pressing sloppy kisses along his neck. Thane was slow but it didn’t matter, not when every caress against Storvorn’s skin made him twitch. Thane pressed his lips against Storvorn’s shoulder, opening his mouth enough to catch him but didn’t bite down. Storvorn wriggled against him, dragging his clit over Thane’s cock from root to tip.

Thane tightened his jaw and Storvorn keened, hips riding against Thane hard enough that he grunted at the pressure against his cock, steeling himself not to thrust up. He nipped along Storvorn’s shoulder and with every bite, Storvorn cried out until his throat was dry and he was breathless. “Thane, please— if— if I were to tell you to— to touch me lower—?”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Thane said, moving his hand inwards and his thumb above Storvorn’s clit. Storvorn whimpered, rocking against Thane’s thumb desperately. “As long as you ask me.” 

Storvorn buried his face into Thane’s shoulder, making sounds that Thane thought he’d never get to hear. He teased Storvorn’s clit with light pressure, not wanting to overwhelm the boy. The pitch of Storvorn’s voice rose as Thane moved faster, stroking along the little nub and letting Storvorn rut against him, drinking in the sounds of Storvorn’s pleasure. Storvorn’s breath was shallow, chest heaving, and one last rough drag of Thane’s thumb undid him, sobbing as he came with little twitches, thighs tight and arms grasping him closer as if Thane would leave him.

Thane gentled until Storvorn was still, the boy heavy against him as he came down from his first orgasm. Storvorn had never bothered to try it before, never found any pleasure in his own hand, and had long given up on the idea that he could get anything out of it, but Thane made him wish he had asked long ago.

Storvorn sniffled against Thane’s shoulder and Thane pet him patiently. “How are you feeling?”

Storvorn leaned back to meet Thane’s eyes, eyes watering and breathing through his mouth before he kissed Thane again and again, speaking between smooches and missing the mark more often than not. “Good— so good—”

Thane laughed softly at Storvorn’s reaction, returning each kiss with one of his own. Storvorn shifted and he brushed against Thane’s cock, eyes going wide before the blush on his cheeks deepened further. “If I were to— if I were to ask you—”

“Not that,” Thane said and Storvorn flinched, slightly hurt. “That’s for your marriage bed.”

Storvorn’s frown grew deeper. “But—”

“I won’t take your honor when I have nothing to give you in return.”

Storvorn’s expression was as baffled as if Thane had suddenly grown another head. “But you’re more honorable than I’ve ever been. Wouldn’t it be better to give it to someone that I know would treasure it?”

Thane’s shoulders drooped. Flames and Snow, he wished he could, especially with how Storvorn’s hips were moving along his length and trying to break his will. “I mustn’t. I’ve no claim to royal honor.”

“I bequeath it to you,” Storvorn said as though it solved everything. “I’m the king, I can do what I like.”

“You are a vile tempter, Storvorn,” Thane groaned. “It doesn't work that way.”

“I’ll title you.” Storvorn continued, speaking faster to ignore Thane’s words. “I’ll give you the marquess title that Earl Grey wants so much, or I’ll— I’ll announce you as my paramour—”

Thane closed his eyes, tightening his embrace and forcing Storvorn closer so he couldn’t continue the motions along his dick, his self-control eroding with every single shift of Storvorn’s hips. “What would the court say?”

“I don’t care what they say, they don’t matter to me,” Storvorn said. “I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll give you anything you need. You can have all the gold you can carry, all the gems in the treasury. I’ll give you as many mistresses as you like—”

“I don’t need, or want, any of that,” Thane interrupted, cradling Storvorn’s cheek. Storvorn’s pleadings faded into silence as tears began to drip down his cheek, genuine this time. “Hey, hey… Don’t cry.” He wiped aside a droplet.

“But I want you to,” Storvorn said, turning to kiss Thane’s palm. “Isn’t that enough?”

“If only it was,” Thane sighed. “I’ll give you all that I can, but I cannot take what I don’t deserve.”

“I’ll—”

“Stor, please.” Storvorn buried his face into Thane’s neck with sniffles. “I know. I’m sorry. But you are a king and I am your jester. It doesn’t work for people like us.” Thane ran his hand through Storvorn’s hair patiently in hopes that it might provide even the slightest comfort.

“I’ll abdicate the throne,” Storvorn said suddenly. Thane blinked at that. Storvorn? Give up his throne? The ambition finally conquered, his goal accomplished, and he would give it all up for Thane?

“Don’t do that,” Thane said, pressing a kiss to the side of Storvorn’s head. “You have what you spent your entire life working up to. Don’t throw it away because of some swordsman turned fool.”

Storvorn sniffled. “But you’re my fool.”

“And you are my king. That is why you must do as you must, not as you wish. If I had the choice,” Thane said, a smile in his voice in hopes that it might cheer Storvorn up, “I’d have you on your back before you could say my name.”

Storvorn snorted at that. “What about you, then?”

“Hm?”

“You’re still— I haven’t done anything for you.” Storvorn waved between them to indicate Thane’s hardness that he felt pressed against him.

“It will pass,” Thane said simply, shrugging. He’d rather watch Storvorn fall apart time and time again, pleasing the little king far more important to him than his own arousal. “You don’t need to do anything for me.”

“But I want to,” Storvorn said, frustrated. Thane sighed and Storvorn scowled at the denial. “Am I that undesirable?”

“Don’t you do that,” Thane said sharply. “Don’t you turn this against me because you can’t have what you want.”

Storvorn reached down between them to grasp Thane’s cock. Wary, Thane gave Storvorn space to stroke but kept an eye on the impulsive king, expecting him to do something foolish the moment he could. Storvorn bit his lip, focused on his task. Thane kept his hands tight on Storvorn’s thighs, both so he could rut the base of his shaft against Storvorn’s clit.

“Oh!” Storvorn jolted at the first thrust that actually made contact, hand pausing before returning to the task with vigor. Storvorn was determined, however, and his brow furrowed as he experimented with what made Thane’s breath catch.

The shaft under the foreskin was softer and it seemed like it felt better, or at least more strongly, from how Thane reacted. He pressed his thumb right under the crown on the bottom and Thane lost his breath. Storvorn picked up on it, rubbing against the traitorous part of him that desperately wanted to sink into the boy’s slit, grunting under his breath as the idea fanned the flames of his desire.

Storvorn nearly caught him in a weak moment after one particularly good squeeze, hovering over his cock and about to drop himself down until Thane’s hands pushed Storvorn away to straddle his knees before tugging him close once more, rough enough that they both gasped at the sensation of water currents swirling against them. Storvorn met Thane’s eyes for a moment, challenging him to see if he would stay strong. Thane met those determined green eyes with blue, keeping himself cool and in control.

Storvorn redoubled his efforts, bouncing on his lap and grinding his clit along Thane’s cock, trying to rise high enough that he could catch Thane’s cock between his thighs. Thane felt his balls pressed against Storvorn’s entrance when Storvorn dropped down, the heat calling to him. A zing of lightning went up Storvorn's back when he caught an idea, slowing his movements to try and keep his wits as he spoke.

“Just your fingers then,” Storvorn tried to compromise, knowing he almost certainly couldn’t get Thane’s cock where he wanted it so badly.

“It will still break the seal,” Thane pointed out.

“Then stay shallow,” Storvorn said as though it was obvious. Thane shook his head.

“No, Storvorn.”

“Use my ass,” Storvorn grabbed Thane’s hand to drag around and hold his cheeks. “It doesn’t count.”

Thane barked a laugh but didn’t move his hand away, groping the plush flesh in his grip. “Do you know how many have thought the same?”

Storvorn pouted and Thane felt bad that he shut Storvorn down yet again. “Well, it doesn’t count,” Storvorn muttered.

Thane shook his head, hands cupping Storvorn’s cheeks and separating them, his middle finger long enough to press against the tight hole. Storvorn’s eyes fluttered as he rutted against Thane, overacting the pleasure to tempt Thane more.

Thane didn’t say anything, mostly ignoring the bait. He looked around for oil, not wanting to admit that he might do what Storvorn asked for yet. On the other side of the tub was an entire selection, but it would mean that he had to carry Storvorn to grab it before returning. He looked at his hand; pruned. It was time to leave the tub regardless.

He stood, scooping Storvorn into his arms, and ignored the boy’s squawking. He looked the options over for a moment then grabbed a basic massage oil. With another awkward movement complicated by the weight in his arms, he grabbed the pair of towels they had set out and walked to the bed. He nearly tossed Storvorn onto the blankets but didn’t want to get them wet when the boy needed to sleep under them. He set Storvorn down and placed the towels on the bed instead. They were large enough to cover a significant portion of the fabric, and if he did spread Storvorn’s thighs around his own, there would be more than enough towel to reach from Thane to Storvorn’s head and prevent the wet hair from dampening the bedding.

Storvorn squirmed in place, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He didn’t realize how it felt being wet like this. He’d felt something like this a couple of times before, mostly looking at Thane, but never to this extent. Before, it was more akin to a soft warmth of a candle; now, a raging fireplace begging for more fuel. His lips glided against each other with no friction, soft sliding with a needful ache to be filled. He looked up at Thane from under his lashes, a hand on Thane’s chest when Thane turned back to face him. “Is that a yes?”

Thane picked Storvorn up rather than say anything and this time, he did give in to the urge and tossed Storvorn on the bed to bounce on the soft mattress. Storvorn gasped before bursting into giggles of triumph that faded into shallow breathing when Thane sat on the bed and beckoned for Storvorn to come over.

Storvorn slunk over to try and sit on his lap, but Thane kept him moving, laying down and shifting Storvorn until he was hovering over Thane’s face and facing away. Storvorn frowned in confusion. “What are you— OH!” Thane’s first lick was met with a cry so loud he was concerned that the guards might have heard, but Storvorn put his hand over his mouth to quiet the sounds, rolling down onto Thane’s tongue eagerly.

Thane laid out his tongue like a red carpet, tugging Storvorn down so he could rut against the warm muscle. Storvorn fell forward to one hand as his thighs spread, shivering. He was soaking and Thane took advantage of Storvorn’s lack of experience to distract him, licking at his clit before pursing his lips around it and sucking. Storvorn choked on a sound, arm trembling as he held himself up by sheer force of will.

“Oh Flames, Thane—” The words were muffled but Thane understood him anyway, yanking Storvorn down harder. Storvorn removed his hand from his mouth to help him better balance, whining.

He saw Thane’s cock bobbing before him and felt thirsty in a way that no drink could satisfy. Struggling not to moan too loudly, he went to his elbows and licked at the cockhead. Thane choked for a moment, not expecting it, but when Storvorn tried to pull back in worry, he tightened his grip on Storvorn to return with an “oh no you don’t” and a rough tongue between his lips.

Storvorn’s thighs were at his limit of spreading, making a thoughtless mental note to work on stretching so he could ride down lower. He was distracted not even a second later by Thane’s hips tilting upwards invitingly. Storvorn swallowed, nervous, but rested his weight on one hand, the other caressing the member like how he had learned that Thane liked.

He pressed a kiss to the length, dragging his lips down to the base before moving to the other side and doing the same. He paused at the tip, licking at it like candy, and felt Thane growl against his clit. Storvorn shivered at the vibration, breathing over Thane’s cock as he struggled not to be too loud when murmuring his prayers to the Flames.

He leaned down again, licking more aggressively before enclosing the head, lapping at it to see how Thane reacted. The man shuddered, pushing Storvorn enough to growl a command. “Suck it.”

Storvorn felt himself gush anew as he obeyed, swallowing roughly and trying to go lower. He hit his limit unfairly quickly, choking for a second before repeating the motion. It took a few tries to figure out how far he could go, his hand making up for the rest with squeezing strokes. Thane’s head fell to the bed, hissing Storvorn’s name.

Emboldened, Storvorn worked himself down the shaft, finding that limit once more. He held his breath and tried to go lower but that wasn’t quite the right motion. He closed his throat and that made it harder. It was a few aborted attempts before he figured it out, the rest of the member sliding in with rough swallows and a whine.

Thane’s hands clawed into Storvorn’s thighs to keep him close enough to lick his entrance, the wetness sweet upon his tongue. Storvorn choked again, pausing to catch his breath. He couldn’t focus anymore, not with how Thane was thrusting his tongue inside in a mockery of how he wanted to fuck him, teasing his puffy, swollen lips.

“Please please please—” Storvorn didn’t even realize he was babbling, head buried into Thane’s thigh as his hand jerked Thane off. “Flames, please please—”

“Don’t you dare move,” Thane demanded and Storvorn obediently went still, hand on Thane’s cock remembering to move every few seconds. Thane’s finger ground against Storvorn’s slit, gathering the copious slick.

“F-Flames, are you going— are you going to—”

“I said, don’t move,” Thane growled. “Or I’ll stop.”

“Yes yes, I can do that— oh Flames—” Storvorn bit his lip before he realized he was biting too hard. He didn’t want to leave an obvious mark, couldn’t give even a hint of what happened here. He brought his hand back up to cover his mouth instead. He could at least wear gloves without looking odd.

Thane’s fingers slowly, gently pressed inside. Storvorn’s eyes watered from how good it felt, the way his lips were pressed open, the hole aching for it but so tight, and Thane’s touch had to be firm to move deeper. Shallow thrusts until Thane found the barrier, fingers pulled back until there was no danger of breaching Storvorn’s honor, but it still left the tips of his fingers inside.

Storvorn was quaking, his entire body keyed up. He remembered to move his hand on Thane periodically as Thane carefully, with equally unsteady fingers, fingered Storvorn shallowly. Storvorn’s muscles were knotted from how hard he held himself back. He wouldn’t have if it were anyone else, but if it were, this never would have happened. He had Thane’s trust that he could control himself and he didn’t want to break it, not anymore.

When it got to be too much, when his thighs quivered and tears dripped from his eyes from the effort of holding himself still, he forced himself to speak. “I can’t— I need to move—”

Thane left Storvorn empty as promised, then yanked Storvorn down onto his tongue and Storvorn muffled his pleasure with his hand as he shuddered through his climax. Thane’s face was covered in Storvorn’s slick, the man not hesitating to continue the motions until Storvorn was shoving away and pushing at his face from overstimulation.

Storvorn felt boneless as he collapsed on the bed from exhaustion, guiltily looking at Thane’s hardness so close to his face. He nuzzled against it with soft sounds and pants. “Please…” he pleaded, keeping his voice low. “Let me— let me please you!”

Thane sat up, shifting Storvorn over to sit on the towel. His eyes were blown wide, panting as much as, if not more than, Storvorn. His cock was hard as stone, stiff in Storvorn’s grip. “Come here,” Thane said, sitting on the edge of the bed and guiding Storvorn down. Storvorn followed, the stone rough and slightly painful on his knees, confused but doing as he was told. It made sense a moment later when his head was right in front of Thane’s hips and his cock was at eye level.

Storvorn shuffled forward and opened his mouth to suck but Thane grabbed him by the hair. He wasn’t rough, but it was controlled. “Lick along the bottom,” Thane said, voice husky and deep. Storvorn followed the shape of Thane’s cock, flicking the tip with a cheeky swipe of his tongue. Thane forced down a moan.

His hand was tight on Storvorn but only on the tips of the boy’s hair, afraid of breaking even a single strand and hurting him. “Put your tongue under the head.” Storvorn did so, breathing over the tip as he waited for the next instruction.

Thane’s self-control was sorely tested when Storvorn looked up to meet his eyes, his face splattered with precum and need in his expression. He very nearly jerked Storvorn down to swallow him whole but held back, knowing that a little teaching now would make it all the better in the future— if there was a future. “Close your lips around the tip. Good, good,” he praised when Storvorn did. Storvorn squirmed in place, wanting to do more, taste more of the salty precum in his mouth, swallowing thoughtlessly.

Thane grunted as his hand tightened, surprised to see Storvorn’s eyes flutter at the feeling of his hair being pulled. “Deeper, keep your teeth covered.” Storvorn sank down on him slowly, a hand on a thigh, the other on the bed and clawing into the blanket. When Storvorn hit his limit, he increased his grip on Storvorn’s hair to prevent him from going any further.

“Your hand, cover the rest that you can’t suck.” Storvorn’s hand was so small and warm around his girth, stroking what he could not swallow. “Move back, keep your hand moving to the tip until you go back down to your limit.” Storvorn caught onto the rhythm quickly, focused on Thane’s pleasure to the exclusion of everything else, eyes closing. “Yes, like that.”

Storvorn swallowed and stars burst in Thane’s vision. “Keep doing that,” he said, voice shaking. “Faster. Good boy.” Storvorn whimpered around Thane’s cock and Thane smiled in amusement. “Is that what you like? Being called a good boy?”

Storvorn couldn’t nod but the hummed “mhm” worked as well, eyes wet as he opened them once more. “Keep being a good boy then, you’re doing so well for me.” Thane pushed Storvorn down a little further when his lips met his fingers, long enough for Storvorn’s breath to skip before moving Storvorn off entirely. Storvorn’s lips were tight the entire time, parting from the head with an audible pop. His mouth was open, drooling, and eyes wobbly, his hands holding onto Thane’s hips as if to stuff his mouth full once more. Thane kept him off, however, all the better to watch the boy struggle and beg wordlessly to fill himself the only way he was allowed.

A groan rumbled in Thane’s chest as Storvorn was allowed to drop down again, letting go of his hair entirely. “It’s all on you now, Stor, be good for me.”

To say the little king was eager was an understatement, almost gagging himself in the hope of going deeper, swallowing him to the root and feeling the hair against his nose and chin, to get the scent of Thane embedded into his mind as deeply as his pride was in his soul. A passing thought of Thane sitting on his throne with his cock in Storvorn’s mouth, petting his hair and telling him how good he was— Storvorn’s throat opened further and he dropped like a rock, eyes rolling into the back of his head from the feeling of Thane’s cock spreading his throat open.

Thane bit his lip, thighs tight on Storvorn’s head, stomach in knots when Storvorn moved faster. “A little more, just a moment more for me, Stor—” Storvorn tapped on Thane’s thigh to give his permission, and Thane’s hand grabbed the back of his head, shoving that little bit deeper into the tight, wet heat of his king’s throat. “Such a good boy for me—”

His balls throbbed against Storvorn’s chin as he came, filling the boy’s throat with thick cream at the same time that he grabbed a fistful of Storvorn’s hair to yank him off. Storvorn tried to dive back down but Thane’s hand kept him still, his other hand covering Storvorn’s to keep him stroking, to encourage every drop of cum to land on that pretty face. Knowing that he was the first, the only, to cover Storvorn’s face with seed was too good to allow Storvorn to swallow a drop.

Finally, his cock was done, the last spurts of cum dripping off of Storvorn’s chin, a few thick ropes caught in those raven locks. Storvorn’s eyes were bright and his lips were swollen as Thane brushed a thumb full of cum into Storvorn’s mouth. “Lick it up, swallow it for me like a good boy.” Storvorn took every drop given to him, licking Thane’s fingers clean until there was nothing left and Storvorn was mindlessly licking at his thumb in hopes of more.

Thane set his hand aside to look at his king, the boy on his knees and looking like he could fall asleep right there. Thane leaned back, making a motion for Storvorn to stand up. With great reluctance to leave the softness of the bed, he grabbed Storvorn’s hand and tugged him towards the bathing room. They needed to bathe (again) and Storvorn needed to return to his body, airheaded and fuzzy in a way that left him thoughtless.

The bath helped him come back down to earth, a gentle wipe down with the washcloth ending with him leaning against Thane, eyes closed. Storvorn opened his mouth to speak before shaking his head, nuzzling into Thane.

“What is it?” Thane asked, wiping at a mark on Storvorn’s shoulder before realizing it was a bruise from a bite.

“I wish it were different,” Storvorn said softly and Thane knew what he meant. If Storvorn weren’t a king, if Thane weren’t a fool, the world would be a much different place for them.

“I know.” There wasn’t anything that could be done about it, so he didn’t bother trying to say otherwise as he helped Storvorn out and tucked him into bed.

His hand held Storvorn’s cheek for a long moment as he struggled to move away, finding he had little strength to move away from Storvorn now that he didn’t have to hold back his desire. Storvorn’s hand raised to hold onto Thane’s, turning his head to press a kiss to his palm.

“It’s alright,” Storvorn said, both knowing that it wasn’t. His hand snaked back under the covers. He wanted to tell Thane to come into bed and sleep with him, but that would almost be worse than allowing him between his thighs. Thane’s eyes softened. He leaned down to press a kiss to Storvorn’s forehead.

“Sleep. We have politicking to do tomorrow and we need to be awake to avoid any traps.” Storvorn’s eyes closed slowly.

“Kiss me.” Thane pressed their lips together gently, separating a moment later to see that Storvorn was already asleep. He brushed a wild strand of hair back to join the rest.

He turned from the bed to gather his clothing and the towels, throwing the towels into the fire. The laundresses were terrible gossips.

[rachrar]

Let's Meet King Storvorn Korik!

Art by Nautes

Stats, Likes, Dislikes Here

A human ruling a land he doesn’t deserve, Storvorn is a king only by technicality. Storvorn reigns with an iron fist, afraid that if he were to loosen even the smallest amount he would be swallowed whole by the Snow that whispers in his ear of his weakness.

Storvorn Korik was the second born prince to the quiet kingdom of Phoseon in the year 580, a beautiful land built upon mountains on the northernmost edge of the Vegrediac Tips mountain range. The land outside was buffeted by the snow blizzards that raged above them and the magma tunnels of the volcano slumbering below left the people with little space to grow, and so blossomed the Faith. Built of the duality of heat and cold, it reveled in the exchange of life and death.

He was Flametouched, born with a vagina but without breasts or a penis, a rare blessing among his people, and Storvorn found his peace in the Flames’ heat. He was a child when he heard the Snow for the first time, the cruel, icy whispers in his ear impossible to ignore. It was always so bitter cold, the ache of distrustful gazes on him encouraging the Snow’s cruelty. His coal hair was a signal to every person in the kingdom that he was born wrong because of his mother’s sins. But if he were the eldest, they would have to silence themselves lest they speak too loudly of their crown prince.

The letter opener was dull but the point was keen enough to sink into Luhen’s throat, his elder brother’s life spilling out in fat, red gushes and staining his clothing scarlet. He would be king. The crown was made for him and him alone!

He was found by his younger brother and the screaming changed everything.

Nothing was said of Luhen’s death. His passing was a mystery to the masses, some sickness that took him in the night, and they all grieved the loss of the firstborn.

He was nearly 9 when he was summoned to his father’s chambers and told his life’s plan. Storvorn was to be betrothed to a king of another land, some small city-state named Everia. 

Storvorn went through the ceremonies marking them wed in all ways but the last, too young to consummate the marriage. It meant that it was technically tenuous, that they were not really married, but it was close enough for the lessers to kneel before Storvorn where they belonged.

The Snow kept him cold at night as his guards left one by one, replaced by people that he did not trust. Only one guard was left in the end, Thane, a guard that had stood by him so long that he didn’t remember when he first met him. A noble man who chose to doff his armor in favor of a jester’s mask on arrival to better ensure Storvorn’s safety; no one would expect that the jester was originally trained as the royal guard.

Years passed and Storvorn’s simmering anger and the Snow’s cold caresses grew in tandem. His 18th birthday was coming up and the night he came of age, he would need to share the king’s bed and finalize his marriage. Disgust welled in him at the idea.

Storvorn’s ambitions led him to meet another with a similar drive, a duchess. Duchess Maghrebi told him of the magic she studied and her plans to become queen, if only there were an unmarried king that needed a queen. Storvorn found her distasteful but he followed along until they came to an agreement.

Storvorn would take tea with Seth that evening and slip poison into the cup. Once Storvorn was past his socially obligated grief, he would take her hand in his and they would rule together. She would ensure that no dagger ever met his back with guards she would magically bind to protect him. He had merely to give her a crown of her own.

The king did not wake the following morning. 

The crowning was quick and the council of nobles that confirmed the rightful king pushed to agree by Maghrebi’s backroom talks. Her demands of Storvorn became stronger as the years passed. Storvorn refused, crying for an understanding of grief to the public and stifling her efforts. Their relationship soured when she realized she’d been played.

Her return to Storvorn months later was as more than a duchess, a goddess-empowered woman who no longer desired the crown. She could control from the shadows, and as long as Storvorn did what he was told, he would stay safe and cozy on the little throne he so loved. Storvorn had been bested and he hated her. Hated her so much that even the Snow turned against her, hissing in his ear of murder more often than it spat against him.

He had been trained for the court as a child but Seth had never shown him the realities of ruling and he floundered. Malcontent grew in the hearts of the citizens, spiking forward into attempts on his life that the Snow swore was because he didn’t deserve the throne, that he had not earned it, merely stolen it. When the attempts become an occurrence to plan around rather than a rarity, Storvorn fell into the Snow’s vicious embrace.

The Snow told him how worthless he was but also of every attempt, many of which never came to be. Enough did, however, that Storvorn’s understanding of paranoia versus realistic worry was blurred and the noose began to swing with more regularity than a clock.

The only rock he could rely on was Thane, the guard turned jester, a man who listened to everything, who eased Storvorn towards reality, who kept his secrets and ensured that his will was done, who kept him safe and made him laugh and forget the sensation of ice sliding over his skin no matter how hot he kept his rooms. Sad, then, that a king’s closest confidant was a fool that ensured his king would never be.

[rachrar]

Story: The Red Of The Bruise Is As Deep As My Affection

Pairing: Ourbill/Tillie

Kinks: Bondage, sadism/masochism (including paddling, a cat o' nine tails with hooks, whipping, and branding), chastity cage, ownership/power imbalance, making the sub suffer even if it doesn't involve pain, safe-wording, rutting against a shin, somehow slightly wholesome, aftercare

Universe: High Fantasy

Pairing: Ourbill/Tillie

Universe: High Fantasy

Artist: Shabawdy (PLEASE check out her stuff, she's an absolutely brilliant artist!)

Snippet

“This is going to be for my pleasure,” Ourbill said as he locked Tillie’s cock into the cage, “not yours. You will enjoy what you are given, when you are given it, and no more. I will own you in body and soul and I will have you at my side for the rest of our relationship. Should it ever end, my mark will forever be upon your skin and any other bedmate you have will know that a better man had you long before he ever put his fingers on you. You are mine.”

Ourbill narrowed his eye as he looked the kneeling Tillie over, debating the various options he had. The doppelganger stuck his tongue out at Ourbill in response. Ourbill stepped on his thigh and Tillie’s gaze snapped down to focus on that, slurping his tongue back into his mouth. Much better. Ourbill removed his foot only for Tillie to huff, pulling at the ropes keeping his arms behind his back, but a sharp negating motion from Ourbill made Tillie pout, though he did obediently relax. Ourbill knew just as well as Tillie that if Tillie genuinely wanted to remove the rope, he would have no problem ripping it off. But Tillie was being obedient and allowed the ropes to act as a guide for the position Ourbill wanted him in. 

Ourbill looked over the treat before him, walking around just to appreciate the view. Tillie’s arms were behind his back, hands over the base of his tail with rope in criss cross patterns that made his pale skin stand out against the scarlet rope. He sat on his knees, clawed toes clenching periodically as he shifted his weight from side to side, the wooden floor hard on his knees. That was the entire point, of course. Ourbill held onto a crop, the small leather flap on the end a wonderful tool to guide Tillie into the correct position, and tapped on one of Tillie’s feet. They were too far apart.

“Ankle to ankle. Unless you want the spreader bar.” Ourbill’s words were dry, almost uninterested, but Tillie perked up and his tail began to lash back and forth. Tillie opened his mouth to speak but Ourbill was there with the crop to tap his mouth. Tillie was confused, but closed his mouth as he looked at Ourbill in hopes of some kind of explanation.

“Do you want the spreader bar?” Tillie went to speak again and Ourbill replaced the crop on his mouth. Ourbill saw the crinkle of frustration in Tillie’s eye. Ourbill was patient though, and he was sure that Tillie would understand with time. He snapped the crop against Tillie’s ankle, making him hiss and glare. “Closer together. Ankle to ankle, unless you want the spreader bar.”

Tillie began to adjust, then paused, cocking his head as the words went through his mind. Testing the waters, he began to more purposely spread his feet apart, eye locked on Ourbill for his reaction. Ourbill looked down to see the movement, a muscle in his lip twitching— it wasn’t a smile, not by a long shot, but Tillie knew that it was the first indication of emotion building in Ourbill and he wiggled eagerly, stopping only when he felt the rope protest. Ourbill turned away, setting the crop down on the table and picked up the spreader bar and holding it before Tillie. There was hunger in Tillie’s eye for the device, spreading his legs apart in readiness.

Ourbill walked behind Tillie and kicked his feet further apart until he was leaning forward, balanced on his knees with only the strength of his core muscles keeping him from falling. Ourbill knelt behind Tillie, pushing his feet further apart, giving him time to adjust himself and his balance before continuing until he was spread enough for the bar. The ankle cuffs on the bar were far enough apart that Tillie’s thighs would not be able to meet once he was locked to the bar, leaving his cock and hole open for anything Ourbill felt like doing.

Tillie lifted his tail without needing to be told, allowing Ourbill to lock the cuffs around his ankles neatly before standing up once more. He made sure Tillie had his balance before reaching to pull on his arms, bringing Tillie’s feet back onto the ground, then continued the pull. Tillie struggled against it for a moment, confused, but when Ourbill didn’t let up, he followed. He went to his feet, standing in front of Ourbill and looking up at him warily.

“Good.” The single word made Tillie’s stomach burst into warmth, heat trickling through his veins into every inch of his body. He wasn’t even hard just yet, but desire was easing into the member slowly, a faint thickening of his cock making it swing slightly. Ourbill patted Tillie’s back to adjust him some more, just to watch his muscles tense every time Ourbill brushed against him. Tillie’s tail was low but the tip was curled upwards invitingly, twitching as if to call attention to the fatty limb that Ourbill loved so much.

He didn’t realize that Ourbill had the crop in hand again until he felt it press against his shin, sliding upwards slowly. Slowly was too fast a word for the movement, a painfully long, soft drag of the leather against his skin before it finally brushed against his inner thigh. Tillie had to breathe then, inhaling shakily as his muscles shuddered under the now still toy. Ourbill waited for Tillie to stop moving, to return to a statue-like calm, before he continued pulling it upwards towards his ass and cock. Every time Tillie so much as blinked, the cycle of waiting for calm repeated. It felt like years passed before he finally felt the leather press against his balls, pushing forward just to make them shift against his dick and encourage him towards hardness. He tried to keep soft to preserve the sensation of Ourbill pressing forward, the soft skin of his balls a weird, but not unpleasant, feeling against his dick, but blood disagreed with Tillie’s desires and he felt his cock rise in the air regardless.

Tillie whined when the crop no longer had enough pressure to keep his balls against him without causing pain, trembling. It was the smallest thing, and yet he craved more of it, just the crop pressed behind the thin, twitching skin. His cock pulsed out a bead of precum, watching it like he could do anything else, and he saw it slide down the head to the underside. The liquid was warm but the air was cold and the drop eased its way down his shaft until it stretched towards the ground in a long string. It broke with Tillie’s silence when a sharp swing of the crop struck Tillie’s ass, making him jolt forward and almost losing his balance, saved only with Ourbill’s hand.

He got his footing again, tail rising in fluttery movements, trying to get Ourbill to touch him more, to slap him again, to make him feel again, but he was left wanting. He heard Ourbill walk a few steps; instinct said he went to Tillie’s left and the vibration of the ground told him he moved away before returning. Tillie’s claws dug into the ground, feeling the wood give way into splinters with a satisfying crunch.

A wide, sharp pain erupted over Tillie’s ass and a gasp was forced out of his lungs, jerking to turn around and see what it was only to be stopped with Ourbill’s hand on his shoulder. He struggled with himself. Ourbill’s touch was so light he could play dumb, say he didn’t feel it and continue the spin, or he could listen and stay in place. Before he could choose, Ourbill’s hand was gone and the decision was over, taken from him before he had a moment to think.

“What have I told you about destroying the flooring?” Another slap of the paddle on his ass made Tillie writhe, nearly bending over in an instinctive cringe. Ourbill grabbed Tillie’s shoulder, pulling. “Stand up.”

Tillie’s back straightened, force of will keeping him locked in place when he felt another hard strike on his ass. His tail twitched, curled up so high he was nearly touching his head and standing on his tiptoes; his knees quivered and his cock was dripping onto his feet, the slick making it just that little bit harder to keep standing. “Ou—”

“Speak only when spoken to and answer only the question!” Ourbill spanked Tillie hard enough that an involuntary noise was forced out of Tillie, fingers grabbing onto the base of his tail to keep some sort of control while he shivered from head to toe with dopamine. A bruise, beautiful and deep, made Tillie’s cheeks scarlet and Ourbill knew the pain would linger for days, possibly multiple weeks.

Tillie was struck with the paddle again, the blistering pain melting into his skin until it cooled into a deep ache when Ourbill massaged the flesh after, going so far as to press against his hand for more. A softer slap from Ourbill’s hand for the sass, but Ourbill pulled back and spanked Tillie again with the full might of the paddle before setting it aside and slotting against him.

“Who does Tillie belong to?”

Tillie’s hands scrambled to hold onto his tail though he still refused to give in. Ourbill pulled back and slapped Tillie’s ass right over the bruises already forming on his pale skin, pleased when Tillie squirmed at the pain. He was even more pleased when he saw Tillie’s gaze narrow into a smirk. They had not yet gone past this point, their relationship still young. But it had been just about a year, Ourbill mused, a metal finger tracing the heart shape he had made over Tillie’s ass, about when he had promised Tillie he would give him a more permanent indication of his ownership.

Ourbill picked up the paddle once more as he stepped back, grabbing another item that was out of Tillie’s view and standing behind him once more. Ourbill tapped the bruise lightly with the edge of the paddle to test how much it hurt, amused when Tillie kept still. They were at the moment when Tillie was trying to stay strong, to prove that he could handle more than Ourbill could dish out. It was Ourbill’s favorite part of their dynamic, honestly. To think that Tillie could handle more than Ourbill was willing to give was utter foolishness, though he did have to admit that he believed that Tillie could handle more than his previous pets. Regardless, he had kept his hand light so far (light for him, at least), but that allowed the idea to percolate that he was all bluff and no action in Tillie’s mind for far, far too long. Ourbill planned on fixing that oversight.

“Tillie plays the fool so well,” Ourbill said in his mother tongue, the syllables light and flowing in contrast to the man made of angles and harsh lines. Tillie’s smirk fell. He heard his name but did not know New Speech, so anything Ourbill said was unknown to him. “He thinks he will not receive precisely what he asks for. And yet, I am a man of my word.”

He switched to Common. “How long ago did we begin our relationship, Tillie?”

Tillie shifted his weight. The movement caught Ourbill’s attention and, almost instinctively, he struck out with the paddle. Tillie took in a deep breath, calming himself. “The first time we met? Or the first time we fuc—”

Ourbill didn’t even use the paddle that time, the switch he had picked up with his other hand making its appearance with a sharp strike against his belly. Tillie hissed at the pain and Ourbill already saw a welt growing where the thin rod had hit. He was tempted to use it to draw some symbols, perhaps something degrading in New Speech, but he could do that later.

“How long ago did we begin our relationship, Tillie?” Ourbill repeated as though Tillie had merely misheard him.

Tillie’s eye moved along the ceiling as he searched for dates. He was terrible with them, always had been, but if he had to guess, “I dunno, a—”

“Use proper grammar,” Ourbill said with another slap of the switch. Tillie’s eye twitched before he continued to speak.

“I don’t know, about a year or so, I guess.”

“Hm.” Ourbill tapped Tillie’s ass with the paddle in reward, the hard wood making his muscles throb in pain. “What did I promise you a year ago?”

Tillie’s eye narrowed as he tried to remember. There were so many things that happened a year ago. Ourbill nearly died, he met Telemral, Tillie got Ourbill’s prosthetics replaced with flakes of his gem— Tillie gasped. “You promised you’d mark me!”

“I did,” Ourbill said, voice brighter than before. “I’m proud that you remembered.” Tillie squirmed in place, wanting to move to express his excitement. One of the ropes creaked loudly, a small ripping sound making him freeze in place. Ourbill’s smile tightened and fell as Tillie deflated. Tillie knew he was going to get punished for tearing the rope, but he really didn’t mean to! It was just something he had looked forward to for months, no big deal. Tillie’s eye went wide, looking up at Ourbill with his best puppy eye expression.

Ourbill snorted, an undignified sound that only Tillie got to hear when Ourbill was close to laughing, but Ourbill swallowed the sound and dropped his expression into a schooled apathy. “Hm. Perhaps I should hold off if you’re going to tear the rope.”

“W-wait, no, I’m sorry!” True panic suffused Tillie’s voice but he still didn’t attempt to remove the rope, twisting in place to keep Ourbill in sight. “I didn’t mean to, I was just excited, please, come on!”

Ourbill slapped Tillie’s ass with the paddle just to hear the sound before turning away and setting it on the table full of assorted toys. “And now you speak out of turn,” Ourbill said with a sigh of disappointment. “A shame.”

Tillie whined apologetically, struggling to find out what he should do. He couldn’t speak and he didn’t want to tear the ropes, not really. He wanted out of them, certainly, and he wanted to make Ourbill happy, but most importantly, he wanted Ourbill to be happy with him. Ourbill didn’t tell him to turn around, however, and now he had his first view of the toys that Ourbill had set up.

Ourbill’s hand hovered over the various implements on the table. He had set up quite the buffet, various whips, dragon tails, a cat o’ nine tails with small hooks, a branding iron, nipple clamps, chastity cage (a severe punishment in Tillie’s eyes), switches, a bear trap (which had its snap weight changed to avoid breaking bone, but Tillie didn’t know that), anything and everything that could cause pain. Ourbill had used each and every one in the past to great pleasure, finding he enjoyed his pets most when they were sobbing at his feet but not yet crying for mercy.

“How much pain do you think you could take, I wonder?” Ourbill said, his floating fingers pausing over the dragon tail before moving to the longer whip. Tillie didn’t answer, unsure if he was meant to and figured that silence was safer. Ourbill didn’t seem more angry, so he supposed it ended up being correct. “Do you bleed well? Or will you melt?” The question was actually pointed at Tillie, looking him in the eye.

Tillie blinked before his eye crinkled into a smile of devious mockery, his tail swishing back and forth slowly. “What, you think some little whip like that is gonna make me goop?”

Ourbill’s hand shifted instead to the cat o’ nine tails. Tillie’s eye narrowed just slightly and Ourbill knew he had found a good starting point. “Wonderful. Turn around once more and do not turn back.”

Tillie pouted but did obediently turn away. Ourbill grabbed the chastity cage and walked around Tillie to kneel before him. Tillie tilted his head, curious as to what Ourbill was doing. Ourbill tutted when he saw that Tillie was at a half-chub, tossing a wet, cold rag over his cock and ignoring Tillie’s hiss of complaint. Once he had cooled enough and shrunk into flaccidity, Ourbill unclicked the lock of the device. He held it up for Tillie’s inspection, smirking when Tillie’s sass dropped by a few notches.

“This is going to be for my pleasure,” Ourbill said as he locked Tillie’s cock into the cage, “not yours. You will enjoy what you are given, when you are given it, and no more. I will own you in body and soul and I will have you at my side for the rest of our relationship. Should it ever end, my mark will forever be upon your skin and any other bedmate you have will know that a better man had you long before he ever put his fingers on you. You are mine.”

Tillie blinked. Ourbill’s voice had sharpened into something more than his usual tone, something that told him that this was serious. He tamped down the urge to say something snarky, not wanting to interrupt.

“Your skin is mine.” Ourbill traced over the underside of Tillie’s tail, over his shoulders and across his belly. His hand rose to gently encase Tillie’s throat, knowing that any true pressure was off limits and having no desire to break Tillie’s trust. He was glad to see, however, that Tillie stiffened, attention locked completely on Ourbill. “Your breath is mine.”

His thumb caressed an artery in Tillie’s throat softly, a bare brush of the metal over the rushing blood. “Your blood is mine.”

Ourbill’s hand rose to hold onto Tillie’s jaw, still so gentle compared to the violence his metal hands could impose. He traced the not quite perfect meeting of Tillie’s teeth and up to hold onto a horn before releasing. “Your bones are mine.” 

He dragged his hand down to Tillie’s chest, his hand pressed over the gem in Tillie’s sternum, between his pectoral muscles. Tillie swallowed heavily, tense but obedient as Ourbill caressed the gem that kept him whole and alive. “Your very life is mine.”

Ourbill’s forefinger pressed against the center of the heart-shaped gem, the metal cold and the gem warm. Tillie kept still, struggling not to squirrel away from the dangerous touch. Ourbill wasn’t going to actually harm him. He might hurt him, but harm was another thing entirely, and when it came to his gem, they both knew it was a different kind of trust that allowed Ourbill to touch what housed his deepest self.

“But,” Ourbill said, pulling his hand away and taking a step back. “I do not yet own you.” Tillie’s pupil was blown wide, the magic that made his bones quiver and muscles writhe fading into the background when Ourbill’s touch left him.

Ourbill looked Tillie over, resting his head on his hand. “How would you give me all of yourself?”

Tillie shrugged vaguely, not knowing what Ourbill really meant. Normally Ourbill would chastise him, but at this moment, he treated it as a conversation between equals. “If I were to own you in a way that you could not leave, a way in which you would forever be changed, a method that you would never be able to forget, what would it be?”

Tillie shifted uncomfortably, his weight awkward due to the spreader bar keeping his feet apart. “I don’t know.”

“A scar, perhaps?” Ourbill said, tracing some that Tillie had over various parts of his body. He followed two across his head, some claw marks over his belly. “But you have so many. How would that stand out?” The question was rhetorical as Ourbill began to walk around Tillie, inspecting him for options.

“I could clip some of your spikes, but that is hardly noticeable. I could give you a collar, but that can be removed. What do you give me that you cannot hide?” Ourbill returned to stand before Tillie. “Ah, but I get ahead of myself. What does it matter if lesser men know what your mark means? You would know and so would I. Any who knew you as more than death might know, depending on how easily you share yourself.”

Ourbill’s eye was hooded, a finger tapping on his lips. “I believe, however, that I have already marked you in a way that can never be changed. Rather, you have marked yourself and gave yourself in a way you can never undo.”

Tillie tilted his head, even more confused. The most he had given Ourbill was his obedience, though he supposed that he had taken on the oath of caring for his mimicling, but that didn’t seem right. It seemed more serious than that, and though the mimic was important to them both, it could be removed and die without anyone else knowing what the creature meant to them. Ourbill said it was something Tillie did to himself for Ourbill, and the only thing he could think of was using pieces of his gem to give Ourbill back his limbs.

Tillie’s eye scrunched into an excited smile. “My gem.”

“Yes,” Ourbill said, placing his palm over the stone. “Your gem. Your gem was whole before you knew me, soft and rounded. But you gave of yourself, allowed yourself to be held and controlled and your heart chipped at to make shards that are used to power my prosthetics. The flakes sit against my bone and are crushed into the ink of the runes covering my skin. You could not possibly leave me even if you tried.”

Tillie didn’t know what to say about that, but his body was tense and muscles were tight. It wasn’t a bad tension, per se, but it was one that made him shudder in short fits and bursts, energy within him begging to be set free somehow. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said finally, trying to fill the silence between them.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Ourbill agreed. “I do, however, know that while you and I know that you pledged yourself to me the moment the chisel touched your gem, you wish for the world to know as well.” Tillie nodded quickly. He did, he wanted it to be something that couldn’t be misunderstood. The jewel in his chest was important, but to anyone else, he just had something pretty on his chest. He needed the world to know that he was taken, cared for, owned.

Ourbill traced the skin around Tillie’s gem, his finger making marks that seemed nonsensical to Tillie’s view but made sense to Ourbill from the purpose in the movement. Little trails of light followed, mild illusions to act as visuals for ideas that were going through his mind. They were fantastical shapes before moving to letters before settling upon Old Speech.

Tillie struggled to read it, the letters from a language he barely understood any of along with upside down making it harder to see what little he did. Ourbill tutted to himself, wiping it away entirely before starting over. He made three sharp lines from the bottom of Tillie’s pec to his armpit, short enough that they were easily missed but long enough to be noticeable if someone looked at him for more than a few seconds. There were subtle shades in the shapes that made no sense to Tillie but clearly did to Ourbill from how he nodded to himself.

“Yes, I think this shall do.” Ourbill turned around and searched through a secondary pile of items. Those seemed more magical in nature; a small bag of something, a book that Ourbill was consulting, a couple of gems, and some ink along with other items that meant nothing to Tillie. Why would Ourbill need a feather?

Ourbill picked up a thin rod of metal, bending it to and fro in his hands like it was putty until it was tightly kinked into a nearly continuous line. He picked up some leather, tugging it over while his other hand began to glow with the twisted metal in his grip, heating the metal until it became bright. When it glowed to his satisfaction, he pressed it firmly into the leather, the scent of burning flesh assaulting Tillie’s senses. Ourbill held the brand in place for a good five seconds before pulling it up and inspecting the mark.

Tillie leaned forward curiously but didn’t move otherwise, trying to see what made it so interesting. He held himself back as long as he could before finally breaking and asking “what is that?”

“A brand,” Ourbill said flatly, the answer clear. “I am testing how it will scar on you.”

“But there’s nothing like me to test on.”

“There are animals whose skin is as dense as yours and I am using leather which is thicker. This should work as a base to work from.” Tillie made a noise of acknowledgement.

“What’s it mean?”

Ourbill looked over his shoulder with a harsh smile. “Exactly what I want it to mean.”

Tillie huffed, frustrated. The hot part of their interaction had already faded away and now he was bored, especially when he was in a cage and couldn’t even get hard again. Ourbill’s gaze lingered on Tillie until Tillie broke the staring contest, looking away. “It labels you as my aelso and that I am your oevial.” 

“Oh. Don’t you like to be called Saelsyn though?”

Ourbill rocked his head back and forth. “Yes, but you do not wish to call me master.”

Tillie hesitated before saying quietly, “if you promise to keep me, I will.”

Ourbill’s eye flared, his pupil expanding in excitement. “You would desire this?”

“It’s important to you, right? And if it’s something that’s permanent, and you’re gonna keep me forever, then I guess it isn’t too bad.” Tillie was a little skittish. Ourbill had said many, many times how he would keep Tillie and wouldn’t toss him aside, but he could never hear it enough.

Ourbill’s smile softened. “Tillie, aelso, as Saelsyn I have the responsibility to care for my pets. I will never let you go. My mark will be upon you and you will always have me at your side.” Tillie flushed, looking down to his feet, toes wiggling as he avoided digging into the floorboards.

“Then… then mark me, Saelsyn.” Ourbill took in a deep breath to calm himself, wanting to explode with magic and sound and noise, but he kept it inside and merely nodded.

“Then wait as I craft the brands.” Ourbill turned back to the table, flicking a few pages in the book as he searched for something.

“You want me to just stand here? In a spreader bar and tied up and a cage on my dick?” Tillie whined. “That’s no fun!”

“Good,” Ourbill said absently, already focused on his work. “It isn’t for your pleasure. You are here for my use. Now stay quiet and still, I do not wish to be interrupted.” Tillie scowled.

Time went by slowly, dragging out into what felt like eternity. Tillie went from eager to neutral to bored once more, ending up even half-napping. He stayed still though, his balance neat even when he was zoned out. Ourbill pushed the chair back from the table and picked up the brands an unknown amount of time later, the delicate metal adjusted just so.

“Do not move when I brand you.” Tillie awoke with a start, looking around before remembering where he was. He yawned, stretching as much as he could before settling down on his feet.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said. “I don’t want it to look bad.”

“Good. It’s going to hurt.” Tillie shrugged. Ourbill kept saying that but Tillie hadn’t yet been that hurt. Ourbill, clearly irritated, hissed lowly. “Let me rephrase. If you move and mar the branding, I will not repeat the process and you will have a mark that tells the world your incompetence at being my aelso.”

Tillie straightened up. He didn’t want anything to reflect badly on Ourbill. “Sorry.”

Ourbill patted his shoulder in forgiveness. “Stay still.”

Tillie’s claws dug into the floorboards, teeth tight and grinding together as each brand marked him. The six lines felt like more and when it was done, he was sweating and shaking. Ourbill put his hand on Tillie’s arm comfortingly, knowing that he was going to be in a rough spot no matter how he blustered otherwise. This was why he was surprised when he realized Tillie wasn’t shaking from being overwhelmed with pain but from excitement.

He was energized, keyed up and ready to go. He wanted to drop to all fours and run like a beast across a field, let his body free and feel the way the ground gave way under his claws. He stretched his legs and felt his ass throb in pain, wincing slightly but the energy didn’t fade.

“You look like you desire to continue,” Ourbill said.

Tillie bounced on his toes. “You just got me started! It hurt, duh, but I’m here and—”

Ourbill’s hand reached down to grab onto Tillie’s balls, yanking just enough to make the man yelp and whine. “Do not use ‘duh’ in front of me, it is a word for imbeciles, and you are no imbecile.” He let go with a pat to Tillie’s ass. “Then I will endeavor to continue until you cry for mercy. Break the rope.”

Tillie rolled his eye, immediately pulling his arms apart. The rope fought against Tillie but Tillie won in the end, the rope tearing before falling to the ground at his feet “Uh-huh. I’m real scared.” Ourbill’s eye narrowed in response. With the newfound enthusiasm in mind, Ourbill returned to the toy table and picked up the cat o’ nine tails.

“Count.”

“Count wha-!” The sound of the tails flying in the air was followed by a sharp sting along his back, the small claws digging into the meat. Ourbill didn’t pull yet, letting the blood sluggishly pour from Tillie’s skin. Tillie licked his teeth. “One,” he said, voice just as sassy as before.

Ourbill didn’t hold himself back; Tillie knew what word to use to give in and Ourbill knew he would use it. That, or he would break down, but either way, if Tillie was overwhelmed, it would be clear. The hooks dug into Tillie’s back mercilessly and after only a few strikes his back was dripping blood to the ground in a wet puddle. Thankfully, it would be easy to clean with magic, otherwise it would be a very irritating mess. Though, he supposed, having Tillie bloody the floor was hardly the worst thing that could happen.

Ourbill pulled back after five, inspecting his handiwork. The marks were deep enough that there were furrows carved into the skin when Ourbill had pulled back and blood poured freely. Ourbill flicked the cat o’ nine tails to remove the worst of the blood, displeased with the mess even as he knew it was inevitable. “Is that enough?” Ourbill asked, knowing the answer already.

“Not in the least,” Tillie said, his voice a rumble in his chest, deep and heavy.

Ourbill laughed, a cruel sound. “I will find your limit yet.”

The cat o’ nine tails was retired when Ourbill hit ten strokes, not wanting to leave permanent damage or risk it going too deeply into the muscles. It did, however, lead to an easy and simple pain option afterwards that Ourbill found often made insufferable subs whine and complain. He picked up the wet washcloth that he had put on Tillie’s cock, pouring some liquid onto it before standing behind Tillie.

“I am going to clean the blood. You are a statue. Do not move.” With the instructions given and acknowledged with a nod, Ourbill began to wipe down Tillie’s bloody back with lemon juice. Tillie tensed up, the wounds oozing as Ourbill took his time to make sure he got every drop. True to his words, however, Tillie did not move. His hands clenched at his sides and his tail shook back and forth, but he kept himself still for Ourbill’s touch. He couldn’t control the hiss of pain when the juice got into a deeper cut and lingered. Ourbill noticed and dug the cloth in just to watch Tillie shudder and break into a whine before catching himself and going silent once more.

“Well done,” Ourbill said, tossing the rag onto a basket for used items. “I have yet to have a pet manage to stay as still as that.” The idea that Tillie had done the best went to Tillie’s head, his mind swimming in endorphins. He was the best, did the best, and he wasn’t even done. He was going to be the best aelso that Ourbill ever had.

Ourbill picked up a piece of meat, holding it out in front of Tillie’s mouth. It smelled odd, somehow devoid of scent. “Eat.” Confused but willing to humor him, Tillie took the bite and swallowed it whole. It took only a moment for him to realize it had been liberally doused in hot sauce, the capsaicin burning down his throat and into his stomach, settling in like a pile of coals. Tillie’s tongue hung out as he panted, each breath making it worse.

“Excellent.” Ourbill held out another item. “Eat this. I will not have you harm your stomach.” It was disgusting and Tillie was pretty sure it was literally chalk, but he ate it willingly all the same. The pain in his stomach lessened as Ourbill waited for it to take effect, marking down notes on a piece of paper. He seemed like he was testing something and Tillie had no idea what it was.

When the pain had become an annoyance rather than hurting, Tillie cleared his throat. It ached and the delicate flesh stung, but he didn’t feel ready to give in yet. Ourbill looked up from his notes. “Ah, right. Come over here.” He waved his hands and the locks on the spreader bar clicked, freeing Tillie. Unsure of what this meant, Tillie walked over warily. “Kneel.”

Tillie knelt in the same way he had when training, the position uncomfortable and unpleasant. “Write this one hundred times. If you make a mistake, you will do it again.” A paper with New Speech was handed over, the large symbols taking half the page. The glyphs were clean and neat, carefully written to be as clear as possible to avoid Tillie having an excuse for poor mimicry.

“Where’s a table?” He took the pencil given to him and a stack of parchment, looking for a flat surface on which to write.

“You do not get one. Write.”

Tillie drooped in defeat. “How am I supposed to do it?”

“I don’t know nor do I care. It is your task.”

“This doesn’t hurt, how is this going to do anything for you?”

Ourbill smirked. “You don’t wish to do it and it will be difficult without knowing the language or the glyphs. I do not need to cause pain to inflict suffering.” Tillie scowled, looking down at the sentences.

“What does it even mean?” He waved the paper as if it would suddenly make sense.

“It says I will do as I am told without complaint.”

Tillie turned the paper around, hoping to be able to read it, but what little he knew wasn’t nearly enough to make sense. Ourbill had done it purposely, of course. It was harder to copy letters when they were simply images to mimic and he wanted to see Tillie frustrated.

Tillie looked at the pencil he was given. It was a simple one, charcoal wrapped in paper to avoid smearing the pigment everywhere when used, but it was very thick. With how wide it was and how many lines he needed to do, the paper might not be enough to do it to Ourbill’s satisfaction. “How am I supposed to copy it with this?”

“Figure it out.”

Tillie choked down a snarl, setting the paper down. Sullenly, he began to copy the sentences as best he could. Once he had done as many as he thought a hundred was, he held up the stack of papers. “I’m done.”

Ourbill, now sitting in a comfortable chair and reading, looked up. “Show me.” Tillie placed the papers before Ourbill along with the half used pencil. Ourbill flicked through the pages, separating some from others and making two piles. “You have done 97 sentences, do three more. Repeat these pages, you have made mistakes.”

Tillie’s back hurt less than his irritation at the lines. “I’m not a fucking student, why am I doing this?”

Ourbill swatted Tillie in the shin with a switch and Tillie buckled, dropping to one knee. Tillie breathed through his teeth heavily, keeping his jaws tightly together to avoid saying something stupid. “Do not curse. Apologize.”

Tillie forced the words out of his mouth, the tone clearly insincere. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“I’m sorry for cursing.”

“Good.” Ourbill replaced the switch in its place on his desk. “Get back to work. If you please me, I will allow you to rut against my shoe once we are done.”

Tillie lit up at that. That was something that sounded good, something that he enjoyed. He didn’t care about the idea that he was humping Ourbill’s foot, the memory of the pleasure of Ourbill’s shin between his thighs as Tillie rode against him making Tillie squirm. “Alright.”

Tillie took the papers down, noting that there were five pages that needed to be redone with a total of 11 sentences. Ourbill had said he was missing three, so he needed to write out 14 more. Determined, Tillie turned his mind to copying it as carefully as he could.

This time, he put his effort into it, writing more neatly than even the accepted ones before, determined to do his best. Once the work was completed, he looked them over himself, deciding to rewrite one again before turning it in to Ourbill.

Ourbill glanced the pages over before setting them into the acceptable pile. “How does your back feel?”

Tillie rolled his shoulders, wincing. “Not great, but I’ve felt worse.”

“I see. You are nowhere near crying for mercy, are you?” Tillie shook his head. “You are able to handle healing potions, yes? Even for deeper wounds?” Tillie wasn’t sure where this was going but nodded, though he did have to admit that if Ourbill was considering use of healing potions, he might actually get pretty hurt.

“Good.” Ourbill stood, looking down at Tillie for a few moments before walking back to the table and waving for Tillie to follow. Tillie moved obediently to do so and the moment he settled down, standing straight and ready, Ourbill struck out with a whip against Tillie’s still bleeding back. Tillie arched away but didn’t move, the stinging hurting so much more than the ripping. Ourbill made a sound of discovery at the realization. Tillie could handle being bloodied and torn at, could handle impact relatively well, but the sharp flicks of the whip made him actually cringe.

Ourbill placed a healing potion in Tillie’s hand. “Drink.” Tillie hesitated, knowing exactly what was coming next, but downed the entire thing. He gave the bottle back and Ourbill set it aside near another full one, watching Tillie’s skin and muscle reknit before his eye, the furrows clawed in by the cat o’ nine tails vanishing along with the bruise over his ass. The blood remained, however, and Ourbill took a moment to wipe it away. He wanted to see fresh blood, not old. He needed to know where he had already hit. “Count.”

Something about the whipping made Tillie fuzzy-headed, much more so than the cat o’ nine tails and the paddle, though the paddle had been closer to this feeling. The paddle had made him wriggle, the cat o’ nine tails simply hurt, but the whip made him writhe.

Every ten lashes, Ourbill stopped and checked in with him, reminding him of the use of mercy, but every time Tillie refused to use it. Numbers swam in Tillie’s head, only vaguely aware that he was in the double digits when he heard himself say 50, realizing that Ourbill had not yet stopped. Time passed and the stinging continued, blood pooling beneath his feet and under his toes, his claws instinctively digging into the wood in an attempt to keep his balance.

“Seventy— Seventy-two,” Tillie slurred and the whip fell once more. "Seventy-three." He couldn’t keep himself up at that point, his legs giving in and dropping to one knee. Ourbill pulled the whip back, curling it into his grip to avoid it dragging into the blood.

“Can you handle two more for me, Tillie?” Ourbill asked. ”If you cannot, remember that you may use mercy.”

Tillie didn’t think, most of his weight on one hand as he struggled to keep balance. Could he? He felt liquid dribbling down his arm, looking over to see that he was covered in it. He shifted slightly and gasped when he felt a ribbon of flesh shift, knowing that his back was shredded. He wasn’t sure, but Ourbill liked neat numbers. Wouldn’t it be good if he got to 75? Wouldn’t Ourbill like that?

Tillie’s hand on the ground clenched, determination surging through him. He could do it if it was for Ourbill. He could do anything Ourbill asked for. He struggled back to his knees, giving up on returning to his feet but straightened his back to present it again. He couldn’t speak, nodding instead. He could do it.

The moment the whip fell once more, Tillie knew he couldn’t. He whined, eye watering and tears pouring down his face. He had failed Ourbill, he was useless. He couldn’t actually handle what Ourbill wanted. “M— mercy,” Tillie choked out through heaving breaths, falling forward to an arm, almost falling flat to the floor.

Ourbill was immediately at his side, kneeling by him, not caring about the blood soaking into his fine trousers. “Open your mouth, aelso,” Ourbill said, voice clearer than the buzz in Tillie’s head. “Drink this for me. Slowly, don’t choke.” With Ourbill’s patient assistance, Tillie drank the entire thing over a couple of minutes and though his flesh healed, he was still barely aware of what was going on, only knowing that Ourbill was by him, a hand over his arm.

Tillie whined in apology, feeling like a failure. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice still wobbly. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t do it—”

“No,” Ourbill said firmly. “You did exactly what I wanted you to do. You asked for mercy.”

“But I wanted to give you a good— a good number!” Tillie protested. “You don’t like fours, I wanted to do more!”

Ourbill shifted to be before Tillie, raising his head, holding his jaw in his metal hands gently. “You did not disappoint me. You did well.”

“But—”

“No. You did well. There is no ‘but’. I asked you to push until you could no longer handle it and you did exactly that. I do not care where that line is, only that you reach it.” Tillie keened, wanting to protest, to argue, but Ourbill was so direct. He couldn’t tell Ourbill he was wrong, but he still felt terrible.

“I want— I want to continue,” Tillie demanded, though there was no energy in his words.

“No.” Ourbill replied. “We are done. I will not continue regardless of what you desire. Stand up. We will go to bed and you will lay down until you are more coherent.”

Tillie pushed from the ground, the movement taking all of his energy. His balance was shot and he nearly fell, but with Ourbill, he stabilized. Ourbill pushed down on Tillie’s shoulders and Tillie didn’t even think, just went back to standing on his heels. Ourbill moved Tillie’s tail and it moved almost limply in Ourbill’s grasp; when Ourbill let go midair, the tail stayed in place. Ourbill pushed it back up into a more natural curl then left it be. Ourbill reached down to unlock Tillie’s cock, allowing the still soft member to swing freely. Tillie blinked slowly, still foggy, and turned slightly to look at Ourbill when he walked into Tillie’s sight.

Ourbill raised a finger, moving it back and forth in a smooth motion. Tillie followed, keeping his eye on it and doing nothing more than that. His stance was loose but straight, focused entirely on what Ourbill was giving him. Pleased, Ourbill gave a nod to himself. Tillie didn’t even notice anything else, the nod of Ourbill being pleased making him twitch happily. This was good, Ourbill was pleased.

Tillie might not be entirely there, but he did still remember the promise of his reward. Once Ourbill sat on the bed and tried pulling Tillie over, Tillie resisted and instead fell to the ground in front of Ourbill, thighs on either side of Ourbill’s prosthetic leg. Ourbill’s brow raised. “What are you doing?”

“‘m getting my reward,” Tillie mumbled.

“You are in no state for this,” Ourbill said reproachfully but didn’t try to get out of Tillie’s grip. Tillie was heavy and if he wanted to rut against him, it was hardly the worst time. Tillie was full of dopamine and endorphins and it was sure to be intense.

“Feels good,” Tillie said, a hand around Ourbill’s right leg and one on the bed to keep his balance. He did feel good now. The pain was gone, though the memory lingered, but his empty head made everything stronger. Without the cage around his cock and knowing that Ourbill was pleased, his dick began to thicken in slow arousal. He barely leaned any weight on Ourbill apart from his cock, rutting slowly onto the thin lacing and the leather of his shoe.

Ourbill debated on refusing Tillie, but when he looked at him, eye pupil blown wide and the unseeing pleasure of subspace, he decided that he would allow it. He tilted his foot to rub upwards and Tillie surged forward. Ourbill winced at the grip around his thigh, Tillie not realizing that his thumb was pricking into the flesh above the prosthetic, but didn’t deny him.

Tillie curled around Ourbill, his head tucked into Ourbill’s lap as he fell into base instincts. After just a few thrusts, the arm on Ourbill’s thigh moved to encircle Ourbill’s waist for stability.

Tillie’s cock throbbed, precum oozing over Ourbill’s shoe. Ourbill sighed internally, knowing it was going to be a pain to clean, but he had promised Tillie that he was allowed to, so it was something he kept to himself. Instead, Ourbill petted Tillie’s horns, knowing that they were sensitive in the same way his own were.

Tillie whimpered, his hips rocking faster, cock riding upwards against the soft fabric that covered Ourbill’s leg. Tillie said something into Ourbill’s leg but Ourbill didn’t catch it. “What was that?” he asked, pulling his hand away to encourage Tillie to shift his head.

Tillie tilted his head to free his mouth. “Saelsyn,” he said, voice a rumble in his chest. Ourbill’s eye softened and he grasped Tillie’s horn once more, running his thumb over the curve.

“Aelso,” he said, voice warm. “You were so good for me.” Tillie’s movements sped up, the praise going straight to his arousal. “You handled so much more than any other pets could. Your back looked so beautiful covered in blood.”

Tillie’s mouth was open, panting and drooling onto Ourbill and the floor as Ourbill continued. “Such a good aelso. You make me proud to be your Saelsyn.” Tillie shuddered and Ourbill knew he was close. “You have shown me your pain; show me your pleasure.”

Tillie growled before it broke into begging whimpers. He needed more. He didn’t know what he needed, but he needed something. Ourbill tilted his head as Tillie continued, his movements slowing in frustration. Ourbill’s grip on Tillie’s horn tightened enough that Tillie’s breath caught when it ached. “Cum for me,” Ourbill commanded.

It was exactly what Tillie needed, explicit permission allowing that last barrier to fall. Tillie came hard, his cock spurting his release over the dark fabric in heavy gushes, knot pulsing against Ourbill as it expanded. Ourbill didn’t reach down to grab it. He had made no promise to do so and Tillie didn’t care. He didn’t even bother to bring his own hand down, taking his pleasure purely from the feeling of Ourbill’s shin against his cock and the leather laces rough against his balls.

Tillie felt boneless, leaning into Ourbill without hope of keeping himself up. “Come up here,” Ourbill said, the words an order, not a suggestion.

Tillie groaned but when Ourbill repeated it, he shoved himself up and onto the bed by sheer force of will. He rolled over to curl around Ourbill, hand pulling just the slightest amount to request that Ourbill lay with him. Ourbill thought about it before acquiescing. He leaned against the wall, using a spell to pull the book he had been reading over. Tillie crawled up to lay his head on Ourbill’s thigh, tail shifting to act as a makeshift blanket and nearly covering his whole body. Ourbill adjusted it so Tillie wouldn’t hurt himself by sleeping in an odd position.

“Sleep, Tillie,” he said, a hand on Tillie’s head and petting gently. He didn’t even need to say anything, Tillie was already out. Ourbill snorted quietly but didn’t stop petting Tillie.

He hadn’t been lying either; Tillie really was his favorite pet. One of the least stable, certainly, but also the most interesting, and he was glad he had finally deigned to give Tillie his mark. He was the first in that regard too, but Ourbill wasn't going to tell him that. It would just go to his head. So instead, he read his accounting silently, not noticing the soft smile on his lips when Tillie snuffled in his sleep and cuddled closer.

[rachrar]

Story: Who Needs Thoughts When You Could Have Dick Instead?

Work Name: Who Needs Thoughts When You Could Have Dick Instead?

Pairing: Ourbill/Tillie

Kinks: Anal, Dubcon

Universe: Generic High Fantasy

Note: Ourbill is in a human guise

Possible trigger warning: Ourbill's arms are prosthetics that are attached by magic. They free float from his elbow. In the story, Tillie pulls them off entirely. I don't know what to call that as far as trigger goes, but I wanted to give some kind of warning in case that is a problem for those who use disability aids as it is a significant part of the story.

Associated art done by @AbberantNautes on twitter. I HIGHLY recommend that you look at my twitter as the art that is posted there directly inspired this story. I can't post it here due to the content though.

Ourbill glanced at the book then at the blackboard, checking over the various shapes and sigils. His eyes narrowed as he found an error, irritated with himself. He set the book down on the desk, a hand on it to ensure the tome wouldn’t fall back together and close, and grabbed a cloth, then moved a leg up to the desk to reach higher. He wiped at the board, nose wrinkling. He hated making mistakes, and more than that, mistakes that could significantly alter the spell. He didn’t care about it being more dangerous, that was the nature of magic, after all. He cared that it would affect the end result. He was already testing something new and combining spells, he didn’t need it to explode in his face. Again.

He leaned back to rest on his calf, staying in place. He tapped on the chalk, metal fingers making soft tik tik tik sounds as he took his time. Every section was given the same amount of attention, willing to take hours to check over if he must. Ensuring the quality was more important than moving quickly.

He huffed softly when he found another error, hiking himself up higher to adjust it. Just as the chalk touched the board, something touched him. A large clawed hand grasped his head, large enough for the claws to scratch by his ears, another hand grabbing his arm on the stump end of his elbow and the top section of his gauntlet. No fear went through him— nobody else had a grip like that other than Tillie, and Tillie was nothing if not an obedient dog. He wouldn’t harm his master.

Ourbill moved with Tillie’s grip and back to his feet, tugged down from his perch on the desk, then bent over for a moment. He felt a weight rub against his thigh, rolling his eyes as he realized that Tillie was in a mood. Once Tillie let go of his arm, the grip on his head shifted down to his neck. The mimic around his torso shivered for a moment but when Tillie gave his welcome huff against Ourbill’s ear, it settled down. 

Tillie’s claws, so intensely sharp, cut at Ourbill’s neck shallowly. Ourbill’s eyes narrowed, turning his head to try and look at Tillie. As Tillie was on his left side, however, his false eye had no vision and Tillie was in his blind spot. Ourbill groaned in distaste as Tillie licked at him, tongue wet and large. 

“Hello, Tillie,” he sighed. The second lick made his lip curl, even wetter and longer. “Behave. You have already drawn blood, now let go of me.”

Tillie gave a soft, low growl, testing Ourbill’s mood. Ourbill gave a sharp, quick hiss of denial, moving his arm to pull out of Tillie’s grip. For once, however, all it did was make Tillie chuckle as he kept Ourbill in place. He was released for only a moment before Tillie tossed him in the air, grabbed his thighs, and flipped him upside down. Ourbill glared at Tillie but Tillie was out of sight as he bent him further back until he rested on his shoulders. He saw his calves and shoes, held tightly by Tillie as his ass was near Tillie’s face.

“Tillie,” Ourbill said quietly, dangerously. Tillie seemed beyond caring, or refused to, and he didn’t stop. Tillie’s mouth closed around his groin, bone jaws carefully digging into his fine trousers. “Don’t you tear my—” Before he could finish his sentence, he was interrupted with a loud tearing sound as Tillie ripped the pants and bared his ass.

Ourbill’s lips pursed, reddening in both growing anger and blood pooling in his head. “You’re going to pay for new ones.” Tillie ignored him, little grumbles in his throat as he began to lavish Ourbill’s ass with his tongue. Ourbill’s tail slapped Tillie's face and showed his annoyance, but Tillie pushed it out of the way and continued licking. Ourbill’s hands reached out to grasp onto Tillie’s feet, gripping tightly on the muscled, but ultimately delicate, limbs, and squeezed just hard enough to catch Tillie’s attention.

“Tillie!” Tillie pulled back from Ourbill, fingers tapping along Ourbill’s legs to get a sense of his body’s reactions. There was a faint wrinkle in Tillie’s face that indicated his pleasure and amusement. “I said let go.” To emphasize his point, Ourbill began to grip tighter, knowing that his metal prosthetics could snap bone if he were to try. Tillie made an annoyed sound, frustrated that Ourbill kept talking.

Tillie put Ourbill back down on his back gently. Ourbill scoffed. “About time.” He put a hand on the ground, moving to stand up. He didn’t expect Tillie to grab his arms suddenly, keeping him in place. “For fuck’s sake, Tillie, sto— NO!” Tillie ripped at the prosthetics and pulled until the magic gave out rather than harm him, tossing the limbs aside in an uncaring sprawl.

Ourbill’s glare could shatter men like glass but Tillie didn’t care, hoisting Ourbill back up to his shoulders as if he heard nothing. “I am going to paddle your ass until even you beg for me to stop,” Ourbill hissed. “I’ll leave you so bruised that anyone who sees will think you were in a brawl. I’m going to tie your leash to the door like a dog until I return home to feed you like the beast you are. I’m— oh!”

Tillie plunged his tongue in Ourbill’s ass to shut him up, and the planewalker shuddered in surprise at the sudden intrusion but, just as Tillie wanted, stopped talking. His arms, the top half at any rate, twitched as he tried to grab onto the ground for grip, to take control and balance how he wanted rather than be at Tillie’s mercy, but his arms were too far away for the magic to re-attach. His thighs squeezed on Tillie to try and force him to stop, but his thighs were no match for Tillie’s bone jaws.

It was rare for Tillie to be allowed to actually penetrate him and even then it was in controlled environments, so Ourbill felt off-footed and unsure. He felt rather vulnerable, actually, a feeling that left him uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to do.

Tillie did, however. His tongue pressed in further, deeper, aiming for the spot that could make even Ourbill writhe. Ourbill wriggled, trying to escape, face flushing with more than frustration now, eyes widening as Tillie became more methodical in his movements. “Let me go—”

Tillie leaned over him more, moving to kneel before tugging Ourbill closer to rest his shoulders on Tillie’s thighs. It was softer than the floor, at least, but it didn’t make him feel any more in charge, left at Tillie’s mercy as he was. He felt Tillie’s cock, throbbing and wet, against his back, a few stray drops of precum dribbling down to his arms. He rested his biceps against Tillie’s thighs for some semblance of control, trying to work himself back up to a glare. It was hard, though, considering his position and how his own cock pulsed heavily against his stomach. 

When did he get hard? He had no idea, but his own slick pooled over the head before it squirted over his abs at the realization. He was panting— when did this start? Why was he aroused when he had no control? Tillie was his bitch, how dare he rise against him? He was meant to be on his knees and pleading for Ourbill’s attention; to think he had the arrogance to force Ourbill down—

As though he knew when Ourbill began to work himself up into a self righteous fury, Tillie slurped his tongue out again, the heavy member slapping against his groin for a moment and startling him. Tillie pulled it back, letting it glide across Ourbill’s cock and hole before circling the entrance once more. Ourbill bit his lips, refusing to make a sound. Tillie pressed his tongue against Ourbill’s ass, the tip flicking against the puckered entrance. Ourbill twitched with each touch but made no sound, eyes closed as he wrestled with self control.

Tillie slowly thrust his tongue forward and Ourbill arched, heels digging into Tillie’s back as he raised himself to deepen the intrusion. Phantom hands scrabbled at the ground for purchase, Ourbill’s mouth opened in a silent pant, his chest heaving. He felt like he had no air, his lungs were too starved of oxygen for anything but a hot rush making his head spin. He didn’t realize how his thighs quaked when Tillie reached up to hold onto one to keep him still, nor when Tillie used his other hand to pull Ourbill up until he was laying on his back and on Tillie’s hand. Tillie’s hands were large and he was strong, so Ourbill’s weight, even with his prosthetic leg still attached and the mimic curled around his rib cage protectively, was hefted with ease.

Ourbill felt even more powerless, balanced on Tillie’s palm. At least on his back he could wiggle around, but now all he could do was move his legs. Ourbill’s tail shook from base to tip with each movement of Tillie’s tongue, his cock jerking in a similar rhythm. Tillie growled, growing impatient. His hand twitched, then with a suddenness that made Ourbill gasp, shoved Ourbill onto his back on the desk, a hand over his chest to keep him in place before shoving his tongue inside again, deeper, harder.

Ourbill bit at his lips hard enough to taste his own blood, something he hadn’t done in years, and the taste was electrifying. The reaction was paralleled in his body, squirming as he struggled to stay silent. Tillie knew what he was doing, however, his tongue alarmingly prehensile and mobile. The muscle rubbed against Ourbill’s prostate, hips immediately jumping and knees hooking around Tillie’s shoulders. Tillie, pleased, chuffed over Ourbill, drooling even more now that he had his prey secured.

Ourbill panted with an open mouth as Tillie began to narrow down to his target. Ourbill’s cock was weeping slick now, balls twitching. When was the last time he had let Tillie fuck him? The last time he had given Tillie the gift of his ass in any way? Was it too long? What was it that drove him to this, to pinning him down against the hardwood, a hand encasing his thigh, the other over his chest? Was it a rut— he had a calendar for those, did he miss it? He had been busy, after all, but he had always carved time out for Tillie, there was no way he—

“A-ah!” Ourbill couldn’t contain his moan when Tillie thrust against it, cock gushing as his hips rolled against Tillie’s tongue. He refused to give in again but Tillie was merciless, slamming against it now that he had its location mapped. His knees raised slowly as he tensed, tail vibrating and balls churning in need as his climax approached, but still he held himself back from making another sound.

Just as he was about to fall over the edge of no return, Tillie slurped his tongue out, panting just as much as Ourbill. Ourbill choked down a whimper, shuddering but relaxing against the desk in fits and bursts. His forgotten glare began to re-surface, ready to demand that Tillie lay on his back so he could ride his tongue, but Tillie was pulling back, standing up and away. Ourbill would not beg, he refused to stoop so low, but he did hook his prosthetic leg around Tillie’s side to keep him nearby. If Tillie wanted out, he would have to break that connection too.

Tillie didn’t plan on it, standing straight and slapping his cock on Ourbill’s stomach. The girth was ridiculous and Ourbill’s eyes widened. How in the hell was Tillie planning on fitting that inside of him? As he began to tense with an unpleasant turn of his stomach, looking up at Tillie with mild fear —no, anger, with anger— he felt one of Tillie’s fingers slip into him. Knowing how sharp Tillie’s claws were, he immediately began to arch away, hissing like a startled cat and glaring. Tillie laughed but didn’t stop, and Ourbill felt no piercing nail digging into him. Still wary, he waited for the gotcha but there seemed to not be one. 

Tillie apparently snipped his claws at some point— were the claws on that hand even sharp when he came in? Was it premeditated? Did Tillie come to his office with the audacity in mind to think he could bend Ourbill over like a whore just because he was stronger? He was going to get lashings, whippings, no, not even that, beatings after this for his gall. Tillie had clearly gotten used to a too lax hand and Ourbill planned on fixing that. Would it be the iron cuffs? Or perhaps the cock cage, Tillie did always struggle with that.

Another finger spread Ourbill wide and his thoughts scattered into the wind, focused on his body’s reactions. With his free hand, Tillie gathered the copious pre cum and dripped it down to his other hand to use it as lubricant as he scissored Ourbill wide. Ourbill struggled, but his movements were weakening like his mind, thoughts fading into a buzzy blankness that was so tempting to sink into.

When he felt a third finger, so large, so thick, fitting inside of him, he was startled and brought back down. The wood against his back was rubbing against his spine protrusions, tail pinned against the edge of the desk, and he wrinkled his nose at the growing discomfort that threatened to spill over into pain. Tillie took notice, angling his thumb up to rub at Ourbill’s cock. Ourbill choked on air, not expecting it and cock surging with a lewd gush of slick. His stomach was wet with it, dick dripping like a faucet and balls constantly twitching. Tillie’s rough skin was incredible against his own, the dichotomy of the calloused assassin’s touch compared to his own soft and gently bred flesh making him quake. Tillie was so large; he had never felt so small.

Ourbill’s teeth were clenched, breathing roughly and eyes screwed closed. He would win this battle of wills, he must. Tillie was acting up, was being a terrible pet, and Ourbill needed to keep his wits to punish him, to not let Tillie win. He was drooling, saliva dripping down and onto his shirt as he fought both his body and Tillie, head lolling back and hitting the table to try and stay grounded. In retaliation, Tillie shifted his fingers and cocked them in a beckoning motion. Ourbill arched, hissing again but making no further sound. He wished he had his hands to grab, to slap, to punch, to pull— something, anything!

Tillie pulled out, making sure that Ourbill was steady on the desk. He reached into his hood scarf and pulled out some lube, dumping it on his cock. He saved some for Ourbill, lifting him by his hips to pour it inside the slightly gaping hole. The oil was cold and Ourbill gasped, eyes flying open and ready to glare. When he was set back down, he felt it begin to ooze out. “Don’t you dare let it get on the carpe—”

The head of Tillie’s cock kissed Ourbill’s asshole and Ourbill practically whited out. Tillie hadn’t even pushed inside yet, but the sensation of the warm member, the wet head smearing precum against him, was more than enough to startle him into silence. Tillie hand pulled at one of Ourbill’s cheeks, pulling at himself to encourage a spurt of precum to pour into Ourbill. The sensation made Ourbill shudder, wanting —needing— more. Ourbill licked at his lips, eye cracking open and ready to snap at Tillie. Realizing he had used all of his luck, Tillie began to press inside.

Ourbill’s hole fought it, fluttering and tension trying to push him out. Tillie moved his thumb to rub at Ourbill’s balls, knowing they were more sensitive than his cock. When he was in human form, his balls took the place of the plating, and while the cock was nice, it was replacing only the very top portion of the plating and was less sensitive as a result. Ourbill arched, hole now welcoming Tillie inside. It was still a tough fit, but after a few moments, he was balls deep. Ourbill’s sack pulsed against Tillie’s pelvis, hips riding carefully against Tillie to feel the way his balls shifted and the skin moved.

Tillie was still, letting Ourbill set the pace for a moment and gently rubbing at the plush sack with a slightly chapped toe bean. Ourbill’s arms moved as if to cover his face, to hide his mouth and expression, to deny Tillie the right to see him so scarlet faced and needy. Ourbill was sweating profusely, feeling like he had jumped into a pool, and yet Tillie was still not moving. Ourbill began to bounce against him, but Tillie stopped that with a firm grasp of his hip. 

A hiss began to build in Ourbill’s throat. The size disparity made no difference when it came to wielding tools to put Tillie in his place. He could see that the whip would not be nearly enough, no matter how much blood was spilled. No, he would need something more intense— a cattle prod? He could always make Tillie get that cock piercing for his tip so he could use it to lead Tillie around like a bull by the ring. He wouldn’t be able to act up that way, just a sharp jerk of the ring and Tillie would surely fall to his knees and plead for Ourbill to stop. That sounded like a great idea, he would just need to get one that would shift with his size. Who could he ask—

Tillie’s hips had slid back as Ourbill was lost in thought, then slammed forward, hands gripping his thighs. An involuntary sound escaped his lungs at the sudden compression, eyes flying open to see Tillie smirking above him. His eyes narrowed into a glare, but the next thrust broke it into a gasp. How could he possibly think when Tillie’s fat cock was shoving him open? It was nearly as thick as his arm, he could already feel that he was going to be aching. He tried to keep hold of the threads of thoughts in his mind, but with every push of Tillie’s hips he began to lose them one by one. That brainless buzz was returning with Tillie’s movements, panting hard enough that he could feel his throat getting hoarse. His eyes rolled back into his head, struggling to get air as Tillie used his ass like a toy, rolling into it as much as Tillie was shoving down.

It took a few thrusts before Tillie found his prostate, startling a yelp out of Ourbill. He immediately tried pretending he hadn’t, but Tillie placed a hand over his waist, claws digging into the wood to keep Ourbill still and began to fuck into him harder, rutting into him again and again and again until Ourbill was gasping and making little whimpering sounds that kept getting cut off with a new thrust stealing the air from his lungs.

“Saelsyn,” Tillie growled, using the Primordial word for Master that he knew drove Ourbill wild. He might prefer Oevial himself (primal/feral mate), but Ourbill’s immediate loss of breath was worth it, a choked sound that might have been a moan. Tillie curled around Ourbill, clawing into the desk as he fucked into Ourbill, remembering only at the last moment that he needed to grasp onto the planewalker because he couldn’t hold his own position when armless. Tillie’s growls were interspaced with low moans, all to better hear Ourbill slowly lose himself to the feeling. Tillie’s cock was so deep in him he might as well be deepthroating it, and with Tillie purposely making noise, Ourbill’s self conscious prideful walls began to crumble into little noises.

Ourbill didn’t whimper but he was making soft pleading sounds, eyes closed tight and moaning only in his throat. Ourbill couldn’t keep his lips closed for too long though, needing to heave a breath. His eyes fluttered, looking up at Tillie for just a moment before closing, turning away to try and hide the sounds he was making even as he continued. Tillie pressed his forehead against Ourbill’s shoulder, panting just as hard, if not harder, adding little whines, some whimpers of his own. Ourbill might love hearing him scream in pleasure (or pain, mostly pain), but it was the few close touches with the soft sounds that made Ourbill melt into a puddle.

“Saelsyn please—” Ourbill was biting his lip when when Tillie put just the right begging emphasis on the word, then broke into a real moan. He was still quiet, never had been loud to begin with, but it was a sincere moan regardless. His thighs shook as he tried to pull Tillie closer, their chests touching.

Tillie felt Ourbill’s heart race, the thrum of blood pulsing through his body. Beneath his hand he felt Ourbill’s stomach begin to tense, the little sounds growing stronger, and ass tighter. Ourbill’s balls drew up in preparation to spill and Tillie reached down to caress the skin in careful, gentle pulls, Ourbill’s tail twitching furiously against his skin. Ourbill whined, unable to focus, to do anything but make the little sounds of pleasure that made Tillie’s heart race and body shake in shared ecstasy.

Ourbill cursed in Primordial, his vulgar tongue finally freed as he spat through borderline nonsensical sentence fragments. Even if he was making sense, Tillie didn’t understand it anyway, knowing only the barest of the language for Ourbill, and even that he had to pry out of the man with a crowbar to force him to admit something he considered private. Ourbill’s sounds began to rise in pitch, shoulders pitching side to side, eyes open and pupil on his good eye blown wide. “A-Aelso—” Pet—

Tillie’s thrusts became erratic, pounding in deep and shuddering before jerking back out to the head just to feel Ourbill’s hole try to close before pushing back inside. “Saelsyn— Saelsyn— Saelsyn—!” His hips bounced on Ourbill’s and Ourbill spread his thighs as widely as they could go.

Ourbill arched, a silent scream on his lips, hips shuddering and muscles quivering. “Aelso—” He wound up tighter and tighter, constantly murmuring curses and praises in the same breath until he cut off with a gasp so soft it was noticed only because of the sudden silence as his hips jerked, cock spraying cum all over his chest and tail stiff against Tillie’s thighs. Tillie gave a chest shaking growl with a few last thrusts before he began to gush his load into Ourbill, hands on Ourbill’s hips and rolling into him as if he could fit any deeper, though careful to keep his knot out.

Tillie pulled out of Ourbill slowly, feeling the cream seep out of Ourbill’s hole. He was tempted to clean Ourbill with his tongue, but the last time he had done that, Ourbill beat his ass and said it was disgusting, that only animals do that. Granted, when Tillie sassed back that he was an animal, he ended up regretting it when he got his first whipping. Only a little though.

Ourbill was boneless on the table and Tillie set him down gently. He looked around for something to put under Ourbill’s hips to catch the falling cum. Knowing it was a no win situation and he had about 3 seconds to decide, he grabbed Ourbill’s suit jacket and lifted Ourbill by the knees to tuck the jacket underneath. Ourbill was already wrinkling his nose, knowing what Tillie did.

He went to admonish Tillie, then sighed. “Give me back my arms and choose your punishment. We’ll do that tonight at 10.” Tillie opened his mouth, ready to say his favorite ‘fun’-ishment but Ourbill forestalled that with a wave of an arm, holding out each bicep for Tillie to attach the gauntlets with the magic reigniting in a flash of pink tinted teal. “If you say a leash, then I’m going to set you out in the park like the dog you are so you can shit with the rest of the beasts.”

Tillie pouted. “Think about it while you leave and get me new clothing. You have a key. I expect you back in 30 minutes with an apology and a magi-pack.” He pushed himself up, rubbing at his chest where it ached. The mimic tightened just a little to be comforting. Ourbill took a deep breath in, then out. Now, to actually decide on the punishment.

He picked up the chalk, looking the chalkboard over. All of the runes were smudged. Ourbill breathed out heavily. Perhaps writing out lines was in order so he could see the effort Ourbill put in, and in Primordial too while he was at it. Tillie needed to learn it anyway.

[rachrar]

Tillie - Chapter 4

A failed experiment, Tillie is mimic made and staggers along the razor thin edge of beast and man, attempting to find stability and hoping to find a place he is accepted as he is rather than who others want him to be.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Artist: Nautes

Previous Chapter Summary: After leaving Thunmir, Tillie feels a call on the pendant from one of his siblings. It turns out to be Glaukos, who now goes by Pun. After helping Pun heal, Pun tells him about the Black Blades, an assassin/thief guild, that Pun works for. Tillie joins.

Tillie licked the last of the blood from the vial. It was animal blood, apparently, but the taste made Tillie recoil. This was blood from something he’d never tasted before and it made his stomach turn unpleasantly in a way he’d never felt. If he had to put a name to it, it was similar to how Pun’s blood had made him throw up but less intense. He pushed the vial back across the table. Ayla picked it up, flicking it slightly to remove the few drops of Tillie’s saliva that lingered. “Is that enough?”

“Yes. Stop asking every time you give me a new one,” Tillie scowled. Ayla shrugged.

“I don’t know how much you need or if it’s different between races or species. I’d rather make sure you knew where you were going.” She shifted a paper around then passed one over to him. The paper was magicked specifically for him to have raised lettering. Since he had been earning more than enough to justify his position, he was given a little bit of special treatment.

He ran his fingers over the writing, snorting. “Why are you sending me to this guy? There isn’t even anything useful on this.”

“The customer wants something special. He wants to meet you first to, and I quote, ‘make sure you are worth paying.’” Tillie tapped on the table, nails clicking against the fine wood.

“Does he do this often?”

“When he wants someone new, yes. He’s very particular, but he also pays extremely well. If he likes you, you’ll end up being his personal contractor.”

Tillie paused his fingers. “How many people does he want killed to have a regular assassin on hand?”

“So far it’s been” —more paper shuffling— “ten. The first two were testers apparently and the rest were filled in with increasingly high guildies. He wants someone with a high level of skill but he explicitly didn’t want Pun again. He heard about you somehow so he put you as his first choice. Apparently Pun pissed him off, and since I know you like hearing that Pun failed, I figured it would be a fun one to turn over to you.”

Tillie didn’t like that it was stated so openly, but when he sat across from the third in command, he merely sunk his claw into the parchment and dragged it closer to express his displeasure. She inhaled when it left a deep scratch in the wood, irritated at the damage. He was useful enough that his spite fueled damages were tolerated well enough and he knew it. Nobody else could do what he did.

“Fine. What’s the pay? All it says is where to meet him.”

He heard Ayla shrug. The motion was just as annoyed as he was. “Listen, this guy is weird as fuck. The only reason we keep taking his money is because it’s worth his idiosyncrasies.” Tillie didn’t know that word, but from her tone he had a feeling it was a longer way of saying that the guy was a pain in the ass.

“What’s the name?”

“Ourbill. The blood is from his pets. Er, his ‘tools’. He gets pissed when you call them pets.” She snorted. “They’re just little companion mimics, they don’t actually do anything, but he’s very insistent that they’re tools and not pets.”

“Huh.” Tillie stood up, rolling the parchment and tucking it into a bag at his waist. “Alright. How far is he?”

“Same city, not sure where. He gave us the blood and said that it should be enough.”

Tillie’s tail flicked curiously and he paused at the door. “Has he heard about me then?”

She shrugged. “I guess so. We’re mostly hush hush about how we do things but rumors are always around no matter how we squash them.”

Tillie chuckled. “I’ll be back with your cut later.”

She leaned back in her chair and kicked her feet up on the table. “Don’t die.”

“As if someone could kill me.” She shook her head in response but didn’t reply.

———

The tracking was easy. Tillie found little challenge in tracking down his prey, especially when he was given blood; it was practically a walk in the park. It seemed like the guy tried to complicate it on purpose though, bunking above an extremely busy and very boozy bar near the shore where seawind tried to steal away scents.

He didn’t go through the inn, tempted to buy a drink and knowing it would end up with him deep in the cups rather than working. Instead, he waited for the dark of night to steal away the sun and give him the opportunity to slink up the wall. The building was old and handholds many so it was quick and easy to climb. The guy was on the third floor and Tillie had to take more time to make sure nobody was nearby as he ascended, but after a few moments he was slipping into the open window.

“Leaving your window open when you’re expecting a killer is a bad idea,” Tillie chuffed as he closed the glass behind him.

“I pay your blood money. I expect you to do as you are told, not give opinions.” Ourbill’s voice was droning and monotonous with flicks of an unknown accent warping the syllables. Tillie leaned against the wall, toe tapping on the ground curiously. Three little creatures bounced and played in a corner on top of some blanket. From the way the vibrations were echoing, it was waxed or oiled. Ourbill himself was heavier than he expected, but he was neither tall nor wide. He was writing and as he lifted his arm to place the pen into a sandwell, Tillie heard the clank of metal against wood. Not a golem, he was too light for that, but not human either. Or elf, or dwarf, or anything else he’d spoken to as far as he was aware.

“What are you?” Tillie asked rudely, stepping forward to lap at the air around the man. Tillie felt no change in heartbeat that couldn’t be attributed to a natural adjustment as Ourbill turned around with a thoughtless magical movement spinning him so his back and chair were facing the desk and he was facing Tillie head on.

Ourbill made a sound in his throat of disgust. “Keep your bodily fluids away from me.” Tillie slurped his tongue back into his mouth wetly, making the noise loud on purpose. He heard Ourbill hiss softly under his breath, the sound catching Tillie’s attention. Gata hissed but not quite like that. Ourbill’s tongue made the sound round rather than the throat like gatas, so he was still lost as to what Ourbill was.

Tillie leaned over Ourbill, a hand on the desk and inches away from pinning the man to the wood. Ourbill didn’t move; he didn’t lean back or try to slip out from under him. Shockingly, he leaned forward instead and grabbed Tillie’s wrist, invading his space as much as Tillie was trying to invade his. Just as Tillie thought, Ourbill’s hands were metal prosthetics. The fingers and palm floated separately from each other and from the forearm. The buzz of magic made his muscles twitch but he too did not back down. A gentle, but firm, hand was placed in the middle of Tillie’s chest but below his gem. Ourbill’s fingers were spread to allow the point of the gem to slip between the middle two fingers and his palm pressed tightly against Tillie’s bare skin.

“Release me or you shall learn what my magic can do.”

Tillie debated it, tilting his head back and forth doubtfully. “You can’t be that much of a threat if you have to pay someone else to do your dirty work.”

Heat began to pool in Ourbill’s palm against his skin, his other hand gripping Tillie’s wrist more tightly. He increased the strength and it took only a couple of seconds for Tillie to acknowledge silently that Ourbill could quite easily snap his wrist if he actually tried. “This is your last warning before I burn this gem out of your chest and take it for myself.”

Tillie hummed as if thinking, the idea making a lance of fear slide through his veins. If Ourbill moved even an inch higher and pulled at the gem in the least Tillie would be on the floor like a bug, ready to be stepped on and thrown away. He kept his cool though, forcing himself to stay for a couple of seconds more before moving back. He didn’t want to show Ourbill weakness, but he was personally impressed by Ourbill, as no other person he had ever met, minus Thunmir, had ever been so calm in front of him. A begrudging respect that he had not felt in years warmed his chest from the inside.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tillie said dismissively, brushing Ourbill’s hand away as he straightened. “Fire and sulfur and explosions, I get it.” Ourbill leaned back into his chair more comfortably.

“Are you done?” Ourbill asked. When Tillie shrugged, he took it as a confirmation. “Good. Try again and I will not stay my hand.” He turned back to the desk and plucked out a paper. “I assume you cannot see, so I will read out the order. ‘For the price of—’”

“Is it written with charcoal?” Tillie interrupted. Ourbill seemed thrown off. Tillie heard something whip through the air and meaty slap against the desk with heavy thwap following immediately after.

“Excuse me?”

Tillie tapped the ground a couple of times with a toe claw, his tongue hanging out in a smirk as he confirmed what he thought he had heard. “Nice tail.”

Ourbill seemed nonplussed, the paper crinkling against itself as he lowered it slightly in his hands. “Perhaps I requested the wrong individual.” He rolled the scroll up tightly, a silken ribbon sliding in quick movements as he tied the parchment closed.

“Awh, come on, don’t be like that.” Tillie raised his hands and waved them slightly in an attempt to seem apologetic (he was not). “I didn’t mean to piss you off, I just meant that I don’t need you to read to me unless it’s written in charcoal. If it’s in ink then I’m fine, pens make an indent in the paper and I can feel it.”

Ourbill tapped the scroll against his hand. “Hm. Yes. It is written in charcoal. It is meant to be easily destroyed.” He stood, brushing past Tillie, almost shoulder-checking him. What a ballsy little man. One of Ourbill’s footsteps sounded much different than the other, another metal twang against the floor akin to his arms. Tillie resisted the urge to reach down and pull on Ourbill’s tail as he felt it slap him, the desire strong and hard to refuse. Thankfully Ourbill was out of reach before he lost his self control.

The fire ate the parchment in an eager whoosh as Ourbill tossed the scroll into the flames. “Do you actually want me to leave?” Tillie didn’t want to leave. He felt like he had been doing good at his job, actually, so to do something to wreck his positive streak was a little upsetting.

“I am re-writing the paper for you.”

Tillie fidgeted, picking at his claws awkwardly. It was unexpected and he didn’t know how to respond to that. Someone actually acknowledging something he couldn’t do, but not being angry about it and furthermore, offering to adjust in order for Tillie to be treated as an equal was something Tillie had not experienced. Not since Thunmir. He got concessions from the guild but that was only begrudging compared to Ourbill simply doing it to make sure they stood on the same level.

Ourbill returned to the desk and began writing. The sound of the nib scratching against the paper made Tillie’s skin crawl, just the right kind of noise that made him twitchy. He needed to drown it out. “What are your pe— tools?” He asked awkwardly, uncomfortable with starting conversations.

The pen paused. “Mimics.”

“Yeah, I know that, I mean, you gave me their blood to hunt you down. But if they’re tools, what do they do?” Tillie approached the corner slowly, not wanting to spook the little creatures.

“They are my bags.” Ourbill tapped the pen on the desk, probably to dislodge a clump of ink so it didn’t make a mess. Tillie stopped at the edge of the blanket and knelt down.

A mimic inched forward. It was bat like, little membranes catching the air and tiny claws helping it wobble its way over. “It’s a baby!” Tillie said, shocked, holding out a claw for the mimic to approach.

“Of course they are,” Ourbill said, waving a hand dismissively. “If they were adults they would be too heavy to carry.” Tillie couldn’t argue with that logic, but flicked it away gently when he felt the beast begin gnawing on the nail.

Ourbill finished his writing with a couple of sharp lines before setting the pen aside. “Here is the new copy.”

Tillie pushed the mimicling back onto the cloth, making sure it was toddling away and not returning before he took the paper from Ourbill. Ourbill waited silently as Tillie dragged a claw along the indentations.

Standard stuff, pay after proof of the kill, don’t do anything that incriminated him. Oddly enough, Ourbill called himself Merchant on the paper. Normally Tillie’s contracts were verbal and without any pronouns or names apart from the mark itself, but written like this, having a name of some kind was required. Tillie found it amusing that he was called “Contractor.” This order, compared to the rest he had ever taken, was written as a contract and explicitly included consequences for breaking it as well as a small section at the bottom that mentioned a reward. This guy was just full of surprises.

“So if I bring back the skin, I get an extra 20%?”

“Yes,” Ourbill said, “which I will not report to your guild. Consider it a tip for a job well done.”

“Weird,” Tillie mumbled. He brought his claw up to his mouth to lick away the ink, confused when he didn’t taste anything.

“There was no ink used,” Ourbill clarified as he returned to his desk. “There is no need to waste a resource when all you needed was the deformation of the paper.”

Tillie stood still, holding the paper for a moment, then rolled it up slowly. “Should I burn this? Or…?”

“Keep it on you. Do not be caught with it, of course, but it is your copy of our deal.” Ourbill waved a paper so it would make a sound. “I have my own copy. You can check it if you wish. I used a charcoal sheet so it would be legible to me when I traced out the letters for yours.”

“...No, I’m good.” Ourbill seemed like a person who would happily burn someone on a pyre for lying to him and Tillie had a feeling that Ourbill wouldn’t lie in return.

“Excellent. Then leave. I will see you next when you have the pound of flesh I purchased.”

Tillie tucked the rolled scroll into a bag at his waist, glad that it was one of the dimension bags that Pun had grabbed for him. He didn’t want to bend the paper.

———

Tillie took his time staking out the victim to ensure that there would be no suspects. Normally he just grabbed them and scuttled off into a dark corner to gorge himself, but he didn’t think that would be appropriate for this one. He needed to make sure the skin was whole so he had to be careful.

It was the longest hunt he’d had the entire time he’d been working for the Black Blades. The longest before this was a week, but he felt a need to be perfect, so when he was easing up on week two he didn’t mind it. He traced the parchment periodically to make sure he didn’t miss something, but there really was nothing more to it. Find the mark, kill him, make sure nobody suspects anything, and keep the skin. There was no time limitation listed, though he also didn’t dawdle. He couldn’t take another contract until his current one was done according to the guild rules.

It took 8 days, a full five day week and a half more after he first met Ourbill to find the right moment. The takedown was quick, engulfing the man’s head in his hand and yanking him into the darkness of an alley to slit his throat. Ourbill didn’t say that he couldn’t eat the insides, so he found a back alley butchery and borrowed the use of a few knives to make the work easier before eating his meal leisurely. He gave himself a day to finish the preparation before returning to Ourbill with the skin in the bag. He even removed all the hair and genitals just to make it a little cleaner. He probably didn’t need to, but he felt a need to impress that he steadfastly refused to acknowledge.

He needed to know what Ourbill looked like, the odd man making him curious and willing to deal with the initial dizziness of sight. He took a final lick of the human’s flesh before letting his bones shift and body contort. He flipped his hood up and made sure his mouth was covered, then walked into the inn casually with the bag at his hip. He winked at a beefy dwarf as he passed by, buying a pair of mugs before walking up the stairs. He sniffed a few times to make sure he went to the right door and pulled the cloth over his face to hide his mouth again before knocking.

“Merchant~!” Tillie chirped. “I have an ale for you!”

“I did not order anything.”

“I have your delivery too!” The door opened to reveal Ourbill. Tillie blinked a few times. He didn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t a blue skinned, one eyed man with horns haloing his head.

Ourbill’s eye narrowed, the red iris glowing in the black sclera of an eye the size of an average man’s fist. The size of the eye meant there was no nose but he did still have a mouth that looked rather average for most humanoids. The horns started at each side of his forehead and curled up and around until they touched and made a solid, handle-like shape. Tillie had an intrusive urge to pick him up by the horns and launch him through the window like a bag just to watch him fly. Ourbill was perhaps 5’4” and Tillie still loomed over him as a human, a contrast that felt wrong in some way he couldn’t put his finger on. Ourbill pulled the door open further, revealing that his forearms down were both magical prosthetics with a teal glow pulsing through runes inscribed in the metal. Tillie’s gaze flicked up and he noted that the same teal glow escaping Ourbill’s shirt collar.

Ourbill looked Tillie up and down but didn’t move aside. “I ordered no delivery.”

Tillie rolled his eyes. He might look like a human ready to wrestle with some bulls and break horses, but he couldn’t hide every aspect of himself. He tugged down the scarf covering the lower half of his face, the sawtooth teeth and bony jaws impossible to miss. Understanding lit up Ourbill’s expression and he turned on his heel, waving for Tillie to come inside. Tillie all but skipped in, closing the door. He changed his speed when he saw Ourbill begin to glare, catching the door at the last moment to close it quietly. He noticed there was no second chair, so when Ourbill took the only chair by the desk, he instead pivoted to sit on Ourbill’s bed, his weight making a significant dent in the blankets and mattress. Ourbill’s eye twitched when Tillie offered him alcohol and turned away, uninterested.

“I do not drink swill.”

“More for me then!” Tillie said and raised a mug in a cheer, taking a few gulps of it before setting the cups on the ground and self consciously pulled the scarf back over his mouth. He untied the bag at his waist and tossed it over to Ourbill. The dimension bag was small even though the contents could be much larger, so it was useful in transporting large or messy items. “Here’s the skin you ordered.”

Ourbill caught it at the last second, very nearly missing it entirely. Tillie raised an eyebrow. Alright, not a quick guy. Magic might be his entire schtick. A pretty big and powerful schtick, he had to admit, but still, everyone had weaknesses. What a nice way to find out this confident man’s weak point. Knowing how to kill people was instinctive at this point and he saved that information in the back of his mind. He’d probably forget later, but it was noted nonetheless.

“Did you remove the hair?” Ourbill asked, pulling the drawstring and looking inside.

“Yup. Got rid of the dick too, figured you didn’t want that.”

“Assumption is a poor choice,” Ourbill murmured, “but you are correct.” He walked over to the mimic corner and turned the bag inside out. The wet flaps of flayed skin plopped on top of the three creatures. Tillie immediately heard little munching sounds and pleased squeaks from them as they descended, or rather, ascended into their meal.

Tillie watched in fascination as the mimiclings ate, their little bodies stretching more than he thought they could. Their forms were messy and ambiguous at best, shambling mounds of goo at worst, and it was mesmerizing.

“Have you never seen a mimic?” Ourbill asked. “They are rare but not unknown creatures.”

“I mean, no, not really. I don’t see often at all, so.” Ourbill frowned at the sarcastic tone.

“I suppose I cannot fault you for that.” He stared at Tillie, his large eye’s gaze piercing. Tillie felt like a specimen again, wiggling uncomfortably and looking away. He immediately knew he had failed the staring contest and made himself look weak, a lick of frustration burning at his still overfull stomach. “I am, however, surprised that you shift your form so often.”

Tillie shrugged as Ourbill returned to his seat. “It’s part of my special deal, makes people want to buy me over some rando in the guild, especially when they don’t want to deal with Pun. I get asked for by name sometimes cause of that.” He paused and his eyes tightened in a smirk. “Like you did.”

Ourbill scowled as it was turned back on him. “Do not get a big head,” he said sharply. “It makes for poor customer service.” Tillie went silent awkwardly, fiddling with the mug in his lap. There was less in there than he expected. He must have downed it faster than he thought he did. He tipped the last of the dregs into the other mug.

“So, uh. What do you drink if not this shit?” Tillie raised the second mug and tugged his scarf down to reveal his mouth, tilting it in a waterfall before hiding his sawtooth mouth once more.

Ourbill snorted dismissively. “You could not afford it.”

Tillie rolled his eyes. “With what you’re paying me I’m pretty sure I could afford damn near anything. What is it?”

Ourbill finally looked away to check on his mimiclings, ignoring the question. They were slowing down in their efforts to stuff themselves until they burst, rolling around like fat little balls. Tillie suppressed the desire to smoosh one gently just to feel how plump it was. He really did want to be gentle too, something that surprised him. He normally would have thought about squeezing small things like stress toys but the worst he could muster was irritation when one waddled its way over to him and bumped against his foot.

He felt Ourbill tense but the man didn’t move, watching him keenly for any hint of a threat. Tillie pushed the empty mug away from the mimic, figuring it probably shouldn’t have any booze even if it was just a few drops. It burbled and made a noise he was pretty sure was meant to be a chirp but just came out like a gurgly grumble. Tillie pulled down his scarf and gave a soft hiss, a deep one that warned the baby that it was intruding on his domain. The mimicling whined in distress, legs working overtime to skitter away and comforting itself with its siblings. Ourbill relaxed minutely but Tillie could tell that he was overstaying his welcome.

“That was a brave one,” Tillie commented as he downed the last of his ale. He picked up the other cup and stood, stretching for a moment and listening to joints pop, then cocked a hip and looked Ourbill up and down. “Contract complete or did I miss something somewhere?”

Ourbill turned in his chair and pulled out a bag of coins, the metal jingling merrily but somehow more dully than it should. “10,000 gold as we discussed.” He held the bag out for Tillie to take.

Tillie jiggled the pouch to test the weight. It was all there but there was some softness that he didn’t expect. Confused, he opened the bag and jammed a finger in. The moment he touched it, he understood. It was all wrapped up like it came right from a bank, the little rolls of coins neatly packaged with fabric to keep them together. “Gotta say, you’re the first to give me bank gold.”

“Hm. Perhaps not the last time I shall do so.” Tillie looked up at that, wondering if it meant what he thought it did. “Here is your tip of 2,000 gold for providing the additional service.”

Tillie perked up, taking the second, smaller pouch eagerly. That too was rolled and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of that before. He knew of it, but keeping the annoying little discs in neat tubes kept the gold from ringing out and tempting thieves to try and steal was something he hadn’t considered before. 

Tillie leaned forward, eyes hooded and looked Ourbill up and down like a dish he wanted to eat. “So, that drink you said was your favorite. What was it?”

Ourbill looked confused, answering before he really thought about the non-sequitur question. “Phoseon Ikuni wine, specifically the vintage from the early 500s but no later than 523.”

“So just under a hundred years ago, gotcha,” Tillie’s eyes crinkled in a smile as he thought about that . It was currently 581 so that vintage would be pretty damn old. “Next time you call, I’ll grab a bottle in thanks.”

Ourbill looked around the room as he processed what Tillie had said. “We shall see. Now leave.”

Tillie inclined his head. Now just to find out what the hell Phoseon Ikuni wine was.

[rachrar]

Tillie - Chapter 3

A failed experiment, Tillie is mimic made and staggers along the razor thin edge of beast and man, attempting to find stability and hoping to find a place he is accepted as he is rather than who others want him to be.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Previous Chapter Summary: Tillie was taken in by Thunmir, a gata (cat-man) who gave him stability and help his self control. He has just been pushed out of the nest to figure life out on his own.

———

“Shut up.” Tillie ground the woman’s face into the cobblestones more firmly. Her nose was broken and her arm had been bitten off, but she wasn’t dead. Yet, at least. He put a foot on her lower back then released her head. She collapsed against the stone groaning, but didn’t speak, even to complain.  She was bleeding profusely, not just from the bite that took her arm but from the knife he had turned against her as well, her life dribbling on the roadway in heavy, fat rivulets that mirrored the rain pouring down from the dark sky.

Tillie’s claws dug into her back lightly, a silent threat to make her death all the more painful. “Where’s the ring?”

She snorted before cutting off into a choked wail as Tillie squeezed. “H-he took it! I don’t have it anymore!”

The thief struggled against him instinctively, trying to wriggle out of his grip. She wasn’t going anywhere and both of them knew it. He flipped her to her back so she could see her death face to face. “He who?” Tillie asked. 

“Rowan! Please, let me go—” She tried to wipe at her cheeks to remove the muck of the street from her skin, the stench permeating her clothing but the movement just hurt and she whimpered. Tillie loomed over her, tongue twisting in the air before he licked a stripe of her blood off of her face. It was disgusting because she was covered in mud, but the intimidation factor was much stronger and she choked on a hysterical snivel.

Tillie growled lowly, drooling over her. Her heart was beating so fast and he could hear her life gushing out of her arm in wet splashes under his fingers, soaking the mortar between the stones no matter how he crushed the cut flesh to slow the wastage of blood and keep her alive for a little longer, but knew just as well as she did that it was mostly a futile gesture. He held tighter to try to strengthen the tourniquet more effectively and ignored her cries of pain, but it was clear that she was losing too much blood no matter how hard he tried. “Rowan,” he repeated to ensure he heard correctly. She nodded but she was growing weak. Her heart was losing rhythm, an unsteady thump that reverberated through Tillie’s grip. “Where does he live?”

She wasn’t even crying anymore, snot nosed and babbling nonsensically. Tillie grabbed her by the neck and picked her up, letting her feet dangle over the ground. “Where does he fucking live?!” Tillie repeated but the movement encouraged what little blood she had left to leave her in slowly weakening pulses. Tillie snarled, shaking her to try and shock her alive just enough to answer, but there was nothing more. Her heart was as still as she was.

Tillie snarled, jerking her around again for good measure before grabbing the knife from the ground. Someone was sure to recognize it. He didn’t even know why he was bothering to chase down this thief. The money wasn’t worth the effort. The man was paying, what, 200 gold to try and get back some stupid ring? Tillie had already been on it for a few days and his patience was wearing thin.

He raised up the body and took a bite out of the other arm, ripping it off and devouring her greedily. He left her head to roll down the sidewalk. Too much biting for too little meat.

The soft rain was soothing against his skin when he emerged from the awning. He opened his mouth and tipped back to catch a drink, then caught a few handfuls to wipe off the worst of the blood. He would normally lick himself clean but when there was refuse on the street mixed with it, he didn’t feel a need to eat literal trash just to get a few licks of blood. She had tasted sweet though; elves always were a little on the lighter side.

He flicked rain off of his hand and reached to his waist pouch, jingling the coins for a quick count. The noise was loud but he doubted anyone would try to fight him. Another bounce of the bag to recount, then he huffed. 12 gold. Not even enough to get properly drunk in a bar. Not nearly at that threshold where he found threats funny rather than an invitation for a brawl. Where could he even go? He wasn’t going to bother with the merchant’s order anymore, that took too much effort for too little money. He was going to have to talk to people (again) to find another deal and he didn’t feel like doing that either.

The pendant on his chest slapped against his skin, burning hot. Tillie stopped walking and raised a hand to touch it. There was a heartbeat pulsing through the metal, fast— too fast. Whoever it was seemed to be a precarious position. He was tempted to leave it, but the still sharp memory of Vinnie’s pleading made him hold onto it for a moment longer.

“Tillie!”

Tillie jolted in place at the sound, hand clutching onto the metal. It was scalding and he felt it burn his skin but he didn’t let go. The lack of practice made the phrase hard to say, but he spoke slowly and clearly.

“I answer.”

A swirling mass of cold appeared to his side, sucking like a whirlpool and drawing him in. He dug his claws into the cobble, trying to resist, but the pendant pulled at him suddenly and he tumbled into the void regardless. A moment later he spun around in the air to land on his feet as he was spat back out on some only moderately flat stone surface.

The air was still. It smelled of decay and dust mixed with something that was akin to blood but had a different note to it. If he had to pin it down, it smelled similar to his own rather than from a human or even an enkindled.

Rough laughter to his left cut off into choking coughs. At least one rib was broken based on the scratch of bone in thin flesh, but the lungs were fine. Iron clicked against itself as the person shifted painfully, manacled to a stout ring set into the wall, the sound of the chains awakening a crawling sensation over his skin. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Tillie remained on all fours, tail flicking to and fro as he assessed the situation further and ignoring the speaker. There were bars 5 feet away, a bucket with stinking refuse in it. They were underground, that was for certain. The weight and groan of stone told him that there was a building above that sprawled out like a mansion. He tilted his head, listening. A few drops of water wound its way from a barred window, wind howling from the small space. It wasn’t windy outside, he noted, just the air moving through the size of the hole made it louder than it would be normally. This was a dungeon, or a jail of some kind.

“Which one are you?” Tillie said, standing up. He stalked closer, tongue licking at the air to gather more scent and information.

“Pun,” he replied, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know a Pun,” Tillie hissed, hackles raising. Was this some kind of trap? The manacles already had him on edge, remembering the way cuffs had always pinned him down without recourse to escape.

“Shit, fuck, right,” Pun hacked onto the ground roughly, a wet phlegm that was far too dense to be just snot and inhaled through a crushed windpipe. “Glaukos. I used to be Glaukos.”

Tillie moved closer until he was hovering above Pun, a hand on the wall to listen for other threats. The scent of blood increased, a bitter, stinging bite on his tongue that made him want to leave. “Prove it.”

Pun wheezed a laugh. “How am I gonna prove it? I used the pendant and now you’re here.”

Tillie couldn’t argue with that, but he still didn’t trust the small creature before him. Pun was perhaps 5 and a half feet tall, maybe 100 pounds. He was clearly emaciated and seriously wounded. How long had he been here before he used the necklace?

“Who gave it to you?”

“Vinnie,” Pun sighed, head leaning back against the wall. He heard Pun’s eyes close and his heart begin to slow. “I really should have called you earlier,” he said, voice slurring as he slumped against the wall. “Didn’t think it was gonna be this bad. I’ll pay for a healer, promise. I won’t make you… pay… for me…” His back slid against the stone, caught only by Tillie’s hands and saved from striking the ground like a limp doll.

Tillie huffed. Well, now he was on a time limit. Pun’s body was shutting down. More bones were broken than he originally thought, the man puddle-like in his hands. He was still breathing but Tillie didn’t know for how long, and he also, annoyingly, didn’t know where he was.

Breaking out wasn’t particularly hard. He ripped the door off by the hinges, throwing it at the guard who wandered by to check out the noise before running past all the shocked guards. It seemed that it was a prison if the groans of the drunks and clinking steps of the jailers was any indication, and not just that but a particularly high level one. What did Pun do to end up in such a bad location? Tillie was quick but he kept Pun still in his hands, shifting and adjusting to keep Pun as flat as possible with his head to the side.

The air outside was clean and salty, the wind gentle but cooling though there was a touch of humidity that made his skin slightly damp. He heard the rush of waves crashing against a shore in the distance along with the sounds of a large, busy night time city. He licked at the air, searching for the scents that told him where a healer was. Healers always stunk of herbs and poultices, wet leaves and sharp magic that made his tongue sting. He scowled when his tongue felt the telltale caress of osseper root and willow bark, bitter enough to make the muscle twist uncomfortably.

Tillie kicked the door open, the answering scream and rattle of pots and herbs confirming his suspicions. “Stay still or I’ll kill you.”

“Yeah, okay, I can do that—!” The healer babbled stupidly, hands flying over the walls and knocking down bottles as he tried to catch his balance to avoid moving too much.

“Heal him.” Tillie thrust forward Pun, the man lolling in his grip.

Tillie heard a hushed “what the fuck is that” before the healer swallowed heavily. “I can do that. What happened?”

“Fuck if I know,” Tillie answered, following the healer to the back room. He set Pun down gently on the bed and pressed the back of his hand against Pun’s forehead. Burning. Tillie grumbled in response, then stepped back as the healer’s instincts began to kick in.

“Alright, then I’ll do everything.” The healer bustled around, grabbing bottle after bottle and shoving some in Tillie’s grip before scurrying off to pull herb bundles down. “Set those here. Put two tablespoons in this pestle— oh, wait. You can’t see, can you?” The healer hesitated, dithering in place.

“I can feel enough,” Tillie rumbled. “Tell me what to do.” The healer sounded unsure, but began to give Tillie exacting instructions. For once, he was glad that Thunmir had forced him to learn how to cook and measure herbs consistently. He never thought he’d be using the knowledge, but here was a good example of the kind of thing that Thunmir always told him would happen.

The balm was boiling in a cauldron before the healer was able to breathe enough to speak, wiping at his head. “So, not to put too fine a point on it, but do you have… coin… to pay… with…” He began to stammer as Tillie turned towards him. “Nevermind, it’s on the house.”

Tillie chuffed in amusement. “I’ll get the money.” He surprised himself with the words, but he meant them regardless. Thunmir always said to never shortchange a healer and, more importantly, it also wasn’t his money. Pun had offered his anyway so Tillie had no skin in it.

“If… you don’t mind me asking,” the healer said again more delicately, clearly trying to have a conversation to lighten the tension that Tillie’s existence caused. “What, uh, exactly, are you? And him?”

Tillie licked at a claw to clean it of the herbs he had been measuring, skin wrinkling at the taste of ginger. He continued anyway, clearly ignoring the question. The healer passed over a clean wet cloth for Tillie to wipe away the traces of the herbs. Tillie was grateful, giving the healer a nod of approval. 

The healer sighed. “Right. Dumb question. Sorry.”

Tillie tossed the cloth back once he was done and the healer yelped at the unexpected slap of wet fabric over his face. “How long til he heals?”

The healer, heartbeat taking a few seconds to return to normal, took a deep breath. “Well.” He exhaled, the motion helping him calm down. “Awake? Tomorrow at most. Up and moving again? A week, maybe? Unless you find a higher healer, that is. I normally don’t treat wounds of this level.”

“What kinds of wounds were there?”

The healer coughed into a hand uncomfortably. “What kind of wounds weren’t there? Bone breaks, lacerations, fever, the coughing sickness. He was lucky his lungs weren’t punctured by his ribs. He was even… well.” He trailed off. When it became clear that Tillie wasn’t aware of what he referred to, he tapped his thighs to muster the words. “He was abused in depraved ways.”

Tillie made a soft growl. The healer took it like Tillie was annoyed with him, beginning to speak again but Tillie waved a hand dismissively. He didn’t care what the healer thought and the healer went silent obediently. Tillie nipped at the sharp end of a nail to clean it thoughtfully. It still tasted like osseper root but there wasn’t much to be done about that. The stench clung tightly— at least his claws tended to shed relatively quickly so he’d have to deal with it until then.

He could always just leave Pun here to deal with his own problems. He didn’t really need to do more than that, he had already fulfilled his promise to Vinnie by bringing Pun to a place where he would be healed. Pun seemed so fragile and weak; just as Vinnie said Tillie was the stronger one by a significant margin. He didn’t care about Pun. If anything, he personally hated the man. It wasn’t exactly good to be the main focus back at the center but jealousy still burned in his chest when he thought about Pun, or rather, Glaukos.

Fancy Glaukos, prancing around like he was soooo important. People cared about how he had been, making sure he was healthy and cared for and so special. But now he was in Tillie’s hands and at his mercy. Tillie was tempted to leave, but therein was his problem. He was tempted and not simply doing it. He hated Pun. He hated him so, so much. But he cared about Vinnie, and Vinnie cared about Pun.

Tillie huffed as he came to a decision. Vinnie would want Pun not only healthy but safe and the best way to do that would be to ensure that the idiots who hurt Pun were dead. “If I come back and he is not here, or is further hurt, I will find you and the next time anyone sees you, it will be in pieces across the city. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” The healer stammered. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get rid of the people who hurt him,” Tillie said. “Give me the cloths you wiped him down with.”

The healer was baffled, but obediently went to the hamper and offered it to Tillie. Tillie lapped at the air then plucked a couple of the towels out. The healer felt nauseous, a novel sensation in his line of work, when Tillie licked the disgusting cloth. He slurped his tongue back into his mouth, the taste of men’s acrid sweat and metal sticking to his tongue unpleasantly.

“Can I help you with anything else before you leave?” the healer asked awkwardly, putting the hamper back down when Tillie tossed the rags back in.

“No. Keep him safe and healing.” The threat tickled at the healer’s neck and he swallowed heavily, nodding. “I will return.”

———

When Tillie opened the door again two days later, the broken wood had been patched together to fix the snapped panels and made a different sound when the handle touched the wall behind. He had used the knob this time, closing it as he heard the healer scurry to the front room.

“We’re closed, you’re going to need to go to Jenn—” The healer cut himself off when he realized who stood before him. “Hello, sir. Your friend is doing much better. He’s sitting up and he’s eaten and drank quite normally. He’s had no issues with relieving himself and the infections are fading quickly. He should be well enough to walk tonight and back to his normal self in two or three weeks. He seems to be weaker than I had originally thought.”

Tillie rumbled and the healer all but fell over himself in explanation, fear making him jittery. “I don’t know what he is, sir! I estimated compared to a— a human-elf mix but he clearly isn’t! I’m doing my best, I swear it!”

Tillie stalked towards him, feeling the healer wince and his heart beat through his chest loud enough that anyone in the room could hear. “Good enough,” Tillie growled and the healer made a noise of relief, muttering a prayer of thanks to Phortyx for safety.

Tillie walked past the healer and into the back room to check on Pun. Pun greeted him with a cheery “hey-o!” and a wince when he waved. “How was your trip?” So casual as if Tillie hadn’t just saved his life twice over.

Tillie responded with an irritated huff, taking a seat on a chair that felt flimsy but held his weight regardless. “Filling.”

“What does that mean?” Pun asked quizzically. When Tillie leaned back to reveal a slightly bloated, fattened stomach, he closed his mouth with an audible clink of teeth. “Ah. I see.”

“You’re lucky I bothered to wash up before I returned,” Tillie groused. “If you hurled over the floor it was just going to cost more gold to clean up.”

Pun shrugged, the cost clearly ineffective in dissuading him. “Eh. I’ll make more.”

Tillie tapped his claws along the wooden arms of the chair, toes clicking a similar rhythm as he kept his sense of the room fresh. “What the hell did you do that got you beat so bad?”

“Oh, that.” Pun leaned back into the bed. “You know what I can do, right?” His tone was flatter, uncomfortable and unwilling to name the shapeshifting skill in case the healer could hear.

“Mhm.” Tillie didn’t bother speaking, a flat note of understanding.

“I use that and I kill people, to put it bluntly, and I lost the fight.” Tillie tilted his head, not expecting that as a response. Pun seemed too weak to handle something like murder. “I’ll kill when the money's right and the person deserves it, but I don’t like doing those tasks. I mostly steal. Sometimes it’s personal interest but most of the time it’s someone that wants something. I never know if it’s stolen and needs to be returned or if they just want it and have the gold to get ahold of it. It doesn’t matter to me any. I get my money either way.”

“How much do you have on you?”

“Right now? None, obviously.” The sardonic words prickled at Tillie but he gripped the chair rather than snarl, the old wood splintering in his grasp. “But once I speak to the mobile bank, I’ll have a couple thousand. The deal I was trying to finish was going to get me 10 more.”

The healer, just walking through the door, choked and nearly dropped the tray of drinks but caught it at the last moment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear—”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Pun chirped. “I mean, I wouldn’t spread that around, though. The walls can hear a lot more than you think and sometimes you’ll get a delivery that you didn’t expect if the knives get the gossip.”

The healer’s voice was strangled. “I think I’d rather sew my mouth shut than say anything you two have ever said.”

“Good choice,” Pun said with a grin in his voice. “So what’s the tonic, doc? Some bitter thing? Or is it sour this time?” He sounded hopeful, oddly enough.

The healer gave Pun a cup and Pun groaned after a quick sniff. Tillie didn’t know why, it smelled perfectly fine, especially for some sort of herbal medicine. There was no comparison between Thunmir’s healing and this; Tillie would rather drink this one. “This again?”

“If you want to get any better, yes,” the healer said. The other cup on the tray rattled as the healer tried to keep his composure. “Most people like that it’s sweet.”

Pun scoffed. “I’d rather eat the leaves on their own. At least they’re crunchy.”

“I think you are the only person who has ever said that combination of words and meant it sincerely, sir,” the healer noted. “Please don’t take too long, the oils will separate and then it will be all the worse.”

“Bahh, it can’t get worse.”

“It can get less effective.”

“I guess that’s the one that matters.” Pun sighed. “Alright, bottoms up!” He downed it in a hearty, long quaff, swallowing it bit by bit until he put the cup on the tray with a groan. “Alright, lemme have the lemon juice now.” The cup was passed over without commenting on the fact that the man literally asked to drink lemon juice.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” the healer said to the room. Tillie shifted in his seat. The two men were acting as if they were friendly, something that Tillie never really got. Of course it would be Glaukos— Pun. Whatever.

Once the healer was gone and out of earshot, Pun whined like a child. “Can you believe it, Tillie? That shit costs 10 gold per cup and it tastes like someone gnawed on sugarcane before spitting it out.”

Tillie chuffed with a shake of his head. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It is that bad,” Pun insisted. “Have you ever eaten raw sugarcane? It tastes like dirt and makes my teeth hurt from how sweet it is.”

Tillie waved a hand dismissively. Sweet was the second best taste after savory, Pun was complaining just to complain. “No, but it didn’t smell like something worth bitching about.”

“Go lick the cup then,” Pun said petulantly. Tillie stood up. “Uhhhh... Wait, hang on, I wasn’t actually serious, that’s gross.”

Tillie walked over to the side table, picking up the cup. He licked at the air, then slurped the lingering dregs at the bottom. His stomach immediately hurt, the buzz of Pun’s spit making him spin around and grab a bowl before violently throwing up. Pun watched in shock, leaning back and grimacing at the sight.

“Okay, it wasn’t that bad. Are you good?”

Tillie wiped at his teeth, resisting the urge to snarl as his stomach flip flopped aggressively. “I’m fine. I forgot that I can’t eat anything after you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pun bristled like an angry bird, the blankets rustling as he leaned forward in indignation. “I keep myself clean, I'll have you know.”

“It means that that’s how I shift,” Tillie answered sharply and returned to his chair. The wood complained just as loudly as Pun had, but unlike Pun, Tillie could hit the chair. It splintered in his grip and he very nearly fell on his ass. Pun stifled a snort. Tillie’s tail lashed threateningly and Pun swallowed the laugh.

“Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhh.” Pun shifted a bandage delicately, trying to readjust it. “So then if you suck someone off—”

“Yes.”

“Heh.” Pun took a drink of his lemon juice, amused, then tried to scratch around a bandage without disturbing it.

“Stop touching the bandage. The sound is annoying.” Tillie said, the rasping sound of gauze making him want to gnaw on the fabric bandage. Not because it was on Pun or had fluid but because it felt like the only way to stop the sound. It had always been a problem when he had been bandaged in the monastery but without the threat of a switch on his stomach, the urge was stronger. Pun pulled his hand away.

“You can hear that?”

“Yes. I can hear your heart beating, I can hear the wind outside, and I can feel the healer picking more herbs out back.” 

“What do you mean, feel and hear?” Pun was curious. “I don’t have any of that. I just see really well.”

“I can feel where and what things are through the ground. I’m told it’s similar to how you can feel and hear gong in the air but I can sense it much further away than you.”

“Well that’s no fair,” Pun kicked his feet under the blanket in frustration. “I’d rather have that than just being able to see. At least you don’t get a headache from trying to focus on something too hard.” A child. Pun was just a child, a brat that complained and whined when he didn’t get his way. Tillie swallowed down the urge to really show Pun the meaning of not fair.

Tillie didn’t want to continue the conversation, moving it towards something else to avoid letting his constant simmering anger burst out. “How do you make that much money? I tried doing the same thing and barely got anything.” His tone was surly, which in his opinion was a fairly solid upgrade.

Pun tilted the cup just to get the rest of the lemon juice, the noise grating when he slurped the last. Tillie felt a splinter poke into a paw pad when his toes twitched. “Not to be arrogant or anything, but I’m good at what I do and that pays a shitload of money for certain people and contracts. For others that don’t need me to borrow faces, it’s because I’m in a guild.”

“A guild? Isn’t that for leather workers or something?”

“Yeah, but it’s also a lot easier to be a thief or an assassin when you have a group to help with resources. You can get people’s movements, their habits, what they hold near and dear, all that kind of stuff without needing to take weeks to really stake them out for that info. They’re called the Black Blades.” Pun set the empty cup on the side table and reclined fully into the bed. “If you need, I can give you a way in.”

Tillie bristled at the idea that someone would need to speak for him, but deflated once he thought about it for more than a second. He wasn’t going to get access by himself and if Pun was as highly regarded as he said he was, then his word was going to be helpful. Tillie clenched his hands, a claw pricking against a scar on the pad of his thumb. “Yeah.” He struggled to force himself to continue. “Please.”

Pun hummed softly in acknowledgement. “When I can get back up, I’ll speak to the guys above me. We can always use more meat.”

“I can shift too, I’m not just muscle,” Tillie snapped. He already mentioned that and Pun already forgot?

“Do you normally throw up afterwards?” Pun asked pointedly.

“No! That was just because we’re made from the same stuff,” Tillie snarled, shoulders rising in frustration and very nearly poking himself with his shoulder spikes. “I’m more than competent to shift and I don’t need your judgment on what I can do, shitling.”

Pun raised his hands to deny the accusation. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that, you’re just stronger than me. How good is your shifting?”

Tillie’s anger transformed into icy resentment and he leaned against the wall with crossed arms. “I… can’t copy people,” he admitted. “I can look like some random human if I get their blood, but it isn’t the same as what you do. I can’t hide my mouth or my scars either.”

“That’s still great though! Nobody else but you and I can do that,” Pun said, trying to cheer Tillie up. It was more annoying than just looking down on him, a hidden pity that made Tillie want to throw the broken chair across the room. “Can you have the same face again or is it different every time?”

Tillie’s tail flicked against the ground and he felt the wooden floor split underneath in a long gash. “I can make it the same if I get the same person’s blood, but if it’s someone new, then the shape is new too.”

“Hmmm,” Pun thought about that, rubbing at his chin for a moment then turned his hand over as he spoke with a pointing finger at an idea. “That’s perfect to avoid being caught, honestly. If you have a new shape every time then you can’t really be pinned down. Can you change back to yourself when you want or do you need to wait for the blood to be used up or something?”

“When I want, but I can’t change again without some fluid.”

“We’ll have to make you a bag that can hold a bunch of vials then. That’ll be easy, there are some dimension bags and I know an alchemist that has little straps to keep the bottles from smashing against each other in hers.” Pun yawned, stretching then whined when it hurt. “I’m gonna nap. Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

He pulled the blanket up and wiggled into a more comfortable position. “You don’t have to stay here the entire time, you know.”

“Shut up and go to sleep. You’re gonna be here for who knows how long and I don’t want it to be any longer than it has to be.”

Pun snorted in amusement, but didn’t prod any further, letting himself slip into the blankness of sleep. With Tillie there, he was as safe as he could be, so Tillie wasn’t surprised when the still weak man was out in mere moments.

———

“Let me lead, alright?” Like Tillie had much of a choice, grunting in response. Pun’s voice was different, mimicking an elf and had an air of superiority that elves tended to have. The walk through the still damp streets was wet on Tillie’s toes, the lingering mud in the cobbles sticking to his toes. They walked along a main street, Pun commenting on things they passed. Tillie didn’t bother telling him that he didn’t need to since he could smell everything well enough. Maybe Pun would know something useful.

“That one is a flower shop, the guy who runs it is really nice. If you bring him some candy, he’ll give you some flowers for free!”

“That doesn’t sound free if you’re giving him something,” Tillie said.

“Oh.” Pun’s step paused but Tillie did not and Pun jogged to catch back up and lead once more. “I guess that’s true. Over there is a jeweler, he doesn’t like selling as much as he likes buying new pieces so the prices are really high. People with a lot of money can convince him though, so he wins in the end, really. There’s a few food places, I recommend Lemon’s Bite, they’re all about sour food, it’s amazing.”

Tillie tilted his head slightly. “People like sour enough to make an entire shop on it?”

“Oh yeah,” Pun said with a grin. “I practically keep that place alive. I love sour like I love Victor, it’s amazing.” Pun’s voice took on a peculiar tone that Tillie couldn’t quite place, a slight squeaky breathlessness that he eventually filed into the ‘I’m a child and think I’m in love’ category. Tillie kept the name Victor in his mind for future notes. Pun was important in the guild and if he had some boyfriend, then the boyfriend was sure to be important as well, if only by association.

“And this,” Pun knocked on a door sharply, “is an appointment only tailor shop. Hey-o!”

Tillie heard wood scrape against itself as a door opened. Whoever it was couldn’t stifle a choke of surprise but caught himself with a cough. Tillie tended to cause that reaction so he wasn’t surprised at the sudden fear he smelled. “Yeah? What’re you looking for?”

Pun tilted back and forth from his heels to his toes, cheerful and peppy. “Sorry to bother, but I’m looking for a knife sharpener, do you have any appointments later?”

Tillie loomed over Pun and put a hand on the doorway. It was nearly too short and he knew he was going to be uncomfortable just walking inside. The man holding the door was sweating now, something that Tillie found amusing enough that when Pun elbowed Tillie (gently) in the stomach to push him back, he took the hint and stepped back. “Sorry for my friend, he’s just helping me out, you know? When I go shopping it can be a lot to carry.”

“H-ha, yeah, I got it. Come on in, let me check the appointment book.” The door opened and Pun and Tillie went inside.

The tiny pieces of fluff from threads and fabric made Tillie want to sneeze, rubbing at his face to try and prevent it; Tillie’s sneezes were usually fairly disgusting. There was someone buying fabric at the front and talking to a shopkeep about the quality of the silk, apparently it was subpar and from Ucil rather than the promised Oflus.

Oflus was a desert country with few exports but they tended towards being the expensive side. It was also a fairly good manufacturing land, taking in materials, making the final product, and sending it back out to the purchaser with a markup. The last person Tillie was trying to find the ring for was from Oflus. Comparatively, Ocil was a thin country that lined the southern half of the western shoreline and whose production was known for cheapness and frailty of work. It wasn’t surprising that a shop would try to pass off something from Ucil as from Oflus instead.

Another shopkeep was speaking to two customers as they demonstrated some hand cranked machine that drove needles into thread to sew fabric together much faster than by hand. There was something about it being very expensive and requiring a lot of magical input to power but Tillie didn’t care all that much.

The doorsman brought them to a counter in the back, flipping through a book. “Ah, I see we have an appointment for next Ledh at two in the afternoon?”

Pun leaned against the table. “Got any for Ixi? My blades are looking really burred and I don’t want them to dull when the magic runs out because I’m waiting forever.”

The doorsman hummed and flipped another page. “How does eight in the morning sound?”

Pun sighed as though he was granting a great concession. “I suppose that will work. Can I request Varcus? I remember the last time I saw him he even replaced the handle for me.”

The doorsman tapped on the book as he traced through entries. “Ah, I see. Varcus in particular is rather booked up, may I know why you request him in particular? We like to know why so we can ensure that all of our workers are trained equally and prevent one person from being overwhelmed.”

Tillie’s tail was curling on itself as he struggled not to scream. What the hell was this conversation? If it was some code it was taking way too goddamn long! Pun gave a light laugh as though this wasn’t infuriating. “Oh, you know, he’s the only one who’s treated my knife right. She’s a Blujj blade so I like to keep her safe.”

Tillie’s mental rampage through the store paused, his thoughts setting down the chair he had been about to throw into the window. Blujj was a country of odd superstition and magical exports and more interesting than anything else Pun had said. He brought himself out of his daydream and focused more on what they were saying.

“I see, what material?”

“She’s made from Droithian blackstone.” The shopkeep made a noise of amazement.

“My goodness sir, may I recommend mentioning that first next time? A Droithian black blade is quite a tempermental material, your taste for Varcus’ touch is well earned.” Pun giggled at the shopkeep’s barely noticeable irritation. “Please, come to the back and we shall check in your knife and ensure it receives the utmost of care.”

The shopkeep closed the book and beckoned for Tillie and Pun to follow. Thoughtful now, Tillie considered the words carefully. Clearly the code related to a Droithian blackstone blade, a black blade, from Blujj.

The Droithian Abyss wasn’t someone people talked about easily or without hushed tones, so to have Pun mention it so casually was worth paying attention to. The Abyss was a deep canyon in the southern sea, deeper than anyone had ever been able to explore. No magic known had allowed explorers to penetrate its depths and reveal its secrets.

Rumors flew, of course, as they always did. The Droithian Abyss held a leviathan that would eat the world at the end of days! No, surely it was a hole all the way down to the bottom of the world where the void ate everything that fell so deeply. Or maybe it was where everything would be sucked in slowly until there was nothing but the abyss.

Blujj, on the other hand, was simply an isolated country on the southeastern tip of land that was filled with caverns and cliffs along the sea’s edge. It held two major harbors known for being the midway point between Ucil and Efrela, so as weird as it may be, it served an important function in ship travel. It was said that there was more of Blujj underwater than there was above but no mermen swam those waters. Even fish were rarer there, likely due to the colder waters that the Abyss radiated, so much of the food was sourced from land, an oddity for such a seabound country.

It was said that there was land across the sea to the south, but the Abyss was long, stretching from Blujj to Broetheo and nobody tried anymore. Nobody smart, at least.

The shopkeep put a key in a lock and clicked it open, then waved for Pun and Tillie to go inside. “Victor’s been waiting for you, Pun. He’s been worried.” The man’s tone was devoid of the customer service warmth it had originally held. “Also, next time you come by, don’t take so goddamn long to say the code, fuckwit.”

“Piss off,” Pun replied, tone just as cheerful now as it had been before. The door closed behind them with a click as the lock slid home once more. Pun turned to walk backwards as he led Tillie inside and down a hallway that sloped into the earth before opening another door. “Ready to meet the head honcho? They’ll decide what’s gonna happen but really, between you and me, don’t worry about it.”

“Why would I?” Tillie side-stepped a chair, the person inside gasping at the sight of Tillie. It was loud in here and smelled of people and food, likely due to the lack of windows to help the air move. There were a few people and he heard them pause their conversation to notice him but felt no need to pay attention in return.

“Oh, well, you know,” Pun stammered, clearly not expecting that response. “Normally people are kinda freaked out meeting someone who runs a guild dedicated to killing and stealing.”

“Do they deal with people eating their kills too?” Tillie asked in return. Pun turned around to face where he was walking and stopped in front of a door.

“You know, probably, but you’re kind of the only one who would do it on the regular. …You would do it on the regular, right?” Pun asked, hand hovering in front of the door.

“It’s free food,” Tillie said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Eugh,” Pun shuddered at the idea. “Gross.” He knocked on the door a couple of times. “I got a new recruit here!”

The door opened after the first knock. “What have I told you about bringing street rats— oh.” The voice went silent. Tillie’s tail flicked curiously. Tillie leaned down, licking at the air.

“You’re small,” Tillie growled at the enkindled, their scent of brimstone in the air prickling at him. “Real small.”

Pun skipped in front of Tillie with a hand to his chest and fear pushing his voice higher. “H-hey hey hey, let’s not do that, alright? I don’t want to end up on the shitlist again. Tillie, please?”

Tillie huffed but stepped back. “Fine.” He shoved Pun’s hand off of his chest. “Make it worth my while.”

Pun wiped at his head with a forced laugh. “Y-yeah, sorry, boss, he’s just. You know, kind of used to being the most dangerous guy around.”

The enkindled harrumphed, crossing their arms. Tillie felt the other’s tail twitch at the air and had an intrusive thought of grabbing them by it and bashing them against the wall. He clenched his hands closed.

“Well then, he better prove himself. What’s your name?” The enkindled’s voice was almost childish but demanding regardless. Tillie estimated them as maybe 15 but he had a feeling they were much older than that.

“Tillie.”

The endkindled made a surprised noise. “I guess that kind of makes a difference.”

Pun laughed again. Tillie was really starting to hate the smug sound. “Right? Kind of a dick but really, a good choice this time.”

“Stop talking,” the endkindled said to Pun. Pun went flat on his heels with a huff, grumbling to himself. “Come with me.”

Tillie put a hand on Pun’s shoulder then shoved him aside as he followed. The door closed behind him. “Heard about you,” the enkindled said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, apparently you start a lot of shit.” Tillie scowled. It was nice that he was strong enough to be noted but he had a feeling that this wasn’t a good thing.

“What of it?” Tillie didn’t bother sitting when the enkindled sat behind a desk. The sense of power that people gave him when he stood taller hadn’t failed him yet. He was wary, but he wasn’t going to let the kid intimidate him even if they spooked Pun. Especially if they spooked Pun, honestly. Anyone that freaked out Pun was on his good side already.

“Nothing,” the enkindled said. “Nice to meet you, Tillie. You can call me Master.”

Tillie slammed his hands on the desk, claws digging into the wood. His nails pierced through some papers and pushed a knife aside as he dragged deep furrows into the wood. “I call no man Master,” he growled.

A small wooden stick slapped at his knuckles and he let go with a hiss of pain. “Behave.”

“I will never call you ‘master’,” Tillie said. He flicked a paper off of his hand at the enkindled. The edge of the paper hit their horn, normally a sensitive organ but all they did was inhale sharply.

“Learn to.”

Tillie reached forward, nails deep in the wood as he prepared to leap over the desk. He heard a fwip rush by his face and leaned back at the last moment, the knife spinning past his head to dig into the wall. Tillie tilted his head, jerking his claws out with difficulty and tapping the ground with his toes to search for the second person in the room.

The enkindled laughed. Another fwip and the knife jerked out from the wall to hover somewhere, presumably by the kid’s head. Tillie tensed— it was in the air which means he had no way to track it. “Magic?” he growled.

“Yup!” Tillie stood up straight and crossed his arms.

“Pick another name.”

“Earn it.”

“I’ll call you nothing at all,” Tillie snapped. He inhaled sharply when he felt the knife against his throat, then chuckled, tail flicking. “Go on, kill me. You’ll lose something you never knew the worth of.” 

The enkindled pushed the knife forward, the point so close to cutting through an artery but not yet piercing more than the thin skin. Tillie didn’t move, laughing under his breath. “Coward.”

The knife moved away and Tillie gloated with a cackle only to be cut off with a snarl as the knife dragged a line over his face. Tillie covered his face with a howl, the wound bleeding copiously as the bone was revealed under the thin skin, a match for the scar over the right side of his head.

“For your temerity and pride, you may call me Glory. Do not besmirch my name and make me regret giving you this honor.” Tillie hissed, the sound low and deep that usually made his prey shudder in fear.

“Fuck you.”

“Earn it.” Tillie was unprepared for that answer and didn’t know how to reply. “Go get stitched up. Let it heal naturally, no magic. Remember your lesson and speak to Ayla for your first contract.” Tillie spun without speaking further, lowering his hands and letting his blood soak the nice carpet. Glory could deal with the results of his own actions too.

[rachrar]

Tillie - Chapter 2

A failed experiment, Tillie is mimic made and staggers along the razor thin edge of beast and man, attempting to find stability and hoping to find a place he is accepted as he is rather than who others want him to be.

Chapter 1

Previous chapter summary:

Tillie, an artificial life created by wizard scientists, was the first of many experiments. He is a doppelganger, a creature able to mimic others by way of ingesting bodily fluid and learns of his siblings, Telemral and Glaukos. After Glaukos escaped, Tillie was finally given positive attention by Vinnie, a mimic wizard whose blood was used to create the three siblings. Tillie was freed by Vinnie and now wanders the world, unsure of what to do.

———

Tillie’s temper was short and his violence eager to escape, so it made sense that he ended up being the monster that people called him. He didn’t actively want to kill people for no reason, but when they didn’t shut up or tried to lie to him, he couldn’t hold himself back— though it wasn’t like he was trying very hard. It did make life difficult when he wanted to learn about the world, so trying to control himself was a rough road.

He attacked back alley thieves who tried to intimidate him or the fools with knives thinking they could bag him and enslave him to some rich wizard. It helped him gather money, but they were as poor as he was and it was so little that it became more of an annoyance than a help. Once enough people vanished, the guard eventually began to mobilize against him. He knew he was strong, but numbers and magic could win over strength and he wasn’t stupid, so he ran to the next town over and the cycle repeated anew. If the center was able to capture him so many times, then so could someone else. He ended up on a path of constant violence and fleeing the consequences with no idea how to escape it.

He found that alcohol helped dull his senses and melted away the immediate urge to slice through flesh. It was expensive compared to being able to hunt on his own. It was easy to take down a couple of bandits or anyone who seemed annoying enough for food, or in the most dire of circumstances, he could go to the wilds and eat some game there. In comparison, he had to actually use money to get something to drink since he couldn’t make his own or steal more than a keg at a time. He found that out the hard way; a keg couldn’t even get him more than buzzed so it was a waste of time. He did at least get good deals from barkeeps if he offered to purchase multiple kegs in one go. 

Eventually he ended up at a tavern with his last gold, trading the coin for a final mug. Sullen, he sipped at it in an attempt to make it last longer but the buzz was leaving him more quickly than the alcohol was going in. He huffed and downed the rest of it in a quick tilt of the mug, pushing the cup back to the barkeep.

“Another round?”

“No,” Tillie grumbled. He walked towards the door, uncaring if people were in his way. If they were smart, they would move because Tillie sure as hell wasn’t going to change his course. He bumped against someone, the buried anger bursting out in a snarl as he lashed out to grab them. He grabbed nothing but air, confused. The desire for blood was rising with his temper, and his toes clawed into the wooden floors for leverage, ready to leap off to pin down the offender and shred them. It didn’t matter that it was in public. He was out of money anyway and he would be leaving soon.

The tavern emptied quickly, people screaming and running for the doors. Tillie threw chairs and ran around on all fours to try and grab the person slinking out of his grip so easily, touching nothing with every attempt and scarling when he missed. “Where are you?! Fight me!”

Laughter filled the air and Tillie jumped for it only to get nothing again. “COWARD!” Tillie roared, destroying the tavern piece by piece. The satisfaction of snapping wood wasn’t nearly enough when he craved the crunch of bones. It had been too long since he ate someone and this one was going to be the sweetest little treat.

The person was in the air and Tillie couldn’t keep track of them. He could smell that they were a cat-man, a gata or whatever they called themselves, but it was affected by the air currents. He could hear, but when they were dodging around in the air, there were only soft rustles of clothing and fur. More laughter until the tavern was full of giggles, surrounded and infuriated by what he couldn’t grab. Tillie wanted to call it cheating but he knew it wasn’t. He had a weakness and they were exploiting it.

Something struck Tillie on the back of his head and he stumbled forward, a hand raising to the growing bruise instinctively. Tillie hissed, a low and dangerous sound. When he got ahold of them, he was going to take his time skinning them alive, eating them bit by bit until they eventually gave up their heart, the beating meat that was always the most delicious treat. He would—

Tillie fell on all fours when he was hit behind his kneecaps, another blow to the protrusions along his spine making him snarl as he felt the bone resist breaking as pain lanced up his back. “I’m going to— hrk!”

A blow to the back of his neck cut him off sharply, arms shaking as he resisted dropping flat. His tail lashed out to try and grab them but while he finally managed to touch them, it was no more than a passing wound from the spikes. He whipped his tail forward, bringing the blood towards his mouth. It would have to be quick and it was going to hurt to force the transformation so fast, but his fury knew no bounds. He was drooling as he smelled the blood come closer and closer, tongue reaching out for it. He was interrupted with a final knee to the face, falling back to his ass. A metal blade brushed against his neck and he stilled. He clawed into the floor, knowing that he was finally outmatched in a one on one battle and he hated that he was just as much of a failure as the center had said he was.

“Who are you?” Tillie rasped. The blade cut his neck shallowly as he spoke but did not move.

“Thunmir the gata.” The name was a purr, the voice smug and much closer than he thought. Tillie was silent for a time, Thunmir giving him time to think but not removing the weapon.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why haven’t you just killed me?” Tillie hissed. “The second I get up is the second you die.”

Thunmir laughed and Tillie growled low in his chest. “And how will you catch me? You couldn’t before. My steps are too light for you to feel.” Tillie didn’t expect to hear that, head tilting to the side as he thought about what the words meant.

“I thought you were flying.”

“No,” Thunmir said, lowering the blade to the middle of Tillie’s collarbones. The vibrations through the dagger finally gave Tillie a sense of the gata’s location; straddling him but not touching him. “Gata are light on their feet, even moreso than the cats we look like. I can teach you.”

“What? Why would you?” Tillie was wary of some sort of trick. Was Thunmir planning on capturing him somehow? Turn him into another experiment? Tillie pushed up on one arm, uncaring of the blade that began to sink into his skin. “I will not be controlled again!”

Thunmir slid the blade lower and lower to avoid stabbing him until it caught on the bottom edge of the gem over Tillie’s chest, pushing the metal beneath and into the flesh below shallowly. Tillie snarled and continued to rise until the blade changed angle and pushed upwards against the gem.

Pain lanced through his body, such that he had never known; lightning zapped through his muscles and lava rushed in his veins, his skin was frozen solid and his claws were being ripped out, his bones threatening to crack until the blade was removed. Tillie collapsed onto the floor, muscles twitching and sweating profusely enough that he felt rivulets of perspiration drip to the floor— no, that was him, he was melting. At least, on the edge of it, his limbs getting messy and undefined, his fingers smearing together. He was drooling stupidly, tongue hanging out as he breathed and trying to come back to himself but finding that he was practically paralyzed even though the blade was removed.

“I will not control you,” Thunmir said. “I will teach you and you will listen. It is not the same.” Tillie had no ability to refuse, weak and frustrated.

“What… What will you teach me?” Tillie said, words particularly difficult when his tongue resisted his efforts to move.

“How not to lose,” the gata said. “How to temper your bloodlust into appropriate outlets. You are becoming infamous, you know.” He moved off of Tillie. The sound of fabric rasped against the blade to clean it before it was pushed into a leather sheath. “I don’t think you are ready for the world to know you.”

A soft paw almost as large as Tillie’s hand grasped his and pulled. It was a struggle to stand but with Thunmir’s grip, Tillie was soon upright, if unsteady and leaning significantly on Thunmir. “You’re big for a cat-man,” Tillie noted as he was led out the back door. “How were you so light?”

“There are many of us and our breeds matter. I am called tiger-bred. Around your height, perhaps a few inches shorter, but I am sure that I do not weigh as much as you. Gata are light on their feet, so few can track us. What are you?” Thunmir turned the words back on Tillie.

Tillie grumbled before answering. “They called me doppelganger.” Thunmir made a thoughtful noise.

“Interesting. I think you shall be an excellent student. What is your name?”

Tillie choked on a laugh, coughing. He had just been conscripted into some weird cat gang and the guy didn’t even know his name. “Tillie.”

A hand patted his lower back. “It is nice to meet you, Tillie.”

Tillie chuffed, a greeting of his own. “Thunmir.”

———

The monastery of Karses was near the Vegrediac Mountain Range, somewhere between the colder lands of Caofsland and the militaristic Glovernach nation but not quite touching their borders. It was perhaps a hundred miles north of the Uskim Pass that connected the east and west. Without the pass, the quickest trip to the other side of the mountains was treacherous and deadly or going around the range either north or south, a trip that could take over a year. The trip to the monastery from the gulf side city of Fleken was long but it gave Tillie plenty of chances to leave. Something about Thunmir’s genuineness, however, made Tillie want to follow.

The training was rigorous and pushed him to his limits more than once. It wasn’t the physical battling that he had issues with (though he struggled), it was the social ones. Thunmir was firm about that; if Tillie wanted to learn from him, and Tillie begrudgingly did, then he would learn everything. Anything from standing politely to pouring tea. He was taught how to set a table, how to cook reasonable meals that people would be willing to eat, how to sew cloth, to clean, to speak more languages.

Thunmir was, somehow, unaffected by anything Tillie did to try and get a rise out of him. Tillie never heard his heartbeat raise unless it was in the middle of fighting, and his blood never rushed when Tillie tried his best to frighten him. Even when he bit another student and shifted form Thunmir merely raised a brow and said he would need to adjust the training to account for Tillie’s ability to see. The training then included writing, reading, map reading, finding traps that had no sound, reading basic rune magic, and even how to coordinate colors for clothing. Tillie learned that he liked white and pink.

 When he tried to act up and challenge Thunmir or one of the other students, Thunmir was swift with his punishment and he merely received a sharp switch to his stomach for arrogance. He was denied any sort of battle to the death and informed that he could either do as he was told or leave. Though frustrated by his inability to actually challenge Thunmir, he always ended up backing down. Eventually, over multiple months and attempts to kill Thunmir again and again, Tillie submitted entirely as he began realizing that he had no way of defeating Thunmir as he was. That was when Thunmir finally began to teach him how to be an assassin.

Eager to learn, Tillie picked up the training with zeal. He was too heavy to be sneaky in the same way that Thunmir was, but he could be unseen when he climbed the walls with the aid of his claws. He learned how to magnify his senses to better feel and hear what was around him. Eventually, he was able to even grasp the sound and feel of Thunmir’s footsteps. That was the first time Thunmir told him he was proud of Tillie. The warmth in his chest spread like flame and he found himself doing more and more to try and earn the praise again.

Thunmir was exacting in his expectations. He kept Tillie on his toes, teaching him how to face enemies with any kind of weapon and even against magic users. Tillie was quick and smooth and though he often ended up on his ass, he slowly began to win. He planned on one day overcoming Thunmir and he bent his entire will to the task before him. He no longer fought or tested Thunmir’s strength against his own outside of class, choosing to learn and absorb information to make the task possible in the future.

Meditating and self control were the hardest assignments. Tillie was denied food for multiple days then set before raw meat. Tillie was not stopped when he went forward to eat without thinking and it was only when he heard Thunmir tutting that he realized he had been tested. He was frustrated— how was he to know?

Thunmir pointed out that nothing was free, especially here, and he must ask if he could have it rather than take it selfishly. Perhaps it had been meant for the day’s cooking. Perhaps it was meant to be buried as an offering to the earth, even if Tillie didn’t believe in the superstitions that the monastery did. Tillie, surly, listened and made note of it. The next time he was placed before the test, he held back.

He struggled a few times when the meat changed or when how long he had been denied grew longer. The most difficult test was sitting before a gagged man with a heart beat as quick as a rabbit’s, whose blood smelt positively divine. He asked if he was allowed to devour but was denied and told to stay in place. It was days that Tillie knelt before the meal, clawing furrows into the earth and digging his claws into his thighs to keep himself in control.

It was a prisoner, he was told. Someone they had been paid to capture and kill, but now he was Tillie’s test. They even fed the man with food that smelled better than what the students got. Tillie asked every morning, every lunch, and every dinner, but was again denied. He was frustrated. This was stupid. There was no reason to starve when there was a man right there whose life didn’t matter. He leaned forward, muscles desperate to lunge, then huffed and returned to kneeling on his knees.

It was only when Tillie too began to have trouble sitting, mind slowing from hunger that something changed. He asked if he could eat that morning. Expecting a no, he stayed still after the gata spoke. It took a moment for the word to register that it was a yes, leaning forward but not yet moving. He asked again to check that he hadn’t been hearing things and was told yes once more.

Carefully, slowly, he approached where the man had been whining and bitching for nearly a month, a clawed hand reaching to grab his head. Tillie felt a large paw over his and stopped. Thunmir pushed his hand back, then said the word that Tillie hated most; no.

Tillie bristled, the sensation of blood under the man’s thin skin driving him mad with hunger, the heartbeat pulsing through the body calling out to Tillie. No? He had just been given permission! Tillie squeezed, stopping only when he felt the man begin to flail and struggle, his claws cutting into flesh. Blood flowed over the man’s body. Tillie growled, the noise increasing before he snarled, dropping the man and stalking away to the same location he had been for untold hours.

The ground had been compacted from his weight and it was almost comfortable as he settled back in place. Tillie, tempted, did not lick the blood on his claws. He knew the moment he did he would lose control, so instead he dug into the dirt and wiped his hand clean there before filling the hole back in. The scent of blood was hidden by the earth and he only needed to deal with the blood dribbling from the man’s wounds, ten or so feet away.

“I’m proud of you. Now you may eat.”

Tillie didn’t hesitate that time, gorging on his meal until he was lazy on the grass, viscera spread over his body and stomach bloated. He picked at his teeth with a bone, tail flicking in contentment. That was the last test of his self control, Thunmir trusting that he would remember the lesson in the future.

The fighting was becoming easier. The other students had trouble keeping up in duos, then trios, then six before Tillie was even close to overwhelmed. His strength and dexterity was refined, taught how to counter his weaknesses and cover his weak points. He was a burst fighter, quick to overwhelm but not one for endurance. Once he had a limb in his mouth, he had already won. Nothing could recover from losing a limb quick enough to avoid the next bite, and by that time, Tillie was already feasting on his prey.

He faced Thunmir more often as he was the last to stand against Tillie alone, the other students left for some other, weaker teacher. He very nearly defeated Thunmir time and time again, leaving them both with wounds deep enough to need to spend weeks healing before fighting once more. He asked why they didn’t use magic to speed it up and was told that the pain of healing would make the lessons sink in deeper. While he was annoyed that he periodically ended up doing bitch work while he healed, he did have to admit, if only to himself, that Thunmir was right. He only made the same mistakes twice before learning how to avoid repeating them.

While recovering from a particularly rough fight, Thunmir told Tillie to follow him. Tillie expected to be led to the arena and released from his imposed rest, but Thunmir did not stop and continued down towards the back of the monastery. The healer’s room was on the opposite side along with all of the buildings, so he was confused when Thunmir led him towards an area he had visited only once when exploring. He didn’t recall much about it, just that there was a door to leave the walled space and a small cemetery on top of a cliff. Puzzlement filled Tillie until he finally had to ask what was going on.

“We are walking,” Thunmir said. There was a softness to his voice that told Tillie not to question too much. Something about this was quite serious. Normally he’d mock the rituals the monastery followed, ignore them if not knock over the incense just to cause trouble. He did that only once before he learned the hard way to not interrupt something so personal.

Thunmir stopped before a small headstone, kneeling and patting the ground for Tillie to do the same. The ground was firmly compacted; whoever lay here was long buried and faded into the earth. A sharp fwshh of a match catching flame caught his attention, focusing on the minute sensation of heat emanating from the tiny sliver of wood. Was this the test? To figure out what kind of wood Thunmir was burning? Or how large the match was? It was a perfect place to do so. The walls kept in the scent of the settled wooden beams, the earth they walked upon, the multitude of students, and the food cooking all the time like a pocket, so learning from something so small would be borderline impossible.

Tillie didn’t expect the sudden scent of incense before the match was flicked and the flame extinguished. Tillie was even more confused. So it wasn’t some test in a weird place, it was an actual “paying respect to the dead” thing.

Thunmir didn’t speak but Tillie felt Thunmir lean back on his haunches, place his hands on his knees, and begin to breathe slowly. Tillie did the same. Thunmir would tell him something eventually. This was likely some patience test or something.

Tillie was still for the better part of an hour before Thunmir spoke. “Tell me what the headstone says.”

Tillie tapped his knees to try and gather the information from the chiseled stone. It was difficult and took a minute for the vibrations to make sense, but he felt that reaching over the grave to touch the stone would be the wrong thing to do.

“Renso, son of Thunmir. May his rest be peaceful and his return joyful.” Tillie went silent, contemplating what that meant. Thunmir had a son once. From the way the stone fractured, it had to be at least ten, maybe twenty years ago. He didn’t know that Thunmir had a son. Granted, he knew little of Thunmir beyond what he taught within the monastery, but there had been rumors abound. He dismissed them as babblings of the bored, but it seemed that one had hit the mark.

“He was 23 when he met his match,” Thunmir said, adjusting the incense so the rising wind would bring the smoke towards the headstone. “He was strong, but willful. He decried tradition in favor of novelty, and he often pushed back when he felt the training was unnecessary.”

Tillie didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t speak, shifting uncomfortably. Though he could kneel for long periods of time, his digitigrade legs made it uncomfortable when his toes held much of his weight rather than his calf.

“Renso fought like one possessed and did not care how he won as long as he did. He often came away from training with more wounds than his partner even when he won. He was reckless.” Thunmir took a deep breath, held it, then slowly released it. “He was protective too, especially over the new students. He was not unkind, though he was often flighty. An inability to choose can create pain as quickly as choosing incorrectly can. He would choose one to take under his wing then change his mind and pick another as quickly as leaves fell from a tree. He left broken hearts of all kinds in his wake.”

Tillie shifted slightly, a stone poking at his knee. He pushed it away, releasing a tense breath of his own. “That sounds cruel,” he said. “Picking someone and then dropping them when they got excited is kind of fucked up.”

“It is,” Thunmir sighed. “He was loved. He was hated. He was adored. He was reviled. His balance was poor and he walked the line of both mentor and betrayer without committing to either. Do you think he would have been better to ignore the students entirely? Or do you think he was better as he was?”

Tillie adjusted the incense for Thunmir as he thought, slotting another small cone into the smoke fountain. “Ignoring them probably. Then people wouldn’t have been hurt when he left.”

“So it would be kinder to withhold love rather than to lose it once given?”

Tillie’s tail flicked. “I don’t know, I’ve never been loved.”

Thunmir’s tail lashed and slapped him, the fierceness of his emotion conveyed regardless of his placid tone. Thunmir had never struck him with his tail before and he had a feeling that the movement was instinctual rather than purposeful. “Do you truly believe that?”

“...Yeah.”

“Hm.” Thunmir was silent. The incense burned slowly until it faded into nothingness and the sun began to set. The air was brisk against Tillie’s skin. He felt like he had failed some sort of test but he had no idea where he had gone wrong.

“Thunmir?”

“Yes, Tillie?”

“Why did you bring me out here?”

Thunmir ran his hand over the grass growing on the grave fondly. “I wanted you to see what your future held if you did not make choices.”

Tillie was baffled at the idea of being compared to Thunmir’s son. “What happened to him?”

“He was murdered,” Thunmir said, paw brushing away ash from the incense burner as he placed it back on the wooden try he had used to carry it. “A disowned student turned against him in the night. The student learned our teachings well and his death was swift and painless. She left and we did not follow.”

“Why not?” Tillie said, muscles tensing at the indignity. “He didn’t deserve that!”

“But he did, Tillie. He took and took but did not give. He made playthings of his students and pulled their strings to make them dance until he grew bored, then chose a new toy. What did he offer in return?” Thunmir placed a knife on the grave, blade flat against the lush greenery.

Tillie tried to find something to reply with, some way to say that murder was wrong as had been drilled in his head. There had to be a purpose to death for it to be worthwhile and fair. It was money, or anger, or— or— betrayal. He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to think it, but he finally admitted defeat. He huffed in frustration. “But he was your son. Don’t you want to avenge him?”

“He received what he had paid into,” Thunmir said. “The knife that killed him—” he tapped on the blade with a claw “—was the knife he gave the student the first time they laid together. Do you still believe it was unjustified?”

Tillie shifted his weight uncomfortably before finally grumbling, “no.”

“Tell me what this tale has taught you.”

Tillie suppressed a snarl in his throat, annoyed that this was still some sort of test when it wasn’t something that should be used as a tool. “That you can’t just do what you want.”

“Then what must you do, Tillie, when you do not know what decision to make?”

“Make a damn choice anyway, I guess. Can’t just go back and forth on what you want to do. You gotta choose something at some point.”

“Good.” Thunmir picked up the knife and handed it to Tillie hilt first. “Take this.”

Tillie recoiled away from the blade. “I don’t want it.”

“Are you sure?” Thunmir held it a bit closer and Tillie pulled away further, close to actually shuffling away. “Because this is what you are earning with your attitude.”

Tillie’s breath caught. “No I’m not! I’m actually doing something. I’m not fucking with other people anymore!”

“You are hurting me,” Thunmir said, flipping the hilt back into his own grip and sliding it into a sheath at his side. The sound was the same as he had heard when he first met Thunmir. The blade that Thunmir used to pry at his gem in the tavern had been the one to kill the gata’s son and yet Thunmir kept it at his side and used it like it was some random weapon. Tillie’s stomach churned as bile threatened to rise at the thought.

“Eventually, you will need to fight as though your life depends on it regardless of whom you face.” Thunmir stood up, brushing dirt off of his knees and began to walk back to the monastery. “Think upon my words, Tillie. I do not want to bury another of my children again.”

———

The next time they fought, Tillie held back when he managed to capture an arm in his mouth. His teeth cut into the fur and he tasted blood on his tongue, slurping at it to encourage more to spill but did not bite down. He was reprimanded for it, but did not react except to do his punishment silently. To be told not to bite other students in half but then told to crunch down on Thunmir was a hard dichotomy to manage. It happened time and time again, each victory snatched from him when he hesitated.

He didn’t want to leave, not really. He was restless, but the strict monastery kept him in a positive pattern. He knew what he was doing and when to do it. He knew that there were rules and they were very clear. When he broke one, he knew exactly what punishment he was going to get. The idea of leaving was as difficult to swallow as Thunmir’s flesh. He faced Thunmir over and over and the rate of winning increased even as he ended up forfeiting each time by not dealing a final blow.

“Fight me!” Thunmir demanded, a quarterstaff striking Tillie’s face. Tillie snarled, low to the ground and using a hand for balance as well as to feel the vibrations of movement. “Do not fail me again!”

Tillie hissed, tail lashing hard enough that his own spikes nearly cut himself. “Shut up.” Thunmir leapt to the side and Tillie shifted to keep Thunmir in front of him.

“Or what? You’ll actually fight?” Tillie caught the coming strike of the quarterstaff, crunching it in his hand and throwing the splinters aside.

“I am fighting,” Tillie growled.

“No you aren’t,” Thunmir said lightly, dancing forward to tap him on each shoulder before spinning away again. Tillie’s hackles rose, frustrated that Thunmir kept skipping just out of reach. “If you were, you would actually try to grab me and not just stand there, frozen in place like a coward.”

“I am NOT a coward!” Tillie roared and leapt forward where Thunmir was but caught only air, rolling to spring back up to his feet.

“Then next time, bite me.”

“Shut up!” Tillie turned slowly as Thunmir skipped away and out of his immediate reach. There was vibration under his feet, little pings of movement. Students were walking across the grounds around the arena. A squirrel bounced along the ground and scurried into a tree before stilling. The leaves brushed against themselves like paper, rustling more roughly as autumn’s cool stole the softness away. Thunmir’s footsteps were light, barely noticeable among the rest of the stimulation but Tillie narrowed in on them. He didn’t give any indication however, making sure his body language was focused on a point close enough to the true location that he could be feasibly wrong, planning a feint.

He waited for Thunmir to move forward to aim a strike of his own before reaching up with a hand and grabbing Thunmir by the neck, spinning him around and down and caught the other arm in his mouth. Again he was caught in his self-imposed lock up, the blood dripping from Thunmir’s arm and pooling in his mouth. Thunmir began to growl and slapped Tillie on the head.

“Do it!”

Tillie shook him slightly as if to break the bone, but the action was weak at best and he knew it was a pathetic movement. Thunmir struck him again and again. Tillie kept hold of him but did not bite. Thunmir reached for something in his clothing, probably some of the pepper spray he used previously to punish Tillie, however he was instead greeted by a dagger shoving down against his heart gem and trying to pry it off of his skin.

Tillie immediately snapped down on Thunmir’s arm, crunching on the bone and swallowing the pieces roughly. He grabbed Thunmir around his waist and threw him away to avoid continuing, refusing to let himself fall down the path of eating his mentor. He spat out a knucklebone onto the ground and wiped at his face with his arms to try and clean the blood off as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to keep the flavor of Thunmir’s blood in his memory.

“I am disappointed.” Tillie felt like cold water had been dumped on him, stilling. “I attempted to kill you and you still did not try to kill me.”

“You weren’t really going to,” Tillie said defensively and waved at himself to indicate the lack of mortal wounds. “You don’t want to kill me either.”

“I do not,” Thunmir agreed. “I wish for you to grow. Sometimes, however, we must grow on our own. There is nothing more to be done here when you will not fight to your potential. You must walk your own path now.”

Tillie stepped forward, raising a hand in denial. Thunmir’s blood flicked out like water from his arms in the motion, reminding him of his failure. “No!”

“Earn your money with the skills you have learned. I have set up a caravan for you to go back to Fleken where we first met. Use your claws to take lives as easily as you did before I found you, but take gold for the blood you spill. Life is precious. Take it with purpose.” Thunmir’s voice was firm even as he continued to bleed. Healers were at his side, pouring healing spells into him so he could continue to speak without collapsing. “Leave. You are now denied boarding here.”

Tillie’s breath caught. “You’re kicking me out?”

“I am making you leave the nest, fledgling.”

“But you said I can’t come back!”

“I said that you cannot live here anymore,” Thunmir pointed out. “It is not the same.” Tillie growled lowly in response, arms crossing as he dug his claws into his arms to distract from the aching in his chest. He didn’t want to fail Thunmir but he had disappointed him yet again, and now Thunmir was telling him that he wasn’t good enough anymore. Had he ever really been worthwhile?

“I— I don’t want to leave.”

“You do not have a choice. All children must leave home at some point.” Thunmir gasped as his arm was shifted. Tillie heard bone scrape against bone, guilt hitting him as hard as Thunmir’s fists. This time, however, there was no bruise and the wound went deep into his soul. He should have had the self control to stop even when Thunmir was pulling at his gem, maybe then he could have claimed that he needed more training.

Tillie slowly walked towards the main building, hopeful that there would be some sort of change, that Thunmir would say that he could stay, but there was nothing. He gathered his things, the few that there were. It was some clothing, a hood and a scarf. He threw the hood on and curled the scarf around his face. The short fabric left no hanging tails when it was tucked close and hid his neck. He licked it with just the tip of his tongue, tasting the incense that had seeped into the fabric and knowing it would be the last vestige of the monastery he would have.

Tillie stopped at the main gate, a hand resting on the pillar. He could always go back in, refuse to leave, but he heard the marching of feet and knew it was foolish. People were walking towards him in neat rows and columns made of clean lines and practiced steps. From the sound, they were holding weapons. The faint slices of air told him that they were sharp and not the dulled blades that were used in training.

Bitterness burned his chest under the gem. If Thunmir didn’t want him to stay, then fine. He didn’t want to anyway. This was a place for people who didn’t have anything better to do, for weaklings to gather and pretend that they were stronger than they were. They had to work in groups to take Tillie down, so really, this was just dragging him down. He should have left before when he wasn’t thrown out. It was their loss, he told himself as he forced his body to walk out the gate and onto the path.

He didn’t need anyone. He was always second best anyway, so it made sense that they didn’t want him around. A resentful part of him thought that Glaukos probably could have stayed, would have been welcomed and given space for it to be a permanent home. Tillie didn’t have a home, he had pit stops. It was fine. Tillie was fine. He would go out and kill people and get money, and get drunk to fill that empty pit in his stomach that craved someone’s approval.

The uneven stones under his toes were warm but not overhot. He heard horses whickering and the creak of wood, the soft fabric of covered caravans moving with the wind. There was the scent of humans and the strength of it told him that there was a couple in one of the carts, though there were also some walking about and talking with each other.

Tillie stopped before the first cart and in front of the horses. The horses reared, uncomfortable with a creature that they’d never met before. Tillie took a few steps away so they would settle. “Thunmir told me you had passage to Glovernach.”

The woman holding the reins spat to the side away from Tillie. “You’ll earn your keep. Take care of the horses and curry them daily, deal with their shit, feed and water them. I heard that your kind tends to eat anything it can get hold of, so don’t try anything funny. We have some sorcerers around.”

Tillie chuffed sharply. “There are no others like me.”

“All the better, the world doesn’t need more freaks.”

“Fuck you.” Tillie was tempted to bite, to maim and kill, but the monastery was right there. He could practically feel Thunmir’s eyes on him, watching to see if he kept his cool or if he proved as impulsive as he used to be. Tillie turned and walked away.

He didn’t need Thunmir’s help. He was going to do it himself. He knew the location of Fleken. It was to the south and if he followed the Vegrediac mountain range, then he would need to take a sharp western turn when he came to the city at the base of the Uskim Pass. The road was fairly well traveled so there was no danger of getting lost, just distance between his current location and his goal.

He didn’t know where else to go, so he started walking down the road. It wasn’t long before the stones stopped and the way became firmly compacted dirt kept clear by magic. He crushed pebbles under his claws, satisfied with the sensation. He took a few steps and broke into a light jog, the speed comfortable. It was easier when he didn’t need to go in a large circle around the monastery and the path was so wide. He sped up, running faster and faster until he ended up on all fours, sprinting as fast as he could to get adrenaline moving, to feel his muscles burn and his heart race, all to avoid the pain in his chest. It was just the exercise, he told himself. Nothing else.

[rachrar]

Welcome to Everia!

Rather Inactive as I will be posting mostly to A03 now!

You probably want my side blog for reblogging and such, RachRiposte.

This is my writing blog and I'll be posting all of my works here bit by bit. Please be aware of all tags and trigger warnings and read at your own discretion.

You can find mini summaries of each character in this link. That includes a single sentence description, Likes, Dislikes, Strengths, Weaknesses, and a small statblock.

This page links to the tag for character introductions where you find a longer backstory. This page links to the work listing.

This page links to the book I'm currently writing about the character Tillie. Please give it a look over! I'm very proud of it even though it is only a rough draft. I hope to publish it someday! If you have (constructive!) criticism, let me know! I always want to improve and any assistance you give will be greatly appreciated. Do note that I likely won't publicly answer, if you want a public answer, please use my side blog RachRiposte, I check it just as often.

Here's my twitter. All art posted is done by my partner Naut. I won't reblog anything here as I want to keep this explicitly for my writings, but follows will come from me as it is my main blog. My side blog for reblogging and such is RachRiposte.

Thanks for stopping by!

[rachrar]

Tillie - Chapter 1

A failed experiment, Tillie is mimic made and staggers along the razor thin edge of beast and man, attempting to find stability and hoping to find a place he is accepted as he is rather than who others want him to be.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

———

The first thing Tillie ever remembered was a sense of liquid around him, floating in something that damped vibrations and made it impossible to understand where he was. The next was feeling a thicker, better fluid on his claws, something that smelled tasty, and screaming that was so loud it was overwhelming before he felt his body begin to melt and he lost thoughts once more. He learned what it was like to speak through jaws of bone that lacked lips, his tongue prehensile enough to help make his speech understandable, and he learned that no matter how good it felt to sink his claws into flesh, he shouldn’t do that. It took beast-like training for him to finally listen, shocks and collars that stung his neck before he obeyed sullenly, doing what he was told.

He was intelligent enough that he knew they treated him like a tool, something they made and not something they considered a person. He hated them for it, lashing out and damaging expensive equipment and snapping bones until the lightning zinging through his body made him writhe on the floor, clawing at the collar and hissing in pain before he lost consciousness as his body fell apart. He always came back though, in that same floating liquid that left him confused and frustrated.

The experiments were not purposely cruel, but they cared little for Tillie’s pain. He was forced to run and run until he could run no further, legs smearing into the ground before he puddled on the floor in a wet glop. He was forced to tell them what vibrations rang through the ground, what the material was made of, how fast it moved. He was told to destroy what was before him, but that was one he enjoyed.

It didn’t matter what they set him against, big dogs, bears, men with armor and swords, he fought until he either killed or he found himself back in the floating tube. They liked it when he won, tittering and speaking and their hearts were fast, beating more and more and tempting him to try to eat them just to feel the way it stopped in his grip, but he began to keep himself in check more often than not. Not that they noticed or cared, they only wanted to see him obey, they didn’t want to know that he was thinking or had opinions.

The scientist called Vinnie seemed to care, but Tillie didn’t believe it. If he cared, then he’d let Tillie go, stop the needles piercing his skin every day, stop the shocks that stung and left his sense of the world dulled from burned skin. But Vinnie didn’t stop them. He said he did, oh he said many things, like “you’re not a failure” and “I consider you my son” and “I love you” but nobody would care for a beast like Tillie, not when there were more experiments coming after him. If he was enough, then there didn’t need to be more, but they never stopped. Some of them failed, died miserable, pathetic deaths with voices he could hear echoing in the hallways and rooms, others so silently that he knew they existed only when he felt their heart stop beating through the floor.

They were most excited when he ended up killing a particular man set before him. He was different in some way, something that Tillie didn’t know. Few people weren’t the same, but he never knew how. Some were taller, some were heavier, some smelt different, and some were shorter. But this one that he had beneath him, gleefully tearing to pieces in search of that fat, pulsing muscle in his chest, this one was bigger. He licked at a claw to clean it, a jolt going down his spine. This was new; something about the blood electrified his body.

He licked at his hands more, cleaning them of blood and slurping at the body after throwing aside the metal covering the flesh. Cracking through the bones— devouring the meat— Tillie snarled as his skin grew hot, his tail lashed and burned as it grew shorter, his claws fading into short, stubby nails. Something was hurting his head, something like heat but didn’t burn and he covered his face. There was something different. He had something in the middle that he breathed through, his mouth was still the same as before, the raw bone jaws, but the things under his hands hurt the most, two small, soft orbs above the protrusion he breathed with.

Tillie whimpered; pulling his hands away just made the not-heat not-cold stinging worse. The scientists were patient for once, watching him silently. He felt a hand on his shoulder, spinning away and lashing out with a hand but met nothing but air. He felt someone walk in front of him before stopping. The thing before him was short, thin, and made of something that hurt his face less. A blanket was thrown over his head and the pain began to fade. Vinnie sat in front of him, uncaring that Tillie was still straddling the eviscerated man with gore all over him.

Tillie blinked and the wet things were soothed, lowering his hands slowly. He blinked again and again as he adjusted to this new sense. It didn’t tap against his skin like vibrations, it didn’t smell, or taste, or hear. It was something completely different; Vinnie called it sight and said he was proud of Tillie. Tillie didn’t understand.

He was able to copy others. He couldn’t be Hao the elf, but he could have skin that matched his color, have hair that was a different hue and texture. He could be taller, but he would always have two eyes, a nose, and his jigsaw mouth. But apart from that, he could see when he copied them, and he could look as if all of the people were mixed together and traits were pulled from a big pot at random. It happened with anyone that they let him lick, or bite, or eat. He could be anything that walked on two legs, had two arms, had a head, and was intelligent. He couldn’t be a wolf or a dragon, but he could be an elf, or a human, or an orc, or any other race  as long as he had something from them. He was sick when they tried combining multiple races’ blood, but when there was only one source he was able to shift. All of them had a sense so foreign to him: sight. They called him Doppelganger.

He learned about the others that were made and that he was the first. They were better, more obedient, more pliant to their whims. The second to live was slow to grow but stable and had no issues with his form melting. It was stupider, but stronger; its name was Telemral and it was an Aberration according to Vinnie, the scientist who spoke to Tillie most. Tillie was angry, lashing out again and again until he was restrained against metal with manacles on his limbs.

And then there was the next one, the one they were so excited about. It spoke, and it was smart, and it could be whatever it wanted to be. They called it Glaukos. Glaukos was so obedient, listened to what they wanted so well, was so good and it made Tillie retch to hear praise heaped on the little bastard. He was a Changeling and he could copy people and be so perfect at it— even Tillie couldn’t tell them apart. Their voices echoed in the rooms, they walked the same, the weight matched, the scent was perfect, and it made Tillie furious. He could even have lips! Tillie couldn’t and knew that he wasn’t enough. He could shift his form, but not as well as Glaukos. He could be a person, but not that person.

Tillie paced the room when he was left alone to be himself, when he wasn’t the center of attention for more poking and prodding. Nobody cared about him anymore when Tillie was a disappointment compared to Glaukos. They just wanted to play with Glaukos and ooh and aah over him, and it made them neglect their duty toward Tillie. Tillie waited until they were focused on something else, maybe Glaukos, he didn’t care, but once they were completely ignoring him, it was time.

Tillie had learned how the lock on his door worked, especially since they kept needing to replace it when he began to destroy it. But this time, he had figured out something that didn’t involve the lock at all; he could destroy the hinges of the door instead. His claws were enough to scratch at the metal, but a lax technician had left a needle behind and using that meant he wouldn’t dull his nails. She hadn’t meant to leave it, of course, and she had remembered to take the syringe, but the needles they needed to use to get through Tillie’s thick skin meant that the needle was a fairly decent size, perfect for pulling up the head of the hinge pin to slide it out.

He was quiet, careful. His claws clicked against the ground softly, growling to himself in irritation at the sound. His tail flicked back and forth as he focused on what he heard and felt. He knew his senses were stronger than the scientists’, but he was wary nonetheless. There had been more than enough times that he had run gleefully through what he had thought were empty hallways only to be caught on some magical switch that made alarms blare. But now he could feel them, though it was very hard to listen. It had a particular kind of hum, an uncomfortable sort of feeling that made his skin crawl. He couldn’t take his time to find all of them, he already knew he was pushing his luck when he wasn’t caught immediately.

He struggled in place; he could rush to get out and hope he didn’t trigger any traps, or he could sneak around and possibly take too long. He tapped his claws along the wall to get a sense of where people were. Close, and coming closer. He had to decide now.

He spun around and began to run, nails digging into the stone tiles and leaving gouges, barreling into walls and snarling when he felt some glass vial break and the contents burn his skin. He wiped it off roughly; already he heard his jailers running after him, yelling about needing to go back into his room or else they would force him. Tillie didn’t care— he’d either get out or he’d goop and be captured once more. At this point his fate was already in the air. He may as well keep running and hope to get out into the open air again, feel the sunlight and warmth sink into him like a warm blanket.

Glass crunched under his hands as he slammed into a window, pausing for just a moment when he felt a swirling emptiness beyond. It wasn’t sterile out there, it smelled like dirt and leaves, the air rushing past him in a brisk wind. It felt cool out there, but not the cool of the inside of the building. It felt cool like lazily melting ice. He wanted that. He ripped at the remaining glass, uncaring of the wounds it dug into his palms and sides as he struggled to get out. He was too big and the window too small, snarling and snapping at the sill to try and widen it enough for him to escape.

He screamed when he felt the piercing needles of the zapper, bloody hands grabbing at them and ripping them out to throw them back at the attacker. Giving up on the window, he turned instead towards his jailers and leapt forward with murder on his mind. He was mid-air when he was suddenly back in the floating tube, any sense of time in between lost.

Tillie was watched more carefully now. He didn’t speak anymore, even when the scientists tried to shock him and force him, answering only with violence and growling snarls. Eventually, Vinnie came by, probably as some sort of last resort to get Tillie to speak. Tillie sulked as Vinnie spoke, pushing his uneaten food away and refusing to answer any questions.

Vinnie said that, in his escape attempt, Glaukos had managed to get out. Of course it was Glaukos, the piece of shit that didn’t deserve anyone’s attention, didn’t deserve the awe in the scientists’ voices. He was small and could copy people, so when Tillie made a mess he had a perfect opportunity to slip out. Vinnie apologized a lot, which Tillie didn’t acknowledge, and said that he didn’t want Tillie to be hurt. Part of Tillie wanted to kill Vinnie for pretending to act like he cared. 

He noticed the way that Tillie avoided putting weight on a toe, asking, not demanding, that Tillie let him look. Tillie refused for a couple of days until the glass shard still embedded in his toe bean made him want to rip it out himself, letting Vinnie look with an angry, unbroken silence. He didn’t speak the entire time that Vinnie pulled it free, using magic to whisk it out instead of the scalpels and needles that the others always used to cut him open. Vinnie petted his foot gently and Tillie flinched, expecting something sharp and painful, but nothing came of it. He let his foot rest again on Vinnie slowly, wary. Vinnie petted the rough skin, speaking about things that didn’t matter until Tillie’s tail began to thwap at the ground, pleased that he wasn’t being forced to do anything. He could just listen.

Slowly, Vinnie began to truly win Tillie’s trust. There were still experiments, but fewer over time. Vinnie was able to visit more often, offering him meat that was still questionably warm from wherever he got it from, which Tillie appreciated. He even gave Tillie live prey, quick little hooved things and heavy, squealing beasts that were satisfying to shred, the crack of bones pleasing and keeping his teeth sharp. With the new diet, his skin even began to soften slightly, something the others never bothered to think about, though the spiky growths caused by the needles didn’t shrink. The wet pulse of blood and life leaving his prey was invigorating and he began to grow even stronger, bigger, now that his body was getting what it needed on a more regular basis.

He still refused to speak, but Vinnie didn’t push him anymore. He brought little vials of blood for Tillie to take or not as he liked. When he did, he was a new shape every time, even if it was from the same person multiple times. He could wrangle the transformation into something similar when he wanted to, or keep it for longer periods before he lost control of it, but he never could truly choose the form.

He struggled with sight sometimes, the sense overwhelming for a day before it became useful in new forms. He vomited the time that Vinnie had given him blood from someone with four eyes, the dizzying spin of so many angles sickening. From then on, Vinnie only gave him human blood. It was easier to get, he said. More humans were out in the world than many other races.

He learned to read and to write, the pens and papers feeling ungainly in his hands when he was transformed. He was frustrated when he returned to himself, the fragile instruments snapping in his grip without meaning to, throwing them away and sulking. He couldn’t write when he couldn’t see anyway. But Vinnie was patient and the laboratory began to slow even more with fewer people walking about. He could count the number left on both hands, few enough that he could probably escape without problem. Vinnie said the center was losing funding, whatever that meant.

Vinnie taught him what it would be like outside casually, talking about things he had done and people he had met as if he weren’t giving Tillie the knowledge he needed to live outside the walls. Tillie wasn’t sure if it was meant to be as informative as it was or if Vinnie was just talking for the sake of talking.

There were so many places out there, places of bitter cold and searing heat, high mountains with wind swirling on the peaks and buried lands deep, deep underground with nothing but the weight of the earth above. There were beaches and oceans and abysses miles and miles deep until nothing there knew of light and could only understand their environment through touch or scent. Tillie paid keen attention to that until Vinnie explained that Tillie would, unfortunately, not be able to survive there. The pressure was too high and Tillie couldn’t breathe underwater. That started a new round of mutual experiments to see if he could breathe as a merman could, and the answer was yes, but that transformation faded away much quicker. The blood was thin compared to that of the land walking folk, Vinnie said, so it must be used up much quicker.

Vinnie vanished for a few days. Then a week. People were returning to the center, people Tillie never knew and had never smelt before.  The laboratory was warming up again and it frightened Tillie. He never said so but when Vinnie returned, Vinnie knew. They were coming to make more, Vinnie said with a quiet, angry voice. More creatures that they would use and experiment on and hurt to try and make another Glaukos, or even another Telemral. But Vinnie didn’t know what they would do with Tillie. He had been resistant to their desires, too violent to trust, and too unstable to fight consistently. Vinnie was the only one to keep him alive. Or at least, Vinnie said so. Tillie kept that doubt in mind but said nothing of it. If he really was useless, they would have just killed him.

One night, Tillie heard his door open quietly. The hinges smelt of rendered fat rather than oil, the metal gliding against itself and hiding the sound. Tillie was on his feet, ready to fight and almost jumped forward before he realized it was Vinnie. Relaxing only a little, he waited for an explanation. Experiments never happened at night and he was left alone almost all the time now. Something was different.

Vinnie said it was time to leave. Tillie didn’t understand but when Vinnie repeated it, Tillie moved forward towards him. Vinnie was small compared to him. He had never really thought about that before, the way that he towered over Vinnie. Temptation to leap forward and bite until there was nothing left went through his mind but he stopped himself, clenching his hand and driving a claw into the soft meat of his thumb. Vinnie whispered to be quiet, to follow, and not to speak until they were free.

Free. Free as in freedom, Vinnie said. Outside of these walls and away from the people inside. He was going to destroy it once Tillie was out. He said he was sorry but he had helped Telemral escape first and that was why he’d been gone for a while. Jealousy coursed through Tillie like flame, but another claw dug into his palm and he kept his calm. When they were out in the open, Vinnie explained, Tillie needed to run as far as he could. He was given a necklace with a symbol on it.

“Don’t lose this. Never, ever lose it. Please,” Vinnie pleaded, the wind blowing his hood around. The fabric made gasping sounds as it caught and lost the wind. Vinnie’s hand was still holding onto Tillie, his hand just barely larger than Tillie’s palm and cool compared to humans. The pendant was small, difficult to keep hold of in his grip. It was round with a raised oblong oval in the center, perhaps the size of the tip of his finger. He curled his fingers around it tightly, blood from his hand smearing against it.

“They’re going to come after me, and they’re going to threaten me, and probably try to kill me. Do not turn around. Do not come back. I will be fine. I’ll find you again one day, I swear I will.” Vinnie’s hand grasped Tillie’s curled fingers more tightly. “If you need me, rub the pendant. Think about me and I will come.”

Tillie shifted his fingers to grasp the pendant carefully, lowering down to a knee and bending his head. Vinnie tied it around his neck, then pressed a bag in his hand. It smelled metallic and there was a clink of metal inside. “This is money. Remember when we talked about that?” Tillie nodded. “I put in a paper with how much some things are worth so nobody lies to you. Food is cheap.”

Tillie touched the pendant. There was more to it than just Vinnie. He could feel the heat of others through the metal, the way the magic pulsed with the beat of hearts. He opened his mouth, tongue slipping out, and spoke. The words were hoarse, unused for so long, and slightly stuttering. “Who else is in this?”

He felt Vinnie’s heart skip a beat. “Telemral. And….” Vinie hesitated. Tillie’s hand twitched. If he just grabbed Vinnie and squeezed, he’d say what he meant and he’d stop trying to lie, but Vinnie spoke before he moved. “And Glaukos.”

Tillie snarled, pulling away from Vinnie and raising a hand to yank the pendant off. He didn’t want to be connected to that perfect little bastard. Vinnie caught his hand, babbling and desperate. “Please! They’re not as strong as you— Glaukos is weak and soft! Telemral isn’t smart like you! They need someone they can rely on, someone strong that can help them! Tillie, please! I beg of you!”

Tillie’s hand stopped, the leather cord just before its breaking point, taut enough to make a sound if plucked. “I’m… I’m better?”

“Yes!” Vinnie’s hand was shaking over his, heart beating like a rabbit’s. “Tillie, you are smart, and fast and strong. You can change and you can hear and feel in ways that they can’t. You are the closest to what the center was trying to make. They were trying to make more of you. They made Telemral and he was stronger, but you’re smarter. They made Glaukos and he can change, but you’re faster. They wanted another you that didn’t melt and would obey. But you’re the best that they— that I— could have hoped for. Please don’t leave them. Don’t leave your brothers alone.” Vinnie breathed shallowly and Tillie could smell the wet salt of tears.

With a half-hearted snarl, he let go of the pendant. It bounced against his chest and clinked against the gem embedded in his flesh. “Brothers?”

Vinnie tied the leather a bit tighter so the metal wouldn’t strike the gem as Tillie moved. “And I’m your father. I— I made you. You don’t have to call me anything. But I love you, and you are my son.”

Tillie huffed irritably. “I’ll lose the necklace.”

“It won’t leave you.” Vinnie pulled on the leather thong. It tugged against Tillie but he was heavier and eventually, Vinnie let go. No, he didn’t let go. It was too sudden for that. It… went through his hand? “Nobody can take it from you. It will fade through their hands. The only one who can take it off is you.”

Tillie touched it again, feeling the shape. There was something carved into the back of the metal. “What is this?”

“It’s the rune magic. If they call for you, you’ll feel it through that. If you call them, they’ll feel it in theirs. You will be able to walk through a portal to get to them if you hold it and answer them.”

“How?”

“Say ‘I answer’ to answer them, and ‘I call’ and then the name you want for assistance.” The language was different than what they normally spoke, something that felt old and bright. Tillie tried to copy it but the sound was difficult for him to say without lips when it seemed to be nothing but whistling noises. Vinnie coached him, jumping when there was a sound behind them, but he waited until Tillie could say it competently.

“Please don’t hate them. Hate me if you must.” Another sound behind them, an explosion. Tillie felt rumblings through the earth as more destruction was happening deep below. Vinnie’s hands were tight on Tillie. “Promise me you’ll answer.”

Tillie grumbled.

“Tillie, please. I ask nothing else from you. If they need help, I might not be able to be there. Please. I’ll do anything.”

Tillie growled but the sincerity in Vinnie’s pleadings made him finally agree. “Fine.”

Vinnie was relieved from the way the tension in his muscles released, though the tremors in his hands only increased. A scent that had been tickling at Tillie for a while became stronger. Vinnie was afraid. “How do I get what you offered?”

“What do you want?”

Tillie thought about it, ignoring the screaming that he could feel warbling the air. “I want to shift better.” Vinnie made a strangled laugh and Tillie was immediately angry. There was nothing funny about the request. His claws dug into the earth, crunching rocks and digging furrows into the stone as he kept himself in check.

“You can do everything better now that you’re out of there. They used magic to weaken you. Anything you could do before, you can do better now. You can’t copy someone, but you can use the same form if you use the same person’s blood.”

Tillie’s tail twisted in the air. Vinnie might be right— he could hear more, smell more than he could in the sterile walls he had left. Maybe he was stronger, even. One thing he had never had, however, was knowledge of what Vinnie was or where he came from. He’d never met someone who smelt like him or walked like him and nobody else ever said what he was.

“What are you?”

“A mimic,” Vinnie said. Tillie’s skin wrinkled in a frown. “An animal, a beast. I used to be a monster, but I was awakened and given intelligence. I’m the only one like me, just like you’re the only one like you.”

“I want your blood.”

Vinnie froze in place. Even his blood felt slower, his heartbeat hesitant and heavy. Tillie felt saliva gather in his mouth, the urge to bite and get the blood himself growing stronger. “It won’t work.”

“What?”

“You won’t be able to copy me. You’re made from me.”

“I want it anyway.” He didn’t say it was so he could track Vinnie down later if he needed to, or that Vinnie’s scent had become comforting. He didn’t even consciously know the second part, but the desire to have a piece of Vinnie close by was resolute.

Vinnie didn’t speak, pulling something from inside his robes. The vibrant scent of blood filled the air as he heard Vinnie grunt in pain, tongue lapping at the wind to get more of the smell. It slurped back into his mouth as he heard Vinnie fumbling for something. The squeaking sound of a cork being pushed against glass was followed by Vinnie’s hand in his, pressing a vial of his warmth into Tillie’s palm. “It’s magic. It won’t dry and it will stay clean as long as you don’t open the vial.”

Tillie patted himself down to find a pocket but Vinnie grabbed the necklace. He pressed the vial against the pendant before saying something in that light language again and it vanished in a small pop that made Tillie jump. “How do I get it back?” Tillie’s voice was edging on panicked; he had been given something precious and now it was taken away almost immediately.

“Open,” Vinnie said and the vial popped back out with the same sound into his palm. “You put it in and out using that word. Say it.” Tillie repeated a couple of times until the pendant obeyed and the vial returned. “You can only put one thing into the pendant.”

Tillie turned his head to the side, the vibration in the ground growing stronger, more threatening. “They’re coming.”

Vinnie patted Tillie’s shoulders until he knelt down more, pressing his forehead against Tillie’s. “I love you so, so much. Please never doubt that.” He pulled away, turning to face the center. “Now go. Run. Don’t come back.”

Tillie paused for a moment. The hesitation was enough for Vinnie to notice. “I said, GO!” Some power pushed at Tillie and his muscles began to obey before he realized what was happening. He couldn’t feel Vinnie; he wasn’t touching the ground anymore. Tillie hated that. He hated flying, or floating, he couldn’t tell where things were if they weren’t touching the ground.

The explosions were close enough that he felt the warmth tickle his skin. Vinnie was yelling, saying something in that musical, wobbly language, but Tillie couldn’t turn around or stop. He just kept running and running and running until he finally slowed down and collapsed against a tree, exhausted. He must have run for miles as he heard and felt nothing from where he came, no scent in the air from the center and no rumblings in the ground.

He confirmed he wasn’t gooping, touching his limbs and toes to make sure they were solid, then leaned his head against the tree. There was so much going on here. A sticky smell that reminded him of the tree he leaned against. A fluttering of a bird landing in the tree. There was a small creature, something fuzzy and quick, running across the dirt around 10 feet away before it pushed through a bush, the leaves rustling against themselves before stilling.

The sun was rising, the heat slowly filling him from his head down to his toes until he was bathed in the warmth. A breeze passed over him, bringing scents of someplace new. It smelled like cooked meat and leafy water, burning wood and the scent of people. Many people of all shapes, all kinds. His stomach rumbled. He pushed himself to stand, dusting off his torn pants and making sure the moneybag at his waist was still firm.

He picked the direction towards the scents, licking his wounded hand to clean it. He didn’t know where he was going. He knew very few things, in fact. So there was no reason not to go everywhere. He wasn’t going to be tied down again, or told what to do. He was going to do what he wanted, when he wanted, and fuck everyone else. Nobody could stop him anyway.

He straightened a bit at that thought, satisfaction settling in his stomach like a warm meal. He was stronger than anyone he’d ever met. He was bigger, and smart. He knew when not to eat someone, so he could talk to people. He could control himself. But nobody else was ever going to control him again.

[rachrar]

Let's Meet Ourbill!

A Planewalker whose god is gold, his self control tight, and his morals loose.

He grew up in a comfortable, if constantly roving, family. Never one to care about what others thought, he made his own path through life, gathering gold and knowledge. A sorcerer, he felt the thrum of magic over his skin like others feel air, able to manipulate time and feel the ticking of the clock in every heartbeat. Intelligent, but foolish, he decided to do something nobody else had done before; make a multilayered spell scroll.

He took his time, gathering spells that created fire and explosions and destruction from every corner of the plane possible, venturing to other planes to gather even more. He began his work, taking time to weave each spell into the scroll bit by bit. Arrogance was his downfall however, as the scroll worked. In fact, it worked so well that he was on his back with no recollection as to how, blood pooling out his body, seeing a leg much, much too far away, arms even further. It was due only to how much gold he spent on a daily basis that he was found. With every coin emptied from his pockets, he was healed, though had major trauma to his body.

As long as he was alive, it was enough. He would get back to how he was before, better even. New magical prosthetics replaced his arms and leg, runes crossing his body in every direction to keep his body functional. At least it meant he didn’t need to eat nearly as much, something he had never found pleasant, and could replace it with magi-packs, magical sources of energy. Expensive, but worth it.

He saved acquired 3 baby mimics to use as emotional support animals tools. One is a vest over his chest, one a band over his arm, and another acting as a bag. His hubris, but not his arrogance, tempered, he makes his way much more carefully. Ourbill likes what he cannot break, finding that few can stand up to his standards of relationships. He is unyielding, but fair. If he says he is going to do something, he will, be that punishment or reward, no matter how ridiculous the reward might be. The only creature who has yet managed to keep his interest, the only one to actually enjoy the yoke of his control, is Tillie. Pun’s eldest brother and a creature more mimic than man with a feral attitude, Tillie finds the rigid, unchanging rules comforting. He can break the rules, but he knows precisely what will happen and why, and the consistency is soothing.

He gathers gold lawfully, down to the very last bylaw and city code, manipulating the meaning however it best serves him. The memory of the explosion that nearly killed him is always in the back of his mind, and a noise too loud can cause him to immediately overthink, forcibly turning his mind to whatever it is he’s focusing on to avoid actually processing his emotions. He even turns it into a test of his own will. He uses magic that explicitly creates thunderous rumbles and explosive bursts, forcing himself through it as a means of proving to himself that he is in control. He plans now to gather gold and power, to become a mogul of merchantry and run a massive, plane spanning company that contains anything and everything a customer could wish to purchase.

He knows that not all people find Planewalkers comfortable to look at. The single large eye can be piercing, following every action keenly and obviously, especially when the owner of the eye is shrewd and looking for weakness to exploit. And so, for those weaker folk, he adopts a human form.

Art Credit: Nautes Art Coloring for the FIRST and LAST photo only: me! It's the hip high one and the one where he's leaning on his hand.

[rachrar]

Story: Snugglefuck

Work Name: Snugglefuck

Pairing: Tavrin/Pun

Kinks: Somnophilia, Watersports, Intercrural

Universe: Generic High Fantasy

Note: Pun is in his human guise

    Pun held his hands over the fire, shivering slightly. Tavrin glanced over his shoulder. He was setting up his bedroll, shoving some leaves under the fabric to make it softer, but he wasn’t particularly focused on it. It didn’t matter that much when he wore armor and never really took it off; it was more the habit of the thing than actual need. The night was cool, but it was hardly cold, and Pun was wearing a cloak already, not to mention a blanket wrapped over his shoulders. The thin man was shivering anyway, but Tavrin didn’t say anything.

    Tavrin pulled a few more leaves in, tucking them neatly under the fabric. He patted the middle down to even out the roll, taking his coat off to use it as a blanket. He stretched, a few joints popping, the sound making Pun’s head snap up. Tavrin winced as a tense muscle fought his stretching, but after a moment it gave in and he sighed gratefully. “Are you going to sleep? I don’t think we need a night watch, we’re pretty far from the road and it’s a new moon.”

    Pun shrugged vaguely, then sighed and leaned back. Unless he was actively doing something that required him to move, he had his back to the tree. From the way he was shivering, it could well be that he was using it as a windbreak, or because it had absorbed some heat and was acting as a warm weight against his back. “I can do a watch. It’s cold anyway, can’t sleep like this.”

    Tavrin looked at his bedroll. It wasn’t very big, but if he shifted back a little —maybe a lot— he could leave Pun room to lay on the roll. All of the roll, really, but Tavrin wasn’t going to point that out. “You can sleep on my roll if you need, it’ll keep you off the ground.”

    “What about you?” Pun asked, leaning forward to assess the roll. “There isn’t enough room for both of us.”

    “Oh, well, I, uh,” Tavrin stumbled over his words, unsure of what to say that wouldn’t be weird. “I can sleep on the ground, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

    “Pft. I’m not gonna kick you off of your own roll, I’ll just sleep against the tree.”

    “Lay against me then,” Tavrin said impulsively. Pun looked at Tavrin, one eye squinted in suspicion, the helmeted man sweating awkwardly. Maybe he should say it was a joke and apologize—

    “Fine, but you’re not allowed to complain about me using your jacket as a blanket,” Pun said like he had control over the situation. Tavrin chuckled unsurely.

    “Yeah, that’s fine, alright,” He held the coat out. Pun walked over before kneeling and taking the jacket. He resisted the urge to nuzzle into it (you can’t smell anything anyway!) and sat down. He pulled the cloak and blanket over himself more neatly, adding the jacket on top. He looked like a blanket pile with a pouting face sticking out and Tavrin resisted the urge to laugh or poke at his nose, though the desire was strong.

    Pun tipped over to lay on the bedroll, wiggling a bit before settling down in his blanket fort. Tavrin laid down behind him, shifting. Pun stayed still for a minute, staring at the still bright coals crackling where the fire was. “You know, the entire point of laying by you was for your body heat,” Pun said sardonically. “You offered and everything.”

    Tavrin huffed slightly. He did, but that didn’t mean that Pun was allowed to call him out on it! Pun waited for a beat, then took matters into his own hands, pushing backwards until his back, or more like the blankets, were pressed against Tavrin’s front. Tavrin wasn’t sure how much it was going to help since his chest plate was sure to dispel some heat, but he was proven wrong when the enclosed space began to warm up. His arm was awkwardly on his side in a slightly uncomfortable position and he tried to avoid doing anything with it. It was only a few seconds before he gave in, dropping his arm down over Pun. He barely felt the man under the fabric but there was a place of more give at a good comfortable location and it seemed to work for Pun too. Probably his waist.

    Tavrin was nearly asleep when Pun moved again, jumping back as though he did something wrong. Pun rolled his eyes. “I got too warm, go back to sleep.” He set aside Tavrin’s jacket and the blanket, keeping just his cloak. He tossed it over Tavrin as well, the armored man sleepily protesting for a minute before accepting it. It was a little cooler than he thought anyway.

    Tavrin adjusted the fabric over himself, dropping his arm back over Pun’s waist, and fell back asleep quickly. Pun, on the other hand, felt more awake than he had before. Tavrin was big. He knew that when he walked next to him and had to look up at the slit of Tavrin’s helmet to meet his eyes, but to really know it with Tavrin against his back was another story. Tavrin’s armor was a little large and didn’t make for the most comfortable feeling against his back, but it was solid and made him feel secure even though he barely knew the man. Tavrin’s arm over his waist was what really caught his attention, however.

    Tavrin was strong and his arm demonstrated that clearly where it lay thick over his waist. The weight of his glove and arm was heavy on his side, but Pun didn’t want Tavrin to move. It was satisfying. It wasn’t unpleasant when he felt Tavrin shift slightly, the gloved hand pulling Pun in even closer, feeling Tavrin breathe against the back of his neck with the softest little caresses that made Pun tense up instinctively. He wriggled into Tavrin a little more, pushing his hips down to match the curve of Tavrin and ended up with his ass on Tavrin’s pelvis. 

Now, Pun was hardly a blushing maiden and had known his share of cock, but something about the way the member, in such a natural, relaxed position, felt so large. It must just be the way his underpadding shifted, Pun told himself firmly. He needed to stop thinking with his dick, it always led him to bad ideas. Resolutely refusing to focus on the strong man holding him closely, Pun instead focused on not thinking. It was far more difficult than it should have been to fall asleep, watching the coals sputter and die before he succumbed to slumber.

Pun woke first, eyes cracking open with the first rays of dawn. He grabbed the hood of his cloak, tugging it down to cover his eyes with a grumble, then relaxed against Tavrin again. Tavrin’s grip tightened when he felt Pun move, pulling the smaller man even closer. Unlike the night before, however, it was the thick tension of morning wood against his ass that made him freeze in place. He had his own of course, but unlike other days where he would either jerk it to get rid of the problem or refuse to acknowledge it until it went away, he couldn’t do either. He wasn’t going to move for the first option and he couldn’t ignore it when something so heavy was pressed against him, making him wish that Tavrin were awake and resting that cock against him on purpose.

Pun focused on other things. He had to beat the dirt out of his cloak where it touched the ground to get rid of the dirt. He needed to eat some of the leftover sausage he had packed away in his backpack, maybe for lunch. He needed to take a quick river bath to get rid of the precum staining his underpants— it wasn’t working, not at all.

All he could feel was the thickness of the cock behind him pressed between his cheeks, the faintest little twitches as Tavrin’s sleep gave him ample thoughts to tempt his body. It was, unfortunately, constrained by Tavrin’s pants so he couldn’t even feel the fullness of it, just the curvature of it trying to break free from its confines. There was even a little slick against his pants, just barely dampening the fabric covering his ass. If Tavrin produced enough precum to wet his trousers every night, then how much would the man produce if he were awake and consciously aroused?

Pun swallowed heavily, trying very hard not to move. His muscles were tight, his own dick twitching and hot in his pants. The tightness of his pants was usually not a problem, easily removed with the lacing, but he would need to actually move for that. He argued with himself but as time went on and he only got harder, he couldn’t avoid it anymore. Slowly and carefully unlacing his pants with just one hand was difficult when he was liable to burst if Tavrin ever wiggled against him more firmly. It felt like just one rut would be enough to undo him, but Tavrin slept like a log and didn’t move as Pun pulled the last string free, the front of his trousers splitting open and letting his cock surge out into the cool air.

Pun had to stop himself from panting, pulling his hand back. He couldn’t touch it, he would start wiggling too much. No, it was just to relieve the tension, he thought, lying to himself. He swallowed hard, eyes closed. His hand rose to grip onto the cloak and help it cover his eyes from the curse of sunlight beginning to slowly dribble across the land. Pun always woke up so early, the sun’s first light acting as a painful alarm clock he could rarely ever hide from, but he was determined to not get up before Tavrin. At least if he came like this he could cover it with some dirt and nobody would be the wiser.

Tavrin shifted behind him, the hand on his waist pulling back for a moment before more firmly holding onto Pun’s waist, almost entirely encasing him. The tips of Tavrin’s gloves were mere centimeters above the dirt where he loosely held onto Pun, rubbing at him for a moment before stilling once more. Pun could cry if he were a man to do so. Tavrin’s hand was perhaps an inch away from his cock, the member throbbing and oozing out slick in languid streams to the dirt. If Tavrin adjusted again there was a high chance that his glove would accidentally brush against his cockhead. Pun didn’t know if he would live after that, honestly. He’d probably just die if he came over Tavrin’s glove and was ready to meet whatever god that decided to grab him on the way to some eternal punishment for getting off because a sleeping friend accidentally touched his dick. The idea was both pathetic and maddening.

Tavrin’s hips moved. Pun hyper focused on the sensation, ignoring all other feelings and thoughts just to try and imagine what Tavrin’s dick would look like. Was Tavrin shifting to move? Or was he making a soft rut motion from his dream? Either way it let Tavrin’s cock slowly slide up Pun’s ass before returning to his previous location. There was so little to go off of! Tavrin’s cock was curved and pointed upwards, having been freed from between his legs, probably from natural nighttime movements. Pun thought there might be some ridges on the underside, but it wasn’t all that clear when there were two layers of fabric in the way.

Did there need to be two layers though…? Pun was sneaky and had clever fingers, it was part of his entire schtick. He bit his lip, breathing in slowly and evenly. Or trying to, at any rate. His hand crept down slower than any snail, delicately moving the fabric down one fraction of an inch at a time. He was either careful or Tavrin was a heavy sleeper because he had no trouble doing so, the action even pulling Tavrin’s pants just a little. Pun was so, so glad Tavrin didn’t wear a belt to sleep. The surgical precision allowed just the head of Tavrin’s cock to peek out of his pants and rub against Pun’s bare skin.

The glide of the wet glans against his lower back was smooth. He felt a faint motion of the pants loosening behind him with every little movement between them until the cock was about half free. Tavrin was uncut, and just as he originally thought, had ridges on the bottom of the member that teased him with each movement. He was sure that he’d be able to feel every single ridge one at a time if Tavrin were to just sink into his ass, wanting so desperately to feel his hole dripping Tavrin’s load. He was sure to cum a lot, Pun was convinced. A thick helping of cream painting him as white inside as he normally was outside. Pun raised a hand to stifle his breathing, looking down to his own cock.

It was oozing liberally, a small pool on the ground only growing. He saw his balls jump, hearing a slight whine and, realizing it was him, cut the sound off immediately. His hips were moving, feeling the wet precum sliding against his ass a little at a time. How was he going to explain this if Tavrin woke up? It didn’t matter, that was a thought for later, a dangerous fear lancing through him at the idea. No, no, it was much better to pretend that nothing was going to happen and that Tavrin slept like the dead.

Tavrin breathed more deeply behind Pun, his hips unmistakably moving against Pun in a lazy, sleepy movement. Pun had mere moments to decide how he wanted to handle it, then spread his thighs and hiked himself up just enough for Tavrin’s cock to catch in his crotch, settling down in the same motion that Tavrin did. The cockhead was pressed right up against Pun’s soft balls, prodding forward slightly as Pun struggled to stay still. He had already made so many poor decisions; in for a penny, in for a pound.

He moved to let Tavrin’s cock go below his balls instead, holding the member just still enough that Tavrin’s pants were pulled down and freeing it before letting go. Tavrin’s dick rubbed between his thighs, tapping his ballsack here and there. Every touch made Pun spurt a little. Pun was weak. A weak, weak man.

His delicate fingers slid down to just barely brush against himself, but he didn’t linger. He rested his hand on his thigh, waiting for Tavrin to move that little bit forward to gently caress the wet head. Tavrin jerked behind him, Pun pausing and praying. Who to, he wasn’t sure, but someone had to hear the desperate prayer of a cock drunk man. The motions between his thighs stopped for a moment, Tavrin’s arm on his side shifting upwards. Pun had no idea if he was going to change sides he was laying on, hoping not; how would he explain the pants situation? Tavrin’s leg curled upwards however, leaning in with his chest and half pinning Pun to the ground at an angle. Pun had never felt as physically close to someone as he did now, almost cradled into the shape of Tavrin. The gloved hand rested on Pun’s hip, fingers in the fabric inside curling to grip onto him.

Oh. Oh no.

Pun swallowed as Tavrin, unmistakably awake, shifted further, adjusting Pun as he saw fit. Pun didn’t fight in the least, nervous. He had no idea if Tavrin was angry, but he did know that Tavrin was still intensely hard against him. Tavrin moved, pulling at his own pants til they were below his calves and Pun’s were just above his knees. He pushed Pun a little more and then he was on his belly, Tavrin’s hand on his hip and keeping his pelvis high with his other arm flat against his back across his shoulder blades to keep his head down. Tavrin boxed Pun in, thighs on either side of Pun to keep him in place.

Now he could feel every bit of Tavrin’s cock slide against him, the way it pressed between his cheeks before sliding downwards and between his thighs. There was more than enough precum to lube the way for Tavrin to glide between Pun’s legs easily. Pun felt Tavrin’s own thighs on the outside of his own, the muscles tensing with every movement, bringing his arms up to rest his head on. They were still on the bedroll, a bit of guilt in his chest for how much slick he saw dripping onto the fabric, but a particularly rough thrust put all thoughts out of his mind.

Pun was panting openly now, even hearing some muffled huffs from inside of Tavrin’s helm as the muscled man rut against him. Pun’s knees bent and his calves laid against Tavrin’s back as if to encourage Tavrin to move faster, but Tavrin just tightened his thighs and Pun’s legs dropped, toes digging into the dirt for leverage to try and move against Tavrin faster. Tavrin lifted his arm from Pun’s back before roughly grabbing his ponytail and returning to its former position across his shoulder blades like a bar. The grip forced Pun’s head to turn, looking at Tavrin through a squinted eye as he gasped, a hand reaching out in shaking, clawing motions as he tried to raise his ass higher but was stopped by the arm keeping his shoulders down. He was precisely where Tavrin wanted him and nowhere else.

Tavrin thrust faster, Pun’s panting increasing in tempo and interspaced with moans. He didn’t dare say Tavrin’s name, managing only half cut off “yeah!” or “fuck!” when Tavrin’s cock rubbed against his own. Pun’s whining became begging as Tavrin sped up, trying to sneak a hand down to touch himself only for Tavrin’s hand to move from his hip to pin it down. Pun was nearly flat against the ground now, Tavrin grunting as he used Pun’s thighs as a fucktoy and keeping him pinned in place. Pun’s fingers twitched against Tavrin’s hand, toes curling as his balls jumped in need.

“F-fuck, please, pl-please!” Pun gasped, shuddering. “Oh yes, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuckfuckfuck— ah!” Pun was cut off into stifled groans as Tavrin shoved his head into the bedroll, thankful for the softening leaves underneath.

Tavrin’s other arm rose to rest on his forearm by Pun’s head, his hips bouncing against Pun’s. Pun could hear Tavrin’s heavy groaning, wishing his own sounds were quieter just to hear Tavrin more. He swore he heard a growl for a moment when he tried to move, cockhead almost hurting from friction as he was forced to rub against the rough fabric. Not that he minded, in fact, he welcomed the burning sensation with high pitched noises every time Tavrin was pressed against him. He whimpered at a longer rut that shoved him down further, praying it meant he was going to feel Tavrin coming against him soon, hoping to feel the cooler spray against his hot skin.

He was surprised when he was instead flipped to his back in a motion he didn’t recall actually happening, looking up to Tavrin with wide eyed, slack jawed awe. The sunlight bounced off of his helmet, scattering the rays and making him look radiant, almost haloed in the morning sun. Tavrin was over his legs now, leather clad hand jerking at himself with obscene, wet shlicks as his precum was squeezed between his tight fist and hot cock. It was only a few more thrusts against his own hand before Tavrin’s groans got louder, head tilting back as he approached his climax. Pun’s eyes fluttered closed, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue in hopes of tasting the salty liquid, tugging at Tavrin’s thighs to pull him closer. Tavrin shifted upwards with a few desperate shuffles.

He made it just enough to tap against Pun’s lips, rewarding the desperate man with a shot directly into his drooling mouth, watching him lick at it desperately. He didn’t expect Pun to pull harder, falling forward as Pun engulfed his cock, tongue swiping at the hole to pull every drop out of Tavrin’s fat balls. Pun felt the jerking of Tavrin’s ballsack against his chin, giving a pleased hum of encouragement, begging for more. Tavrin shuddered this time, thrusting into the wet heat as Pun worked his cock like a whore, slurping out more than he thought he could ever manage to create. Tavrin struggled to stop himself from thrusting deeper inside, but with a desperate, almost plaintive “fuck!” he sank into Pun’s mouth entirely. Pun’s throat pulsed around his cockhead, sucking and lapping at the base of his dick and Tavrin shoved in as deeply as he could, almost smothering Pun’s face.

Pun choked but when Tavrin began to pull away, he refused to let go and held him by the ass to stay in his throat. His own hips were jerking into the air, cock throbbing as he rode the edge of orgasm. Tavrin grabbed Pun by the hair, jerking his cock out to watch the last rope spray onto Pun’s face. Pun arched with babbled pleas and sounds, a hand on Tavrin’s cock and pulling gently as though there was more to give. “Please—”

Tavrin shook in Pun’s grip, his own hold on Pun’s hair tightening as he struggled with overstimulation. “I can’t— I don’t have any more—”

“Piss on me,” Pun pleaded, needy. “Please— please— fuck I need it so badly—” Tavrin didn’t really know what to do, scrambling for something to say, but his body knew. He might be still hard and slowly fading, but he did just wake from sleep and his bladder didn’t care now that there was an acceptable place to release.

Tavrin felt embarrassed as his cock twitched again before a few drops dribbled out of the tip. He tried to fight it but it was like the breaking of a dam and his will broke. The first short spurts were mixed with the last of his cum, splattering  against Pun’s face as he gasped. “Yes— like that—”

Tavrin arched upwards to his knees, hand on his cock to direct it to Pun’s chest instead when it became inevitable, looking over his shoulder to see Pun’s hand furiously stroking himself. He didn’t stop as he watched Pun with surprised, wide eyes. Tavrin’s bladder emptied itself faster than he thought and Pun was still stroking when he was down to the last dregs, squeezing himself from the base to the tip to get the most out for the desperate man. Pun opened his eyes, eyes darting to the cockhead before back up to Tavrin. Almost hesitant and scarlet with his own shame, he slowly opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out and silently begging.

Tavrin swallowed, unsure if he really should, but when Pun gave an agonizingly soft please he couldn’t deny him. He stroked himself to encourage his bladder to give just a little more, giving a few weak drops of piss into Pun’s mouth, the acrid taste of humiliation the last thing Pun needed. Tavrin was surprised by the fierceness of Pun’s orgasm, hearing cum splatter across his back, Pun bucking beneath him as he fucked his fist, hand over his mouth as he muffled his borderline screams of pleasure. Pun twitched as his orgasm began to fade, the red of his cheeks turning from exertion to a fiery embarrassment, avoiding looking at Tavrin.

He didn’t say anything, and Tavrin didn’t say anything. It was a limbo where neither wanted to be the first to end the stalemate, Pun looking away and into the forest with a face as scarlet as his hair, Tavrin awkwardly half sitting on Pun. A bird flew past with a shriek, breaking the tension. Tavrin went to one knee, raising himself and grabbing his pants with one hand before stepping off of Pun. Pun rolled to the side, wiping at his face. 

“I’m going to the river to wash up,” Pun announced, then, still not looking at Tavrin, grabbed his now wet cloak and all but bolted to the nearby river. 

Tavrin waited a bit unsure if Pun was going to return, then began to gather his own things. He tugged his boots off so he could remove his pants, organizing the affected items into a pile to carry down for washing. He rubbed at his helmet as though it were his face, wishing it was as satisfying as the action should have been. Well, if Pun wasn’t going to return, then he needed to start heading to the river himself. He began to reach for the straps of his armor, spinning on his heel when he felt a tug on it to see a roughly scrubbed and still wet Pun reaching to help with the straps. They met each other’s eyes for a moment, before Pun broke the stalemate.

“The catacombs are a couple days away,” he said as though nothing had happened. “But if we keep to the faster pace we had yesterday, we might arrive by sundown or midnight.” Tavrin blinked a few times.

“Uh. Yeah, alright. We don’t need to rush though, weren’t you complaining about… your arm last night?” 

“Heel, actually,” Pun corrected casually, undoing the last strap and catching the breastplate as it dropped, forestalling Tavrin’s attempt to hold it with a gentle push away. “Maybe two days would be better, this will need to be dry. Gather some rabbits and firewood, I’ll cook when I’m done cleaning.” Pun grabbed the pile of fabric and was gone before Tavrin could protest, leaving the man pantsless, armorless, and baffled at the turnaround of attitude. 

He saw a rabbit dart past a bush to his right, jerking to follow its path. He picked up Pun’s crossbow, pulling back the string until it clicked, setting a bolt in place. If he caught a few, they could make some stew, and last time Pun made some it had been surprisingly good. He just needed to get multiple rabbits, and as he watched for the rabbit’s return, he saw a couple more hop forward. Rabbit stew was officially on the dinner menu.

[rachrar]

Let's Meet Tavrin! (A Comic)

Art Credit: Nautes

[rachrar]

Story: The Only Gift He Could Give

Work Name: The Only Gift He Could Give

Pairing: Tavrin/Pun

Kinks: Vaginal penetration, exhibitionism, breeding, breath play

Universe: Everia (context: Pun is a vessel for a god, the city is taken over by a cult goddess who erased his name from the city. Pun lives in and owns the Voluptuous Violin, a strip club that doubles as a brothel.)

Tavrin pulled at the fur draped over his arms, adjusting it in hopes of hiding the smallest bit more of his body. It didn’t work. A small frustrated growl escaped his helmet, but he turned his attention away to the club.

A “talent exhibition” club, per Pun’s wiggling around the laws of the city. In reality, it was a damn strip club. The scantily clad men, women, and those who were neither were on display in tiny outfits to showcase their bodies. All were human, or at least, looked human. Pun’s glamours were not limited to the Goliath, elf, and tiefling, and if they were intelligent, they’d realize that. Not that it mattered to Tavrin.

The sight of human after human was boring. No matter how attractive, seeing the same people day in and day out lost its appeal to him, and Tavrin found little titillation in the tits available to him. Regardless of who wore a glamour and who was a born human, all of them were Hers. From the littlest twink to the strongest dominatrix, all of them were under Her spell. All of them but him.

Tavrin’s skin was human, but he was not, no matter how he seemed. His hands were hidden to prevent others from seeing the black corruption that clung to his skin and dragged itself through his forearms, let alone the fingers that curled into razor sharp claws. Regardless of how many pairs of gloves he wore, the sharp points cut through and at the end of the day he was left with scraps of leather and fabric hanging pathetically from his fingers. 

The helmet hid his face and his shame alike, the selfsame darkness replacing his head and giving him a smoke-like visage. The solidity of his head was always in question, from small wisps of escaping breath to the uncomfortable feeling of something going through his head like a ghost.

Regardless, Tavrin hated every moment he was in the strip bar. Pun was lucky that Tavrin even stayed in town. He could have left the moment it all went to shit, so many years ago. The fall from grace, the coup, watching Pun falter and fade away into the pale husk of what he once was.

He did pity Pun, in a way. Seeing Pun’s original glory be reduced into the mere existence of an earthly being was a genuinely horrible thing to witness. To think a god could become so much less if only fewer people gave tribute. 

Tavrin could have left when Pun was at his weakest; he had his own demons to face and atonements to make, but something kept him there. Perhaps the knowledge that if Tavrin left, Pun might fade away entirely, left adrift as so much less than even a man, a god dead to all still walking the mortal plane. And so, Tavrin stayed.

Not without resentment, not without taking his due, but Tavrin stayed. Tavrin kept Pun going in his own way. Pun might smile, might laugh as he once did, may even play music on his varied instruments scattered about, but he was not the same. His eyes had no pupils to give away his gaze, but Tavrin could still read the hurt and fear within. 

Pun was terrified of fading away, of being forgotten, and Tavrin could understand that, what with his own fractured memory. Pun played with his phantom gold and platinum, fucked and got fucked by his empty headed strippers day and night, led the Thieves Guild, but his sense of self was shaken as his siblings abandoned him in search for ever more power. He was forced to see those he called family attempt to kill him day in and day out, and could do no more than whisper to the wind with cries of desperation, begging that someone, anyone, would remember who he was.

But Tavrin remembered. He remembered the joy sparkling in Pun’s eyes as he watched his people celebrate a good harvest. He remembered the adoration Pun took in seeing new children running about, playing tricks and games. He remembered when the bells rang in joy rather than terror, when church consisted of a cheer over beer in taverns, when a smile was the constant companion to the people within the town’s walls, when a gate locking people out was unthinkable. 

But the city was Lampfberg now, not Everia, and things were different.

Tavrin tugged at the faux fur again, frustration mounting and winning over his innate sense of duty once given (and accepting) a task. He needed a break of his own. He waved to a guard that kept an eye on the window, jerking his head to the back room. The guard moved to take Tavrin’s place and Tavrin slipped away.

Pun looked up from his lounge seat, coins falling from his fingers as he perked up upon seeing Tavrin. 

“Tavvy! Nice to see you back here, what can I do for you?” Pun’s eyes hooded and he leaned back again, suggestively posing against the fabric playfully. Tavrin rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. Pun’s grin wavered with realization. He knew what that body language meant, and he shivered in excitement.

“Hey, guys, go take a break, alright?” Tavrin’s deeper voice caught the strippers preening and preparing in front of mirrors off guard. They glanced at Pun, but Tavrin caught it, snapping his fingers to return their attention to him. “I said, take a break.”

A younger worker snorted, covering it poorly and Pun blushed a soft blue in embarrassment, though he deferred to his guard anyway. Tavrin waited for the workers to leave before turning and locking the door.

As he spun around, he saw Pun was already edging towards breathlessness, lips parted and eyes softly hooded. “Tavvy--”

“Hush.” Pun cut himself off when he heard the command, swallowing his words. Tavrin stalked closer, shucking the fur and cloak to the floor before stopping a few feet in front of Pun. He crooked a finger at Pun, who rose like a marionette from the lounge chair, obedient to a fault when it came to his knight.

“Take a seat, won’t you?” Tavrin crooned as Pun leaned forward, aiming to rest his chin on Tavrin’s hand. “Right over there, where your whores sit.”

Pun blinked, but his gaze slid over to the unused chair. None of the workers had used it that night and the counter and chair were clean of any makeup. He sat down, pulling his waistcloth aside to prevent it from catching on anything.

“Take your hood off.  Your armor. Your boots.” Pun bit his lip, but began to move as instructed. He tossed the hood on the counter along with the armor and belt cloth. His shoes were toed off before being dropped onto the floor in a heap.

A hand slipped around Pun’s shoulders and under the tunic, caressing Pun’s chest. Claws scratched against Pun’s skin gently enough that there weren’t even marks left. Pun arched with a shaky inhale, eyes closing to better enjoy the sensation. Just as Tavrin was about to leave the confines of the fabric, he dipped back down again to repeat the motion on the other side of Pun’s chest.

“Look at yourself,” Tavrin purred. Pun’s eyes fluttered open, head rising to look into the mirror. He saw Tavrin, half dressed in chainmail, metal helmet and glittering eyes within. Tavrin’s chest was bare, but from his waist down, the delicate, thin chainmail continued until it merged with his boots, the barest hint of the codpiece hidden from view behind Pun’s body and the chair.

Tavrin leaned closer, resting his head on Pun’s shoulder, the crack in the helmet revealing more of the darkness inside. Pun whined lowly, deep in his throat, arching higher in an attempt to get more of Tavrin’s touch.

“I said, look at  yourself.”  Tavrin’s hand snapped up to grasp Pun’s face, cheeks puffing as he was wrenched to stare at himself rather than Tavrin in the silvered glass. “Tell me. What do you see?” His grip didn’t soften, expecting Pun to answer regardless.

Pun’s voice was muffled, but he gasped, voice stammering. “I-- I see myself and yo-you.”

“Wrong. Try again.” Tavrin adjusted his grip and his claws pricked at Pun’s face in threat.

“I see-- I see my Tavvy, an--”

“No.” Tavrin’s hand released Pun’s face but lowered to Pun’s neck instead, gripping tightly enough that Pun couldn’t get his breath. Pun whined with his fading air, eyes fluttering as he writhed on the chair. 

“You know what I see, Pun?” Tavrin’s voice was sharpening like his grip, and it began to lower into a hiss. “I see a whore begging for my touch. A bitch. Is that what you are?”

Pun squirmed, mouth gaping as he struggled for breath, face beginning to darken as blood was kept from circulating, prevented from speaking by the same man that demanded him to speak.

“Come on. I know you can do better. You don’t need air, do you? You’re not mortal… We both know that.”

Pun whimpered pathetically, but Tavrin’s grip did not falter in the least.

“What are you, Pun?”

“I’m a godling,” Pun’s voice reverberated in a dual toned whine not made by any physical means, closing his eyes and trying to turn his head to avoid looking at himself further.

“Yes,” Tavrin agreed, releasing Pun’s throat. His hand brushed gently at the marks left from his strong grip as if the soft touch would heal the bruises littering the skin. “I see a lonely little god without anyone to feed his power. And me.”

Tavrin pulled at Pun’s tunic and Pun shifted to pull the tunic off, abandoned to the floor. “Do you know why I stay here?”

Pun shook his head, pulling his trousers and underclothes off after Tavrin snapped at the waistband. He was left naked and bare, his cock standing at attention. It was the only thing stiff about him, his body loose and pliable to Tavrin’s will as he melted against the chair.

“I stay here because you are mine.” Tavrin scratched across Pun’s chest, leaving scratches deep enough to draw blood. The blue liquid beaded on the marks, a startling contrast to his milk white skin, and Pun moaned at the feeling. “I stay because I know what you are, who you are. No better than any other two bit whore, are you, little Oli?”

Pun shook his head, hips jerking in an attempt to get attention to his cock. “Tavvy, please--!”

“Shhhhhh,” Tavrin put a finger in front of Pun’s lips, claw still wet with Pun’s blood. Pun licked at the finger, humming as he tasted himself. He took the tip of the digit into his mouth, sucking eagerly. In response, Tavrin pressed down against Pun’s tongue, claw digging into the wet heat. Pun didn’t stop, groaning at the scratch, but Tavrin allowed it for only a few moments before pulling it out and wiping it on Pun’s chest.

“You’re wet and ready for me already, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Pun spread his legs to show off his soaked cunt, slick sticking to his skin and dripping down to his ass and the chair. There was even a growing wet spot of precum and slick on the leather surface.

Tavrin snorted, unsurprised. “Imagine if they knew.” He pulled Pun by his arm to stand before shoving him forward. Pun had no hair to pull, but Tavrin’s arm around Pun’s neck pulling back and hips pressing against Pun’s ass kept him in perfect sight of himself in the mirror.

“Look at yourself. The bruises on your soft, pretty skin. If they knew who you were, what you were… And if they saw the marks I’ve left, the blood you spill, the way you arch into it anyway.”

Pun was open mouth panting now, cock resting on top of the counter. He could see it pulse as Tavrin spoke, precum beading on the head to fall in stringlike droplets. “Oh fuck--!”

“Whore,” Tavrin hissed, hand pressing down on Pun’s cock to sandwich it against the hard counter, the pressure making Pun hiss in pain and groan in pleasure as he thrust forward anyway. “If only they knew that a god, their god, would enjoy being marked by someone like me, if they saw you on display the way you are now.”

Tavrin pulled his hand from Pun’s dick, returning it to Pun’s hip to force him to lean back. “Look at you. Cock hard, cunt soaking against the metal covering my cock. Not even my dick rubbing against you, but the cold metal making you writhe like the bitch you are.”

Pun groaned, his rutting against Tavrin increasing in speed. “Oh fuck, Tavvy--”

“Don’t you dare,” Tavrin snarled. “Not without permission, do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck-- not-- not until you s-say so--” Pun gasped as he was released to fall forward as Tavrin thrust against his ass. A few bounces on the codpiece and Pun was scrabbling against the counter, hands finding the edges on each side and bracing himself. He went to tiptoe, trying to get the rounded shape better against his hole.

Tavrin laughed cruelly, stopping his movement and grinding against Pun in little circles, watching him try to get more and whining between breaths as he got increasingly desperate, voice rising higher and higher as he rose towards orgasm. Tavrin trapped him against the counter, hands over Pun’s and growled into Pun’s ear, a deep primal sound that made Pun’s entire body shudder, a begging moan rising in his throat.

“Quiet.” Tavrin pulled away and ignored Pun’s squeals and begging for him to return. Pun’s voice stopped when he heard Tavrin’s belt being undone, choking on his breath.

Tavrin moved slowly, knowing that dragging it out and making Pun wait would make it all the sweeter. The buckle clicked open slowly, tapping against the leather as he slid it out of the loops. The leather rasped against the chainmail before being dropped, metal clunking on the ground loudly. He pulled the chainmail down, the tinkling of the rings against each other almost echoing in the room. The sound was only overshadowed by Pun’s breathing as he struggled to keep his composure. The chainmail trousers fell around his knees and Tavrin lowered down to unbuckle his boots. The metal unlatched with distinct clinks, and as he moved the greaves from his shins, the mail was finally freed from his body to pool on the floor.

Tavrin, now that the more exciting part of watching Pun react to the sounds of the chainmail was over, removed the sheer underfabric that had protected his skin from the pinching rings. He leaned forward over Pun again, his thick, ridged cock sliding against Pun’s wet lips teasingly. His own arousal was evident in the hardness of his dick, the ridges stiff enough for each and every one to be a distinct change in shape against Pun’s cunt. The glans peeked out from his foreskin, the red head slicking against the darkened sky blue of Pun’s and giving a beautiful contrast of colors.

Tavrin’s hand closed around Pun’s neck again, boxing Pun in and forcing his legs together with his own. Using his precum as lubricant, Tavrin thrust into the tight space between Pun’s thighs, chasing his own pleasure. 

He ignored Pun’s wordless pleadings, letting his cockhead catch on Pun’s hole multiple times only to grunt and shove past it and through Pun’s thighs. Pun tried arching to get the cock inside, but there was only a tighter hand around his throat and on his hip keeping him in the right position for Tavrin to tease him.

“Oh fuck-- fuck-- please-- fuck me-- Tavvy please!” Pun wiggled his best to try and get a better position, but Tavrin’s grip was iron and he was unable to move enough to get what he wanted.

Tavrin rubbed against Pun’s back, the metal warmed from Tavrin’s controlled panting underneath. “You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you? Just to get this dick inside of you.”

“Yes-- yes-- fuck-- anything--!” Pun’s fingers scrabbled against the smooth marble of the counter, but his fingers couldn’t grab anything from the height he was held at, toes dangling over the edge and back arched back.

“I could take you out onto that stage you love to watch your little dancers display their bodies on. Could doll you up in high heeled boots-- I know you love the sound they make against the wood, the reverberation of the timber against the metal heel making sure that everyone’s eyes are on you.”

Pun nodded furiously, open mouth gasping at the mental image. The attention of the masses on his body, the sinuous movements of his hips alluring them to spend their gold just to see a little more under the small slips of silk clinging to his skin, made his head spin.

Tavrin’s cock caught on Pun’s hole again, but did not move any further past. He allowed Pun to spread his legs, moving just a tiny bit, back and forth in little rolling movements to let the tip in and out of Pun’s entrance, not deep enough to get the stretch he so desperately wanted.

“You would walk onto the end, every single eye on you. Filthy little exhibitionist. You wouldn’t even be wearing anything but those thigh high boots, showing how hard you were just from their gaze, how wet you were imagining them fuck you stupid.”

Pun’s eyes were glazed over, mouth dry from panting but unable to argue with the truth of the words. He would get off on it, the strong, muscled fishermen assessing his body, the delicate, pretty little nobles scandalized but watching from the corners of their eyes.

“You’d work the pole too, just to spread your legs and show them how you like to take your pleasure. I’m sure that you’d try to dance at first, really put on a show and make sure nobody looked away. You have the core strength for it, to climb that pole and hold yourself up by just a thigh. But you would end up face down and ass against the metal, rutting against it and imagining that every single cock there could fill your needy holes.”

Pun whimpered. “Oh yesssss-- I want-- I want them to touch me like I’m o-open property for anyone to use.”

“Disgusting. A god like you holding onto a pole just to present your cunt and ass to any fool brave enough to step forward and plunge in deep and hard.” Tavrin shoved in without warning, only about halfway but it still made Pun squeal and thank him in rapid garbled words again and again.

“More-- more-- thank you-- please-- I need more-- deeper-- harder--”

“Shut up. Sluts speak when they’re given permission.” Tavrin let go of Pun’s throat to slap him hard enough to make Pun’s head jerk to the side, a blue mark rising on his skin. His arousal didn’t fade-- if anything, he rutted against Tavrin’s cock more.

“I know you enjoy this. You like to be open for business, cheaper than the back alley whores that bend over for a few coppers. You want to be used and abused, just as long as they keep fucking looking at you.” Tavrin let go of Pun’s neck just to pat his face in mock reassurance.

“I could sell you, you know. I could drag you out of this room, tie you to that pole and spread your legs with a bar to keep you from closing them. Put up a notice that you were free to use, every single hole. Your ass. Your mouth. Your cunt. And you would love every second as you were filled over and over again. You’d beg, even. Beg for them to cum inside of you, especially in your cunt.”

Pun shivered and nodded again. “I want-- I need to feel them fill me-- until I’m dripping--”

“No, no no. I’d give out sheaths for any who wanted one, anyone nervous about breeding you like the bitch you are.”

Pun was drooling, saliva dripping from his lips as his hole below pulsed in fear and desire. “But I-- I want the cum--”

Tavrin slowly, so slowly thrust further inside, rolling his hips in a slow rhythm. “You would beg, I’m sure. Plead for their seed to spill in your cunt and flow deep, deep inside. You want to be bred like a bitch, feel your belly swell more and more with pups. What a shame they can’t, isn’t it? Too bad, really… You’d make strong little mini-gods with every litter.”

Pun whined, cutting off into a howl when Tavrin filled him to the hilt, finally giving him the stretch he needed so badly. “Please-- please please please please!”

Tavrin didn’t speak, fucking into Pun brutally now that his patience had snapped. He wanted to make it hurt, to make the pain the same as pleasure, and he shoved Pun’s head down onto the counter. Pun’s noseless face made it easy when he didn’t have to worry about breaking it. Pun arched like a stretching cat, screeching in ecstasy and trying to rut back onto Tavrin’s cock.

Tavrin grunted, a feral growl deep in his chest and Pun tried to wiggle onto Tavrin’s cock further, to feel the thick weight of it pushing against his belly from the inside. Tavrin was taking his frustration out on Pun, but now that he was actually in the moment, his own words had riled him up and he felt his balls tighten in preparation of shooting his load.

Tavrin’s voice lowered into a sibilant snarl. “The men fucking you might be wearing sheaths, but I am not.” 

Tavrin groaned as he thrust to the very hilt, the wet squelch of Pun’s slick sticking to his pelvis as he rolled into his orgasm. His cock spurted a thick load, and Pun could feel every pulse Tavrin’s cock made to propel the seed into his cunt. Pun screamed as he came, cunt tight around Tavrin’s dick, sucking at him and trying to pull him even deeper, vicelike in his grip. Pun slapped at the counter just to get some sensation to try and keep grounded, but there was nothing that could stop him from feeling like he was losing his mind, dizzy from how taut his body was and how he was delirious from the hardest orgasm he’d ever had before.

Pun fell against the counter, mind empty of anything and pleasantly buzzy. He trembled, hands boneless as he tried to move and adjust himself, but Tavrin was on his back in much the same position, breathing harshly and petting at Pun’s side. Neither of them moved for what felt like an eternity, just slowly coming back to themselves. It took a while, but Tavrin got his breathing under control and he sighed comfortably. 

“I don’t mean the cruel things I said.”

Tavrin nuzzled into Pun’s neck gently. Pun asked for nothing from Tavrin, did not expect anything from him. Tavrin wasn’t able to fix what happened to Pun, but he could at least never leave Pun’s side. He intertwined their fingers gently, watching the bruises begin to fade as Pun began to heal himself. He did not miss Pun’s smile, tears beading in his eyes at the emotion caused by the shared touch, looking away.

“I know.”

There were many things left unsaid, emotions unaddressed. Neither of them were in a position to be able to offer anything more. In time, maybe they could. But for now, they were everything they could give.

[rachrar]

Story: Lockpicks Are Poor Matchmaking Tools

Work Name: Lockpicks Are Poor Matchmaking Tools

Pairing: Other/Pun

Kinks: Anal

Universe: Generic High Fantasy

Pun’s hands hovered over the door, humming softly under his breath. The slight changeling’s face was hidden by a smiling, mouthless mask, as cheerful as the rogue himself. The church had been poorly secured, surprisingly, and the windows might as well have been open for the ease he had found in getting past them. But the bounty was finally before him-- if he just got the door open.

Wary of magic, Pun waved a hand over the lock beneath the knob, a ring on his finger attuned to magic remaining still. Alright then! Pun smiled brightly, pleased. Who knew what god these guys followed, but he was clearly an inattentive one. Pun reached into his waistpouch, pulling out his lockpicks and set to work, slotting in the tumbler picker and the anchor gently.

Pun’s hips swayed in time with the quiet humming, the fabric tassels attached to his waist bouncing merrily. The pick caught a tumbler with a soft click and Pun brightened, leaning closer, hood pressing against the wood grain as he tried to hear better. He even closed his eyes to focus, listening so hard to the lock that he entirely missed the footsteps behind him.

The paladin yanked Pun up by his hood, the fabric choking out a panicked “Urk!” as he was lifted to eye level. The paladin was tall, hugely so, probably ten feet, so Pun’s feet kicked uselessly a good few feet above the floor, lockpicks clattering against the painted tile. Pun’s hands flew to his neck instinctively, trying to loosen the noose his cloak had become enough for speech.

“H-hey, Knight Guy, li-listen, it’s not what-- okay, it kind of it what you think it is, but it’s for a good reas-- hhnk!” The knight’s grip tightened, pulling the fabric tighter and Pun’s words stopped with his breathing. His gloved fingers scrabbled pointlessly against his throat, desperate to grab the knot keeping his cloak together and get free.

Just as the knight’s other hand was raising, fingers clenched in a clear punch, the knot unraveled and Pun dropped like a rock. His training and practice in acrobatics and flashy moves were the only things that kept him from breaking his knees from the dead drop, managing a quick roll and springing to his feet. His hands flew to his back, grabbing for his daggers as he backstepped, pleading with the knight.

“Come on, please, I don’t wanna fight you! You’re bigger than me, it’s just not fair, you know? Feels a little one-sided and, uh, I’m not-- I’m not really a fighter, I’d prefer to just, you know, not fight, if we could maybe--” The knight slammed out with his shield, catching Pun’s attempt at dodging with just the edge of the metal against Pun’s shoulder and spinning him out.

Pun spun against the floor hard, rolling to his front, thankful for his mask protecting his face even as he watched his daggers bounce away, far out of reach. “Oh no.”

“This is the last time you steal from the temple, thief,” the knight’s voice rumbled above him as that massive hand grabbed the back of Pun’s head, pinning him to the ground. Pun began to sweat, actually worried now. He had another dagger in his boot-- well. He did, until he heard the paladin set the shield down with his other hand and dig into Pun’s skinny boots. Boot daggers were common, so he didn’t feel too surprised, but he hadn’t actually been caught in a while. What did surprise him, however, was that the paladin didn’t stop at taking the dagger out, but tugged the boot off entirely.

“W-wait, what are you--”

“Shut up. Scum like you hide weapons everywhere. I’m making sure you don’t have anything before I bring you up before the Paragon.” A knee was pressed against Pun’s back, firmly enough to ensure that he wouldn’t be able to get free, but not hard enough to quite hurt. It was heavy, and the armor dug against him, but the paladin was being remarkably gentle for the damage his sheer weight could inflict.

“Look, you don’t need--”

“I said, shut up, before I gag you.” Pun scoffed at that, but when the knee pressed harder and he felt his spine pop, he went silent.

Pun was stripped without pretense, though the knight did make the effort to leave all of the clothing intact, presumably for modesty’s sake when Pun went before his superior. It felt like mere moments passed before Pun was naked, barring the mask.

The knight shackled his wrists together, Pun inspecting them with a keen eye. At least they were pretty common manacles, and Pun had unlocked dozens like them before, so as long as he could reach his lockpicks, it wouldn’t be an issue. If he could just get to the lockpicks, a few feet away--!

Pun was let go to sit on his rump, the cloak tossed over his shoulders and clumsily tied in front of his collarbone, the knight pausing before flipping the hood up to rest over Pun’s head. Pun adjusted so he was sitting on the cloak, looking up at the massive man. Though his face was hidden, he still gave a sultry stare, letting a faint purr enter his voice as he spread his legs, putting his cock and balls on full display.

“Like what you see, paladin boy? I bet you don’t get any in your order. You must be so pent up…” Pun inclined his head pointedly at the knight’s crotch, wiggling his fingers suggestively. “I don’t mind if you take out a little of that on me. Or. Well. In me.” Pun wiggled his hips, letting his cock bounce a little, spreading his thighs a bit more to reveal his pale hole behind, leaning back onto his elbows.

The knight stopped, seemingly frozen in place in an otherwise amusing pose, one hand halfway through the straps on his shield and the other on the edge, keeping it in place. “... I’m not a knight. Or a paladin yet.”

Pun’s hidden grin grew. Hook, line, and sinker. These religious order types were always so repressed, and it sounded like this guy was still weak to the temptations of the flesh. “What should I call you then?”

“My name is too good for the likes of you.” The knight slowly set his shield down, eyes behind the slits in his helm shifting back and forth nervously as he moved to sit on his knees, fingers twitching as he couldn’t seem to stay still.

“That’s fine,” Pun answered easily, sighing softly as he shifted his weight, his cock plumping beneath the knight’s sight, rising in interest. “You can call me Thief if it makes you harder.” He was a slut for armor, and strength, and size, and this guy really just kind of ticked all the boxes. Granted, Pun was a slut to begin with; this knight-that-isn’t just met all his preferred criteria.

Pun heard the knight’s breath hitch, a shifting of his pants indicating his own burgeoning erection. The knight looked around, then came to a decision. He stood up, Pun’s pleased heat dissipating quickly in panic. “Wait, I can make it worth your while, I can--”

“Hush, or we will be found.” Pun closed his mouth quickly enough that his teeth clicked together. Ah. So it was like that.

“I can be as silent as you want,” Pun promised in a whisper. The knight scooped Pun’s clothing and weapons together in a pile, then picked up Pun bridal style, the confiscated goods hanging from his hand behind Pun’s back.

The knight peeked through the corridor before taking Pun out, slipping into what looked like a servant’s passage, taking turns left and right before pushing open a door that looked the same as any other. The knight deposited Pun on the bed, setting the bundle of Pun’s items and clothing on a table far out of Pun’s reach. The clank of his armor, however, prevented him from hearing the soft tink of a lockpick falling to the ground as he turned around to latch the door. 

Pun was swift and silent, snatching it up and sticking it in the knot of the mask straps, slipping back onto the bed and spreading his legs once more before the knight turned around. The shield was set near the door, the scabbarded sword set on a display near the shield. 

The knight looked at Pun, and though his faulds were metal, he still saw a slight shifting of the knight’s erection pushing against the armor. Still, however, the knight did not move.

Pun waited, but the knight didn’t move forward. Was he second-guessing? “Come on… haven’t you wanted to feel the heat of someone around your cock?” Gauntleted fingers clenched as the knight controlled himself, a hesitant step forward before pausing.

“Let me suck your dick,” Pun purred. “Let me show you something you’ve never had. Empty your pent up sack in my ass, paladin boy. I’ve never had someone as big as you… I bet that my ass is gonna milk you dry.” Pun leaned back more, thighs spread wide and manacled hands pulling at his cock, the eager member fat with need, the tip even pearling with a bead of pre-cum glinting in the candle light. “Please, I need it, please fuck me…”

The knight couldn’t control his soft sound at that, a low groan at the lewd display. Another moment of clear indecision, but Pun slipped his hands down further, pressing his fingers against his asshole, spreading his cheeks with a moan. The knight’s control broke and he surged forward, jerking his gauntlets off before collapsing onto his knees before Pun, hands grasping Pun’s hips and pulling him over the knight’s lap, grinding upward against Pun’s needy hole.

“Fuck,” the knight groaned, head lolling back. “I’ve never-- I don’t want to hurt--”

Pun brought his arms around the knight’s neck, the manacles behind his back, nuzzling into the knight’s shoulder. “Oil, or grease, or fat,  something slippery to ease the way,” he explained, rolling his hips against the rapidly warming metal. “Anything like that, do you have some?”

“I-- yes, yes, just wait here,” the knight, reluctantly, placed Pun back on the bed and pushed himself to his feet, looking in some drawers.

“I have nowhere better to be,” Pun joked, mostly to himself, quietly enough that the knight didn’t hear. The knight returned with a small leather bag in hand, Pun tilting his head in curiosity. 

“It’s, uh. Mutton fat. For the armor.” He seemed unsure, but Pun nodded.

“That will be perfect! If you want to unlock--”

“No.”

Pun changed tack easily, “if you want to just smear some on your cock, and finger me a little so I can fit your massive dick in, then it’ll be fine.”

The knight nodded slowly, setting the waterproof bag on the bed before undoing his belt. The faulds were separate from his breastplate and he set them aside, unbuckling his underpadding and shoving his pants down just enough to free his cock. Probably wanted to stay as clothed as possible, just in case, which Pun would normally make a teasing remark about, but he was far too distracted with the drool-worthy cock before him.

It was thick and long, befitting the knight’s massive stature, and Pun felt his mouth water at the sight. Uncut, he watched the veins pulse and the member twitch at Pun’s clear interest, weighty enough that it didn’t hold itself up straight, half slumped against the knight’s thigh.

“Holy shit…” Pun swallowed audibly, fingers clenching from desire to touch, to feel the foreskin slip back and reveal the wet, shiny head. He wanted to deep throat it, feel the weight on his tongue and taste the salty precum, feel it pulse in his throat and fill him until he was choking on cum, dripping from his lips. What he said, however, was “I want that inside of me so bad.”

The knight’s breathing shallowed and his cock jerked. “You are so lewd.”

“You have no idea, knight boy,” Pun said. “Come on, come on, get the fat so you can fuck me, please!”

The knight picked the bag up with shaking hands, pulling the drawstring and revealing the milky colored fat. He stared at it for a beat, then swiped a generous portion and reached to himself, slicking his cock with slow pulls. Pun watched as the red glans was revealed again and again, glistening with fat and precum.

“Please--” Pun whined, hips wriggling on the bed needfully. “I want you so badly!”

“Fuck…” Pun heard the knight murmur, panting lightly. He dropped his cock, grasping the fat with unsteady hands and pulling off a glob, free hand grabbing Pun by the calf. He jerked him closer to the edge of the bed, making Pun yelp in surprise. Before he could say anything, however, the knight was gently prodding at his asshole and Pun gasped, legs spread far enough that he could be doing the splits against the floor, giving the knight easy entry.

“Yes-- ye--oh!” The knight’s finger, thick as it was, still slipped inside easily, pushing the fat inside. The cold fat melted almost immediately, and the knight pulled out, making Pun groan in complaint before a second finger was opening him, turning the groan into a joyful noise. “Yes, like that, now-- now spread your fingers, spread me open and push in de-- deep-- shit, yes, good--”

The knight did as he was told, gentle but firm as he opened Pun up, other hand rubbing gentle circles over Pun’s hip. He adjusted the angle, twisting his wrist and Pun gasped, arching upwards as the knight pressed against his prostate. “Yes yes yes there, fuck, do it again, please, please!”

The knight repeated the motion, watching as Pun’s cock spurted pre-cum. “A-- another finger, I’m ready, more, more!” Pun shivered at the feeling as the knight added a third finger, feeling the slight burn of the stretch and reveling in it. His own hands rose to bite at the fingertips, moaning against his palms in a pathetic effort to keep quiet.

“Ssshh!” The knight withdrew his fingers and Pun whimpered, squirreling on the bed as he tried to follow the retreating fingers. “I’m right here.”

A few moments later of the knight slicking his cock, just to be sure, and wiping his hand off against the bed roughly, he grasped Pun’s waist, pulling him off of the bed and onto his lap, cock slipping between Pun’s cheeks. “Fuck…”

Pun rut against the knight, whining as he was lifted, looping his arms around the knight’s neck. The knight was panting in his ear, holding himself as he lowered Pun again. The blunt head caught on Pun’s hole, the tight entrance resisting. Pun breathed out, melting against the knight and relaxing his muscles. The knight’s cock slipped inside faster than either of them expected, both gasping, Pun’s back straightening as he felt the member press his walls open ruthlessly, the accidentally rough and fast entrance burning in the most delicious of ways.

“I’m sorry--!” The knight went to lift Pun, taking the groan and hissing as pain, apologetic.

“Deeper!” Pun begged, nails clawing against the knight’s back and shoulders. “Hard, and f-fast!” The knight was startled, but released Pun’s hips, letting him slip down with gravity until he was fully hilted. “Gods above, yes-- oh yes!”

The length was perfect, head rubbing against the right spot and gliding past, the girth keeping that pressure the entire thrust inside. And then the knight lifted him, slamming him back down as he rolled his hips up, forcing all air in Pun’s lungs to expel in a sharp moan. “Yes-- just like that-- don’t stop!”

Thus emboldened, the knight took to the task with vigor, bouncing Pun on his cock eagerly. Pun rested his masked face against the knight’s pauldrons, hands raising to grab at the hood for something to hold onto as he was fucked. Even as he gasped and panted, he kept his wits enough to remember the hidden lockpick.

Pun adjusted so he was more draped on the knight’s shoulders, jerking at a particularly good thrust and rubbing his cock against the knight’s breastplate. “Fuck, knight boy, you feel so good--”

Pun took advantage of a high bounce to reach behind his head and grab the lockpick, relaxing into the knight’s hold as he worked at the manacles. It was just a few moments, however, before the knight’s thrusts got faster and sloppier, thrusting harder and pausing before repeating.

“I’m gonna--” the knight warned Pun before gasping, holding Pun down so he was as deep as possible. Pun felt the faint pulses as the knight came deep inside, even the twitches of the knight’s balls, pressed as tight against the knight as he was.

Pun moaned softly, tensing and rolling his hips to encourage every last drop out. “Just like that, cum in me til I’m dripping your seed...” Pun felt the thick cream seep out as the knight gave a last few thrusts, leaving white streaks on the dark armor, a satisfaction deep in his chest at the idea that he left a filthy little mark on the knight.

“D-damn…” The knight grumbled, movements getting a little longer. “I’m still-- still hard… I didn’t know that was possible…”

Pun shivered at the sensation of the knight’s husky voice rumbling through his body. “Keep going, fuck me til you’re satisfied. I haven’t come yet, after all.” Pun bounced lightly on the knight’s dick, humming as he felt the knight struggle with overstimulation. “Come on, knight boy, don’t leave me hanging.”

The knight groaned, reaching under Pun’s arms, hands over Pun’s shoulders and palms on Pun’s back, pulling Pun down as Pun sunk on his dick, grinding against his prostate perfectly and making Pun writhe uselessly against the knight’s chest.

“Faster!” Pun pleaded, but the knight kept his thrusts slow and deep, and Pun’s toes curled at the sensation, panting out soft whines. “O-ohh gods…”

The knight took his time, forcing Pun to deal with the slowly ramping speed. As much as Pun begged and demanded faster, the knight was insistent on the steady pace, the patient burn making him really feel each and every inch of the knight’s cock as it inexorably forced him open again and again. Pun panted against the inside of his mask, feeling boneless as the wet slapping sounds echoed in his ears. The knight’s cum made the fucking even easier, the filthy noise of their coupling loud in the empty room, Pun’s moaning having reduced to little whines and whimpers.

Pun’s hands followed muscle memory, using the increased noises to cover the lock picking, the manacles releasing quickly. Pun caught the locks, holding them in one hand as he rode against the knight, the adrenaline of getting out of the cuffs translating right into his dick. He rut against the knight, whining at the lack of sensation against the armor, shoving himself down more roughly. Now that he was free, he could focus entirely on the feeling of that fat cock spearing him open.

“Mmm, faster, faster,” Pun complained, trying to drop down harder on the knight, who simply chuckled. The laughter was the only warning before Pun was suddenly bear hugged around his waist, kept still as the knight leaned forward, letting Pun’s upper half rest against the bed with the knight resting his own weight on his knees. The position gave him more leverage, and he immediately put it to good use, thrusting into Pun hard and fast.

Startled, Pun moaned, the sound rising in pitch until it was nearly a scream, cock bouncing against his own stomach and liberally spraying precum. The knight shoved a hand between them, grabbing Pun’s cock and jerking him off as roughly as he was fucking him, and Pun’s sounds only increased. 

Pun’s mask had been shoved up in the commotion, revealing his mouth, and he put it to good use trying to silence himself by shouting his pleasure against the knight’s neck. The under armor padding was perfect to bite into, howling as his prostate was struck again and again, the knight’s calloused hand nearly sharp against Pun’s cock, thumbing the head until Pun was screeching with full body shudders.

Vague words were mixed into the sounds, all positive and praising and only rising in pitch as his own orgasm approached. He couldn’t even warn the knight, but the vice-like convulsions of his ass was warning enough, the knight choking out a noise of his own before thrusting harder, longer, slower thrusts right against Pun’s prostate.

The cum spurted from Pun’s cock, a dribble with every thrust against his prostate milking him for all he was worth, sobbing against the knight in pleasure. The knight thrust in once, twice more before stilling, groaning lowly as he came again in Pun, the changeling weeping as he scratched at the knight’s back, noises that sounded akin to “yes” and “thank you” dripping from his lips.

They stayed in place for a few moments, which in Pun’s state of only vaguely understanding time, could have been anywhere from seconds to minutes. Pun twitched as the knight pulled out, feeling cum drip out of his ass liberally, shuddering at the sensation, trying to clench and keep it inside. But, fucked loose as he was, there was no stopping the filthy mess.

Getting out of the temple could wait for another time. Pun was far too fucked out. He did, however, notice the manacles getting locked around his wrists again and the lockpick being plucked from his fingers. Eh. Whatever. That would be a problem for later.

[rachrar]

Let's Meet Pun!

A changeling with a fondness for sex, gold, and glory, in that order.

Pun was the first of his kind (changeling), but was not a natural creation. His "father" was a awakened mimic wizard, part of a large, black market corporation. Pun, then named Glaukos, was not the only creation his mimic "father" made, Pun's "brothers" being an Aberration and a Doppelganger, all the first of their species. 

Growing up as a specimen was miserable, though Vinnie (Pun's father) did legitimately care about them and love them. Pun was the golden child, as much as a laboratory specimen could be, and as a result got the majority of Vinnie's attention, giving Pun a great people sense. Pun instinctively watched people, learning how to interact by copying their actions and words, learning that he could do so much more than simply copy people. He could become them.

With this newfound knowledge, Pun broke out of his captivity as a young teen and struck out in the world, hoping to find a path of his own, taking a new name that better fit him: Pun. His father knew, and did not pursue— he had problems of his own that needed tending, including getting out of that corporation, but Vinnie's story is for another time. Pun, a poor and sheltered child, did not know how to find safe employment, and with his changeling skills, he went for the most profitable and easy path; thievery. He joined a Thieves’ Guild, working through them rather lazily and pushing boundaries, knowing that his unique abilities made him hard to replace. 

He gained a boyfriend when he was 15— but it was not a good relationship. His boyfriend, Victor, was a human man of 20 who took great pleasure in grooming Pun into exactly what he wanted Pun to be. Pun, already feeling abandoned when his father didn’t try to find him, latched onto the man with all the eager gullibility of a teenager, his sense of self and life revolving around the man.

Victor was a subtle worker, taking Pun’s confidence in himself and breaking him down bit by bit with casual, patient barbs. It was a death of a thousand cuts; statements like “it’s alright, Pun… Nobody can expect someone without ears to hear anything anyway” were common and only got meaner. As their relationship progressed over the next few years, the backhands became more and more cruel, culminating in making Pun afraid to show his real, natural face, deeming it the face of a “gross little maggot.” Victor was quick to gaslight Pun and played sweet with him in private, praising Pun for “looking so pretty for him” when Pun borrowed one of the boyfriend’s random and ever changing lusts.

It took multiple years before Pun began to realize how cruel the relationship was, and then only when the abuse became more and more overt. Physical backhands for “speaking out of turn” were the norm and rape under the guise of “you never say no anyway, so shut up, you know crying makes me sad” were the only sexual activities they had at that point. Pun’s joy, quality of life, or pleasure was never considered important or even worthy of being entertained. Even other members of the Thief's Guild looked uncomfortable and awkward, and they were hardly paragons of morality, often more stabby than talkative. 

It came to a head in their final mission together. It was a joint effort to sneak into a minor noble’s bedroom and steal away an heirloom, and for their skill at that point it should not have been as difficult as it was. Before the mission, however, Pun had been abused quite thoroughly, along with the accumulating aches and declining mental state. His balance was off due to weak legs, his voice was hoarse because his throat hurt, and bruises littered his body. He was in no condition for something as intense as the guards that rushed out, having been tipped off.

Pun was the look out, hiding on a roof nearby after actually capturing the heirloom, watching as his boyfriend was apprehended by the guards. Pun clutched the bag to his chest, watching and unsure of what to do. He wanted to help Victor. But he also desperately wanted to run away, afraid of both Victor and the guards, and not sure which he feared most. He knew that the moment he did leap into action to defend his boyfriend, he would be overwhelmed in the same way. But if he didn’t and Victor managed to free himself, he would look for Pun and punish him afterwards. There was no winning.

With the ache of his body weighing on him, the abuses piling up and weakening him, his emotions dulled from the pain he had endured, he couldn’t move to do anything. He was going to lose out either way, and the guards gave him at least one out, and at that, one that would end the other danger. Hope bloomed in him, a weak and flickering flame, that he might actually escape the hell his relationship and life had become.

His perch on the edge of the building was hard to balance on, and with that minor hope in his chest, Pun stepped back, denying Victor his help. Victor howled in fury, swearing curses and promising dire consequences if he was not released. The guards were less than amused with Victor’s struggling and fighting. After a minute of trying to force Victor to give in, the guards’ patience wore out. They were not city guards, but mercenaries, and had been authorized for any actions providing it protected the noble they served. Their tolerance for bullshit was low, and with the trouble he had been causing, along with making a solid few hits on the guards when defending himself, the guards stopped trying to hold back.

Pun watched a dagger slam into his boyfriend mid scream, cutting his yelling off immediately into choked gasps. Pun pulled his hood up, vowing right there and then to never give anyone that kind of power over him again.

Pun took his now ex-boyfriend’s face to be his most often used human disguise. Though he fiercely hates him, the sting of bittersweet love there once was couldn’t be forgotten. There had still been moments of joy between them, and though he was aware of how horrible the relationship was, emotions made little distinction in what should be and what was. Pun got no true sense of closure, only a violent and abrupt ending to the relationship, and it left him adrift for a time, not knowing who or what he really was.

He broke away from the guild and searched for a purpose of his own making, refusing to obey anyone else or be tied down with any sort of commitment. After all, if he didn't care about anyone, nobody would care about him, and that meant nobody could hurt him again. Pun did many things to get by, including theatrics, acrobatic shows, even some musical shows, but never really found his groove. Pun eventually went to a brothel and offered his services, and found peace in the easy money to be had by pretending to be someone else and spreading his legs. Naturally, the brothel wanted to keep him as a permanent member, and after an uncomfortable altercation with the house mistress, Pun left to wander the world.

Now, he sells his skills as a thief and assassin as easily as he sells his body, shameless in his own desires and urges. He does not value himself highly, and as such puts himself into sketchy situations often just to prove to himself that he can get out of them. His spite keeps him going most days, and the mental numbing combined with physical pleasure keeps him going the rest.

Art Credit: Naut