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freosanThey don't get out much. Here they are, a relationship outlined in just over 1 300 words.
Told you porn was an inevitability, though it's fairly light as those things go.
Warnings: Dark. NCS. Serious power issues. Blood. Bondage. Okay, I think that's over with.
Ryoka used to be a captain. Still is, by his own reckoning, unless he’s been declared dead and given a gravestone promotion – not that everyone in his camp doesn’t know exactly what happened to him, but it’s less embarrassing all around to just write him off.
Right now, he’s in a tent. He’s alone, it’s dark, and he’s tied hand and foot to a pole in the middle of the dirt floor. It leaves a lot of time for reflection.
He knows what it’s like to lead, so he hates to follow. He was a good leader. His soldiers trusted him, and he was trustworthy. Hadn’t he led ten toms through fifteen miles of enemy territory without a single casualty? Hadn’t he come up with the strategy to break the siege at Half Circle? And now his life is reduced to reacting. Every time he moves, it’s because that bastard Hymaiese has done something – maybe left an opening, maybe beat him up again, maybe something far worse – and he can’t be in control.
He’s waiting. The sun set half an hour ago, by his reckoning. In fifteen minutes – give or take – the white cat will come in. It’s the same every night.
That loss scares him and so makes him mad. It’s worse than any of the million other minor humiliations he’s forced to take through the day: wearing his bracelet, the scars that keep mounting up, the way all the tomcats smirk when they look at him. It’s like water torture, all the little tiny droplets adding up into an ocean of irritation, and it makes his ears stay flat and his tail stay puffed. He knows he looks like a kitten, all spitting, impotent fury, and that can’t help but make it worse.
He hasn’t been able to try for escape for several days. His ribs are busy healing, his arm’s been sliced to the bone, and he’s almost positive he’s been concussed. He knows he spent thirty-six hours unconscious in his eternal enemy’s own room. He hates this fact.
He hears footsteps. They’d be inaudible in daytime, but the night is silent. He can see a shadow on the wall, and he feels the fur on his tail stand up.
The bastard’s always full of gentle words, and gentle touches – except when Ryoka does anything he doesn’t like. Ryoka’s getting better at anticipating those things. He avoids them. It feels like giving in, but he thinks he can stand that if it keeps his body stronger. He has scars over so much of his skin now that his stripes hardly stand out at all.
A pale, well-clawed hand pulls back the flap of the tent and Ryoka arches his back, hissing, doing his best to look intimidating while tied down. The bastard comes in, looking perfectly serious. He never makes fun of Ryoka’s helplessness – Ryoka thinks it’s some kind of honor code he’s got going.
He wonders how long it’ll take for Stockholm syndrome to set in.
Xeng Kho – he may as well give the cat his name, it’s a ridiculous enough one – bows to him, as always, trying to maintain the illusion that he’s the submissive one.
“Ryoka. You look much better tonight,” he says. “I worry when you don’t show your fangs.” He smiles, showing off his own. Ryoka hisses again.
Xeng Kho walks around behind him, much too close for comfort, and unlocks the ties that held him. For insurance – Ryoka knows it is coming, and bares his neck anyway – he puts a collar and leash on his prisoner first.
He can feel the bastard’s breath on his skin, the fingers ghosting over his neck as they buckle the collar. His ears stay flat, but he stays perfectly, rock-steady still. He has too many injuries right now to risk another.
“I hope your ribs aren’t giving you too much trouble. I do hate to be so crass, but really, what else am I to do?”
Ryoka stands up, sharply, keeping his back to the white cat. The leash tugs, just a bit, a warning. Then he hears the bastard get to his feet, and step forward. Pale arms wrap around him – from above, he hates the height difference so much – and there are claws delicately slicing into his cheek.
He stays still, doesn’t flinch, even as blood drips down over his stripes. “If you hadn’t locked me up, I wouldn’t have to try to get away.”
Xeng Kho purrs behind him. He can feel it through the silk of the white cat’s shirt. The hands are moving again – down, this time, and he feels claws running over his ribs as if in passing.
Every nerve is on fire, every fur on his body at right angles to his skin. He keeps his eyes locked on the tent in front of him, refusing to look at the blood. He’s trying so hard not to move, not to set him off again, that he hardly notices when the bastard starts unbuckling his belts.
No. That’s a lie. He wants not to notice, but he can’t help it, not when his hands are so insistent, not when his lips are on Ryoka’s shoulder, his neck, whispering false words in his ear. He can’t help the reaction his body has, either, nor the way he growls when Xeng Kho’s right hand slips under the last, loosened belt.
His back arches again, but not in defiance this time. He tries so hard. Every time this happens, he tries not to move, to will his body not to respond. It never works.
Xeng Kho knows this, and Ryoka feels him smirking against his shoulder. He leans forward – damn the height difference, again, the white cat has no right to be so much taller – and long white hair slips over Ryoka’s shoulders, and his hands move just so. It goes on for an interminable time which is probably less than a minute.
Ryoka is panting, like a dog, disgusting, but he can’t help it – he’s momentarily lost control of his body. Xeng Kho is holding him up – he’s leaning into his enemy’s chest, his head thrown back, looking, he’s sure, like he’s enjoying this.
He looks down. His pants have slipped down to the floor. One of Xeng Kho’s pale hands is still holding the leash. The sight almost makes him throw up, or would had he eaten anything in the last day. He retches, and Xeng Kho holds him more tightly, turning him around so they’re facing each other.
There is blood on the white silk of the Hymaiese’s shirt. It’s Ryoka’s. He’d forgotten about that. Now he remembers, and as it catches his eye Xeng Kho leans down and licks it off his face. Ryoka holds perfectly still as his captor kisses him, carefully, gently biting his lips hard enough he starts bleeding again.
His hands are moving once more, and Ryoka can only stand there and take it.
When it’s over – only minutes later – Ryoka is drowsy and almost boneless, trying to stay alert and angry but failing. He glares, and his ears stay back, but his body won’t move the way he wants it to. Especially not with the white cat’s claws on his back and teeth by his neck.
Xeng Kho gently cleans up the mess and the blood, and presents Ryoka with a new set of silks from somewhere or another. Ryoka stands perfectly still, knowing this part of the routine, as Xeng Kho gently does up each button and tie. He's just relieved when it’s over, and the handcuffs are put back on him again.
Xeng Kho takes him to a much more comfortable room and shackles him to the bedpost. It should be worrying, but Ryoka can’t deal with thoughts of the future right now. At least like this, he doesn’t have to feel guilty about not trying to run away.
Told you porn was an inevitability, though it's fairly light as those things go.
Warnings: Dark. NCS. Serious power issues. Blood. Bondage. Okay, I think that's over with.
Ryoka used to be a captain. Still is, by his own reckoning, unless he’s been declared dead and given a gravestone promotion – not that everyone in his camp doesn’t know exactly what happened to him, but it’s less embarrassing all around to just write him off.
Right now, he’s in a tent. He’s alone, it’s dark, and he’s tied hand and foot to a pole in the middle of the dirt floor. It leaves a lot of time for reflection.
He knows what it’s like to lead, so he hates to follow. He was a good leader. His soldiers trusted him, and he was trustworthy. Hadn’t he led ten toms through fifteen miles of enemy territory without a single casualty? Hadn’t he come up with the strategy to break the siege at Half Circle? And now his life is reduced to reacting. Every time he moves, it’s because that bastard Hymaiese has done something – maybe left an opening, maybe beat him up again, maybe something far worse – and he can’t be in control.
He’s waiting. The sun set half an hour ago, by his reckoning. In fifteen minutes – give or take – the white cat will come in. It’s the same every night.
That loss scares him and so makes him mad. It’s worse than any of the million other minor humiliations he’s forced to take through the day: wearing his bracelet, the scars that keep mounting up, the way all the tomcats smirk when they look at him. It’s like water torture, all the little tiny droplets adding up into an ocean of irritation, and it makes his ears stay flat and his tail stay puffed. He knows he looks like a kitten, all spitting, impotent fury, and that can’t help but make it worse.
He hasn’t been able to try for escape for several days. His ribs are busy healing, his arm’s been sliced to the bone, and he’s almost positive he’s been concussed. He knows he spent thirty-six hours unconscious in his eternal enemy’s own room. He hates this fact.
He hears footsteps. They’d be inaudible in daytime, but the night is silent. He can see a shadow on the wall, and he feels the fur on his tail stand up.
The bastard’s always full of gentle words, and gentle touches – except when Ryoka does anything he doesn’t like. Ryoka’s getting better at anticipating those things. He avoids them. It feels like giving in, but he thinks he can stand that if it keeps his body stronger. He has scars over so much of his skin now that his stripes hardly stand out at all.
A pale, well-clawed hand pulls back the flap of the tent and Ryoka arches his back, hissing, doing his best to look intimidating while tied down. The bastard comes in, looking perfectly serious. He never makes fun of Ryoka’s helplessness – Ryoka thinks it’s some kind of honor code he’s got going.
He wonders how long it’ll take for Stockholm syndrome to set in.
Xeng Kho – he may as well give the cat his name, it’s a ridiculous enough one – bows to him, as always, trying to maintain the illusion that he’s the submissive one.
“Ryoka. You look much better tonight,” he says. “I worry when you don’t show your fangs.” He smiles, showing off his own. Ryoka hisses again.
Xeng Kho walks around behind him, much too close for comfort, and unlocks the ties that held him. For insurance – Ryoka knows it is coming, and bares his neck anyway – he puts a collar and leash on his prisoner first.
He can feel the bastard’s breath on his skin, the fingers ghosting over his neck as they buckle the collar. His ears stay flat, but he stays perfectly, rock-steady still. He has too many injuries right now to risk another.
“I hope your ribs aren’t giving you too much trouble. I do hate to be so crass, but really, what else am I to do?”
Ryoka stands up, sharply, keeping his back to the white cat. The leash tugs, just a bit, a warning. Then he hears the bastard get to his feet, and step forward. Pale arms wrap around him – from above, he hates the height difference so much – and there are claws delicately slicing into his cheek.
He stays still, doesn’t flinch, even as blood drips down over his stripes. “If you hadn’t locked me up, I wouldn’t have to try to get away.”
Xeng Kho purrs behind him. He can feel it through the silk of the white cat’s shirt. The hands are moving again – down, this time, and he feels claws running over his ribs as if in passing.
Every nerve is on fire, every fur on his body at right angles to his skin. He keeps his eyes locked on the tent in front of him, refusing to look at the blood. He’s trying so hard not to move, not to set him off again, that he hardly notices when the bastard starts unbuckling his belts.
No. That’s a lie. He wants not to notice, but he can’t help it, not when his hands are so insistent, not when his lips are on Ryoka’s shoulder, his neck, whispering false words in his ear. He can’t help the reaction his body has, either, nor the way he growls when Xeng Kho’s right hand slips under the last, loosened belt.
His back arches again, but not in defiance this time. He tries so hard. Every time this happens, he tries not to move, to will his body not to respond. It never works.
Xeng Kho knows this, and Ryoka feels him smirking against his shoulder. He leans forward – damn the height difference, again, the white cat has no right to be so much taller – and long white hair slips over Ryoka’s shoulders, and his hands move just so. It goes on for an interminable time which is probably less than a minute.
Ryoka is panting, like a dog, disgusting, but he can’t help it – he’s momentarily lost control of his body. Xeng Kho is holding him up – he’s leaning into his enemy’s chest, his head thrown back, looking, he’s sure, like he’s enjoying this.
He looks down. His pants have slipped down to the floor. One of Xeng Kho’s pale hands is still holding the leash. The sight almost makes him throw up, or would had he eaten anything in the last day. He retches, and Xeng Kho holds him more tightly, turning him around so they’re facing each other.
There is blood on the white silk of the Hymaiese’s shirt. It’s Ryoka’s. He’d forgotten about that. Now he remembers, and as it catches his eye Xeng Kho leans down and licks it off his face. Ryoka holds perfectly still as his captor kisses him, carefully, gently biting his lips hard enough he starts bleeding again.
His hands are moving once more, and Ryoka can only stand there and take it.
When it’s over – only minutes later – Ryoka is drowsy and almost boneless, trying to stay alert and angry but failing. He glares, and his ears stay back, but his body won’t move the way he wants it to. Especially not with the white cat’s claws on his back and teeth by his neck.
Xeng Kho gently cleans up the mess and the blood, and presents Ryoka with a new set of silks from somewhere or another. Ryoka stands perfectly still, knowing this part of the routine, as Xeng Kho gently does up each button and tie. He's just relieved when it’s over, and the handcuffs are put back on him again.
Xeng Kho takes him to a much more comfortable room and shackles him to the bedpost. It should be worrying, but Ryoka can’t deal with thoughts of the future right now. At least like this, he doesn’t have to feel guilty about not trying to run away.