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Chapter Text

Alatus has never felt the warm embrace of love. From his first coherent memory, all he has ever known is pain and suffering. 

He is stripped of everything that he could ever hold dear. His bones break time and time again, and the young man is forced to mend them just to hear that sickening crack once more. He becomes aquatinted with the color red, always seeing it swim in his vision when his master’s hand connects with the side of his face, and he is left sprawled across the cold floor. 

Tears sit on his flushed cheeks, a constant reminder that his happiness is never a concern. Like a puppet with clipped strings, Alatus is nothing without his master. He exists to serve and provide entertainment; he does not need a free will when his master holds the strings. 

He is nothing.

Day in and day out, he is reminded of his place: under a heel, meant to be ruled over and broken, only to be rebuilt and destroyed within hours. It’s a cruel and vicious cycle Alatus is trapped within, but he doesn’t know how to escape, nor does he want to take the risk. Who knows what cruel torture he will endure should his master catch wind of his plan?

Alatus’ body jerks suddenly, failing to relax as a cold, clawed hand caresses his back, trailing a sharp talon down the curve of his spine. The desire to scream sits heavy on his dry tongue, but he knows better than to make a noise, so he swallows the noise. He closes his eyes, slowly breathing through his nose as he counts backward from one hundred. Anxiety rests in his stomach and bones, leaving him waiting in anticipation as the hand rests on the small of his back. 

“Present,” the voice commands, low and cold before the hand moves, and Alatus hears nothing but his shallow breathing and feet against the polished floors. 

He barely lifts his head, not daring to meet his master’s eyes, but opts to look at her long, pale legs. “I can’t,” Alatus starts, his voice soft and weak as his wrists rub uncomfortably. “I can not move,” he wheezes pathetically. 

His master says nothing, and Alatus thanks Celestia above that she did not strike him for speaking out. That relief is only short-lived as she strides towards him, slow and calculating, before stepping in front of him, cupping his jaw, and tilting his head back. Alatus’ breath hitches as he stares into the pools of molten fire and hate, feeling his stomach twist and lurch. Her eyes burn into his soul, slowly undressing him with her gaze before she steps back and presses her foot against his chest, shoving him backward with a scoff. 

“That is none of my concern,” she sneers, her voice lacking warmth. “Present, Alatus,” she commands once more. 

Alatus struggles, his chest rising and falling with each gasp and wheeze. He rocks himself back and forth, finally able to roll onto his side without using his hands. After a few more moments of struggling, Alatus shifts onto his knees with his ass in the air. It’s humiliating, but he knows better than to speak out against her; he waits anxiously, squeezing his eyes shut. 

He jumps when his master steps behind him, resting her hand on his back. Her touch remains cold and cruel despite the glowing pyro vision hanging from her hip. Alatus chokes on his breath when something presses inside, stealing the breath from his lungs. His body tenses up, and tears start to burn behind his eyes; this feeling is unwanted, yet he doesn’t fight to move or voice his discomfort. A good servant knows better than to go against their master, so he wills his body to remain pilant under her touch. She is not here for his pleasure; he is here for hers, after all. 

Long, slender fingers breech him slowly, pushing in and stroking his insides. Alatus breathes gradually through his nose, closing his eyes and trying to relax. It is never for pleasure but a means to show ownership. 

The stretch is unbearable, and his body does not yield to her gentle caresses; he knows what happens next. It’s the same slow and torturous song he’s danced to for years. It is an unchanging cycle that Alatus cannot break; it drags him back under like violent waves of the sea. He can only endure and suffer with each wave that crashes over him; he can only attempt to wait out the storm until it comes to a dull roar. 

Alatus is torn from his thoughts suddenly, shaking as her fingers push in deeper, spearing his insides without mercy. It burns like a fire; it eats through flesh and bone, but the young servant holds his tongue and swallows every whimper that sits heavy on his tongue. Words become nonsense to Alatus as he tries to steady his breathing, staring blankly at the floor as his master muses behind him. 

“You’re slacking,” she chides with a sneer, curling her fingers and tearing a sharp cry from the pliant body. She grins, satisfied with the pained noise, and continues her torture. Her tone is now playful and light, speaking smoothly with each curl of her fingers, pleased with Alatus’ reactions and shivers. Her fingers leave, and her hand rests on his lower back, petting the scarred flesh with a quiet tut. 

“A god shall be paying us a visit in due time. He speaks of war and conflict—of contracts and other nonsense,” she snorts, pinching Alatus’ waist and shoving him harder against the marbled floor with a sneer. “He who is without a name—without a title wishes to make talk with me. I find it rather laughable. A silly little endeavor, but it shall entertain me to go along with this and hear what he has to say.”

Alatus makes no comment, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of cold marble against his cheek. He cares not for gods and their conflicts; he wishes not to hear of their squabbles and silly arguments amongst one another. Gods are such odd entities; how they can watch the mortals, who cry out in praise and reverence, crumble and decay away within the blink of an eye—how they easily watch nations rise and fall, repeating the same cycle repeatedly. It’s horrifying to think about, and Alatus wishes not to think about the gods and their cruel misuse of their powers. 

A harsh, heated slap pulls Alatus away from his racing thoughts with a sharp gasp. He breathes in hard, squeezing his eyes shut with a wet exhale; pain bites the skin, and his hips falter momentarily. Alatus musters the courage to peek over his shoulder, meeting his master’s narrowed gaze. Any apology he has on his lips dies with each slap; he is not spared as the deity reaches for his long hair, curling the silky wisps around her finger and yanking Alatus onto his knees. 

“What has your mind so occupied, my pretty little songbird?” The deity sneers, fisting her hand in his hair, yanking his head backward and exposing the curve of his bobbing neck. A dark laugh fills the once-empty sound, and Alatus could only quietly beg for her forgiveness with tears in his eyes. Ignoring her is a sin above anything else; this deity is vain and self-absorbed, and to ignore her is a mistake a person is allowed to make once as a mercy. 

Failure to heed this message results in dire consequences, and Alatus knows his master has no restraint. 

“N-Nothing,” Alatus managed to stutter out, swallowing thickly. “This one was not—My Lady, please forgive—”

He hears the next slap before he feels it, and pain explodes behind his eyes. Alatus falls to the ground with an audible thud and a sharp crack; red dances in his vision, and the young man can only wheeze painfully, rolling onto his side. The swift kick that follows leaves Alatus howling in pain, curling in on himself and allowing the tears to flow freely down his blotchy cheeks. He’s almost sure she broke his ribs, but he knows his body will repair itself, and his mistress will bide her time until she can break him down again. 

She calls him a stupid little creature, and he silently agrees. If Alatus weren’t a fool, he would have heard her speaking to him. He knows he only has himself to blame, yet he allows himself to think briefly that he doesn’t deserve this cruel torment. 

“One would think you have learned your lesson, Alatus. You force my hand, time and time again,” the goddess sneers, “One would believe that you enjoy this. Do you like it, Alatus?”

“No,” Alatus warbles out, his voice wet and hoarse. 

The goddess strikes him again with a hiss. “Lies, I hear,” she spits, bringing her hand down again. Alatus isn’t sure how long she hits him, but he makes no attempts to move as she screams at him. “You would think you have earned your lesson the first time, but you insist on disobeying me repeatedly. I dirty my hands touching you, you weak thing!”

Pain flows through him, and Alatus screams with each sharp blow. He knows that his mistress is cruel, delighted at how her servants beg and plead for her mercy when they have displeased her, and knows that it’s pointless. The goddess of dreams was a sadist to her core, delighting in how blood and ichor stain her floors until she calls for a maid to clean up the mess and dispose of the body should she go too far. 

He is unsure how much time has passed, but Alatus allows himself to breathe easily once his mistress retreats from the room, ordering a nearby servant to get him out of sight and clean the floors. The young boy groans weakly, feeling someone gently move him into their arms, carrying him out of the room and back to the servants’ quarters. 

The bed is comfortable—one of the few luxuries their goddess allows them to have. Alatus groans, fingers gingerly touching his ribcage, finding the skin swollen under his fingertips. Ribs are always a pain to repair; it takes Alatus longer to properly heal them, and he is left bedridden for a while. The only upside is that his goddess permits him to stay in bed, handing any task he has to another servant. 

Another servant arrives, crouching by Alatus’ side, tenderly checking his torso with a click of her tongue. “She’s done quite a number on you,” the small servant observes, checking his nude form for open wounds and bruises. Her face falls, carefully brushing over the nail marks on his hips and the fading scars that decorate his upper chest. “I wish you would be more careful,” she murmurs. 

“I will heal, Zilivia,” Alatus waves off, forcing himself to sit up against the headboard with a pained hiss. He steadies himself, blinking away the hot tears, and turns to his companion. No words are exchanged as the brown-haired servant bandage and apply an ointment to the fresh wounds. Her hands are soft, working gently against the skin while he mumbles his thanks. 

“You say that now, Alatus. One of these days, I won’t be able to help you, and I fear the day will arrive sooner than later,” she says sharply, reaching for the thin gauze and dressing his torso. Zilivia’s eyes soften as she exhales slowly through her nose, brushing his hair out of his face. 

Alatus makes no comment, closing his eyes and sighing. He knows that Zivilia means well—she’s been one of his closest companions since being enslaved by the god of dreams—and she worries about him. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Zivilia.” 

She shakes her head, squeezing his hand and kissing the knuckles. “All I can ask of you now is to rest and heal. Hopefully, we won’t have another repeat,” the brown-haired servant sighs, rising to her feet and staring at Alatus fondly. “Will you try and sleep?” she asks. 

“I make no promises, but I shall…attempt,” Alatus says slowly. 

“I see it as a victory—a small one, but a victory, nonetheless,” Zivilia says. “Rest well, Alatus. I will tend to you come morning,” she promised with a slight bow, snuffing out the candle and blanketing Alatus in the soft darkness. 

Surrounded by the quiet darkness, Alatus wills his body to relax in the swaddle of blankets and allows sleep to slowly consume him.

Chapter Text

Honeyed sunlight streams in Alatus’ face as he lifts his head. The air around him feels so liberating as he raises his hands to the sky. If he tries hard enough, the young boy imagines that he could catch the sun in his hands. His wings unfurl from his backside, long, white, and graceful, but he ascends into the air. 

He flitters through the air without a care in the world and feels no sense of obligation. The sun beats down on him, but the small bird welcomes its warmth, aiming to soar higher and higher. Alatus knows only fools and gods could ever withstand the heat, but he thinks of himself as neither a fool nor a god but as one desperate for a warm touch. There’s an empty coldness that crackles and thrums in his brittle bones, and Alatus wishes to rid himself of the foreign feeling. 

Alatus reaches for the ball of gas and fires with a soft gasp, feeling the sun warm his flesh. He is so close now, wanting the sun to swallow and burn him. Burn and cleanse him of this skin; make him clean and whole again. Tears burn behind his eyes as he flies faster, his wings beating harder against the air. The sun beats, blistering his skin with angry, red welts, but Alatus pushes on with a sob on his lips. 

He seeks freedom. 

He’s so close to escaping before cold metal clamps around his ankle, and his heart drops. “No—” Alatus sobs before he’s violently dragged down into the relentless sea below him. His wings weigh heavy like an anchor, and waves crash over the young boy. The gods must be laughing at him, punishing him for his arrogance and selfishness. 

How dare he desire a sin-free life?

Water fills his mouth and floods Alatus’ lungs each time he tries to swim to shore, but more chains and shackles join the first ones, dragging him further underneath the dark, icy waves. Fear fills his body as his vision blurs and darkens; he can’t shout for help or seem to fight the restraints that yank him further and further down. Only pain awaits him as he screams underwater, filling his lungs and robbing him of any oxygen. 

Pain spears through his body, red and hot, as he sputters under the water. Alatus can feel himself dying; despite the burning pain that licks his insides, he feels so cold—

A soft yet painful moan escapes Alatus as he wakes up groggily, blinking a few times and trying to move his head. A weight crushes him, holding him down to the bed before another weak noise escapes the avian, and his back involuntarily arches off the mattress. He feels so hot and helpless, unable to free himself as another wave of pleasure rolls over his body. 

Warm, calloused hands reach for his front, rolling his perky nipples between deft fingers. Alatus feels too hot, melting into the bed while his eyes flutter back into his skull. His thighs are drenched with lube, and their combined arousal as soft moans are punched out of his lungs with each harsh snap of their hips. 

“Alatus,” the familiar voice huffs in his ear, drawing back their hips and then sliding back inside, keeping Alatus pinned under their weight with soft moans of their own. “A-Ah, please forgive this one for being so selfish. I couldn’t resist you. You were too tempting,” they added, leaning down to kiss his neck and collarbone. 

Alatus shivers, turning his head to the side with closed eyes. He can’t help the noises that pour out of his mouth with each thrust and roll of their hips. “Slow,” he manages to get out, unable to push the other body off him and trying to relax against the bed, but it’s hard when the other servant slides out to lift a leg over their shoulder. They slide in deeper with a throaty groan, massaging Alatus’ waist and grinding into his g-spot. “A-Acantha, go slow!” Alatus tries again, but his voice is watery and pathetic, tapering off into a high-pitched keen. 

“I will. I need—can I kiss you? Please?” Acantha asks, squeezing Alatus’ waist and leaning down to brush their noses together. They don’t wait for an answer, leaning down to catch Alatus’ mouth in a hot kiss, swallowing each cry and whimper that falls past his slicked lips. 

It’s a strange sensation, but it’s better than their mistress’ chilled touch. Alatus arches when Acantha thrusts their hips, brushing against a spot that has him gasping and breaking the kiss with a shaky gasp. It feels strange; he enjoys it? The servant isn’t sure how to feel as Acantha pushes his knees to his chest, folding his body in half and driving their hips in harder. Alatus seizes up and claws at their back, reaching for their hair and yanking the long, silky strands. “N-Not like this—Acantha, please,” Alatus sobs. 

Acantha shushes their companion, kissing away the salty tears that fall from Alatus’ eyes, brushing their lips across his cheeks and the corner of his mouth. “We have to be quiet. M-Mistress is making rounds soon, and we can’t get caught like t-this,” they pant hotly, still pressing against that spot and fucking Alatus through his tears. “I’m almost close. Just a little more? For me?” they plead gently. 

The smaller servant weakly nods, gasping when Acantha slides out and rolls him onto his stomach. His hips are pulled upwards and in the air, and he can feel the cold air against his drenched pussy as Acantha bunches the bottom of his robes and pushes them up. Alatus looks behind him, meeting Acantha’s wet, red eyes before they slide back in, pressing Alatus’ face into the pillow, muffling his cries. 

His insides throb, and Alatus chokes on his breath, twisting the sheets between his fingers until his knuckles turn white. The stretch burns with each roll of Acantha’s hips, but Alatus can only moan against the pillow, rock back against his companion, and allow the tears to stain the fabric. Sessions like these with Acantha are more desired than the punishment his mistress puts him through, even if he comes to hate this feeling and how hot his insides feel. 

The footsteps outside the door scare Alatus, but he can’t raise his head. Acantha’s fingers bite into his scalp, pinning him down with a ragged moan. “Alatus,” Acantha moans pathetically against his ear, their hips faltering and crashing against his rear. Each agonizing thrust forward is a step closer to Acantha’s pleasure as they dig their nails into the meat of his hips, completely bottoming out with a raspy groan. 

Heat fills Alatus’ lower half, and he sobs loudly into the pillow. Even when the door slides over and cracks against the frame, Acantha never pauses. Instead, they double down and fuck into Alatus harder, forcing his face deeper into the pillow. He can feel their cock spearing his insides, pressing hard against his cervix as he chokes on his spit. “It hurts—please,” Alatus sobs into the pillow, shaking his head. 

Acantha is ripped away, and Alatus is forced onto his back. His mistress sneers at him, shoving the other servant to the ground before curling her fingers around the hem of robes and yanking him upwards. “Disgusting little—I ought to shatter your skull!” the god snaps, baring her teeth before she whirls on Acantha, yanking them up by their hair, ignoring their yelp. “Cease this incessant babbling! You brought this upon yourself, playing with my things like you have an authority here. Insignificant, ugly curd,” she grunts. 

The god summons more servants to tend to Alatus as she drags Acantha by their hair. “Clean him thoroughly,” she orders sharply, striking Acantha hard in the face when the servant claws at her wrists. She fixes her cruel gaze on Alatus and clicks her tongue. “And see to it that he’s gagged when I finish with this thing,” the dream god yanks Acantha’s hair, “Alatus shall receive his own punishment. Have him shackled in my bed; I would hate to have to chase one who should already be wary of my anger.”

Dread grips Alatus’ stomach tightly, and he wants to expel everything he’s consumed, watching with watery eyes as the god leaves, dragging a kicking and screaming Acantha behind. He barely has a moment to exhale before five servants swarm him, grabbing and pulling him out of the bed. Their hands grip his arms and legs, fighting Alatus into the bathroom and forcing him into the wooden tub. 

“Please, do not struggle, Alatus. We do not wish to hurt you,” a young man says gently, smoothing back his junior’s hair and wiping away the tears that dot his lashes. 

“Don’t make me, Kyong. Please,” Alatus begs, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Gold meets white, and Kyong can only offer a somber smile, lacing their fingers together momentarily. “We’ll be gentle as we wash you. Please, let us know if it hurts,” he whispers, turning Alatus around and preparing the soaps and oils.

His cries fall on deaf ears, and his companion wash him thoroughly. They scrub him until his flesh is tinted pink, and he smells of glaze lilies. Oils are generously applied along his chest, legs, and other planes of flesh they can touch. The young servant flinches when they touch his rear, cleaning out Acantha’s cum and lubing his rim with the favored oil. Alatus’ cries fall on deaf ears as they whisper for him to relax and that it will all be over soon. He knows they have no choice; just like him, they are forced to carry out their master’s bidding, and she would not tolerate insolence. 

It’s a surprise how Acantha still had the gall to spit in their master’s face and escape with their life each time. 

Once he is thoroughly cleansed of Acantha’s scent and cum, the other servants carry Alatus to their mistress’ quarters. They clamp shackles to his wrists and ankles, shushing their junior as he starts thrashing and crying. He knows he must look like a mess, and the others pity him, for they know what horrors await, but they can do nothing to save him. All they can do is mend his broken bones and heal his wounds once their master has beat him within an inch of his life. 

They leave him, offering a sad look before they exit the room. All Alatus can hear is the sound of his heart thrumming in his ears and his ragged breathing. His stomach twists and knots, and he wants to vomit. The anticipation and looming dread that hangs over him threatens to swallow him whole; he can’t breathe as he hears footsteps outside the door, squeezing his eyes shut as the door slides open and the footsteps grow louder. 

A hand smooths across his soft jaw, tracing the curve of his cheek before fingers card through his hair gingerly. Fingers twist into Alatus’ hair, yanking his head back and exposing the curve of his neck. “Open your eyes and look at me, boy,” the voice hisses. 

Alatus obeys, his eyes flying open and staring at his master’s orange eyes. Tears sit heavily on his waterline, but he never lets them fall, afraid she would punish him for showing weakness. He swallows roughly as his bottom lip twitches. “I didn’t mean—”

She yanks his head, effectively shutting him up with a scoff. “Who gave you permission to speak? Haven’t you already broken enough rules for the day?” The dream god steps back, circling around Alatus, and smooths her hand across his shoulder blades with a hum. “If I were in your position, I would learn to shut my mouth. Whatever excuses you have, I do not wish to hear them. The only noises I want to hear from you are you begging for my mercy and forgiveness.”

With a flick of her wrist, the shackles disappear with a golden shimmer, and Alatus can freely move, but he makes no attempt to shy away from his god. He stares at her with wide eyes, unsure of what she wants. 

The god of dreams is an interesting character. Alatus had seen her weep at her bedside; head pressed against the rich duvets as the dreams of humans and other gods alike plagued her. How her eyes were red and puffy from days of crying, curling in on herself as she dismissed all the servants with a watery voice. Her sorrow could quickly and easily morph into a blinding rage, and she was like a sea of fire, destroying anything in her path until she stood among the mess, satisfied with her wake of destruction. 

“Follow,” she orders.

Alatus shakily gets off the bed, stands upright, and begins to step forward when his mistress strikes him. 

“Lowly, whorish creatures such as yourself do not have the luxury to stand equals with gods,” she spits, resting her hands on the slope of her waist. “No, that won’t do, now will it? You will crawl like the disgusting critter you are.”

Heat burns the tip of Alatus’ ears, and he sinks to the ground, pressing his palms against the unyielding ground. His head hangs low, and hair falls in front of his watery eyes; humiliation colors his cheeks as the god instructs him to follow her. So, he crawls like a dog, eyes fixating on the floors as he passes the other servants. 

Their eyes burn into his skin, and Alatus knows they feel pity for him. They say nothing, simply stepping out of the way and following after their mistress. She brings them all to the ceremonial robe and instructs them to gather around, forcing Alatus in the center of the room with his hands in his lap. The air is tense, and no one dares to move, only watching as the god stands behind Alatus with one hand resting atop his head. 

No words are spoken, and the silence hangs heavy above them like a cloud. Some of them can’t bring themselves to stare at Alatus’ nude state, but she commands their attention with a loud clap. She hums when dozens of eyes gaze up at her, and a smile plays at her plush lips. The hand resting on Alatus’ head slides down until her nails prick the back of his neck. “Stay still,” she orders, encircling her long fingers around his neck and feeling the skin bob under her touch. 

She wrenches his head back, fingers twisting in his hair before she speaks, “You have forgotten your place, boy. Have you forgotten that your body is mine? I own every inch of you, and you would dare to lay with another like a harlot?”

Alatus shakes his head as best he can, wetting his bottom lip. “Lady Yù míng, I did not lay—”

“So, not only would you lay with another, you would lie to my face about it?” Yù míng whirls on him, squeezing his neck until he starts shaking. Her anger heats her hand, and Alatus moans in pain, grounding himself as fire licks his neck. “Do you take me for a fool, Alatus? Do you believe me to be dumb? Did I not catch you in bed with another one of my servants?” 

“Yes, but this one did not—this one did not wish for it to happen,” he sobs. 

Yù míng tugs his head back with more force, leaning down to sink her teeth into his bare neck. “Liar,” he growls fiercely, holding Alatus in place as he tries to wriggle away from her cruel mouth. His skin is stained with his own blood, and the small bird can only sob and cry as her teeth sink deeper. The pain rips through his body like a knife, hot and searing with each throaty groan. 

When Yù míng pulls back, Alatus slumps forward and winces. There’s blood streaking down his shoulder, traversing across his chest and staining his pale flesh. He bleeds like any mortal, and he can die like one; sometimes, Alatus wishes she would snuff out his existence like a candle flame. But she cruelly ignites the flames once more and brings Altus back from the welcoming hands of death. It’s a dark dance he is forced to repeat, even when his bones are weak, and his body threatens to pass out from fatigue. 

“I wonder how far you would have gone had I not caught you in the act,” Yù míng says, primarily to herself, as she licks the blood from Alatus’ shoulder and neck. The deity shoves his face into the ground, uncaring how her servant winces at the sudden pain. Her hands pet his waist before forcing his hips upwards with his legs kicked apart, satisfied with the position. “So, tell me, boy,” she says dangerously, “was it worth it? Did you enjoy letting some beast debase you? Was it worth it?”

“T-This one did not—”

Yù míng slaps him once more. “Hold your tongue, or would you prefer if I rip it from your mouth? I didn’t ask for your excuses. Answer me: Was. It. Worth. It?” she hisses. 

Alatus shakes his head as best he can, blinking back the hot tears that burn behind his eyes. “No. N-No, it was not worth it. Please forgive me for my transgression, Lady Yù míng,” he begs pitifully. 

The pale-skinned deity pauses for a moment as if she mulling over her idea before bringing her hand down on his backside, causing him to flinch. “You beg so prettily,” she comments quietly, spreading Alatus open and trailing her long, cold fingers through his folds. As expected, he is dry and does not yield to her touch. She pulls back long enough to nudge the lips apart, frowning when some semen slips out of his hole. Her gaze darts to Acantha, who kneels next to one of the older servants and taunts her with a smile despite their trembling and bloodied figure, and she glowers. 

Her fingers press in slowly, violently spearing Alatus’ insides as he shakes. His body shakes, and his hips lower, but Yù míng pulls him back up with a click of her tongue. “Since you have decided to lay with another and have the audacity to lie to my face about it, I believe this will be a proper punishment for you,” she says, undoing her diyi and letting the layers pool around her ankles. She sets aside her fengguan, stroking the feathers of the phoenix and the scales of a dragon, before she settles behind Alatus. 

His body tenses, feeling something hard nudge and prod him. He tries to look back, only for Yù míng to smash his face against the smooth ground. His ears ring, and his vision swims, groaning at the explosion of pain behind his eyes before something large forces its way inside of him. He screams, shaking and squirming, all while the object is pushed further inside of him. It fills him, spearing through his insides and tapping against his cervix. Tears clump his lashes, and he sobs, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Yù míng tuts him, nails digging into his scalp as she starts rolling her hips with a low moan. “There will be no running. You will accept your punishment, and your peers will learn that this is how whores are treated.” Her voice is low and dark, laced with venom, as she draws back her hips and slides back in with a hard thrust. 

The wave of pleasure shoots up Alatus’ spine, and he gasps, mouthing at the cold floor, digging his nails for some form of purchase. When Yù míng sets a slow tempo, Alatus can only sob and gasp pitifully; she’s going painfully slow, but he feels full, and her cock tears through his insides. He had lost his innocence many moons again, and it was still as painful as the first time she robbed him of his innocence. His insides twitch and flutter around the girth of her cock, trying to accommodate her size, but it’s nearly impossible. Alatus is so tiny, and his stomach bulges with each thrust. 

He feels nauseous. 

She defiles him in front of his peers, ignoring Alatus’ pleas and cries with each harsh snap of her hips. His chest rubs against the floor until his nipples are sensitive and throb painfully. He cries until his voice is hoarse and his throat is dry. He begs the others not to look at him like this, to avert their eyes, but Yù míng commands them to watch how she rips into Alatus’ body. 

The deity pulls Alatus into her lap, his back flushed against her chest as she breeches his insides once more. Her cock bullies its way inside, keeping Alatus spread open and jabbing against his cervix harder from his angle. “You are mine,” she says darkly in his ear, thrusting hard into his unyielding body and lapping at the salty tears. “Every pound of your flesh is mine. You are nothing but an object for my amusement. Without me, you are nothing. Since you cannot get it through that empty little skull of yours, I will fuck it into you.”

Alatus shakes his head, begging his mistress for mercy she will not grant. He keens, his body tensing up when her cock pressed against a particular spot. It feels good, but Alatus swallows the moan that bubbles in his throat. This—Alatus doesn’t want any of this! His body aches with pain, and he cries until no more tears roll down his blotchy cheeks. He’s an absolute mess, and the worst was how his peers looked at him with pity, with those sad looks in their eyes as he was defiled and abused by the god of dreams. 

Her hand curls around his neck, giving an experimental squeeze with a delighted hum. “You ought to have learned by now that I can do whatever I please. You are nothing but my property, and I will break you as many times as I see fit until you understand this simple fact. Your peers will learn from your constant mistakes,” she says, fucking into his cervix and relishing in the pained noises the avian releases. Her clawed hand smooths across the swell of his stomach, groaning deeply and fucking into him harder like some feral beast. She ravages him thoroughly, fucking Alatus like a slut, and all he can do is take it. 

He tries to think of something—anything other than the searing pain that dances through his veins. Alatus thinks of flowers and the sky; he dreams of being free and, one day, escaping the cold shackles of their master. It’s a worthless dream, but it’s better than being here. It’s better than focusing on the dirtied pleasure that grips his stomach until he is weak in the knees. 

“You will make a nice incubator for my clutch,” Yù míng mumbles, and Alatus starts thrashing even more. He begs and screams for mercy, asking his goddess to leave him empty and spewing out apologies, saying how sorry he is for allowing Acantha access to his body. She simply tuts, squeezing his throat with a cold, empty laugh. “Oh, how you beg for mercy. I almost feel pity for you, you poor thing,” she muses, grinding her cock against his cervix once more and reveling in the sound of Alatus’ weak cries. “But your incessant apologies and cries will get you nowhere. This is your punishment for allowing another to taste what is mine. I will carve my mark into you; I will claim you in every way possible, and you will accept my blessing. Be grateful, for I am bestowing you the highest honor possible: carrying my clutch. 

“N-No, I don’t want—please! I’ll do anything else! Please, My Lady!” Alatus blubbers. His eyes are wide, glossy with tears, while he shakes his head frantically. His cries fall on deaf ears, and he is fucked even harder, feeling something hard press against the opening of his womb. The servant gasps, eyes wide as he dares to crane his head back, peering into her orangish-red eyes with a desperate look and a whimper on his tongue. 

Yù míng thrusts a few more times before her hips slam inside a final time, and she groans in his ear, filling his inside with her spend. Alatus trembles and squeezes his eyes shut, disgusted with how semen floods his insides, clinging to his vagina walls. He wishes it ended there, but it’s not until he feels something force his way inside his womb that Alatus panics. The first egg is large, forcing his womb to accept the foreign object as he cries and shakes, fly strands of hair clinging to the side of his face. He breathes hard, panting hotly and arching his back as Yù míng rubs his hip bone. 

His body, unfortunately, accepts her clutch of eggs. There are at least four eggs that fill his womb, and Alatus feels heavy. He looks down, horrified at how his stomach swells and holds her future offspring. The sight is disgusting, and Alatus swallows thickly, not daring to move as his mistress slowly pulls out and sets him on the ground in a puddle of his mess. 

“Oh, your punishment is far from over,” Yù míng states after a moment of silence, slowly redressing herself and standing up tall. Her eyes gaze down at Alatus’ pitiful state with a hum, stepping back and folding her arms across her chest. She strides across the room, curling her fingers around a wooden cane, and returns to his side with a smile, brushing the device across his shoulders and watching him shudder. 

“You,” Yù míng says, thrusting the cane into Zivilia’s hands as the servant sputters and flushes red. “You will deliver the thirty lashes.”

Zivilia squeaks, awkwardly holding the cane in her quivering hands and averting her gaze away from both Yù míng and Alatus. “T-This one cannot deliver the punishment, M-My Lady,” she says weakly, sniffling.

Yù míng clicks her tongue, yanking Zilivia closer and grabbing her wrist. “I did not ask whether or not you can or cannot deliver the punishment. You will deliver the blows, or would you rather take his place? Sacrifice yourself for a stupid little thing?” she snarls. The goddess stands behind Zilivia, wrapping her hand around her body wrist, and shows the brown-haired girl how to deliver the blows despite her blubbering and wailing. “You will strike him as hard as you can. Should I sense your hesitance, you both will receive an additional twenty lashings.”

“Y-Yes, My Lady,” Zivilia sniffles, adjusting her grip on the wooden cane and stepping behind Alatus’ weak form. 

The deity smiles, stepping back. “Proceed.”

Alatus cranes his head backward, slowly nodding, and prostates himself before Zilivia. He jerks when the tip of the cane brushes over his shoulders, working its way down his spine and resting just below his lower back. He knows that Zilivia doesn’t want to hurt him, but her hand is forced, and she must deliver the blows. The avian does not blame her, bowing his forehead to the smooth ground, and awaits the punishment. 

“I’m sorry,” is all the warning Alatus receives before she brings the cane down on his backside. 

Pain shoots through his body, and Alatus screams, screwing his eyes shut and fighting back tears. He scratches the floors, clenching his jaw as tears and snot roll down his face. The second strike hits just as hard, and Alatus wills himself not to make a sound, swallowing the bubble of pain that lodges itself in his throat. His golden eyes water and he can tell that Zivilia doesn’t want to do this as he can sense her hesitation. 

The first ten strikes hit his upper back and shoulders, causing welting to blossom under his pale skin. His skin is angry and red, and Alatus knows he has twenty more lashes left. 

“You’re holding back, Yù míng interrupts, cocking her head to the side. “This is your only and last warning. Be grateful that I extend to you this mercy. Put your back into it, or I’ll thrash you myself, girl.” 

“Y-Yes, My Lady. Pl-please forgive this one,” Zivilia apologizes with a stutter, rubbing her wet face, and taps the rod along Alatus’ shoulders. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and Alatus gives a subtle nod, bracing himself for the next few blows. 

They rain down his back like fire, and Alatus jerks and twists with each thwack! against his back, shaking his head as tears roll down his flushed cheeks. He tries to keep count, but it’s hard when Zivilia cracks the rod harder on his back, and Alatus cries out in pain. He thinks they’re at twenty lashes, and he feels much more exposed, feeling blood and gore trickle down his scarred backside. There are deep wounds, and Alatus can feel himself fading in and out of consciousness with each crack against his back. 

The rod clatters to the floor, covered in gore and blood,  and Zivilia weeps loudly, sinking to her knees with her hands clasped together. “I beg you, Mistress! Pl-please, do not make me continue! T-This one cannot! This one cannot do it!” 

“You will continue, or I’ll thrash you myself,” Yù míng threatens in a low tone, narrowing her eyes. 

Zivilia presses her forehead against the stained floors, sniffling. “This one a-apologizes for her weakness,” she chokes out. 

Yù míng rises to her feet with a roar, retrieving the stained rod. Her anger is apparent as she storms over, cursing and yelling and threatening Zilivia. There’s pleading and begging before Alatus hears the rod crack against her back. The young girl screams, begging her master for mercy, but it results in another lashing. 

Alatus forces himself to move, throwing himself on top of Zivilia, and bears the punishment. He grits his teeth, swallowing back his tears and cries, and shields the brown-haired servant from Yù míng’s unquelled anger. He’s certain that the skin is torn and blood runs down his back, but that doesn’t stop the deity. In fact, it seems she strikes him harder, making sure that his body quivers with each blow. 

His body goes limp as he fades in and out of consciousness. He hears Zivilia crying out, blubbering for Alatus before he slips under.

Blankets and pillows surround Alatus as he wakes up with a pained groan. The room is dim; the only light comes from the moon outside and the several candles scattered about. The scent of incense tickles his nose, and Alatus slowly sits up, hissing in pain. His back throbs with pain, and his actions are limited, forcing himself to sit against the headboard with a pillow supporting his lower back. Instead of the dull, dark robes he usually wears, he is gifted with a yellow ruqun that sits snugly on his body. The upper skirt and golden sash are wrapped around his waist tightly, while the longer skirt is a lighter yellow that lays across his plush thighs. 

“You’re awake,” Yù míng muses, running a hand through her long, dark hair. She turns in her seat, crosses her legs, and gestures to the plate of food at his bedside. “Eat,” she orders. 

Alatus looks at the plate of rice and dried vegetables. His stomach rumbles, but he doesn’t move to pick up the chopsticks. He merely blinks and looks up at Yù míng, unsure of what to do. If this is a test, Alatus would be thrashed again, and he isn’t sure he could handle another round of her harsh blows. 

The deity clicks her tongue, joining Alatus in the bed with the plate in her lap, and pries his mouth open. “Must I hand-feed you too, you stupid little thing?” she snaps, shoveling bits of food into his mouth. Her grip is like iron, and Alatus can only watch her force food into his mouth before she clamps a hand over his maw and orders him to swallow. 

He obeys, eating roughly before he pulls away with a cough. His eyes water, and his throat burns, and he wants to throw everything up, but Alatus forces himself to keep it all down. Instead, he shakily takes the plate from Yù míng and eats quietly and quickly. “Thank you, Master. This one is grateful,” he murmurs. 

“Shut up and eat. Once you’re done, lay on your back and remove your ruqun,” Yù míng spits out. 

Of course, Alatus thought, nodding and finishing his bowl of rice. Carefully, he removes the short jacket and skirts, folding them neatly, and places them to the side along with the jade ornament and sash. He notices the bandages around his chest but says nothing as he lies on his stomach, closes his eyes and waits anxiously. 

Her nails slice through the thin material and gently prick the open wounds. Alatus flinches, but Yù míng holds his waist against the bed, reaching across his body and curling her finger around a green vial. Generously, she applies the ointment to her fingers and smears it across his wounds with a hum. “I can’t have you dying before you deliver my clutch of eggs. It would be such a shame and a waste,” she voices, wiping the leftover ointment on his lower back and pulling back. 

Alatus almost forgot that he now carries her future young. His stomach seems to sink at the sound of that, hating how his body isn’t even his own anymore (not that he had much claim over his own vessel in the first place). 

She reapplies the bandages and helps Alatus into his ruqun, tightening the sash around his small waist and rolling him onto his back. Orange eyes peek down at him, and Alatus wishes he could disappear, but the prickling of her nails against his waist keeps him grounded in reality. He makes a small noise, wetting his lip and swallowing roughly. 

Her hand reaches for his face, dragging a knuckle down his cheek with a soft noise. “You’re relieved of your duties,” Yù míng says quietly. 

“W-What?” Alatus asks with wide eyes. Panic sinks into his stomach, slowly spreading to his veins. “I don’t understand—have I done something to displease you? I-I’ll do better! This one is sorry—”

“You cannot fight and put my children at risk,” she clips, smoothing her hand across Alatus’ stomach. She smiles, rubbing his stomach and pressing her head to his belly. “They aren’t fully formed, but I can tell they’ll be strong. I’ll need to sire an heir, and you are amongst my strongest soldiers. To produce strong heirs, one will need an equally strong partner, yes?”

Alatus nods, his throat bobbing. “Y-Yes, I suppose, Master,” he answers. 

Yù míng hums, stroking his stomach and waist. “So, take this as an honor. You will birth my young,” she says, sitting up with a smile. “To ensure my young will carry to term, you will not be sent to battle. You will remain here in my bed where I can call on you whenever I desire,” the god explains, trailing her hand down his stomach and to his thighs, squeezing the plushness as she sighs. “Many would be grateful for this opportunity. So, thank me, Alatus.” 

“F-For?” Alatus asks. 

“Are you deaf as you are stupid?” Yù míng sneers, gripping Alatus’ chin and pressing their foreheads together. “I have soiled my body by touching you. I have shared and planted my seed within your body. Thank me for blessing you with this opportunity,” she growls. 

Alatus swallows, sinking further into the mattress. “Thank you, Mistress, for this opportunity,” he whimpers, unable to meet her cruel gaze. He feels insignificant under her rule, releasing a surprised gasp when she gently caresses his cheek. 

She smiles at him, brushing her knuckle against his cheek before pulling away and sliding out of bed. “If you behave, there will be no need for violence. Just do as I say, and you’ll be pampered. Wouldn’t that be nice, Alatus?” Yù míng asks, crossing the room to preen in front of the mirror. “You’ll be well taken care of and won’t even have to lift a finger. If you’ve done well, I’ll consider making you one of my concubines. You’ll live lavishly—what’s mine will become yours.” 

He can’t imagine himself living a life of comfort. His friends—his siblings could never be mere servants to him; they all found comfort in each other, bonding over their shared trauma. It would be incredibly selfish of Alatus to be treated so well and enjoy it when he knows the others are suffering, but he says nothing. 

“It sounds nice, Mistress,” Alatus forces out, covering himself with the blankets. 

“Yes, it does,” Yù míng confirms, slipping out of her diyi and setting her fengguan on the dresser. She dresses in a thin, red gown that sits below her knees and pulls the pin out of her hair. Dark blue curls spill down her back in waves as she slips into bed with Alatus, cradling him close to her chest. He can feel her heartbeat thrumming against his chest as he swallows thickly. 

Her hand smooths over his stomach and inches lower, just barely touching his sex. “I ought to take you now,” Yù míng murmurs in his ear, slotting her hand between his thighs and cupping his warm sex. “Ensure that you’re thoroughly bred. Keep you swollen and fat in my bed.”

Alatus holds his breath, squeezing his eyes closed while his body tenses. 

She then removes her hand and rests it on her swollen belly. “But I won’t tonight. That luxury will be saved for another time,” she sighs. 

And Alatus releases the breath he’s holding. 

“Rest. You’ll need to be up early,” the god whispers in his ear, closing her eyes and resting her head on Alatus’ shoulder. 

Alatus tries to ignore the light breathing on his ear or the sweet smell of her perfume. Everything about their position feels too intimate, and he hates every second of it. She holds him like one would hold their lover, but there is no love between them. At the end of the day, Alatus is merely property—a tool for her to wield and a hole to service her carnal needs. 

Fate is cruel to the small bird.  

Chapter Text

Alatus wakes in a field of white anemones; his wings outstretched against the grassy plains as he slowly rises up and looks around, noticing his nude form. The skies are clear, and the sun beats down on his body. He runs his hands through the wet blades of grass, shielding his eyes from the sun's harsh rays. 

It’s beautiful. Alatus isn’t sure how long it has been since he’s released from the shackles, but he abuses this silver of freedom and takes to the sky with a flap of his enormous wings. He shoots up into the clouds, feeling the humidity kiss and gloss his skin before he inhales deeply. The gentle breeze under his feathery appendages makes Alatus laugh, dipping his hand in the cloud and feeling the wetness coat his fingers. 

He feels so relaxed. 

A shadow suddenly looms over him, and Alatus feels his heart speed up. Above him, a brown-and-gold dragon soars overhead, commanding the skies and the yielding earth behind his massive wings. Its deep roar rumbles throughout the air, and Alatus only stares in awe. His throat dries, and he struggles to swallow, taking in the magnificent sight of this beast. 

A tinge of fear dances through Alatus’ veins as the dragon draws closer. Large, golden eyes stare at him, almost peeking into his soul before the creature speaks in a low, drawn-out voice. “You are not from here, little one,” the beast says knowingly. 

“How do you—”

“Your scent betrays you,” the dragon answers, his voice as steady as stone and warm like the everlasting sun. Despite their vast size difference, the tiny bird does not fear the apex predator before him. Instead, he feels drawn to the giant dragon as Icarus is drawn to the sun, but there is no pain or untimely end as Alatus approaches. There is only warmth and comfort as he flutters before the dragon, reaching out to caress its snout. 

The dragon accepts the gentle touch, closes its eyes, and nuzzles against Alatus’ small hand. “I could swallow you whole,” it suddenly says. 

Alatus nods, never moving his hand. “You could,” he repeats. 

“Yet you make no effort to move,” the dragon states, blinking slowly. “Why do you trust easily, small bird? Your life has been nothing but a tragedy, yet you continue to fight. You trust me so easily when I walk amongst those who hold similar titles to mine and have caused you nothing but pain and sorrow.”

Alatus pauses, wetting his bottom lip. “I do not trust gods, but I suppose you are different from them. Within our first interaction, you have not tried to claim or injure me.”

“And this evidence enough that I do not wish to claim you?” the dragon questions.

“Surely someone of your stature would have already found a way to claim my vessel without much force,” Alatus remarks, brushing his hair from his face. “I have suffered at the hands of gods, and you are not among them.”

The dragon can only laugh at the avian’s response, breathing lightly through his nose. “You amuse me, little one. I would assume that one in your position would curse the gods, but you do not. In fact, you do the opposite. Perhaps I have been ignorant,” it muses, a deep laugh soon following these words. 

Alatus says nothing else, gingerly caressing the dragon’s snout and listening to the breeze whip around him, ruffling his feathers and blowing through his long hair. They enjoy the freedom of the sky and how it keeps them afloat in the air; the dragon is cautious, examining Alatus as he weaves in and out of the clouds, slicking his hair back with a grin. 

It’s the most joy he has felt since he could remember. 

But all things must come to an end. As Alatus raises his head and sees the darkening clouds, he frowns. “We should find shelter before it starts to come down…”

But the dragon is gone before he turns around. Alatus is now alone in the storm, shielding his face as the rain beats harder and thunder rumbles through the clouds. A flash of lightning sparks through the sky, temporarily brightening the darkness as the bird flinches. He zips through the skies again, ignoring how the rain weighs on his wings, making it difficult to move, but he ventures on. Alatus forces himself to brave the weather and push on, gritting his teeth as the storm roars louder and rages on. 

The storm doesn’t let up, even when he finds shelter. He is trapped, so Alatus must remain. For how long? He isn’t sure, but surely, the rain will let up sooner or later. It would have to. 

Wetness drips onto his face as Alatus awakens. He groans softly, slowly raising his head and shielding his face from the oncoming wetness that still drips from above. His vision is blurry, trying to piece everything together before a chilled hand slides across his cheek and a thumb massages under his eye. 

“Mistress?” Alatus slurs. 

“Rest. It is not time for you to wake,” Yù míng murmurs, tears still rolling down her pale cheeks. There’s sorrow behind those once-burning eyes, and her face glows a soft pink before she slides behind him with her arms wrapped around his swollen stomach. She pets the growing bump, resting her eyes. 

Alatus dared to peek over his shoulder, meeting his master’s gaze. “Has something upset you, Master?” he asks quietly. “Perhaps… I could be of assistance to you?”

Yù míng only sniffs, letting more tears roll down her face. “You would not know of a god’s troubles,” she says, nosing at his neck and inhaling his salty scent. “How could one such as yourself trouble themselves to learn of a god’s struggles? I would say you’re making a mockery of me, Alatus,” the god huffs. 

“N-No, I would never. Please, forgive this one for his hubris,” Alatus mumbles. 

The weeping god shushes him, still petting Alatus’ expanding tummy. They have fallen into a steady routine: Alatus would wake and receive his Lord’s blessing despite the fatigue that settled beneath his bones, watch over the yaksha (while simultaneously evading Acantha), join her at dinner, receive her blessing once more before it was time for rest. It occurred for several months, and Alatus believes winter is almost upon them. 

There’s a sudden warmth to her voice as she speaks. “My children are growing up wonderfully. Time does seem to fly by,” Yù míng murmurs, pressing hot kisses to the slope of Alatus’ neck. Her hand slides lower, gently prying his legs apart and cupping his sex, pleased that he’s nude under his gown. She flicks her thumb over his opening, rolling his clit in gentle circles as Alatus trembles in her hold, but she shushes him. “Relax. I’ll be gentle and pamper you this morning. You’ve behaved so well for me,” she promises in a saccharine voice, thumbing his entrance open and gathering his slick on her index fingers. 

The yaksha shivers, closing his eyes and squeezing the pillow. He can feel fingers working him open, slowly sinking into his tight heat before she gets to the knuckle, pressing against his g-spot. Like fire, the sensation spreads throughout his vessel and eats away at him, and Alatus swallows the moans and whimpers. Shamelessly, Alatus ruts against her hand and squeezes his thighs together. Pinches and flickers of pleasure ignite his veins, and small noises slip past his slicked lips, trying desperately not to moan, but he fails time and time again. 

“You’re allowed to feel good. This is your reward for behaving,” Yù míng says, curling her fingers and pressing against his g-spot. Alatus tightens around her fingers and moans, arching into her touch as she laughs in his ear, gently fucking him. “Just keep doing that. You’re allowed to let out your voice,” she urges him, rolling her thumb over his throbbing clitoris. 

Alatus shivers and bucks into her hand. He doesn’t want to feel this sensation but can’t pull away from her. Her other hand grips his waist, massaging his hip bone as his back arches, and she gently caresses him all over. The yaksha feels hot, too hot, panting and writhing against the bed as his insides clench and throb. Alatus can feel himself tipping over the edge, his voice light and pathetic with each whimper and gasp. He’s drenched in his arousal, and he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his god roll him onto his back and part his legs. 

She shushes him, pushing up his gown and squeezing his thighs. Her touch is gentle, moving up his legs until the tips of her fingers skim across the slit of his cunt, gathering beads of his arousal and smearing it across the folds and his clit. “Do you want me to take you, Alatus?” the deity asks, adjusting her robes and grinding against his inner thigh with a soft groan. 

His head spins, his mouth falling open and closed as soft puffs escape him, and he rolls his hips against her hand. “I want,” Alatus starts off, his voice breaking off into a whimper, bucking his hips into her touch. 

“Yes?” Yù míng questions, slotting herself between Alatus’ legs and rolling forward, grazing his clit in the process. “You need to speak up and express what you desire: do you desire me?” 

Alatus swallows and nods, unsure what he wants, but this answer will please his mistress. He clenches around, nodding feverishly, and moans, “Yes—please?” he begs with watery eyes. 

“Wonderful,” Yù míng coos, slowly sinking into Alatus’ body until her hips press against his backside. She hums thoughtfully, gently rocking her hips forward and kissing the back of Alatus’ neck. 

He feels—he doesn’t know how to feel as Yù míng gently rocks inside of him. Hot tears burn his eyes as Alatus hiccups, arching his back and twisting the sheets. There’s no room for escape, and Alatus doesn’t dare to try; his clit throbs painfully, and his cunt clenches around Yù míng’s length. “Mistress,” Alatus moans, his voice wet and rough with each roll of her hips, finding it hard to focus on anything. 

She shushes him with kisses along his jaw and neck, squeezing his thigh with a sigh. “You’re doing so well. I’ll fill you once more, my little bird,” Yù míng murmurs, dragging her forked tongue along his neck and savoring the salt of his sweat. 

The familiar pricks are back, and Alatus arches his back, sharply inhaling with each rough roll of her hips. His eyes flutter, and his vision goes white for a moment. Thick saliva fills his mouth and pools in the back of his throat, choking him as hot tears burn behind his eyes. “Mistress,” Alatus keens, feeling her nails dig into the meat of his hip until blood blots the skin. He feels like he’s floating—like he’s losing himself to the sensation that swirls and tug his insides, but his mistress keeps him grounded and fucks him hard. 

She rolls him onto his stomach, laying him flat against the bed before sliding back inside with a groan. “You prefer this, don’t you? I know you’ve always hated fighting,” Yù míng murmurs in his ear, catching the tip between her sharp teeth before shallowly thrusting into Alatus. “You won’t have to bloody your hands. Just stay in my bed and bear my children. Be my lovely housewife,” she groans into his ear with a soft moan. 

To never fight again would be a blessing, but to remain as her cock sleeve would be a fate worse than death. Alatus could only respond with a whimper, bowing his back as her cock caresses and kisses her poor cervix. That thick cock stirs his insides, ravaging him as his nails bite into the sheets. He wants—Alatus craves the pleasure of death as he comes to his senses. 

He yelps when Yù míng turns him onto his stomach, massaging her thumbs into the dimples of his lower back. She fucks him hard, brushing his insides with her girth, kissing his ears and neck. “That’s it. You take me so well; I’ll fuck you just like that,” she groaned. 

Pleasure nips at Alatus’ spine as he cries out, thrashing in her hold. Her cock feels heavier than usual, filling the tight space as he sobs. “N-No more,” he slurs, his voice weak and pitiful. He doesn’t remember when he fell so far from grace, reduced to a plaything for a god’s cruel entertainment. Alatus remembers the days when he would take up his spear and dive into battle as his master commanded. 

His spear and body would be tainted with the visceral fluids of her enemies, and he would stand in the mess he created. The days when he would return to her domain, breathing hard and wiping the gore from his pale face as she smiled at him. Frequently, he was rewarded with sweet praises and lingering kisses that evoked such strong emotions from his being. He would collapse into her arms, burying his face in her bosom while her fingers stroked his scalp. 

When did she take a liking to breaking his bones and making him a weak, subservient slave under her rule? 

Another hard rock of her hips brought Alatus back into reality, tearing a pathetic noise from his throat. His eyes roll back, stomach twisting at the sensation as he whimpers quietly. “Please,” Alatus begs softly, his voice thick and wet as he grips the sheets tightly. 

“Shh, just be quiet and take my cock. You’ll be fine,” Yù míng disregards, unbothered by how the door to her chambers opens slowly. Despite Alatus’ sobs and concerned murmurs, she fucks him harder. 

Golden eyes meet ice blue, and Alatus can only whimper as Kyong watches them. It feels more intimate—more insulting as the older yaksha cannot tear his eyes away from the sight, watching as Alatus arches and responds to each roll of Yù míng’s hips. He keens and whispers incoherently, closing his eyes and trying to fight the pleasure that eats at his stomach. It’s warm, burning like fire under his flesh as more tears roll down his face. 

Mercy is granted in the form of her orgasm, feeling her cum hard inside while fucking into his body shallowly. Alatus shivers, shaking his head as he whimpers. It’s humiliating as he pathetically cums, his mouth falling open in a silent scream as Kyong finally turns away, shielding his eyes. The smaller yaksha blubbers, fisting the sheets as he comes down from his overstimulating high. 

Yù míng pulls out and sits up, adjusting her thin robe before running her fingers through her dark curls. “Did you have a reason to enter my quarters without permission, boy?” she asks in a soured voice. 

The blue-haired yaksha swallows hard, looking at Alatus and then at their master. “Yes, My Lady,” he starts, wetting his lips. “Lord Morax sent a message that he should arrive in Natlan soon. There… there has been a  breach in the contract established by your predecessor and him.”

“And you tell me this now?” The dream goddess sneers, rising to her feet, and dresses hurriedly. “Get out of my sight before I shatter your skull. Have the others start preparing a room for Lord Morax.”

Alatus has only heard stories of the powerful god. He is a conqueror of sorts, capable of wiping out his foes with one swing of his spear. A man who honors one’s word with contracts and signatures—a god that his mistress fears. 

From what Alatus knows, Yù míng’s predecessor entered a contract with the geo god many years ago. One could assume they were friends; when the old dream god died, Yù míng’s duty was to value the contract, ensuring peace between the two nations. To break a contract with the geo archon—Alatus doesn’t even want to think what the consequences are. 

Yù míng swiftly leaves the room, tying the sash around her waist and pushing past Kyong. 

Reminded of his nude form, Alatus quickly covers up and flushes hard, looking away from the older man. “Please—allow me some space,” Alatus swallows, draping the blankets over his shoulders. 

“But—”

“Leave. Please,” Alatus says in a small voice, wrapping the blanket around his frame tighter. 

Kyong pauses and swallows, curling his fingers into tight fist. “I will send for Zivilia in a moment for medical assistance,” he says before bowing and giving Alatus the well-needed space. 

Alatus wants to peel off his skin. It’s already bad enough that his mistress has stripped him of his position and spear, of his innocence and virginity, but now his honor? She would defile him in front of someone dear to him? The horror that crept through his body when he saw Kyong watching him, watching him her fucked like a subservient whore. The way he couldn’t hold back his moans and whimpered for his mistress when she fucked him. 

He’s sick of enjoying it. 

The door slips open, and Acantha slides in. Alatus sits up, pulling the covers to his chest with a scowl. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says warningly. 

“And yet, here I am,” Acantha smiles, ensuring the door cannot be opened easily before crawling into bed with Alatus, laying their head on his lap with a hum. They stroke his thigh, squeezing the supple flesh and smoothing their hand across his lap. 

Acantha hums quietly, closing their eyes. “I’ve been having a lack of dreams. It scares me,” they said quietly against Alatus’ lap, nipping at the exposed flesh. 

Alatus shivers, nudging Acantha’s mouth away. “You usually never dream. What’s so special about this time?” he asks. 

“I feel hungry. Surely, you understand my dilemma or the sudden urge to feast,” Acantha breathes out, licking the corner of their mouth. “It hurts, you see. I am so starved, yet I am denied what I need.”

Acantha has always had a voracious appetite, whether it be Alatus’ body or their need to consume more and more dreams. The bed shifts and dips under their joint weight as the purple-skinned servant hovers over Alatus, cupping his cheek and brushing their thumb across his lower lip. “My lack of dreams is replaced with this growing hunger,” they explain quietly, brushing their fingers along the curve of Alatus’ neck, smiling at his response. 

“There is nothing I can do to remedy that,” Alatus says, trying to pull away from Acantha. 

They shushed Alatus, curling a hand around his waist. “Just allow me a taste. Please?” Acantha begs, slotting their leg between Alatus’ thighs, pressing their knee against his cunt. 

“Acantha—”

“It’ll be quick, I promise,” they keen softly, rolling their knee against Alatus’ clit and kissing between his chest. They beg so sweetly, replacing their knee with deft fingers, gently pushing one in and spreading his legs wider. “I’ll make you feel good too. Don’t you feel good like this?” Acantha asks in a wavering voice, their cock pressing against his inner thigh. 

Alatus arches against the bed, twisting the sheets between his fingers as his mouth falls open. He knows that Yù míng would punish them both should she catch them, but his head was dizzy with unwanted pleasure. He clenches around the intrusion, urging for more with a weak cry and opening his mouth. It can’t be that bad if his body responds like this so willingly. 

Maybe it isn’t as bad as he thinks it is. 

The older servant touches Alatus so sweetly, skimming their fingers over the fat lips of Alatus’ cunt and smearing the fluids across his engorged clit. “You’re so pretty, Alatus. I envy you,” Acantha whispers, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his thighs, occasionally biting down with a deep groan. 

Alatus doesn’t think he’s pretty at all. He’s an ugly thing with mangled skin and bones; he’s an eyesore—a ghastly creature. Alatus has never been considered beautiful by human standards. He shivers, turning his head away with a muffled groan. 

“Don’t,” Alatus says sharply, twisting the sheets between his fingers. His back bows into an arch, and he sucks in sharply, screwing his eyes shut. Acantha’s touches are still disgustingly sweet, mapping out his body and caressing Xiao’s underdeveloped breasts, kissing his collarbone with sweet praises. 

“I love you,” Acantha says softly, dragging hot and wet kisses down Alatus’ chest. Their forked tongue flickers across Alatus’ puffy chest, suckling on his chest and pinning his waist to the soft mattress. “I love you so much,” they repeated sweetly, dipping their head lower until their tongue teased Alatus’ opening. 

He gasps, arching his back and twisting the sheets between his ling fingers. Pleasure shoots up Alatus’ spine, and heat coils in his stomach; he writhes like a worm on a hook, whining and whimpering with each lick and suck. The bird yaksha feels dizzy, his head spinning as he pants hotly, letting his legs fall open to accept more pleasure. It feels wrong, but Alatus feels so good—the foreign sensation is overwhelming. 

Acantha pulls back, licking the corners of their mouth, and smiles. “Does that feel good?” they ask, pinning Alatus’ thighs to the bed. 

“Y-Yes—but we shouldn’t. Mistress—”

“She won’t ever find out,” Acantha interrupts with a widening grin, pressing their thumb to Alatus’s clit, watching him writhe and squirm against the bed. “Master has taken it upon herself to ensure Lord Morax will arrive safely. She will not be returning until two days,” they explain, slowly lowering their fingers and spreading across his opening. 

Acantha leans back down, kissing the hood of Alatus’ cunt before moving their lips lower until they breathe hotly against his clit, causing the pregnant servant to shiver and arch. “Let me make you feel good. I love you so much, Alatus. Mine, mine, mine,” they chant quietly, flattening their tongue against his clit and pushing their deft fingers inside his cunt. 

He gasps, blinded by the white haze. His inside clenches, and already, Alatus feels overwhelmed. The feeling only grows and swells with each curl of Acantha’s fingers as the older servant praises him sweetly, rewarding his junior for his submission. 

The feeling twists and pulls at Alatus’ stomach as he whimpers and gasps, bucking his hips and grinding against Acantha’s open mouth. He shouldn’t chase after this feeling, but Alatus couldn’t stop the soft noises that escape him, yanking and tugging at the sheets until they threaten to tear, and fat tears run down his warm face. Each suck and lick has Alatus rutting against Acantha’s inviting mouth, begging silently. 

For what? Alatus isn’t sure. 

Before the coil can come undone, Acantha pulls off and wipes the corner of their mouth. “Can I?” they ask, their cock painfully hard and flushed a darker shade of purple. “I’ll pull out this time. I promise—I need you so bad,” Acantha whispers, rutting against Alatus’ thigh and shivering as more precum beads the tip. 

Alatus moves to prop himself on his knees, a bit shaky, but Acantha pushes him onto his back. They slide between his lush thighs, draping his long limbs over their scarred shoulders and rubbing their cock over Alatus’ pretty clit. “Can I have a kiss? It’ll be my first,” they beg in a honeyed voice. 

Hesitantly, Alatus nods, and Acantha claims his lips in a hungry kiss, a mess of tongues and teeth as they fold the younger yaksha’s body in half and penetrate him. Alatus gasps, breathing the kiss and squeezing their eyes shut as pain licks his stomach, radiating throughout his lower half. This part is always unpleasant—the ordeal is always uncomfortable for Alatus, but Acantha is careful and treats him delicately. 

Even as Acantha spears through him, they treat him like a doll, massaging Alatus’ waist with sweet, pretty words. He’s praised and called an assortment of pet names that would make the average mortal blush and shy away. It’s strange to be called beautiful during such an act, for Alatus did not feel beautiful. No, he felt disgusting and dirty, used and defiled like a common whore. 

Alatus shivers, swallowing a pitiful cry as Acantha presses against a spot that had him seeing stars. He can’t pull away from the building sensation, doomed to writhe and arch against the bed with each roll of Acantha’s hips. He begs quietly, blinking back the tears in his eyes as the other servant fucks into his pliant body. 

“Acantha,” Alatus shudders, mouth falling open as heat spreads throughout his body. He feels dizzy—as if the pressure will swallow him whole. Again, he begs and pleads and cries, blinking back the building tears before they start falling down his face. “Acantha,” he repeats with a cry, biting his lip until he could taste blood. “My body—Acantha, please, it hurts.”

The purple-skinned servant presses another wet kiss to the corners of Alatus’ mouth, shallowly rolling their hips and panting softly against his fevered flesh. “It’ll feel good. Focus on that feeling—yes, oh, you’re so pretty,” they shiver, grinding their cock into Alatus’ g-spot, wringing out broken and high-pitched cries for the avian. 

Alatus isn’t sure how long they’ve been going at it. His body feels heavy and wet, shivering and allowing Acantha to position his limbs however they’d like. He accepts it all, begging and crying as fire sparks in his lower stomach. His mistress never allowed this pleasure when she bedded him. It was all tongue and teeth, scratches and bruises, and whatever marks she wished to leave behind, but this? It’s so confusing and strange that Alatus curiously wants more. 

With his back arched, Alatus mouths at the silk pillow, rocks back against Acantha, and matches their erratic thrusts. Tears blur his vision as he sniffles, occasionally looking back and begging Acantha with his wet eyes. They respond with a coo, digging their thumb into the meat of Alatus’ waist. “You’re so cute—you make the prettiest noises,” Acantha whispers in his ear, catching the lobe between their sharp teeth. “Won’t you make more noise for me?” they ask in a smooth voice. 

The servant can’t help but moan louder, pressing his face deep into the pillow to muffle his wails. He feels—it feels good? Alatus can’t comprehend anything happening to him, but he can focus on the gut-twisting sensation that fills him, spreading throughout his body before Acantha groans deeply in his ear. 

There’s a slick pop! and Alatus screams, panicking and trying to reach behind him. Acantha presses his body forward, keeping Alatus’ face buried in the pillows while rolling their hips, stuffing the avian with cum and their knot. A searing heat consumes Alatus’ insides as he squirms and writhes, clawing at the bed and panting hard. There’s a beast left unsatisfied, still yearning for something— for this feeling to pass, but he rolls his hips back against Acantha’s groin. 

“Acantha, more,” Alatus shivers, his mouth falling open and drool spilling down the corners of his mouth. He begs prettily, rocking back against the older servant and groaning when Acantha entertains him, suddenly not caring that they had broken their promise. It builds up and up, swelling like a balloon, and Alatus fears what will happen when that feeling pops? But gods, if he isn’t curious to know what will happen, he welcomes the feeling, screwing his eyes closed when he finally—finally—feels the sensation pop and the coil comes undone. 

He opens his mouth in a silent scream, his vision going white as warmth and static blanket him. Alatus can’t tell if he’s crying or overwhelmed from the rush of emotions before he can feel hands smoothing across the small of his back and his hips. “You’re okay. You’ve just had your first orgasm,” Acantha whispers in his ear, gently rocking their cock into Alatus’ g-spot and keeping him on edge. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?” 

Alatus mindlessly nods, overwhelmed by such intense feelings. He blinks a few times, mouthing at the pillow and still drooling as Acantha helps him come down from his orgasm. He can’t put a name to the feeling, but it makes Alatus feel good—he wonders if he looks good, too? 

After a few moments, Acantha’s knot deflates, and they slide out of Alatus’ wet heat, rolling him onto his back to examine their fine mess. They hum, scooping up the cum that spills out of Alatus’ cunt, smiling at his debauched state. “Shall I fetch someone to clean the mess?” 

He doesn’t answer, only panting hard while trying to focus his vision on the ceiling. Colorful blurbs invade Alatus’ vision, and he shivers as more earth escapes his body and pools under his rear, creating a sticky mess beneath him. Alatus only moans when Acantha moves him and brushes his hair out of his face, kissing the side of his head and smiling. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Lord Morax is an interesting figure to gaze upon. He is dressed in gold-and-brown robes that touch the ground, trailing behind him as Yù míng escorts him through her domain. His golden, slitted eyes examine each inch of the compound, humming quietly as he tucks his hands back into the long, spacious sleeves. 

“As always, it is such a pleasure to be in your presence, Lord Yanwang Dijun,” she says in a warm voice, showing him his quarters. “I’ll have a servant come attend you, My Lord.” 

The draconic archon says nothing but hums thoughtfully, dragging his golden talons across the walls, careful not to disturb the priceless paintings. “You have rather expensive taste, Lady Yù míng,” he notes aloud, brushing a strand of hair from his face before his lips settle into a faint smile. “Do forgive me if I am pushy. I would rather have this messy ordeal situated than let it continue to drag on, you see.” 

Yù míng nods, clasping her hands together. “Of course, Lord Morax. Shall we head to my study? I’m sure you will enjoy the privacy, and we have much to discuss,” she offers, escorting him further into the compound and ordering nearby servants to ensure everything is to the geo archon’s liking. 

Lord Morax hums, following after the serpent goddess with his robes trailing behind him. He gazes at Alatus as they pass, and the small avian can feel his stomach twist and turn. The archon’s gaze is stern, but there’s a gentleness to his glowing, cor lapis eyes; interest and intrigue color his eyes, and Alatus forces his head down, muttering out his apologies to the geo lord. 

The tall god only chuckles and smiles warmly at Alatus before continuing to follow after the dream goddess. 

“He is very handsome,” Zivilia says once the two deities are out of earshot. 

“Zivilia!” Alatus hisses. 

“I am allowed to look, am I not?” she argues, collecting the basket of soiled sheets and clothes and resting it on her hip. “You do not get to chastise me when you are up and about. Come and help me with the laundry and sit,” she huffs, gesturing for the shorter servant to follow her. 

Alatus tries to argue with her but eventually gives in, helping Zivilia with the laundry and hanging the sheets to dry. He grimaces at the dried cum stains on the dark sheets, his face burning as he recalls earlier events. He coughs, shoving the dirtied shirts into the soapy water and scrubbing furiously while muttering. It’s an idle chat between them, talking about tonight’s preparations and what Zivilia discovered while on patrol. 

“The people in Natlan are rather friendly,” Zivilia hums, shaking out her mistress’ robe and hanging it out on the line to dry in the warm sun. “The locals offered me food and drinks. You would have loved it, Jinpeng,” she hums. 

A name he has not heard in ages. The name pulls at his heartstrings and makes his stomach curl as he finishes his portion of the washing and hangs the rest of the clothes on the line. When first captured, their mistress would only refer to him as Jinpeng and sneer at him, shoving him to the side for other duties. The bird had been small, confused about what he had down to bother his mistress, but said nothing. He doesn’t know when he was named Alatus, but he never rejected the name from the others or his mistress. 

“There were children. Small, hairless little things. You should have seen how adorable they were,” Zivilia continues, gripping a robe tightly until the material crinkled. Her voice tapers off into a whisper, staring at the murky water and twisting the material between her trembling fingers. “Their dreams were so pleasant. They were so innocent… they did nothing wrong,” she sniffles, rubbing her eyes and shielding her face. 

Their… line of work is messy, and Alatus knows that Zivilia has been a gentle soul (so had he, once upon a time ago). He had been a general before Alatus was reduced to a pretty piece of art that his mistress could break and glue back together, cutting down enemies in her name, consuming dreams from the unexpected, and running his spear through the soft, pliant bodies once the job was done. 

When he first descended into this life of battle and gore when he was just a babe, Alatus begged and cried to not hurt the unsuspecting human. His golden, innocent eyes filled with tears as he hiccuped, his bottom lip trembling pitifully before one of the older servants greedily feasted from the human and stabbed his blade into their chest bone. The sickening crack of the bone and the soft squish of blood and organs had Alatus reeling and scrambling away, crying out for his mistress to spare him the view, but she made him watch. 

“This is your purpose, Alatus. You are to serve me; you are made to entertain me,” Yù míng said, her fingers curled in Alatus’ long, dark hair, wrenching his head back until he yelped. “You will become my blade, my loyal dog,” she said, her other hand reaching around the front and forcing his eyes open. “See it, Alatus? That shall become you, and I will use you as I see fit.”

He shrieked, unable to pry his gaze away from the gory sight. Alatus’ body tensed up, and he sobbed, fat tears blurring his vision as the servant desecrated the corpse before him. 

Yù míng carded her long talons through his hair, roughly guiding him forward and showing the young avian his brother’s mess. “In time, you will grow and become a fine hunter indeed,” she crooned, licking the salty tears from her fingers before reaching for the corpse. Her fingers caressed the cracked jaw, running her thumb over bruised lips before she leaned down and— 

Alatus shakes away the memory, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” is all he can offer Zivilia, curling his hand into a fist. He wants to give her more aid and ground her, but his touch will soil her. He is a disgusting creature, after all, and he wouldn’t dare taint her with his filth. He swallows the urge to touch and hold her, taking Zivilia’s portion and dunking the clothes into the lukewarm water. 

“I’ll wash. You hang the clothes to dry,” Alatus says, focusing on scrubbing the blood stains out of Yù míng’s robes, ignoring the sickening feeling that rises up his throat. He swallows hard, continuing to clean the clothes and handing the damp fabrics to Zivilia. “Do you know what they are discussing? I only know that there was a truce broken.” 

“Yes, a truce has been broken,” Zivilia says quietly, wetting her bottom lip. “One may have slain one of Morax’s devotee while doing their task,” she reveals. 

Alatus swallows hard, hanging the last of the clothes. “Does… does Lady Yù míng know?” he asks quietly. “Does she know who has broken the truce?” 

There is a pause, a gap of chilling silence, before she breathes out, “Yes.”

Chapter Text

The tension in the dining hall is thick. Alatus sits on his knees with his head bowed, unable to meet anyone’s gaze as the two deities chat. Several of his siblings flitter in and out with several golden plates, refilling the gods’ glasses before being dismissed by the dream goddess. 

The only one missing is Zivilia. 

“Ah, Lord Morax, how rude of me not to introduce our guest,” Yù míng says, her hand reaching over and squeezing his upper thigh, rubbing her thumb into the soft flesh. She smiles broadly, her hand traveling up his chest and cupping his jaw, turning Alatus’ head to face the geo archon. “My concubine, Alatus. Isn’t he just the prettiest thing you’ve laid your eyes on, My Lord?” she coos. 

Alatus burns under Morax’s gaze, holding his breath and curling his hands into tight fists. How those golden eyes stare at him, scanning him over like he’s cattle, makes Alatus’ insides clench. He understands why Zivilia called him handsome because he is truly the definition of perfect. His jaw is sharp and strong like the unyielding earth he commands, and his eyes are soft, but there’s a fire burning behind those glowing eyes. He takes Alatus’ breath away, and the yaksha says nothing, pressing his mouth into a tight line before bowing his head again. 

Morax hums in approval, slowly drinking from his cup. “I see you are also expecting?” the archon questions. 

Yù míng raises her glass, having another servant pour her another round of wine. “Oh, yes. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” she hums, smoothing her hand over Alatus’ swollen stomach and smiling fondly. “I was never fond of children, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few, would it?” 

The lord of stone hums, raising his glass, and makes brief eye contact with Alatus. “I see,” he muses quietly, pausing and drinking from the golden cup. “How far are you along?” he asks Alatus. 

Alatus swallows roughly, looking at his master before looking down at his lap. “This one is due in the winter, I believe,” he murmurs. 

“I do hope your birth goes well,” Morax says, setting the glass aside and folding his hands. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Alatus swallows, shivering as Yù míng’s hand slides across his thigh. He says nothing as her hand slips under the band of his hanfu, and she starts fondling him. Perhaps Lord Morax doesn’t notice, and Alatus hopes he doesn’t. 

He remains quiet, or as quiet as possible, and bites his lip until blood stains his tongue. 

Dinner runs smoothly, and Alatus releases the breath he’s been holding all night. His mistress does not embarrass him, nor does she debase him in front of their guest. He follows after the serpent, holding her fingers as she tells Morax they will discuss the rest of their renewed contract in the morning.

“Oh, I had almost forgotten,” Yù míng says, turning back to face Morax. “I never had the chance to properly apologize for my servant. Rest assured, I have had her taken care of accordingly.” 

“And what regards?” Morax asks. 

The goddess smiles. “Please, do not concern yourself with the details. Let’s just say she won’t make that mistake again.”

Alatus doesn’t get the chance to ask what she means before the deities return to their desperate chambers for the night. 

Now, in her private chambers, Alatus climbs into bed and perches himself in the center, slipping off his hanfu as his mistress prepares for bed. She has a strict routine that she follows, and Alatus dares not to disturb her, holding his swollen stomach and feeling slight movement as he crinkles his nose. His eggs aren’t due until winter, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel them moving inside of him. It’s a strange feeling, and he doesn’t complain, though. 

Yù míng joins him in bed, her hands encircling his waist as she kisses his neck and shoulder. “Alatus,” she purrs quietly, her hand pressing against his swollen stomach. Her voice is calm, uncharacteristically sweet, as she cups his sex, licking the shell of his ear. “I have a job for you.”

“Yes, mistress?” Alatus asks in a small voice. 

“You will sneak into Lord Morax’s chambers, and you will kill him for me,” she starts, idly playing with his cunt as she drops her head against the cushion of pillows. “I have no interest in this war, nor shall I send aid as it does not concern me, but he insists that I join after the contract was violated. It’s rather troubling, and my hands are tied. If I say no, he will assume I am plotting against him, but if I agree, I put myself in a war that doesn’t concern me. Of course, you wouldn’t understand. You are just a silly little creature, aren’t you?”

Alatus wheezes but nods as best he can, feeling her thumb roll across his aching clit. He can’t concentrate on her words, screwing his eyes shut as she works open his entrance and pushes two fingers in with a pleased sigh. The warm pleasure is all too familiar as Alatus shivers, holding himself up and shaking in her arms. He knows better than to beg for mercy, so he takes everything his mistress offers, panting harshly and blinking back the tears. 

He sometimes gets lost in thought, wondering what his life would be if someone else had found him. Would Alatus still be subjected to these cruel acts? 

She opens him up more, gently fingering his cunt as Alatus keeps him still, twisting the sheets until tears burn the back of his eyes. He never finds pleasure during these sessions, but this pain is like no other. It swells and grows with each flicker of her fingers, pressing against a spot that has him gasping and panting. His skin is damp with sweat, flushed red under her touch as Alatus dares to beg for once. “Mistress,” he gasps, foolishly raising his hips to meet her hand, her palm pressing against his aching clit. “Mistress, please, I feel—it hurts .”

“You will be fine. Hold onto that feeling,” she orders, sliding in a third finger, keeping Alatus’ waist pinned to the bed. Yù míng works slowly, occasionally rolling her thumb over his clit and drawing pathetic noises from deep within his chest. 

His body aches and throbs with want and need, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what his body yearns for. All Alatus can do is cry out, holding onto the sensation as his mistress demands. Hot tears roll down his face, blinding him as his chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. This might be the cruelest torture his mistress has ever subjected him to; his body feels wrong as heat rolls off him in waves and desperation seeps into his bones. 

It ends too soon, and Alatus feels disappointed but doesn’t understand why. He looks up at his master with wet, bleary eyes, blinking slowly as if he had done something wrong. She says nothing, wiping her hands on a spare cloth and rising off the bed. “Up,” Yù míng commands, her hands curling underneath his arms and hoisting him to his feet. She spins him around slowly, her eyes scrutinizing her figure. 

His hips are full, and he’s plump all around, especially in the places that matter. Her hand rests on his swollen belly, humming quietly before stepping back. “Now, I assume you know what you must do?” she asks, licking her lips.

“Yes, master.”

“Good,” Yù míng smiles, carding a hand through his long hair. “Oh, before I forget. There is something I would like to show you as a little incentive to do your job well.” 

She escorts Alatus out of her chambers, her hand pressing against the small of his back while saying nothing. Alatus occasionally looks back at her, blinking owlishly, and opens his mouth to ask a question, but the god of dreams silences him with a finger pressed to her lips. 

“Open it,” the goddess commands, pushing Alatus in front of the door with a smile. “I trust you’ll find the motivation to do a good job. I would hate to punish you,” she coos, a hand resting on his shoulder. 

Alatus can’t shake the feeling of dread as he reaches for the door. His stomach twists, and his heart throbs, hammering in his chest while he draws near. The scent of blood hits him almost immediately when he opens the door, and gods, he wishes he hadn’t. His stomach turns, and Alatus shrieks, peeling away from Yù míng and tripping over himself. 

Zivilia’s lifeless eyes stare back at him, her mouth slightly agape and stained with her dried blood. The gaping wound across her throat mocks Alatus; it stares back at him, and he can’t help but stare in absolute horror before peering up at his master. 

“Do you see why I need Morax dead? He’s forced my hand, and I’ve had to kill off one of my best servants,” she complains, crouching down and tugging Alatus into the room before her. 

The god continues speaking, but Alatus drowns out her words and holds Zivilia’s body to his chest. She’s so cold—she’s so cold and limp in his arms; he doesn’t want to believe that she’s dead, but she lays quietly in his arms without warmth and unresponsive to his quiet cries. 

“I will say,” Yù míng starts, reaching for Zivilia and dragging her clawed fingers across the gash in her throat, forcing it open and smearing Zivilia’s blood across her fingers. “She proved to be an excellent fighter. Quite a shame that I had to kill her. I’ll still have use for her, so her death wasn’t entirely in vain.”

Alatus mourns the loss of his sister, slotting her face against his shoulder as they rock back and forth. The tears are hot on his face, lingering on his burning cheeks as his stomach twists and his heart throbs. She had been everything to him; Zivilia was the one who took care of his wounds and finished his chores when Alatus was too weak to pull himself out of bed. 

Yù míng stands up and sets her hand on the crown of Alatus’ head. “Do you understand what this means, my dear bloodhound?” she whispers quietly, drawing her finger down the curve of his spine. “Fail me, and I’ll kill you. ” 

“Yes, mistress. This one understands,” Alatus whispers, swallowing the sob that rises in his throat, and lies Zivilia on the sticky and dirtied floor. In some way, it already feels like Yù míng’s killed him.

Alatus crawls into Morax’s room in the dead of night, his feet barely making a sound despite the extra weight he now carries. His breathing is light, barely above a whisper, as he draws the door open. The lord of stone is not in bed, but Alatus continues his task, slipping into the room with a knife curled between his lanky fingers. It’s not his spear, but it will work—it has to. 

He scans the room and finds the archon is nowhere to be found. Alatus pauses, blinking owlishly as his throat tightens. No, Morax couldn’t have left already, not when he and his mistress had not gone over their new contract's terms. 

He searches outside with the knife clutched between shaky fingers. Alatus has killed before, but he only has one shot at this. Morax is a powerful being—a god with many followers and admirers, and if word got out that he, a mere servant, tried to assassinate a beloved archon, they would have his head. He shivers, bringing a hand to his warm neck before he shakes away the thought and continues his search. 

It’s not until he ventures deeper into the garden that he finds the archon. Morax stands tall and strong with his back facing the yaksha; he’s swaddled in dark robes, and chestnut brown hair spills past his shoulders with the silvery moon, highlighting what little skin Alatus can see from his current angle. He truly is gorgeous, and Alatus swallows hard, slowly stalking towards the archon. 

It’ll be all over soon. Just one strike , Alatus thinks, holding his breath and creeping closer until he’s almost within arm’s reach of Morax. The blade weighs heavy in his hand like a stone, and Alatus wants to flee, but this is his master’s will, and he is meant to obey—he doesn’t have a choice. 

As he draws his hand back and swings, Morax spins around and grabs Alatus’ wrist. The bird lets out an undignified squawk and tries to wrench his hand away with a hiss, swiping at Morax with his free hand, his talons sharpening and marking the god’s once unblemished face. It does little, and the geo archon subdues him quickly, mindful of Alatus’ swollen stomach and gently guiding him to the ground. 

This is the only act of mercy Alatus will receive in a long time. He squirms and thrashes underneath the archon, blinking back the tears that burn behind his eyes. For once, Alatus allows himself to scream and fight back like his life depends on it, thrashing in Morax’s hold despite his bloated stomach and his weakened state. He scratches and claws at the god like a feral beast, baring his teeth and daring to bite Morax’s wrists. 

Golden blood stains the corners of his mouth, smeared in his frenzied thrashing before Morax pries Alatus’ mouth off his wrist and holds him by his jaw. He expects fury and anger to greet him, but only softness and confusion mar Morax’s elegant face. The god cups Alatus’ face, tender and warm, before slowly releasing his jaw and granting him the freedoms he desperately yearns for. 

“Speak,” Morax orders after a pregnant pause. 

Alatus’ tongue lays in his mouth, heavy and thick, as he swallows roughly and stares at the ground. He cannot meet Morax’s judgmental gaze as fear grips him. He presses his face against the ground at the god’s feet, blinking back hot tears and silencing his sniffling. He begs for forgiveness, prostrating himself, and awaits the punishing blows—it’s what he deserves for not only failing his mistress but for attempting to claim Morax’s life. 

All Alatus can do is shake his head profusely and sob pathetically. His body shakes as he cries and sputters incoherent words. Desperate to redeem himself, he clutches Morax’s robes and offers himself. “This one—this one will redeem himself in any way. This one will do whatever you wish,” he gasps, shrugging off the loose robes and kneeling naked at the geo archon’s feet. “Please—punish this one. Punish this one for his foolishness,” he begs, pressing his forehead to the ground. 

He expects to be dragged to his feet and bent over, but Morax lowers himself and lifts Alatus’ head. Those molten, soft eyes gaze at him fondly— warmly— before Morax’s palm slides across his wet cheek, and he croons at the small yaksha. Alatus shivers, daring to lean into his touch and close his eyes as the archon holds him there. 

“Was this a command?” Morax asks, tilting Alatus’s head to the side. “Did your mistress order an attack on me, or have you turned traitor?” 

“I…” Alatus swallows, unable to tear his gaze away. If he admits that this attack was orchestrated by his mistress, she would kill him for his traitorous behavior. But if he lies, he will be punished by the lord of stone and brought to his master for a second punishment. He’s doomed regardless of his decision, and Alatus squeezes his eyes shut and represses the urge to cry. 

The gods are cruel masters. 

Alatus tries again and avoids the god’s question, guiding Morax’s taloned hand to his mouth before gently biting down his fingers. He seductively glides his tongue over the sharp claws, panting softly while holding Morax’s gaze. “Please, my lord,” Alatus whispers, bringing Morax’s hand between his legs and against his sex. “This one will repent. This one begs for your forgiveness.”

He must look unsightly with his pregnant belly and his pitiful appearance, but Alatus offers himself up like a lamb to the slaughter. He pleads with the god, who looks at him blankly; it puzzles Alatus when the lord of stone retracts his hand and rises to his feet without a sound. 

“Return to your chambers, little yaksha,” Morax orders in a scarily calm voice, his face devoid of all warmth and expression. The air feels heavier, tinted by the geo archon’s wrath, as the ground beneath them rumbles. 

“My lord, please—”

“ Leave .”

Alatus doesn’t argue a second time and scrambles to his feet, gathering up his robes and running back to the servants’ quarters. His heart hammers in his chest, loud and hard, while his lungs burn and throb and his head spins. This is the end of him, Xiao is certain! Morax would report his actions to his master, and she would kill him for his failure. The eggs that sit heavy in his womb would not save him, not when she’s stated countless times that he is replaceable and she can always try again with another servant. 

If he runs now, maybe Alatus can avoid his mistress’ wrath. 

He picks himself off the floor, scampering out the room and down the halls. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, and Alatus struggles to breathe, frantically searching the halls and proceeding forward when the coast seems clear. 

The scent of blood bombards him when he passes his mistress’ room. Alatus holds his breath, daring to sneak closer to the jarred door while his heart pounds against his ribs. The scent grows stronger and stronger, overwhelming Alatus, and he cringes when his foot touches something wet and warm. 

“You are not supposed to be here.”

The yaksha flinches, staring at the lord of geo. “I..” he winces, swallowing the lump in his throat, and backs away slowly as he allows himself a better look at Morax. 

Alatus pauses, fear seizing his being, as he stares at the tall god, almost wishing the floor would devour him. His usual robes of gold, white, and brown are stained with fresh blood. There is no look of remorse in those glowing eyes, only one of satisfaction. Death hangs over Morax like a halo, and Alatus should run, but fear roots him to the spot.

“Leave,” Morax commands in a gentle tone that can still direct an army, pointing his bloodied spear toward the exit. “If you do not wish to meet the same fate as your mistress and those who stand against me, you will leave this place. Do not turn back, little one. Run as fast as your body carries you.”

The servant dares to peek behind Morax, paling when he sees the mangled body of his god. Pillars of darkened and bloodied stones pin down her body. Her eyes are lifeless, rolled to the back of her skull while a trickle of golden blood leaks down her mouth. It should scare Alatus, but his soul feels lighter. 

He feels free for once.

His lungs burn as he flees the only place he has foolishly called a home. The yaksha doesn’t dare to glance back, stumbling over himself as the rough terrain cuts and scrapes the soles of his feet. Freedom has never tasted so sweet, and Alatus will not squander this chance. 

He runs far away from this foreign land, sobbing when Alatus finally exhausts himself and collapses against a tree. The moon is high in the sky, bathing him in silvery moonlight as he feels the cold wind whipping around him. He runs his hands through the dried blades of grass and laughs wetly, pressing his forehead against the ground. 

The yaksha allows himself to scream and cry—to grieve the many years that were robbed from him. He grieves the loss of his sister—the loss of control over his own body and life; Alatus cries until his eyes are dry and his throat is hoarse. He screams until he’s too tired to keep his eyes open, and he passes out from exhaustion. 

Alatus wanders for weeks at a time, his arms wrapped around his tiny body as he braves the cold and tries to find shelter. His feet are swollen and caked with dirt and grime, and his legs are weak and sore, but he pushes him to keep walking. It’s not until he finds a small cave in the mountains that the yaksha relaxes and allows himself to drop his guard. 

“So hungry,” Alatus mumbles, rubbing his stomach as something shifts inside him. Without the proper currency and the inability to communicate with humans (not that he would want to), the young yaksha has resorted to eating handfuls of snow, meticulously picking out the rocks and dirt before swallowing it down. It’s not as filling or nutritious, but he can’t comply. If he eats enough snow, it fills his stomach with water and gives me the illusion that he’s eaten something. 

Another sharp pain has Alatus groaning, clutching his stomach and panting hard, sinking to the ground and blinking back hot tears. It only intensifies as he shucks off his robes and spreads his legs, feeling the opening of his entrance and horrified when he feels something hard at the opening. His eggs shouldn’t be arriving until the end of winter—he can’t do this alone! 

He cries out, his head falling back against the cold ground as the pain shoots up his spine. Alatus blinks back hot tears, gritting his teeth and deciding to push the eggs out. He rips his robes, wadding up the fabric and shoving it in his mouth before propping himself against the wall and pushing. 

Each egg is painful to pass, and Alatus almost passes out during the whole ordeal. His poor genitals are raw and red, sensitive to any stimuli as the last egg is ejected from his body. The yaksha loudly cries, huffing hard and blinking back tears as he forces himself on his knees and holds an egg. 

The shell is far too hollow for his liking. Alatus holds it to the light and finds that the embryo isn’t fully formed, still sitting in the fluids, and if he squints hard enough, he can see the underdeveloped body through the shell. His stomach growls, his mouth waters the longer he looks at the eggs, and hunger rises. 

He shouldn’t. Alatus knows that he shouldn’t, but he’s so hungry; the only thing he’s eaten is snow and ice. His body is too weak to keep carrying on like this, and he will die in a week if he denies himself. Hunger and his deteriorating mental health get the best of him, and Alatus wastes no time in biting into the eggshell and suckling down the liquids. 

He chews and swallows, eating disgustingly as the fragile shell breaks and crumples in his hold, and Alatus devours the underdeveloped fetuses. The breaking and snapping of bones sound like nothing to Alatus as the wind picks up and he shivers, hunching over and shoving another egg into his awaiting mouth, swallowing it down greedily. He eats until there’s nothing left, and blood stains the corners of his mouth as he pants hard and his eyes weigh heavy. The yaksha rolls onto his back, delirious and tired, while breathing slowly and shutting his eyes. 

The blistering winds feel like a gentle touch; it’s the last thing he deserves. 

Chapter Text

Alatus thinks he’s dying; he must be with how cold he’s become. Days blend into weeks, and he can’t see the end of the storm in sight. The winds blister and blow, forcing Alatus to seek refuge in the small cave; he can’t even scoop up the snow at the cave’s entrance to eat. His stomach rumbles and clenches in pain, but the yaksha never moves from his spot. 

At one point, Alatus thought of cannibalizing himself to satiate the hunger. 

He waits patiently, curled up on his side while watching the blizzard outside. The inside of the cave is cold, but there’s only so much that he can do. It’s not like he can leave to gather wood for a fire. So he curls up, drawing his knees to his chest, and hooks his hand under his legs to keep his hands warm. 

He misses his master. 

The way her pyro vision would glow before he felt the hot sear of her hand against his flesh, holding Alatus down and forcing him to accept his punishment. He misses how her hand would caress his cheek, and he would believe for just an instance that he was wanted—that someone truly cared for him. His mistress was such a beautiful and gifted liar; she had him believing that she had cared for him, and he foolishly allowed himself to think that he was special, that he was worth anything in this wretched world. 

His eyes feel heavy, and Alatus feels so cold, too cold. Is this the end for him? He can feel his heart slow as time comes to a crawl;  surprisingly enough, he is content with this outcome. He embraces death like an old friend, smiling sadly as he relaxes against the cold ground, reflecting on the last hundred years. 

His life has been horrible, but he’s luckier than most. In the end, Alatus escaped his cruel captor, and many did not have that privilege. It’s not a grand victory, but it is his, and he will die with that glorious feeling of freedom on his tongue, even if the last of his days were spent in misery. 

Alatus regrets never trying to feel sooner, but there’s nothing he can do to correct the past, or perhaps it’s his destiny to die in a place like this. The cave feels all too small, but it’s one of the few things he can call his own. 

He’s manually breathing at this point, feeling his lungs contract and expand while everything seems to grow loud and overwhelming. The ground is too hard, too cold under his pale body, and he can hear his heart in his ears, slowing with each passing moment. 

“What a joke,” Alatus laughs bitterly, hot tears rolling down his feverish face as he smiles to himself. He’s certain the gods are mocking him, taunting him for daring to wish for a better life, but soon, he would be free of this hell. 

The relief he will feel when he takes his final breath. Alatus wills himself to relax, his eyes fluttering shut as his breathing slows, and he can feel his heart coming to a halt. Everything grows incredibly loud before there is nothing but pure, unadulterated silence, and Alatus finally feels peace.

It’s… wonderful …

Soft hands caress Alatus’ face, and he relaxes, closing his eyes and allowing himself a moment of peace. It feels homely, resting his head in the god’s lap as her clawed hand strokes his hair as she sings a sweet song. 

“Mother?” Alatus muses quietly, his voice slurred as he raises his head. Soft, glowing eyes peek down at him, and the goddess smiles fondly at him, pressing her finger to his mouth and kissing his forehead. 

“Rest, little one,” she croons, smoothing back his hair and continuing her lullaby as Alatus obeys and settles in her arms. Her touch is familiar and comforting; he enjoys this—he enjoys being in her presence. Tears roll down his face as he quietly sobs into her robes, his body quivering with each gut-wrenching sob. 

“Mother,” he repeats in a weak voice, holding her like she would slip through his fingers like refined grains of sand. How he has longed for her gentle touch; he’s missed how she could hold him, stroking his hair until he would pass out in her arms and wake up in her warm embrace. He misses how she would preen and clean his wings, always complimenting how well-groomed he was. 

He misses when she was kind. 

Yú mìng kisses his forehead, lifting his head and smoothing her thumb across his flushed cheek. “Why are you crying, little one? Have I done something to upset you?” she asks quietly. 

Alatus shakes his head, pressing his head into her stomach and inhaling deeply. “No—I just—I don’t want this to end,” he confesses in a wet, thick voice, twisting his fingers in her robes. “Stay with me, please. I’ll be good, I promise. I promise I’ll do better,” he sniffles, blinking back his tears and hiccuping. 

“Oh, my sweet bird. What’s gotten into you today?” Yú míng whispers, lifting his head and kissing his forehead. “There’s no need for tears. Come,” she orders, rising to her feet and offering her hand to Alatus. 

He takes it without a second thought, trailing behind her, owlishly blinking away his tears. Alatus wants to remain here—he wants to stay with his mother, regardless of whether this is a dream or a reality. 

As they wander the halls, Alatus takes in the sight. Her domain feels much more homely than he remembers—far, much warmer, too, but he’s not complaining. Still, he clings to her like a baby to their mother’s teat, curling his fingers around the silky sleeve. “Mistress—” 

Yú mìng stops and presses a finger to his plush lips. “Oh, none of those stuffy labels. You are my darling son,” she corrects, leaning down to kiss his cheek. 

He swallows and nods slowly. The word feels foreign on his tongue, thick and heavy as he wordlessly repeats the world to himself. Now that he’s aware he’s saying it, it feels rather nice—it’s sweeter and heartfelt. “Mother,” Alatus repeats again, his voice soft and demure. 

She smiles and scratches under his chin. “Good boy,” Yú mìng praises, patting the crown of his head and escorting him down the hall with her hanfu trailing behind her. They walk the garden perimeter; Yú mìng talks his ear off about the local fauna and the dreams she had seen the previous night. 

“Mortals dream of such interesting things, Alatus. I had the strangest pleasure of seeing a man dream of his wife, but they become one being. It was a rather queer dream but pleasant nonetheless,” she giggles. 

Alatus says nothing but listens, curling his fingers around her wrist. He lingers behind her, still clinging to her as she greets the other servants who weave in and out of the rooms. She’s so gentle and full of light—her enthusiasm is infectious. 

They spent the entire morning together until Yú mìng dismissed him for chores and to help his siblings. “I have work to do,” she says sweetly, patting the crown of his head before waltzing away with her hands trailing behind her. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Alatus wanders the domain and helps with what little chores he can. He’s shooed away most of the time, being told to just leave them be. The avian frowns but obeys, fluttering from room to room until he settles in the kitchen. 

He observes them washing dishes from the night before while others attend this afternoon’s lunch. They show him how to prep the meals, quickly guiding him through the motions until he manages independently. Alatus gasps excitedly, smiling at his meat-stuffed baozi and setting it aside with the other buns. He decides to remain with the servants in the kitchen, curious about the other dishes and often stealing pieces of braised meat before he is caught. 

“Outside with you,” one of the older servants clicks her tongue, shooing him out of the kitchen. 

So, Alatus walks the perimeter of the garden instead. He twirls flowers between his thin fingers, squeezing the stem without a thought. He can’t remember, but this all seems familiar to him. He brushes it off as déjà vú as his brother, Kyong, approaches him. 

“There you are,” he smiles; his ice-blue rabbit ears perk up, and his doe-like eyes soften as he sits with Alatus and braids him a flower crown. “Come here,” he says softly, tugging the small servant into his lap and setting the crown on his head. 

Alatus smiles, leaning back against his brother’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmurs quietly. 

Kyong nods and rakes his fingers through Alatus’ silky hair. “She’s looking for you,” he says after a pregnant pause. 

“Mother?” Alatus asks excitedly, his eyes almost sparkling. 

Again, Kyong nods and rises to his feet, offering his hand to Alatus. “Come. I’ll walk you there,” he offers, lacing their fingers together and guiding Alatus back into the compound. He guides Alatus to Yú mìng’s private chambers, sliding the door open and announcing their arrival. 

Kyong gently nudges Alatus forward. “Go on,” he smiles. 

Alatus awkwardly waddles up to her desk, feeling smaller than he remembers. His mistre—his mother smiles fondly at him, patting her thigh and encouraging him to come closer. 

“Come sit with me, Jinpeng,” she calls sweetly, and Alatus can’t resist her request. His heart stirs when she giggles and strokes his head before continuing his work. She makes a quiet comment here and there, tapping the parchment with the tapered end of her brush and showing the small boy how to form proper sentences. 

Each stroke to his head or kiss to his cheek has Alatus melting into her touch, relaxing in her hold and swinging his legs back and forth. He only shies from her touch when Yú mìng grips his waist too tightly or her hand ventures a little too far down, eliciting a weak noise in response. 

Again, she shushes him and pats his head. “It’s okay,” the goddess murmurs, kissing the crown of his head and continuing with her work. Her hand rests comfortably on his waist, and Alatus relaxes in her hold again, sighing happily. 

They stay like this for hours. Alatus listens to Yú mìng complain quietly under her breath as he bites into a baozi, flinching when char siu pork scalds his tongue. He squeaks, dropping the steaming bun on the floor, and gasps. 

 He looks at her, his eyes wide and wet, while his mother curls a hand tightly around his waist. “Alatus, dear. Would you like to help me with something?” Yú mìng asks sweetly, carding her fingers through the silly wisps of hair. 

Alatus swallows. “Yes.”

“Good boy,” she praises, setting her scrolls and ink aside and turning Alatus to face her. Alatus notes her soft, purple skin, eccentric makeup, and orange-red eyes that glow. 

His stomach twists, and his throat feels dry as she presses a kiss to his forehead. It’s innocent and sweet, and Alatus smiles, melting into her touch as Yú mìng peppers more kisses along his face, tracing the shape of his nose and continuing downwards until her lips are brushing over his. Alatus makes a noise, trying to pull back, but she gently shushes him, cupping his cheek. 

“Jinpeng,” she coos sweetly, turning his head back to her. “It’s okay. Come back and give me a kiss, okay? It’s nothing to be scared of.”

Alatus wets his lip and slowly nods, closing his eyes and puckering his lips. It feels… strange. His mouth tingles, and his heart speeds up as Alatus looks up at the goddess once they part from their kiss. He touches his mouth, blinking owlishly before Yú mìng smiles at him, stroking his hair. 

“Did you like that?” Yú mìng asks, her hand returning to his small waist. 

He nods, shifting in her lap. “Yes, I... I liked it a lot,” Alatus whispers, his fingers curling into her daxiushan and looking at her. 

“Good, because this is something only we can do together, okay?” the goddess smiles. 

Alatus nods and is rewarded with another kiss. It makes him squeak, feeling how easily his mother moves him from her lap onto her desk. His feet can barely touch the ground as she steps between his legs and kisses him again. It feels different from last time, and Alatus squirms, reaching up for his mom, but she moves his tiny hands out of the way and kisses him again. It’s more forceful, and Alatus chokes on her tongue, feeling it slither down his throat. 

He keens, kicking his feet and fussing before Yú mìng pulls back. “Don’t you want to be good for me, Jinpeng?”

“Y-Yes! I just… it feels weird, Mother,” Alatus admits shyly. 

Yú mìng shushes him, kissing the corners of his mouth. “It’s going to feel weird for a moment. You’ll grow to enjoy this,” she says, peppering more kisses down his face and neck, carefully undoing Alatus’ robes. Her taloned hand skims across his bare chest, rolling over his nipples as he shivers underneath him. 

His body feels warm. Alatus breathes hard, his mouth falling open as he reaches for her dress and tugs on the thin material. “It feels—I don’t…” he trails off, his voice breaking into a pathetic whine. 

She presses another kiss to his neck, dragging her mouth down his chest and gently biting his collarbone. “Be still, Jinpeng. This will help me relax. Don’t you want me to relax? Don’t you want to help me?” 

Alatus squeaks and nods, balling his hands into fists and bracing himself against the table. As her mouth descends further and further down his tiny body, Alatus can’t help the noises that escape him. He feels so strange and weak beneath her, unable to shove her away as the feeling intensifies. “Please—it feels—Mother, please!” he sobs. 

Her mouth—his mother’s mouth is pressed against his sex. Alatus can feel her long tongue press inside his delicate areas, spreading him and licking the flushed folds as something wet gushes out of Alatus. He whimpers and cries, unsure of how he should respond, while she pins his hips down. It felt good? It felt wrong? He isn’t sure—he can’t understand what’s happening to him as he begs his mother to let him go. 

“Shh, just let me take care of you.”

Alatus wakes in a puddle of sweat, breathing hard and clutching the sheets to his chest. His heart thumps against his chest as he struggles to breathe, tossing the bedding from his figure. He can’t make sense of where he is but also can’t control his breathing. 

It’s a miracle he’s not dead, but Alatus would prefer that over these new feelings. 

Between his legs burns, and his clitoris stains against the white linen. He shivers, drawing his legs together and closing his eyes. Alatus can imagine how Yú mìng touches him and how his cunt twitches at the memory of his mistress claiming his body. 

How disgusting is he to be thinking of her like this?

Silver moonlight streams into his new room, and Alatus sighs quietly. He slides off the futon and lays on the floor with a blanket curled underneath his head. He tries to imagine her touch, how she would have shoved him onto the ground and taken him right there. 

His hand dips between his thighs, panting softly as his fingers roll over his clitoris. Alatus chokes on a whine, screwing his eyes shut, and rubs harder; it hurts but not in the same way Yú mìng hurts him. It’s like something is missing—like he’s not doing it right. 

With pinched brows, Alatus rubs harder and harder until it hurts. He grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and tries to envision Yù míng between his legs, forcing him to take her entirely. Still, it does nothing, and now, his cunt throbs painfully as Alatus sobs. 

He hates this feeling. 

The door slides open, and Alatus squeaks, sitting up and covering his lower half with one of the pillows. A tall, bronze-skinned fox steps into the room, their ears perked upwards while shutting the sliding door behind them. “It was told you would wake from your slumber soon, but it was not expected sooner. What a series of events,” they say smoothly, their long tails swishing behind them as they crouch beside Alatus and prepare the medicine. 

They uncork the jade bottle and hold it to his mouth. “Drink,” they gently order. “Lest your pain flare up again. It was hard to lower your fever and even harder to get you to keep food down.”

Alatus nods slowly, drinking the medicine as ordered, and cringes from the awful taste. He pulls away with a cough, wiping his mouth, but doesn’t spit out the liquid like he wants to. The yaksha forces himself to swallow it, suppressing the urge to vomit as the fox hums and brushes his hair. 

“Very good, little bird,” they say with a smile, setting the bottle on the tray and standing up. “Lord Morax would like to see you properly once you are dressed. Are you well enough to allow it to dress you?” the fox asks. 

No, Alatus thinks, but he nods, sitting on his knees as the fox smiles and rises to their feet. 

“Good. Allow it to remove your clothes,” they say, sitting Alatus up and peeling off layer after layer. Soft hands skim across Alatus’ skin and he shivers, subconsciously melting into Mirai’s touch. 

It’s not cruel or icy like his mother and brother’s, but something more sincere—something much more sweet. Whatever the feeling is, Alatus embraces it and allows himself to lower his guard, but only for a moment. 

Once his dirty robs are discarded and he’s dressed in a fresh, linen hanfu, Mirai escorts Alatus through the compound. The bird yaksha looks around in awe, amazed with how well-kept everything is. It’s much bigger than his previous master’s. 

“Your name,” Alatus says after a pregnant silence. 

The fox peeks over their shoulder, their tails swishing. “What about its name?” they asked. 

Alatus swallows. “What does this one call you?” he asks. 

The fox pauses, wetting their lips. “You may call it Mirai,” they respond, “and your name, small one?” 

“This one bears no name. It is a nameless creature,” Alatus answers. His master would withdraw from using his name, settling on calling him “boy,” and would use his given name if she was pleased with him (which was rare). 

“All walks of life bear a name, small one. It will simply come up with a name for you in the meantime,” Mirai retorts, beckoning Alatus their way with their hands clasped behind their back. “Are you aware how long you were out, small one?” 

Alatus shakes his head. 

“It is now the start of spring. You were running a fever when Master found you,” they hum. 

“Found?” Alatus questions. 

Mirai nods, pushing the door open. “Yes. Master found you in the ice mountains near Mondstadt, which is good. Any longer, and you would have frozen to death,” they say. 

Death. It sounds like a beautiful gift, and Alatus wishes they’d granted him that mercy. Instead, he’s cursed with these wretched feelings and this hollow sensation in his chest. It eats at him, and the yaksha wishes to do nothing else than claw his flesh until he’s bones and gore. 

The two enter the god’s chambers, and Mirai sighs, “It apologizes. It assumed that Master would be here, and he was not here. Come, he should be in the gardens or his office.” 

Alatus follows Mirai again, running his fingers along the delicate petals. It’s much more extensive than his mas—his previous master’s garden. Here, Alatus sees flowers he’s never seen before, and he’s in awe, daring to pluck one from Morax’s personal garden. Mirai's warning comes too late, and Alatus raises an eyebrow, only to shiver when he feels a clawed hand on his shoulder. 

“Would you like a flower, little one?” comes Morax’s deep and earthy voice, sending a shiver throughout Alatus’ body. The god’s voice startles the bird yaksha, and his heart speeds up. 

“There you are, master,” Mirai smiles, bowing respectfully. “It could not locate you in your chambers. It has brought the little one as requested, and wishes to inform you that Bosacius would like to speak with you later. It assumes you will be busy today,” they hum, glancing at Alatus. 

Morax nods, and a hearty chuckle follows. “Yes, I will be, Mirai,” he says, and the fox smiles. He then turns to Alatus and gestures for him to follow. “Follow me. We have much to discuss,” he says. 

Alatus hesitantly follows Morax, his head bowed and his stomach knotting and churning. The silence is deafening, and the young yaksha wishes the earth would swallow him whole and leave nothing behind. 

This is the end, Alatus thinks bitterly, following Morax into his chambers. He will kill me. My life is forfeit—

“Your name, small one?” Morax asks. 

“M-My name?” 

“Yes, your name,” the god parrots. “I do believe we’ve met before this encounter, yes. I’m afraid some time has passed, and I’ve forgotten, so please remind me again.” 

The memories come rushing back, and Alatus wishes the geo archon would strike him where he stands. He remembers how he shamelessly offered himself to Morax, attempting to seduce him like some whore. Alatus’ face burns as he turns away, unable to stare at the deity. 

“This one bears no name,” he answers after silence. “You have slain my master, so this one no longer bears a name.” 

Morax makes a noise, crosses the room, and fetches a brush. “Ah yes, I remember you now,” he hums, gesturing for Alatus to turn around. “My visit to Natlan. If I recall, you were the one carrying the previous master’s brood. My apologies for your loss.” 

Alatus touches his flat stomach, remembering how swollen he used to look. “It is fine. This one no longer thinks of it,” he whispers, pushing down the feeling of mangled flesh in his jaw. 

He flinches when Morax brushes his hair and drags his talons across his scalp, scratching lightly. “You almost died,” the god says. 

“Yes,” Alatus replies, his voice quiet as he turns to the god and bows at his feet. He offers his neck like an offering, closing his eyes. “Please—please do away with this one. This one no longer serves a purpose and is without a master,” he begs shamelessly.

“I will not,” Morax says smoothly. 

“Please,” Alatus pleas. “This one serves no god—this one must atone for their past transgressions. Whatever punishment you choose, this one will bear it.”

He can hear Yú mìng’s words playing in his head, sneering at him for his weakness. Alatus believes her—believes that he’s an ugly, unsightly beast that needs to be put down. A tool is nothing without its wielder, and he is a useless thing. He must be put out of his misery—must be punished for failing his previous master and letting her die. 

Morax touches Alatus gently, dragging his thumb across his flushed cheek. “Rise,” he says, and Alatus obeys without a second thought. The god is kind, too kind, to Alatus, and he can’t help but shiver in the geo archon’s hold, feeling so small under his touch. “Your punishment will be to live. You have fought valiantly, have you not? I will not allow you to throw your life away so easily.”

“A tool has no purpose without its wielder. A tool cannot be a tool if set free and left to their own devices,” Alatus retorts. 

“Then serve me,” Morax offers. “If you need a purpose to continue living, serve me.”

The freedom of choice is new to Alatus, and he stares blankly at Morax’s outstretched hand. The god looks at him fondly, his molten eyes soft and glowing as Alatus feels his heart thump in his chest. He’s unsure but feels he can trust Morax; this god had only treated him kindly and slew his master upon hearing about her traitorous nature. 

He takes Morax’s hand. “This one accepts,” Alatus says quietly. 

Morax smiles and swipes his thumb across Alatus’ forehead before resting his hand atop his head. “Your name will be Xiao. In the fables of another land, the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship,” he states. “You and he are that of kindred spirits. Use this name from this day forth.”

“Yes, Master.” 

Xiao spends the rest of the day with Mirai. He clings to the fox spirit earlier, never saying a word and merely observing. He learns that more yaksha serves Morax, and they look over Liyue. 

“What is it that you do, Mirai?” Xiao asks. 

“It attends to the others’ wounds and illness. Tending to them after fighting gods and monsters  is no easy matter, especially when dealing with karmic debt.”

Xiao raised an eyebrow. “What is karmic debt?” 

“It is unsure what it is exactly, but know that it will weigh heavy on your soul as you fight. Master will explain more when it is time for you to draw up your weapon,” Mirai warns, finishing prepping the kettle and arranging the cups. “Come. You will meet the others,” they say, leading the way. 

The other yaksha are unlike anything Xiao had expected. They are a colorful group of people, and Xiao only watches how they interact with each other, all smiles and joy as Mirai interrupts their union. 

“Bosacius, you are far too loud. You shall scare our newest guest,” Mirai teases, setting the tray in the center of the table and sitting beside the electro yaksha. 

Bosacius snorts and scoots his stool, making room for Xiao at the table. He pats an open stool, grinning at the shorter yaksha. “Come join, little brother,” he laughs heartily, and Xiao feels his cheeks warm up before joining the other yaksha at the table, slowly sipping his tea.  “Oh, don’t sit so far away. I do not bite,” the electro yaksha grins, tugging Xiao’s stool closer before the yaksha could protest. 

The redhead woman giggles, covering her mouth with a closed fist. “Do not mind Bosacious and his enthusiasm. He is often like this with any newcomers,” she says, pouring Xiao a cup of tea and handing the steaming kettle to the woman on her left. “Forgive me for my rudeness. I am called Indarias, and she is called Bonanus,” she introduces, gesturing to the other woman sitting beside Indarias. “You shall meet Menogias at a later date. What is your name, little brother?”

“This one is called Xiao,” he answers. 

“Ha! It appears Master has jokes as well! Surely, he has told you the meaning behind your name, yes?”

Xiao nods. “It belongs to a spirit who has suffered hardships,” he recites. 

Bosacius smiles, finishing the rest of his now lukewarm tea. “Yes, it is the name of a wandering spirit. However, with certain letters, the name Xiao also means little.”

The bird flushes red, “This one is not that small.”

“Now, Bosacious, there’s no need to tease him,” Bonanus scolds, lightly smacking his shoulder before turning to Xiao. “Before you retire for the evening, I’ll give you some supplies. I’m sure they will be of use to you in the near future,” she says softly, patting Xiao’s hand before returning to her tea. 

If Xiao is being honest, he feels out of place with the four yakshas, but he enjoys their company. He remains silent as they speak, only answering when asked a question and speaking when prompted, but nothing more. They do not mock him and are kind to him, in fact. It’s a sweetness that Xiao has never known, and it makes his heart throb against his ribs. 

It’s homely. 

“Little brother,” Bosacious suddenly booms, slapping a hand on his knee. “You must join me one of these days for training. You are nothing short of skin and bones; we will have to fix that,” he grins, gently prodding Xiao’s lanky side. 

Xiao gently touches his chest, frowning when he feels how thin he’s become. It’s not surprising, seeing as he went months without proper food, and his body began eating itself during the harsh winter. Perhaps the training will help him gain more mass. 

“This one would be honored,” he answers with a bow of his head. 

“Wonderful! You must rest then if you are to join me tomorrow,” Bosacious grins, finishing the last of his tea, and sets the empty cups on the tray. “I shall show you to your quarters. Come follow,” he says, bidding a good night to his other siblings and escorting Xiao to his room. 

The room is small, decorated with an arhat bed, a small plant, and a lap near the bedside. Xiao stares in awe, following behind Bosacious, and reaches for the soft futon. “This is… this is too much,” he breathes slowly, wetting his bottom lip. 

“It is all for you. You are free to decorate according to your heart’s content,” the older brother smiles, patting the mattress, and eases Xiao into the bed. 

Tears water behind Xiao’s eyes as he sinks into the mattress, wrapping himself up with the blankets he was gifted. Never before had Xiao owned anything; from his name to his anatomy, Xiao never had a say and was just a beast to fetch for his mistress. Here, Xiao is treated like a friend despite his earlier attempt on the geo archon’s life. “It’s mine,” he says softly, bringing the blanket to his nose and inhaling slowly. 

Bosacious smiles and ruffles Xiao’s hair. “I will take my leave and allow you to get settled,” he says heartily, patting the younger yaksha’s shoulder. “Get rest, and I shall find you in the morning.”

“Yes, of course, gege,” Xiao says, wishing Bosacious a good evening. When the door slides shut, Xiao curls up with his new blanket, trying to recall how Morax smells as he closes his eyes. The archon’s scent is surprisingly soothing, making a home in his lungs as Xiao relaxes against the bed. He sinks so easily, curling around his blanket like a dragon curls around its hoard. He feels safe, resting comfortably and surrounding himself in his new master’s intoxicating scent. 

This new life seems promising. 

Chapter Text

Xiao slowly adjusts to his new life, though it is initially strange. He’s not permitted to train until he’s appropriately healed and Morax approves. His arguments never last long when Mirai threatens to get Morax involved. The yaksha shuts up and retires to his quarters, curled on his side with the blankets draped over his lithe body. He feels absolutely useless as he wastes away in his room, but Mirai assures him this is for the best as Xiao is still sick and appears paler than usual. 

“Master would have its head if you were to take up your spear and not be well-rested,” Mirai tuts, bringing Xiao a bowl of broth and green tea. You’ve already fallen ill twice within the week,” they remind him, getting Xiao to sit up and sip his broth. Have you forgotten the time it found you curled up in the corner of the room in pain still?” he reminds Xiao.

The younger yaksha clicks his tongue but slowly sips the broth. “This one is useless if it cannot assist their master,” Xiao grunts. 

“You are also useless if you are not well. Hush and finish your broth,” Mirai orders gently, setting the warm bowl in Xiao’s lap. He crosses the room, wringing a washcloth and pressing it to Xiao’s forehead. “You are not as warm as your first week. You appear to be maintaining a healthy relationship with food and have eaten everything it has given you,” he murmured. 

“Is this not proof that this one has recovered since?” Xiao retorts. 

Mirai narrows his eyes, poking Xiao’s forehead with his chopsticks. “Yes, it will not deny that you have recovered, but Master has said no, so it will continue to abide by those rules,” he states, eating his breakfast. “Finish up, and you shall assist with the daily chores,” Mirai adds, setting his bowl to the side and tidying up his room. 

Xiao hates the chores. He’s grateful to be housed by Morax but wishes he could do more for the war god. More than once, Xiao has ruined the laundry, burnt the food, and made an absolute fool of himself. He begs for forgiveness each time, prostrating himself at Morax’s feet with his forehead pressed to the wooden ground. Each time, he is foolishly forgiven, and Morax smiles at him. 

“There is no need to beg for my forgiveness. Accidents happen, little one,” Morax had said, patting his hair before dismissing him. It’s a simple yet kind gesture that does little to ease Xiao’s anxiety. 

He finishes his breakfast and trails after Mirai. As usual, they start with the laundry, collecting Morax’s garments and bedding, and heading outside. “Do you remember everything it has taught you?” Mirai inquiries. 

Xiao nods, dipping the silk garments in cool water, gently scrubbing the bloodstains out, and being careful not to wrinkle Morax’s clothes. The water quickly turns murky brown, and Xiao can’t help but cringe. He shouldn’t be surprised that Morax’s clothes are stained with the blood of his enemies, but he is. It reminds him of how Morax easily slain his master, leaving her dying in a pool of golden blood. 

He shakes away the memory, hangs the robe out to dry, and grabs another article of clothing. “Is this one doing it right?” Xiao asks. 

Mirai peeks over, observing how Xiao washes the laundry and hums approvingly. “You have improved. That is good,” he muses quietly, hanging the rest of the laundry out to dry. “It supposes it can leave the laundry to you in the future, yes?” 

“Yes, this one can handle the laundry,” Xiao says, his voice growing quiet as he stares idly at the dirtied water. He can barely see his reflection, and his heart twists in his chest, thrumming slow and hard against his ribs. A small part of him still feels dirty, even after he’s exchanged hands. He will never feel free of his sins, haunting him for the rest of his days. It will always remain and linger even if he washes himself, like the soiled fabric he holds. 

He shakes it off, scrubbing the soiled robes and dresses with Mirai’s guidance. “Not so aggressive. The fabric is delicate,” Mirai murmurs quietly, his hand overlapping Xiao’s and gently guiding him through the motions. The older yaksha is patient with him as always, his soft hands massaging Xiao’s calloused palms with a faint grin. “There we are. You learn rather quickly, Xiao. Perhaps it can let you handle the chores by yourself from now on, or would you prefer if it continues to help you?”

Xiao swallows, wetting his lips. “This one would like further assistance if it is not a bother,” he mutters. 

“It will continue to assist you,” Mirai says, patting Xiao’s hair and scratching his scalp. “For now, it will leave you to finish the clothes. It must attend to other matters—shall we have lunch in your quarters?” he asks. 

“This one…. will decide later,” Xiao says, drying the clothes. 

“Very well. Until later, Xiao,” Mirai smiles, scratching his scalp again and swiftly taking leave. 

The bird yaksha dips more silks and soft fabrics into lukewarm water and scrubs out lingering stains and fluids. Despite his distaste for morning chores, Xiao finds laundry relaxing; it soothes him as he runs his fingers against the silky material and can smell his master’s familiar scent. He sighs quietly, finishing his chores and disposing of the murky water. 

He lingers outside for a bit longer, spying on the other yaksha on the opposite side of the compound, taking up their spears and engaging in battle. Xiao watches as they cross blades and fit arrows into the notches before they soar. The older yaksha are graceful as they train. Each movement is precise and smooth, perfectly coordinated as they tease and taunt each other. 

“Little brother!” Bosacius boomed excitedly, tightly gripping Xiao’s shoulder with a smile of all teeth. “Come join us. Surely, you can spare a break from your chores?” he questions. 

Xiao wets his lips, looking over his shoulder and then at the other three yaksha. It would be unwise to go against his master’s wishes, but he feels useless, standing around and doing nothing. A little exercise wouldn’t hurt him, and Lord Morax wouldn’t find out if he kept his mouth shut. 

“This one shall join,” Xiao breathes out. 

“Wonderful!” Bosacius laughs heartily, a heavy hand still resting on his shoulder and guiding him to the training grounds. “You have not met Menogias yet. Menogias, come meet our little brother, Xiao. Master says he hails from Natlan,” he smiles. 

Menogias is tall and slender, dressed in dark brown robes with his long hair swept out of his eyes. His honey-colored eyes scan Xiao thoroughly before the corners of his mouth crinkle. “They were not exaggerating when they said you were small,” he chuckles. 

Xiao flushes, his cheeks warm to the touch as his stomach twists. “This one is not that small,” he grumbles. 

“If you say so, little brother,” the geo adeptus smiles, drawing up his weapon and tapping the sharp blade against the sole of his shoes. Will you be joining us? It is important to keep up one's physical and mental strength.”

“Yes,” Xiao says without hesitation, briefly checking over his shoulder and following the other yaksha into the training grounds. He takes a stance with a spear, feeling how heavy it weighs in his hand. It feels familiar in his grasp, like an extension of his body, as he shifts back and forth. 

He’s been out of practice but remembers most of his training. The spearhead sings through the air as he strikes forward, catching Menogias off guard and rushing him again. Xiao feels the adrenaline flow through his body like a rapid current, and dark energy swirls inside him.

He has always been a weapon first, a fuck toy second, and a person last. It’s in his nature to kill and destroy, and Xiao cannot control the feelings that linger inside of him. They are dark and deadly, coming together in a twisted dance as he hunkers down and charges Menogias again with a swing of his spear. 

Harder—he needs to push himself harder. Xiao needs this foe dead.

“Get out of my way!” Xiao sneers, his voice thick with malice as he lunges at Menogias again. The older man deflects his attacks, side-stepping Xiao’s attacks and redirecting the energy and force of each swing and jab. It infuriates the younger yaksha, but Menogias does not blame him or try to use force to subdue him. 

Xiao tires himself out, and Menogias catches him, carrying the yaksha over his shoulder with a quiet chuckle. “He has a fighting spirit,” he smiles at the other yaksha. 

“And he will get it in trouble if he continues to fight,” Mirai huffs as he steps out with more laundry on his hip. “It has reminded you all that Xiao is so rest until Master permits him to train. It will not be punished because you were curious about his battle prowess,” he snapped, handing the dirty clothes to Bonanus and shifting Xiao into his arms. “No more training for him until Master agrees,” he reiterates before carrying Xiao back to his quarters and laying him on the futon. 

The fox yaksha clicks his tongue, filling a basin with cool water and dipping a towel into the bowl. “You are foolish,” Mirai chides, pressing the soaked cloth against Xiao’s flushed face, wiping the sweat away, and stripping him out of his clothes. He continues to dab the cloth on Xiao’s chest and collarbone, trying to cool him off as the younger man groans. 

He feels dizzy, still thrumming with dark energy and a new sensation that swirls in his gut. “Mirai,” Xiao slurs, his eyes dark and wet as he slowly sits up. 

“Silence. It will attend to your wounds, and you shall remain in bed as ordered,” Mirai says, dipping the rag back into the water and continuing to dab Xiao’s flushed body. The fox mutters to himself, calling Xiao a fool and the others for allowing him to train. “If Master had seen, it would have never heard the end of it. Careless.”

Xiao snort. “This one would rather be injured than remain in bed all day. Surely, Master has use for me,” Xiao argues. 

“You are as useful as a log,” Mirai counters with a scoff. “Remain in bed until someone fetches you,” he says, whisking the basin away and leaving Xiao to his lonesome. 

The yaksha sighs dejectedly, gazing at the barren walls. Xiao feels utterly useless, unable to serve his lord properly. Instead, he lazes in bed and helps with mundane chores when permitted. He feels fine, but Mirai or Morax will not listen to him. Instead, they baby him and keep him tucked away in his room. It’s maddening, and Xiao would never defy an order for his mater, but he has considered it. 

Anything would be better than just lying on the futon. 

As the hours pass, he lies on the bedding, and Xiao remains bored and restless. At some point, he paced the room, folded his clothes, and remade his bed four times. The little bird groans, falling face-first into his bed, and he lies there, sighing. He doesn’t move when the door opens, and Morax’s heavy scent invades his nostrils. 

“I hear you tried to train with the other yaksha,” Morax states, placing a firm hand on Xiao’s shoulder.

“This one apologizes for going against your wishes, Master. It will not happen again,” Xiao mumbles, kneeling before Morax with his head bowed. He dares not to look up, afraid to see his master’s displeased expression. He braces himself for punishment, yet it does not come. 

Instead, Morax steadies a hand on the crown of his head and smiles at the bird yaksha. “I know you are eager, but I would like you to relax before you throw yourself into any battles,” he says softly, brushing the fringe from Xiao’s face. His gloved hand caresses Xiao’s flushed cheek, slides under his chin, and lifts his head so their eyes meet. “You are strong, Xiao, but you are no service to anyone if you cannot hold yourself up. Do you understand?”

Xiao does not, but he swallows and nods. “Yes, master,” he answers, shivering under his lord’s gentle touch. 

“Good boy,” Morax praises. 

The yaksha shivers again, closing his eyes as a calloused hand caresses his smooth cheek. He leans into his touch, sighing quietly. The rich scent of earth and warm stone engulfs him, smothering him like a warm blanket as he remains at his god’s feet. He wants to bury himself in that intoxicating scent, drown himself in it until he tastes nothing but Morax on his tongue. 

“Have you taken your medicine today, Xiao?” Morax asks smoothly.

Xiao shakes his head. “This one has not. Please forgive me.”

Morax chuckles, pulls away his hand, and crosses the room for the bottle on the small desk. “There is nothing to apologize for, my dear yaksha,” he says, uncorking the bottle and getting Xiao to sit on the futon. He brings the bottle to his parted lips, urging his little bird to drink, and Xiao happily obeys. 

He drinks the medicine, grimacing at the bitter taste, but doesn’t pull away until Morax commands him. The green liquid burns and numbs his throat as it slides down, and Xiao makes a slight noise. Morax only smiles at him and takes the bottle away. His talon thumb swipes the residue from his mouth, and he praises Xiao. “Good boy,” he says again, his eyes soft as he gazes fondly.

Xiao does not feel he has been good enough for Morax, but he says nothing but nods. He won’t argue with his lord. 

“I hear you’ve been wanting to train with the other yaksha,” Morax says, sitting beside Xiao with his hands folded in his lap. 

The bird yaksha nods, his gaze glued to the floor. “Yes, master. This one would like to prove his worthiness,” he murmurs. 

“You are already worthy,” Morax says. 

“This one is cooped up and told to remain indoors and do chores,” Xiao says boldly. “How can one be worthy of his master if they are not being used for their intended purposes? This one was made to be a weapon, used in battle, not to fold clothes and wash laundry day in and day out.”

Morax chuckles, massaging Xiao’s shoulder and cupping his head, turning the young man’s head to face him. “Even a weapon needs rest before returning to the fray. Your blade is still far too dull for me to wield, Xiao,” he says, standing up and gesturing for Xiao to follow with a crook of his finger. They venture into the hall, and Morax keeps a hand near the small of Xiao’s back, his touch still warm and gentle. “I appreciate your enthusiasm for serving me, Xiao, but you are still too weak to take arms in battle. I would be a cruel master to allow you onto the battlefield while injured.”

Xiao grumbles quietly, “If your spear is too brittle, it is because you will allow one to sharpen it.”

The god laughs, opening the doors to his office. “What a sharp and quick tongue you have,” he smiles, “but that still does not change my answer. You will continue to rest until I see progress in your health, and you can take up your spear without further complications.” 

The yaksha huffs but says nothing more on the subject. Xiao sits beside the god, watching him take out a thing of ink and a calligraphy brush. “Now,” Morax starts, tugging Xiao’s stool closer. “Do you know how to write your name?” 

Xiao shakes his head. 

“I will teach you how to write your name,” Morax smiles, dipping his brush in the blank ink and beginning to write Xiao’s name. Each character is written smoothly, cleanly, and precisely as Xiao leans over to observe his master. Morax teaches him how to write each letter and its corresponding sound. 

It’s trial and error, and Xiao’s hand falters when he attempts the first ten times. His strokes are messy, and his reading is illegible, but his chest swells when Morax praises him for his efforts. 

“It’s a start,” Morax hums, patting the crown of Xiao’s head. “In time, you will improve. While you are resting and recovering, I want you to improve your penmanship. I’ll see that Indarias watches over your studies—or would you prefer Mirai’s company instead?”

“Indarias,” Xiao mumbles. 

“You’ll start your lessons tomorrow, then. For now, I would like you to rest. Mirai tells me you participated in a training session today, yes?” Morax asks, setting the inkwell and brush to the side. 

Xiao nods. 

“And how did you fare?”

Xiao swallows, wetting his lips. “Heavy… there was a dark force overtaking this one,” he murmurs, recalling how dark energy thrummed through his veins and his body moved on instinct. “The desire to kill overtook me. This one cannot describe it very well. Please forgive me, master.”

Morax hums, his golden eyes soft as he gazes at Xiao. “We will pause any training for you until I can assess this further. I’m sure Mirai has told you I would like you to rest until you are better mentally and physically.”

“Yes, master,” Xiao sighs. 

“I know you seek purpose. I assure you that you will find your purpose when you are faring better. Would it be wise to enter a battle with a dull blade, Xiao?” Morax asks. 

Xiao shakes his head. 

“So, why would I allow you to aid me if you are not ready? That would be careless on my end, and I would be a poor master,” Morax says softly, brushing Xiao’s hair behind his ear and smiling fondly at the little bird. “Now, go rest and get some sleep. I shall see you in the morning.”

The little yaksha burns when Morax's taloned fingers brush against his warm cheek, and he shivers, his stomach twisting and knotting. His heart threatens to burst out of his chest as he swallows thickly, not wanting to pull back from Morax’s touch. It feels gentle and harmless against his skin as his heart twists in his chest. 

The feeling is fleeting, and Morax dismisses Xiao and returns to his room for the evening, telling him to eat dinner and rest. 

Xiao returns to his quarters and eats a small bowl of rice, unable to stomach anything else, before he curls up on the futon. It’s strange, but his body burns like he’s coming down with a sickness. He shivers and tucks his arms under his legs, drawing his knees to his chest in heavy pants. 

Sleep will do him well, so Xiao closes his eyes and tries to relax. He can still smell his master’s heavy scent in the air, intoxicating him as he slowly slips into sweet unconsciousness. His body finally relaxes as he falls asleep underneath the thick blanket.

“Xiao,” Morax’s sweet voice calls out to him, coaxing and inviting as the yaksha sits up and swallows. 

 He finds himself nude and in the center of Morax’s bed. Well, mostly nude if he ignores the golden jewelry that decorates his body. His hair is styled back, braided, and curled with flowers and other pretty things like pearls and diamonds. He must look ridiculous, dressed up like some prize to be won, but she says nothing but swallows thickly as the dragon kneels on the bed. 

A warm hand cups his cheek, gently guiding Xiao closer to him until the smaller man is straddling the god’s waist. Xiao shivers, his cunt flushed against Morax’s twin erections, whining softly and tugging at his robes. 

“Master,” Xiao shivers, pressing his face against his shoulder as the old god shushes him and massages his lower back. 

“Quiet, pet,” Morax murmurs, his fingers massaging the dimples of his lower back before cupping his plush rear. He squeezes and fondles Xiao, inspecting him before laying him on his back and hovering over him. He trails his nails down Xiao’s puffy chest, pinching a nipple between his fingers and pulls. 

Xiao gasps, his body alight with a sudden pleasure as he claws at the sheets. He keens, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down on his lip until blood dots his tongue. Tears burn behind his eyes and threaten to spill down his cheeks, and Morax does the same thing to his other nipple, turning him until Xiao is nothing short of a needy, whimpering mess. 

“Master,” Xiao gasps, his eyes flying open when a wet heat engulfs his chest, suckling like a newborn baby. It burns, and Xiao isn’t sure how to feel about it. It makes his lower region tingle, throbbing painfully as Morax continues his torment. “Master,” he repeats again in the same pathetic and sad voice, unsure of what he has done wrong. 

He gasps and shivers, daring to tug at Morax’s hair and arch his back against the bed. Xiao isn’t sure how to appease his master and why he is being punished. He didn’t mean to disobey his orders to not train. He just wanted to be of better use to his new savior. 

Morax’s mouth traverses lower, kissing down his chest and the planes of his stomach, nosing at his thighs and parting them. His forked tongue flickers at Xiao’s swollen clit, gathering the beads of his arousal on his tongue before the dragon hums. “Hold yourself open like this for me,” he says, spreading Xiao’s legs apart and moving his hands to cup the underside of his thigh. 

Xiao nods, hesitantly gripping his legs and holding himself apart as requested. It’s embarrassing how his cunt clenches around nothing, dribbling with excitement and arousal. “I’m sorry,” Xiao finally says with a wet sob. “Please forgive me for my incompetence,” he begs for forgiveness, his body trembling as Morax rolls his clit between two fingers. 

“This is not a punishment, dear Xiao,” Morax corrects him, kissing his thigh. “You are to feel good. This is a reward,” he smiles, gently biting the flesh of his thigh. 

A reward? Xiao has never been rewarded in such a manner. It’s always been a form of punishment or a way to control and show that he was lower than dirt. Never before did Xiao know that this was supposed to be pleasant. 

He swallows, watching with anticipating eyes as Morax goes down on him. Xiao gasps when Morax’s tongue nudges at his hole, lapping at his sweet syrup before his tongue slides in and stretches him out. The stretch is pleasant and sweet; Morax’s tongue fills the space wonderfully, and he groans against Xiao’s pussy, pulling him closer to taste him. 

“M-Master, you can’t!” Xiao gasps, his back arched as pleasure washes over him. His argument dies on his tongue as heat spears through his temple. Each lick and suck and groan as Xiao spirals, his mind is a mushy mess as all the breath escapes his body. He feels so hot, but gods, does he feel good as Morax fucks him open on his tongue. 

His legs fall open, and he can’t hold himself open, his hand twisting in the sheets instead. He claws and tears at the sheets until they rip, and his legs tremble with want and anticipation. 

Morax keeps his mouth against his saturated cunt, never wanting to part from his sweetness. He groans, pulling back and pressing two fingers into Xiao’s sex, curling his fingers in search of that one spot. “My sweet yaksha,” Morax preens, his voice light and wanting as he licks the corners of his mouth. His golden eyes gaze down fondly at a blushing Xiao, smiling at his embarrassment. 

Xiao can hardly look at his master, draping an arm over his eyes and panting hard. “It’s dirty,” Xiao groans, his hips bucking upwards into his touch. “Master, please,” he tries again. “It’s too much—it’s too dirty,” he chokes out. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Morax croons, kissing his neck. “You are not dirty. You are the sweetest thing I’ve tasted in eons,” he reveals with a smile, pressing in another finger and pressing hard against Xiao’s g-spot. 

The little bird squeals, his eyes flying open as he chokes. He kicks his legs out, overwhelmed by the sudden sensations that consume him. His body burns—Xiao feels so strange, but he doesn’t dare to pull away or fight Morax. He allows the god to use his body like a toy, letting him use him in whatever way he desires. 

These desires—this sudden want is foreign to Xiao. He feels something swelling inside him, building and burning, and he can’t pinpoint that feeling. His pussy throbs with each suck and curl of Morax’s fingers. He claws and shakes, moaning quietly and blinking away the tears that clump his lashes. “Feels strange—master, please,” Xiao whispers, his voice weak and pathetic. 

“You’re doing so well. Just a little more for me, Xiao.” Morax continues, kissing his clit and drawing it into his mouth. He groans hungrily, gripping Xiao’s thighs and holding them open. He gives Xiao no chance to pull away, keeping him pinned against the mattress. 

Xiao moans and scratches at the bed. He moans and dies, thrumming with unadulterated pleasure as his eyes roll back into his skull. The heat floods his veins like a disease, and Xiao screams. “Master, master—please, I can’t! It’s too much!” he screams as he cums. 

He’s floating; he swears he is. Xiao chokes and sputters, clawing his hand down the sheets as fat tears roll down his face. The small yaksha begs and pleads, arching his back and bucking into Morax’s mouth. Xiao moans and cries, unsure of what he wants as he spirals deeper into pure euphoria. It turns his brain to mush, shaking in Morax’s strong hood as the geo archon pulls away with a lick of his lips. 

“Good boy,” Morax smiles, sitting up and peeling back his robes. 

Xiao wakes up suddenly with a sharp gasp, clutching the sheets to his chest. Between his legs burn and throb, drenched in his own fluids, he sits up and dares to touch his sex. It still hurts, still throbs with need as Xiao peels back the soaked sheets. 

He’s done this before, but it’s still embarrassing. Xiao changes out of his soiled clothes, folds them, and ticks them away in a private corner of the room. He’ll tend to his laundry when the sun is out—or maybe before Mirai comes to collect it for the day. 

Dressed in nothing, Xiao awkwardly mimics his dream and spreads his legs uncomfortably wide. His fingers dip between his legs, gently caressing his clit, and he shivers. It feels strange, but Xiao doesn’t stop. He continues rolling the pink bud, biting his lip, and dares to work his hand faster. The same sensation builds up in his gut, blinding and hot as he gasps and arches his back. 

“Master,” he moans dazedly, his lashes wet with tears as he presses two fingers into his hole, stretching himself out until it hurts. He mimics Morax’s motions, rolling onto his knees and positioning his ass in the air. He shivers, reaching in deeper as the tears fall down rosy cheeks. 

It’s what he deserves—a fitting punishment for him. He forces himself through the motions, gritting his teeth and fucking his fingers into his sec harder. He chases the sensation, working himself over the edge, but pulls away at the last minute. He sits in the feeling, panting hard and closing his eyes. 

He throbs but makes no move to touch himself. Instead, Xiao rolls onto his back and dresses in a thin robe. He washes his hands and returns to bed, pulling his knees to his chest to keep warm. 

He’s filthy, a sick, disgusting vermin. Xiao wills himself to sleep, screwing his eyes and trying to relax. Come morning, he’ll forget about his nightmare (and never have to think about his master like that again). 

Chapter Text

“Again,” Indarias says, hovering over Xiao’s shoulder. She watches him write his name once more, taking his time to perfect his penmanship before she hums approvingly. “Yes, this is better than before. Well done, little brother,” she smiles sweetly before setting the ink and brushes aside. 

Xiao swells from the praise, his heart skipping a beat as he looks down at his scrawl. It’s still messy, and his strokes lack confidence, but it is better than his earlier attempts. After each lesson, he’s always thrilled to show his progress to his master, and Morax always praises him, rewarding him with a gentle pat on the head. “Well done,” Morax tells Xiao with a smile and a deep resounding chuckle. 

It makes Xiao feel very strange, but he never comments on these feelings. 

Indarias puts away the scroll, sets up a small kettle, and prepares their afternoon tea. “Your penmanship is improving rather nicely. Next, we shall work on your reading,” she hums, blowing on her warm cup and nudging Xiao to follow. She sips slowly, pleased when Xiao blows on his tea and slowly sips the green liquid. “How are your wounds faring? I have heard from the master that you have been suffering, yes?” she asks in a hushed tone. 

Xiao swallows hard, squeezing his thighs together. For the past few nights, Xiao has been haunted by strange dreams that disturb his soul, dreams that he dares not to repeat in full detail to Morax or the healers that aid him when he’s plagued by these visions. 

It’s always the same. He is dressed in the finest clothes and presented in Morax’s bed, waiting for the mighty dragon to lay claim to his body, and he’s taken apart slowly but surely. He feels how Morax kisses down his body hungrily and oh-so-slowly, feeling how the small bird shakes under his gentle touch. Xiao can’t help the soft noises that escape him and how his body twists and writhes against the sheets, unsure if he wants to flee or lean into his heated touch. 

It scares Xiao. He lets tears flow down his cheeks as he hiccups, twisting the sheets between his fingers while Morax teases and toys with his sensitive sex. He remembers calling out his master's name, unsure if he’s pleading for more or begging for mercy, struggling to hold onto that thin thread of sanity before he falls over the edge and screams. He falls apart in Morax’s hand each time, and the geo archon is always there to put him back together again. 

Honestly, Xiao should be ashamed that he’s debasing his savior like this. Morax has shown him nothing but kindness and has dealt with his sharp tongue more than he should. 

The bird yaksha shakes his head. “It is nothing,” he says softly, sipping his tea and letting it roll down his throat. “This one is just plagued by nightmares… of the past. It is nothing to concern yourself with, but this one thanks you for your concerns.”

Indarias hums and pours herself another cup of green tea. “Very well. I will have you know that my room is a few doors down if you ever need support during these troubling times,” she offers with a smile. “Please do not be afraid to come to any of us for support. We know what it is like to be alone in a strange, new place.”

He thanks Indarias for her kind words and finishes his tea. He sets the cup aside, thanks her for her time, and leaves without another word. Despite Morax ordering him to rest and not take up his spear, Xiao practices secretly. He waits until he knows he has time to himself and summons forth his blade, reminding him of the battle stances he’s mastered over the years. His weapon weighs heavy in his hand, but it feels so familiar when he swings it through the air. He imagines cutting down his foes, and nothing stops him from his conquest. 

Xiao is a weapon, and what good is a weapon if it is not used in battle? 

He returns to his room, discarding his clothes and sighing quietly. The bird yaksha stares at himself in the mirror, gingerly touching his reflection before abruptly turning and scowling. He looks better these days, but still, Xiao cannot stand the sight of his face and mangled body. He’s reminded of his years under his cruel goddess and how she would debase him, prying his head back and forcing him to watch as she ruined him, fucking into him with no remorse or mercy. 

He’s an ugly, unsightly thing, and his nightmares only confirm that fact. 

His master, Morax, still haunts his dreams. Xiao feels his hands on his body, squeezing flushed flesh while his smooth lips trace each curve and swell of his body. Xiao begs quietly, digging his nails into the cot as Morax takes him apart and lets Xiao sob and cry. It’s disgusting how gentle Morax is with him in these dreams—a mockery to treat Xiao like he deserved anything good. 

No good comes from coddling a beast. 

Xiao flinches when someone knocks on the door. “Xiao? Are you decent? It would hate to intrude,” Mirai says. 

“Spare a moment,” Xiao says, quickly dressing in several layers and setting his weapon aside. He does not want Mirai to report their findings to their master. He clears his throat and allows Mirai to enter his private space. 

The fox steps in, carrying a small tray, and sets it on the table near Xiao’s beside. “Come eat. It has made your favorite,” they smile, uncovering the plate of almond tofu. 

Xiao denies himself the pleasure of eating food most days, but almond tofu is the one thing he can stomach. Morax had taken them to Liyue, allowing Xiao to wander around the city during the night, and the kind god purchased a plate of sticky almond tofu for the bird yaksha to try. It was silky and smooth, sweetened with the roasted nuts and sticky syrup that clung to Xiao’s lips. It tasted similar to the dreams that Xiao once consumed, and ever since that night in Liuyue harbor, it’s all Xiao ever asks for.

Graciously, Xiao bows his head and thanks Mirai for his lunch. He eats slowly, savoring each bite with a small smile. He eats and eats until he can’t stomach another bite, and Mirai pushes the plate away, promising to save the leftovers and make it for Xiao another day. 

“Oh, yes. Master says he would like to see you once you are finished,” Mirai says. 

Xiao blinks slowly, his heart clenching in his chest. “Did he ever say why? Is there trouble?” he asks quietly. 

“It is unsure. Master did not tell it what you are needed for,” Mirai says. “Only that it must escort you to his chambers. Surely, it is nothing that grave. Perhaps he wishes to see your progress once again.”

“Perhaps,” Xiao murmurs, picking at his cuticles. His stomach knots and Xiao can’t suppress the wave of anxiety that rolls through him. He inwardly worries, biting his lip and looking down at his lap. 

Anxiety grips Xiao as he follows Mirai to the master’s study. He holds his breath, his gaze averted to the floor as Mirai makes their presence known and makes small talk to Morax. The fox yaksha then bows and gives them privacy, sliding the door shut behind them. 

Xiao holds his breath as Morax smiles at him. “How are your wounds faring?” Morax asks, setting down his pen and gesturing to the seat before his desk. 

“They are fine, my lord,” Xiao whispers, sitting down and staring at his lap. He cannot bring himself to look Morax in the eye, afraid of what other dreams will haunt him in the coming night. He feels dirty and too ashamed to be seated in front of Morax as the god diligently works on several of his documents. “Mirai says you wished to see this one. Why?” he dares to ask. 

Morax pauses and sets his pen down, and Xiao braces himself for punishment or a scolding, but neither happens. Instead, the dragon archon smiles at the bird yaksha. “It would be a shame if you were not recovering properly. I’ve taken a liking to you, Xiao,” he says. 

Xiao’s heart skips a beat and his stomach twists. “O-Oh,” he says quietly, pressing his thighs together. 

“Is something the matter?” Morax questions. 

The yaksha shakes his head, keeping his eyes on his lap. He doesn’t like the idea of being favored by a deity once again; it makes him nervous, afraid of what Morax will do to him. The lord of geo has been nothing but kind, but his fallen mistress had also been kind to him once before she ripped the innocence from his body and turned Xiao into her weapon, her bloodhound. 

Morax gently touches Xiao’s cheek, lifting his head and humming. “Xiao, are you lying to me?” he questions. 

“No,” Xiao quickly says. “Forgive me. This one has not slept well—the nightmares. They still plague me, and this one has not slept well,” he explains. 

“I see,” Morax says quietly. “Go see Mirai or one of the other healers if you still are not sleeping well,” he instructs while tidying up his desk. “Other than that, are you feeling better than before? No aches or pains?”

Xiao shakes his head. “No, master,” he murmurs. “This one is faring well.”

“Excellent,” Morax says. “I will check on you before bed. Please rest and work lightly. If there’s anything you need, please come to me.”

The yaksha bows and swiftly exits the room, feeling his heart hammer against his chest. He sits on the futon, staring at his lap as Morax’s words replay in his over and over again. Xiao doesn’t like the fact that Morax favors him. In fact, it terrifies him, and he can feel his blood run cold. He breathes hard, wheezing and panting hard and clutching his chest. 

Would Morax expect favors from him now? Would Xiao have to offer his body and indulge his lord as the dragon bites into his flesh and takes what he wants without regard to Xiao’s comfort? The thought makes Xiao ill, and he can’t stand the idea of being an object again, but he owes it to Morax for sheltering him and offering him aid. It is a small fee to pay, and Xiao has already done it before, so he’s confident he can’t mess things up. 

He knows what he must do.

He prepares for Morax, stripping out of his clothes and slicking his fingers with his saliva. Xiao settles on his knees, pressing his shoulders to the bed, and arches his bed, circling his fingers around the rim of his hole before slowly sinking it. His spit barely helps his fingers slide in, and everything is too tight, too painful as he presses his fingers in deeper. He whimpers but forces himself to continue, gently scissoring himself open and curling inward, working himself open until his walls are relaxed and loose. 

Once loose enough, Xiao wipes off his fingers and rolls onto his bed, spreading his legs apart and running a finger over the lips of his cunt. He’s not nearly wet enough, but it’s enough to finger himself open without any pain or resistance. Like before, he slowly pumps in his fingers, bucking into his hand with a soft cry. It felt better than the previous nights, but the act still disgusts Xiao. He hates how fire licks his insides, and he moans like some whore, chasing after that foreign feeling and stopping before it becomes too much for him to deal with. 

He whines and keens, digging his feet into the futon and squeezing his eyes shut. Fire licks his insides, and Xiao can feel himself coming undone, tears rolling down flushed cheeks as he arches his back and gasps. He touches himself like the dream Morax touched him, gently prodding his insides with those long, thick fingers of his. He begs and sobs quietly, his hair tussled against the bed as adrenaline rushes through his veins. 

“Please,” he begs no one in particular, his eyes staring up at the ceiling as he keeps working himself open, ignoring how his stomach tightens, and his body screams for a release Xiao will not allow. He pulls his fingers out once he’s loosened up, and his sex aches and throbs painfully. Slick trickles down Xiao’s thighs, and he ignores it, slipping on his clothes and tying the sash around his waist. 

He pushes down the sick feeling that curls in his stomach, reminding himself that it is a small price to pay. Xiao knows that Morax does not have to be this merciful and is in no position to complain. 

Xiao waits for dinner, sitting on his knee with his hands in his lap. His heart beats loudly in his chest, his stomach twisting and knotting with anxiety. When Morax enters his room with a small tray of food, Xiao says nothing and keeps his gaze lowered, breathing softly as his master sits at the small table in the room. “Your food will get cold if you do not eat,” Morax says, gesturing to the table. “Come join me, please.”

“This one cannot,” Xiao says, bowing and pressing his forehead against the floor. “Please eat your dinner, Lord Morax,” he murmurs. 

“How kind you are, Xiao,” Morax chuckles, setting his chopsticks on the table. “I wish for you to join me, Xiao. Would you entertain me for a moment, please?” 

He wants to argue, but Xiao presses his lips together in a thin line. Instead, he lifts himself off the ground and awkwardly sits with his master, keeping his eyes in his lap. Eating with Morax like he’s an equal feels strange, but neither one says anything. 

“How are your lessons with Indarias?” Morax asks. “She tells me you are learning relatively fast—faster than anticipated.”

Xiao’s cheeks burn as he picks at his rice. “My lessons are faring well. It is still a bit strange,” he mumbles. “It’s hard to understand some of the characters. They sound too similar.”

Morax chuckles. “You will adjust in due time. If it is still too hard for you, you will tell me, yes?”

Xiao nods slowly. 

“Wonderful. Very good, little one,” Morax smiles, finishing his dinner and waiting patiently for Xiao. 

Xiao can feel Moraax’s warm and soft eyes on him as his heart thrums in his chest. Those golden, molten eyes are beautiful, and Xiao feels that his lord will consume him in one bite, cruel yet gentle, as his teeth sink into his yielding flesh. A small part of him wants Morax to devour him like he does in Xiao’s dream, slow and laborious, as he can only accept everything his master gives him. 

The heat returns and burns between Xiao’s thighs. He shifts uncomfortably, hating how his underwear sticks to him, drenched in his arousal and sweat. “Master,” Xiao whispers, trying not to draw more attention to himself. “May we go for a walk? Please?” he asks. 

“You wish to join me?” Morax inquiries. 

Xiao nods. 

“I will join you,” Morax says, his hands folded in his lap. “Finish your food, and we may leave soon.”

Xiao quickly finishes his food and follows Morax out of the room, thankfully for the distraction. He feels more relaxed the minute they step outside, and Xiao can feel the cool breeze against his cheek. They walk the perimeter of the garden, and Xiao takes a moment to smell the flowers, running his fingers along the silky petals and closing his eyes. 

“The flowers of Fontaine are wonderful to see in the spring. One of these days, I shall take you to the other nations so you may learn of their culture and environment,” Morax says. “Some of these are imported from across the nation. Menogias thought they would make a lovely addition,” he smiles, plucking a flower from the stem, removing all the prickly thorns, and placing it behind Xiao’s ear. “How lovely.”

For a moment, Xiao stops breathing. He swallows hard, his stomach already weak and his cheeks flushed red. Morax is courting him, Xiao thinks, his tongue laying heavy in his throat. His old mistress would do the same thing, present him with flowers and other small items while cooing at Xiao, occasionally preening him and tending to his wings. It feels the same now, only Morax is far sweeter than his old master. 

If Morax desires him, Xiao will give himself up to the archon. He stands on his tiptoes, his fingers gently brushing over Morax’s cheeks, and he leans in, pressing their lips together for a slow kiss. He closes his eyes, his face and ears hot as he holds the kiss, only pulling back when enough time has passed and Morax does not reciprocate. 

Morax blinks slowly, touching his lip. He stares at Xiao, his eyes like molten fire as the yaksha swallows hard, averting his gaze. “Forgive this one,” Xiao whispers. “This one will leave. Good night, master.”

He pulls away from Morax, disobeying for once and ignoring when the god calls his name. Xiao blocks out the noise, heading inside and shutting the door behind him. He feels like an utter fool for reading the situation one. Of course, Morax would not want something already soiled and damaged. It was ridiculous to think that Morax would bed an ugly little whore like Xiao. 

The little bird wraps himself in a blanket, closing his eyes and pressing his thighs together. He ignores the dull ache between his legs, pushing away his sinful thoughts and pressing his face into the pillow. Come early morning, he will repent for his sins and make up for his behavior, prostrate himself before Lord Morax, and beg for his mercy. 

Ugly little thing , his master’s voice cuts through the air, loud and clear. You are worthless. No one will ever desire you. You are made to serve. You are made to be broken and destroyed. You were made for destruction and battle and nothing more. 

Xiao squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the hot tears burn behind his eyelids. He misses when things made sense, and his master made all the decisions for him. It was an awful life, yes, but it was familiar to Xiao. Here, he’s not sure what to expect from Morax. The geo archon is so confusing, and it scares Xiao. Every time he braces himself for punishment and goes to beg for forgiveness, Morax shushes him and pats his hair, telling him that everything is alright and there’s no need to fret. 

Xiao wraps his arms around his waist, closing his eyes and relaxing against the pillow as best he can. 

Chapter Text

Sorry for the sad update, but I am discontinuing this version and rewriting it. I won't get into too much details, but I don't ike this version and it was all over the place. The new version is linked in the notes.