( A quiet sound leaves Dimitri as he twists on the thin cushion he's laid out on, and the first thing he registers as consciousness starts to reach him is that his head hurts. A slow, steady ache that is just persistent enough to be annoying. It's that hint of pain that brings him to fully, blue eyes fluttering as he stares up and into the bright light of the room.
His thoughts are sluggish to catch up to him, and it takes a long moment for him to realize that this place is unfamiliar. That he doesn't recognize the grey colors of the walls or the strange and obscene posters that cover the walls in neat rows. It's the sight of one poster - a pair of men in a intimate position - that makes his cheeks flush darkly, and he rolls slowly onto his side and moves to bring one arm over his face and eyes as if that would be enough to drown out the image.
Only, when he rolls, he realizes whatever he's laying on happens to be a bed, and he isn't alone. Surprise lights his expression, takes away that shameful surprise of the posters and instead replaces it with concern. A part of him expects he will hear voices around him, his loved ones past to mock him or chide him over this situation. Only there's just a strange silence filled by the soft breathing of the person beside him.
Slowly, carefully, he sits up, body tense and unsure. The feeling of eyes on him is maddening, and Dimitri looks around slowly, taking in the space further. It seems to be a room of some sort, minimal decorations, and... this person.
The way he reaches out towards the other is slow and careful as if the other might wake and lash out, and after a few long seconds, his hand settles as a warm weight against the other's shoulder. It's only as he reaches out that he seems to realize another thought - different clothing. A t-shirt and pants that are painfully bland in color, scratchy against his skin. Scars across his arms on display. It's an observation that only adds to the growing confusion and frustration. )
Are you awake? ( He prompts softly, and there's the smallest shake of the arm under his hand. )
[Miyano hadn't been awake, no -- he'd been lost in a hazy, drugged stupor, curled up with his face pressed into the pillows, his hair tousled and sticking out everywhere. It's actually a comfortable bed, a nice set of sheets and blankets, enough to lull anyone into sleep.
But the touch rouses him, prompting him to blink up sleepily at the unfamiliar face for a long moment. It doesn't immediately register beyond a vague awareness that the stranger is handsome, looks concerned and is in bed with him.
And then Miyano is fully awake and sitting up abruptly, eyes very wide.] What's -- what's happening? Where are we?
( The way the other sits up so abruptly has Dimitri drawing his hand back quickly, shifting a bit on the mattress. His brows furrow, and he takes in the messy hair and wide eyes carefully. )
I- ( Dimitri starts before he catches himself, looking around the room as if trying to place the details. But nothing is familiar. ) ... I do not know. I have never seen this place before.
( He frowns, thoughtful and worried, as his attention returns to his companion. ) Are you hurt? ( He isn't injured himself that he can tell, but to suddenly be in an unfamiliar place... He is certain it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that force or violence had been used. )
[There's a brief moment of panic where Miya pats himself up and down, as if expecting to be missing a limb or something. It's almost comical, actually, or would be if the situation wasn't so dire.
But eventually he shakes his head, shoulders slumping in relief.] No, I-I don't think so. I feel -- fine.
[Then he frowns, reaching out and setting a hand lightly on the stranger's arm, which feels -- nice. Weirdly nice.] Are you?
( Dimitri blinks curiously at the other as he starts to look himself over, and he lifts on hand to try and hide the soft, short chuckle that leaves him.
He nods, reassured, to hear the other isn't injured. And when he feels the weight of that hand on his arm, there's no denying the sharp way his senses seem to fixate so abruptly on Miya. As if realizing for the first time his scent is appealing beyond the newness of it. )
No. Confused, mostly.
( His hand drops, curving over the smaller one on his arm. )
[Unconsciously, Miya has left his hand where it is, both for the warmth it sparks inside him, and for the comfort it brings to have something solid and strong beneath his hand. It's like nothing bad can happen, not as long as he's holding onto the stranger -- onto Dimitri.
Despite the situation, he remembers his manners, smiling upwards.] I'm Miyano. Nice to...well, it's not very nice, this is actually sort of upsetting, but, um. You understand what I mean.
[The big hand covers his own, and even more of the tension abates from Miyano's shoulders, even as he scoots a bit closer to Dimitri in the big, strange bed.] What, ah...what's with all the posters, do you think?
( It's hard to focus on anything that isn't Miyano. Dimitri feels as if all of his senses are abruptly trained on him, taking in everything from the lines of his face to the way he smells. It feels strangely difficult to focus on anything else. )
I do. ( He nods at Miyano's introduction, his attempt to be polite. It's enough that a small smile creeps across his lips. He doesn't mind that the other scoots closer. The opposite, truthfully.
It's only the mention of the posters that makes him finally look away from Miya in favor of letting his gaze trail over them. Each one seems to make his cheeks darken further, and he can't help but swallow the growing lump in his throat. ) I'm not sure. They're... Very intimate, though.
( Not nearly as much as the assortment of things on either nightstand that neither of them seems to have noticed. )
They are, aren't they. [Miyano slowly pushes himself to his feet, noticing in the back of his mind that his knees feel weak and wobbly, and that moving away from Dimitri makes something wrench painfully in his chest. Still, he wants to get a better look at the posters, tilting his head slightly.]
They're not very pretty, though. They could definitely have some more dynamic angles and maybe some flowers or sparkles added in, like in manga. [...well, that's a weird comment, Miya, good job. He quickly turns around, face turning red.] I-I mean, that's...my, um, my cousin really likes those kinds of books. She's super into them. N-Not me, though. I definitely don't read that kind of stuff.
( As Miyano slides out of the bed, Dimitri reaches out as if to stop him before he catches himself. What a strange gesture to make towards someone he's only just met, he muses, and slowly, he slides off the bed as well to stand. His balance feels off, and he keeps one hand on the bed until he feels steady enough to keep moving. )
No, I suppose they aren't... ( He replies carefully, brows furrowing as he forces himself to look over at one of the images closest to him - what appears to be a man bent over, back arched dramatically as another man fucks him. The angles seem almost unnatural, but what the pair is doing is undeniable. He can't bring himself to look long.
What Miyano is saying feels like a good distraction. ) I admit, I don't read much.
( He believes Miyano, of course. Why wouldn't he?
His attention is snatched away immediately by a sharp crackle overhead, the sound of what might be an intercom. His gaze lifts, looking around for the source curiously. )
( The silence of the dark halls he passes through is interrupted by a soft whisper of a sound. A faint hint of what he recognizes as a chant. But he pointedly ignores it as he continues his trek back towards his quarters as the sound seems to grow more loudly in his ears. It's only when his name, spoken in one of the many strange human tongues, catches his attention and he pauses to tilt his head. A summoning. Something confirmed by the steadily growing itch under his skin, and the hint of power that comes with it - that inescapable pull to bring him towards the damnable symbol.
There's a sharp, agitated flick of one of the large, leathery wings, and Bruce looks down at his feet to take in the sight of the circle that forms, calling him to the human's realm. The fade from one world and into another is always a strange feeling that leaves him feeling restless, but beyond a further flicker of annoyance, Bruce braces himself for what will come.
Humans eager for a trade, others desperate for power, some idiotic in a quest to come to the throws of hell before their time. Tiresome, all of them.
He appears in a surge of bright golden light, and when it fades, he stands there. Unamused. Blank stared. The chanting continues even as he stands there, letting his eyes sweep the faces of those standing outside the large circle and then finally, they drop to the boy in front of him. Wearing some ridiculous 'ceremonial' garment, bound in place. Weak and vulnerable. A sacrifice, then. Those are rare, he muses, and something about it is strangely exciting.
He looks down at the bound boy, one dark brow lifting. )
For what purpose have I been summoned?
( The chanting around him softens and one of the men steps forward. A virgin sacrifice in exchange for power. For wealth and success. Fleeting, human desires. Beyond a flick of the blue eyes towards the man's face, he spares them little attention before looking down at the bound sacrifice. Taking him in slowly. So small and fragile. Innocent. He can almost smell it, the puirty that rolls off of him. )
[By the time the golden light appears, Miyano's already made peace with his imminent demise. It's not exactly how he'd imagined he'd go -- ritual sacrifice isn't exactly something that happens to the average guy -- but everything from the past couple hours seems to confirm that it's inevitable. He's already begged and pleaded and had a complete meltdown, but now he's just sort of...empty.
The strange, thick, strong-smelling concoction they'd forced down his throat probably had something to do with that. Everything before then -- being grabbed off the street and blindfolded and taken somewhere remote, being relentlessly questioned about his intimate history of all things -- had been in sharp, overwhelming clarity. Now it feels vague, floaty, clouded.
Miya hadn't resisted when the group of hooded figures had stripped off his school clothes, when he'd felt their hands roaming every inch of his body, when they pronounced him suitable. He hadn't fought back when they painted strange symbols across his chest and stomach and thighs, when they dressed him in white, sheer, clinging fabric that covered nothing and led him to the altar. He hadn't begged or wept when they pushed him onto his back and bound his wrists and ankles, leaving him spread out, exposed, vulnerable.
When the huge, dark figure appears out of the blinding flash of light, though, even the drugs can't keep Miyano from recoiling in shock. He'd assumed it was some sort of arcane ritual that'd end with him being stabbed or something, actually sacrificed. He hadn't expected them to actually summon something.
The leader of the group is saying something about the figure -- the demon -- examining his gift before granting their plea, and there's a knife sliding neatly through the filmy fabric Miyano's wearing, leaving him completely bare beneath the monstrous, demonic gaze, and he can't stifle the soft, shuddering whine of fear that tears out of his throat.]
( The people around them are an afterthought. Even the man speaking to him is ignored from the sake of letting that cool blue stare trail over the fair skin on display. His gaze flicks briefly from one symbol to the next, taking them in carefully. It's only when his gaze reaches the one on Miyano's middle - his symbol - that he moves. He lowers smoothly into a crouch reaches out, pressing a large, rough hand to the symbol there. It rests there as he listens to the way his "sacrifice" breathes, how his body moves with each shuddering breath.
He seems content where he is, listening and watching, and it's only the sound of the leader's voice that seems to disturb him. The blue eyes snap upward sharply, glowing fiendishly in warning. Whatever they might have been about to say is lost as they hurriedly step back, and Bruce returns his attention to the boy on display. He'll keep this one, he decides, moving his hand from where it's landed on Miya's stomach to instead press a pair of fingers to his lips. The way he presses down is a demand to open - to take those fingers into his mouth. )
[The fearful sounds torn from Miyano's throat only intensify as the -- creature, monster, demon moves forward, lithe and predatory. Maybe this is how it happens instead, maybe he's torn apart by an otherworldly creature, long claws and sharp teeth and ferocious appetite. He can't do anything about it, has already strained until his wrists and ankles are bruised and chafed bloody.
Still, Miya flinches when he feels the huge, hot hand settle onto his stomach, squeezing his teary eyes shut and breathing shakily. His hands curl into fists, uselessly, held firmly in place, and he waits for the pain, waits to be slashed open. But there's no pain, just the weight of the hand resting on his midsection, over the painted symbol.
It's a cold night, and the cool air has Miyano's whole body shivering, goosebumps rising across his bared arms and chest. The demon is warm, and he feels a strange longing to be closer, to be touched more. Inexplicable, insane. He should be scared out of his mind, not feeling a sense of loss when that hand moves away.
But then there are fingers nudging at his lips, and Miyano doesn't think before opening his mouth, something -- the symbols, maybe -- compelling him to obey. He lets the demon slide his fingers inside, whines around them, eyes wide and teary and fixed on the shadowy face.]
( Bruce can smell every reaction Miya has to him, and it's intoxicating. He doesn't hide the way his lips part, the end of his tongue tracing curiously over the tips of longer canines and his lip. This one will fill him for a while as he slowly peels away that innocence. Piece by piece.
Once those soft lips part for him, Bruce's fingers plunge. The pair of them slide over the warm tongue, originally intent on only dampening those fingers. But the way he'd so easily parted his lips for him has Bruce's hunger spiking. There's the first swell of interest in the dark pants he wears - the material like a second skin that leaves nothing to the imagination. Not the hard lines of his legs or thighs or the stirrings if that thick, inhuman cock.
He's shameless in the way he plunges his fingers deeper, over Miyano's tongue, fucking his fingers on that soft mouth for a few seconds. Even when he feels the way the boy jerks, tongue moving and throat clenching as he gags, Bruce doesn't relent. There's a few deeper presses of his fingers against that gag reflex before they ease up, and his hand turns, enough that he can drag his fingertips along the roof of his mouth slowly as he pulls them out.
The wet fingers are trailed by a thin, gleaming string as he moves his fingers down towards those slender thighs. He presses them down against one of the symbols there, breaking the edge of it. And then he moves to the other thigh to do the same. Leaving only his mark on Miyano's stomach in tact. His claim. No other creature is welcome here. )
This one is mine.
( His voice is deep and firm, something the people around them don't question. Any words they might have to offer, any questions that might come are ignored as Bruce sinks fully to his knees between Miya's legs. He leans down pressing his lips one hip to suck a dark mark there as his hands move, trailing slowly over soft inner thighs and letting the edge of sharp nails graze his skin. )
[Considering that Miyano's sole favorite pastime is reading smutty books and manga -- including several that are specifically about hot demons ravishing helplessly bound guys -- it takes him an awfully long time to catch onto what's going on.
When the thick fingers slide into his mouth, over his tongue and press at the back of his throat, he honestly thinks the demon is trying to choke him, hurt him for the sake of his pain. Miyano's eyes well up as he gags on the digits, lips parted as wide as he can, fearful of the consequences for biting. He struggles for breath, chokes, saliva streaking his chin and throat, teary eyes rolling back before he's finally allowed to breathe again.
Sucking in shuddery, aching breaths, Miya almost doesn't hear the claim, only feeling the big hands back on his shuddering, bare body, smudging a couple of the symbols. He doesn't know what that means, except that the energy is different now, more focused, more centered on the dark shape moving to kneel between his spread legs.
It's then that it clicks, that Miyano realizes the demon isn't going to kill him -- at least not right away. He's going to enjoy his sacrifice first, right there in front of the hooded figures. The rush of fear at this realization is laced undeniably with a spark of pleasure at the sudden hot mouth pressed to Miyano's hip, the sharp nails dragging over his skin.
Shamefully, instead of trying to escape or even beg for mercy, Miya moans, lifting his hips instinctively towards the demon's mouth, whole body shivering in pleasure. It shouldn't, he knows it shouldn't, but it feels so good.]
( The way those hips move and that moan have Bruce's eyes lifting to Miya's face, watching as him carefully as he presses his teeth harder into that pale skin. Color blossoms under the attention, and when he's satisfied with the mark he's left, he takes his time dragging his teeth over the soft skin further. Along the front of his hips, tasting the soft skin.
He pulls away long enough to look down at Miyano, at the bindings of his hands and wrists. Troublesome.
One of those large hands moves, flicking his fingers sharply in the direction of one of the bindings. A gray flame erupts on the surface of each, burning through the material enough that it falls away and leaves his hands free, the fire never touching or burning that beautiful pale skin. Satisfied, he sits back on his knees, thick thighs spread and shamelessly showing the outline of his hardening cock. )
Get on your hands and knees. ( The length of his tail twitches briefly behind him before it moves, moving around him and letting the soft, warm spade at the tip of his tail graze along the inside of Miya's thighs, touching and feeling as he waits. )
[There's still fear, deep and icy, enough to make Miyano's heart rocket against his ribs, breath coming shaky and ragged. He's scared, but it just keeps feeling good, the drag of that hot mouth over his skin, the sensation of those piercing eyes on every move he makes.
So by the time the demon burns away the bindings -- so easily, confirming that yes, he's incredibly dangerous and powerful and shouldn't be messed with -- Miya is shamefully aroused. He's not fully hard yet, but even the stirring interest is immediately visible, and he has to fight the urge to clutch the shredded robe around himself once his hands are free.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Miyano's eyes are drawn helplessly to the (really big) bulge at the front of the demon's skin-tight pants. Any doubt he might’ve had about what's happening is gone, and he wonders for a brief, stupid moment if he should try to run.
But he dismisses the thought as soon as it rises -- even if he could slip past the hooded figures (who still watch, breathless and rapt), Miya doesn't think the demon would actually let him go. It'd be stupid to try. He's just being smart, at this point, drawing in a shaky breath and slowly obeying, turning onto his hands and knees on the altar, shivering all over, the remnants of the robe slipping to cover him again.
(And also, maybe, deep down, there's the tiniest spark of curiosity, nurtured by the countless books he's read, wondering if getting claimed by a demon, fucked by one is actually as mind-bendingly pleasurable as the stories say.)]
( There's nothing left of this kingdom. Only ashes and rubble, the smell of death. Bruce never hopes for things to end this way, but it feels as if they do more and more often. And whenever it does, Bruce refuses to do anything but win.
His men are making their rounds, searching for any survivors from the fallen kingdom, tending to their own wounded. Bruce sits tall on the back of his large horse, peering through the dark helmet at the aftermath. Returning home will be a welcome relief, and he's grateful it's barely a day's ride. His men deserve the rest as well.
He's prepared to head back to camp when he hears it, the bustle of movement of some of the soldiers who spot someone alive and moving in the wreckage of one of the temples. Bruce steers his horse quickly towards the commotion, the large hooves carrying him quickly towards his men. By the time he reaches them, they've already gotten hands on whoever it is.
His approach is surely terrifying on his massive horse, his own armor gleaming wickedly in the light of the setting sun. His face is hidden behind the dark metal of his helmet, the sharp winged ears sticking off the back making his shadow appear less like a man and instead something more inhuman.
He's greeted quickly by his men who hold the survivor by his arms. It's a boy, not quite a man, wearing the flowing garments of the priestesses and acolytes. The more Bruce studies him, the more details he can take in, lingering on those warm eyes. Beautiful, even in his fearful state. )
I will deal with him. ( He decides, and the two soldiers nod quickly. They haul the boy close enough that Bruce can grab him easily, pulling him up and into the saddle with him. He holds the thin wrists easily, binding them with rope. ) Don't struggle. ( Is all he says as he ties the rope off, reaching to tilt the the boy's head back to look him in the face. )
[Since his earliest memories, Miyano had been taught the same things by the priests and priestesses of the order -- if they were faithful and pious and dutiful in their prayers and sacrifices, the gods would never allow the kingdom to fall. Even as the borders are invaded again and again by the warrior king, even as their leaders grow corrupt and greedy, taking from the poorest members of the kingdom and cloistering within their castles and ignoring the rising panic and fear in the streets, these teachings remain: remain faithful, and the kingdom will not be overrun.
Orphaned as a very small child, raised by the strict priests to be a holy, untouched acolyte, to serve the gods, Miyano has never questioned these words. He'd never let the fear that ran rampant affect him, had simply kept his head high and kept the prayer fires burning and knelt night after night to pray. He'd never thought that the priests who raised him could be wrong.
But here he is, exhausted and shivering in his torn, ash-stained robes, having been alone in his cell when the temple was overrun, when the pillars collapsed and the building folded in on itself. Miyano knows it's some sort of miracle that he'd survived with little more than scratches and bruises, that it was surely divine intervention.
Yet, looking up at the helmeted, huge, imposing figure of the warrior king -- for who else could it be? -- he wonders wildly if it was the gods who spared him or something far, far more sinister.
Of course he doesn't struggle, thin wrists bound, settled into the saddle beside the enormous man, who seems as immovable as the now-shattered statues that once filled the temple. Miyano swallows hard, eyes wide and frightened and teary, but his mouth set in determination. He won't cry. This man won't see him cry.]
( There is something about the set of the acolyte's jaw, how determined he seems to keep the tears from falling, that has Bruce's attention. It's a rare thing to be able to hold in strong emotion, to bury it away even as it eats away at you. Especially in the face of what must seem like certain misfortune.
But Bruce doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he winds one arm around the teen, pulls him close to hold onto him as he steers the large horse back towards the others.
His soldiers are already dutifully packing up, more than halfway done when he reaches them. He looks over the state of his army, the injured that are being moved about, equipment and tents being packed away. A couple more hours and they'll be on their way. )
Do you need a healer? ( He prompts quietly, just for the two of them, as he keeps a hold around his waist. He tips his head down, watching his captive carefully. It'd be a shame to lose him on the journey home. )
If not, we will return my tent until the others are ready.
[The arm around his waist is huge, making Miyano wonder wildly if that's just how all the foreign soldiers are. But no, even among his own army, the warrior king is enormous, mounted on a horse that's all muscle, just like him. Compared to the soft, simpering, pale and weak priests he's used to, the invading king is more like a god than a man.
Miyano swallows hard, putting the blasphemous thoughts away. If the warrior is a god, he's a cruel, invading one, not worthy of reverence or worship. He's a force of destruction, and the fact that he's spared one acolyte only suggests that he has something far far worse in mind for Miya.
The question has him looking upwards suddenly, eyes very wide, face pale. He's sore and bruised, but nothing life-threatening. The offer of a healer is -- strange. Perhaps the warrior simply wants him to be whole, before he's taken apart. So Miyano shakes his head, looking away again, shivers rippling through him. He doesn't trust his voice not to shake uncontrollably, so he presses his lips together hard and says nothing.]
( The blue eyes narrow sharply at the silence, but Bruce says nothing for the moment. Instead, he focuses on steering his horse in the direction of his tent.
When they reach it, he moves to slide off his horse's back. The way he moves is dangerously silent for someone his size, the fluid grace of each motion a quiet nod to the smooth and powerful motions he makes on the battlefield. But for all that power, he's surprisingly gentle in the way he eases the acolyte off his horse's back to set him on his own feet.
No sooner than he's balanced on his own feet, Bruce reaches out, gripping his chin and turning the teen's face up to meet his own gaze. ) You'll answer me when I ask you a question, boy. ( His voice is calm and even, but the threat is there all the same. A few words feel like nothing in exchange for the compassion he's shown in sparing the acolyte. )
[Miyano is distracted by the graceful, dead silent way the warrior king moves, something oddly beautiful in it, despite him being such an obvious enemy of the gods. The easy way he's moved to the ground is equally dizzying, and Miya is only brought back to the real world by the hand firmly gripping his chin.
The sharp angle his neck is pushed into by nature of the enemy's height is slightly uncomfortable, but it's more the suggestion of barely restrained strength that makes Miya shiver all over. He swallows hard, feeling his breath quicken, his heart race. This man could so easily just break him.
The thought shouldn't make his knees weaken, his secret, shameful curiosity piqued.]
Y-Yes s-sir. [It's stammered out in a soft, high, shaky little voice.] I-I unders-stand.
( Bruce breathes out slowly as the other looks up at him, and a part of is relieved that this is all the show of force he needs to make. He's seen how others have reacted at the hands of his soldiers, how they resist and find themselves at the end of strength they can never compete with. This one, at least, has enough self-preservation not to argue or fight.
Slowly, his hand slips away, but he keeps the other pinned under his gaze for a few, long seconds. )
I'll ask you again. Do you need a healer? ( He reaches out, curving his hand around one of the thin arms to lead Miyano forward. His free hand reaches out, pushing aside the heavy flap of his tent to usher the other inside. )
[This time Miyano shakes his head hard, immediately, forces out the words in a small voice --] N-No, sir, I'm f-fine. [Physically, it's true; by some blessing of the gods, he's only shaken up and a bit bruised.
Then again, the gods had saved him only to deliver him into the hands of the enemy. Miyano stumbles into the tent, looking around briefly before forcing his gaze to his feet. He won't let curiosity make him lower his guard, he'll remain wary and cautious. The temple may be in ruins, but he can still behave like a faithful acolyte would.]
What...are you going to do to me? [It comes out barely above a whisper, Miyano's eyes fixed on his bare, bruised feet.[
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fuck or die with optional abo + breeding???
His thoughts are sluggish to catch up to him, and it takes a long moment for him to realize that this place is unfamiliar. That he doesn't recognize the grey colors of the walls or the strange and obscene posters that cover the walls in neat rows. It's the sight of one poster - a pair of men in a intimate position - that makes his cheeks flush darkly, and he rolls slowly onto his side and moves to bring one arm over his face and eyes as if that would be enough to drown out the image.
Only, when he rolls, he realizes whatever he's laying on happens to be a bed, and he isn't alone. Surprise lights his expression, takes away that shameful surprise of the posters and instead replaces it with concern. A part of him expects he will hear voices around him, his loved ones past to mock him or chide him over this situation. Only there's just a strange silence filled by the soft breathing of the person beside him.
Slowly, carefully, he sits up, body tense and unsure. The feeling of eyes on him is maddening, and Dimitri looks around slowly, taking in the space further. It seems to be a room of some sort, minimal decorations, and... this person.
The way he reaches out towards the other is slow and careful as if the other might wake and lash out, and after a few long seconds, his hand settles as a warm weight against the other's shoulder. It's only as he reaches out that he seems to realize another thought - different clothing. A t-shirt and pants that are painfully bland in color, scratchy against his skin. Scars across his arms on display. It's an observation that only adds to the growing confusion and frustration. )
Are you awake? ( He prompts softly, and there's the smallest shake of the arm under his hand. )
DEFINITELY abo and breeding
But the touch rouses him, prompting him to blink up sleepily at the unfamiliar face for a long moment. It doesn't immediately register beyond a vague awareness that the stranger is handsome, looks concerned and is in bed with him.
And then Miyano is fully awake and sitting up abruptly, eyes very wide.] What's -- what's happening? Where are we?
yes good
I- ( Dimitri starts before he catches himself, looking around the room as if trying to place the details. But nothing is familiar. ) ... I do not know. I have never seen this place before.
( He frowns, thoughtful and worried, as his attention returns to his companion. ) Are you hurt? ( He isn't injured himself that he can tell, but to suddenly be in an unfamiliar place... He is certain it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that force or violence had been used. )
no subject
But eventually he shakes his head, shoulders slumping in relief.] No, I-I don't think so. I feel -- fine.
[Then he frowns, reaching out and setting a hand lightly on the stranger's arm, which feels -- nice. Weirdly nice.] Are you?
no subject
He nods, reassured, to hear the other isn't injured. And when he feels the weight of that hand on his arm, there's no denying the sharp way his senses seem to fixate so abruptly on Miya. As if realizing for the first time his scent is appealing beyond the newness of it. )
No. Confused, mostly.
( His hand drops, curving over the smaller one on his arm. )
My name is Dimitri.
no subject
Despite the situation, he remembers his manners, smiling upwards.] I'm Miyano. Nice to...well, it's not very nice, this is actually sort of upsetting, but, um. You understand what I mean.
[The big hand covers his own, and even more of the tension abates from Miyano's shoulders, even as he scoots a bit closer to Dimitri in the big, strange bed.] What, ah...what's with all the posters, do you think?
no subject
I do. ( He nods at Miyano's introduction, his attempt to be polite. It's enough that a small smile creeps across his lips. He doesn't mind that the other scoots closer. The opposite, truthfully.
It's only the mention of the posters that makes him finally look away from Miya in favor of letting his gaze trail over them. Each one seems to make his cheeks darken further, and he can't help but swallow the growing lump in his throat. ) I'm not sure. They're... Very intimate, though.
( Not nearly as much as the assortment of things on either nightstand that neither of them seems to have noticed. )
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They're not very pretty, though. They could definitely have some more dynamic angles and maybe some flowers or sparkles added in, like in manga. [...well, that's a weird comment, Miya, good job. He quickly turns around, face turning red.] I-I mean, that's...my, um, my cousin really likes those kinds of books. She's super into them. N-Not me, though. I definitely don't read that kind of stuff.
[Yes he does.]
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No, I suppose they aren't... ( He replies carefully, brows furrowing as he forces himself to look over at one of the images closest to him - what appears to be a man bent over, back arched dramatically as another man fucks him. The angles seem almost unnatural, but what the pair is doing is undeniable. He can't bring himself to look long.
What Miyano is saying feels like a good distraction. ) I admit, I don't read much.
( He believes Miyano, of course. Why wouldn't he?
His attention is snatched away immediately by a sharp crackle overhead, the sound of what might be an intercom. His gaze lifts, looking around for the source curiously. )
ritual sex + demon summoning
There's a sharp, agitated flick of one of the large, leathery wings, and Bruce looks down at his feet to take in the sight of the circle that forms, calling him to the human's realm. The fade from one world and into another is always a strange feeling that leaves him feeling restless, but beyond a further flicker of annoyance, Bruce braces himself for what will come.
Humans eager for a trade, others desperate for power, some idiotic in a quest to come to the throws of hell before their time. Tiresome, all of them.
He appears in a surge of bright golden light, and when it fades, he stands there. Unamused. Blank stared. The chanting continues even as he stands there, letting his eyes sweep the faces of those standing outside the large circle and then finally, they drop to the boy in front of him. Wearing some ridiculous 'ceremonial' garment, bound in place. Weak and vulnerable. A sacrifice, then. Those are rare, he muses, and something about it is strangely exciting.
He looks down at the bound boy, one dark brow lifting. )
For what purpose have I been summoned?
( The chanting around him softens and one of the men steps forward. A virgin sacrifice in exchange for power. For wealth and success. Fleeting, human desires. Beyond a flick of the blue eyes towards the man's face, he spares them little attention before looking down at the bound sacrifice. Taking him in slowly. So small and fragile. Innocent. He can almost smell it, the puirty that rolls off of him. )
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The strange, thick, strong-smelling concoction they'd forced down his throat probably had something to do with that. Everything before then -- being grabbed off the street and blindfolded and taken somewhere remote, being relentlessly questioned about his intimate history of all things -- had been in sharp, overwhelming clarity. Now it feels vague, floaty, clouded.
Miya hadn't resisted when the group of hooded figures had stripped off his school clothes, when he'd felt their hands roaming every inch of his body, when they pronounced him suitable. He hadn't fought back when they painted strange symbols across his chest and stomach and thighs, when they dressed him in white, sheer, clinging fabric that covered nothing and led him to the altar. He hadn't begged or wept when they pushed him onto his back and bound his wrists and ankles, leaving him spread out, exposed, vulnerable.
When the huge, dark figure appears out of the blinding flash of light, though, even the drugs can't keep Miyano from recoiling in shock. He'd assumed it was some sort of arcane ritual that'd end with him being stabbed or something, actually sacrificed. He hadn't expected them to actually summon something.
The leader of the group is saying something about the figure -- the demon -- examining his gift before granting their plea, and there's a knife sliding neatly through the filmy fabric Miyano's wearing, leaving him completely bare beneath the monstrous, demonic gaze, and he can't stifle the soft, shuddering whine of fear that tears out of his throat.]
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He seems content where he is, listening and watching, and it's only the sound of the leader's voice that seems to disturb him. The blue eyes snap upward sharply, glowing fiendishly in warning. Whatever they might have been about to say is lost as they hurriedly step back, and Bruce returns his attention to the boy on display. He'll keep this one, he decides, moving his hand from where it's landed on Miya's stomach to instead press a pair of fingers to his lips. The way he presses down is a demand to open - to take those fingers into his mouth. )
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Still, Miya flinches when he feels the huge, hot hand settle onto his stomach, squeezing his teary eyes shut and breathing shakily. His hands curl into fists, uselessly, held firmly in place, and he waits for the pain, waits to be slashed open. But there's no pain, just the weight of the hand resting on his midsection, over the painted symbol.
It's a cold night, and the cool air has Miyano's whole body shivering, goosebumps rising across his bared arms and chest. The demon is warm, and he feels a strange longing to be closer, to be touched more. Inexplicable, insane. He should be scared out of his mind, not feeling a sense of loss when that hand moves away.
But then there are fingers nudging at his lips, and Miyano doesn't think before opening his mouth, something -- the symbols, maybe -- compelling him to obey. He lets the demon slide his fingers inside, whines around them, eyes wide and teary and fixed on the shadowy face.]
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Once those soft lips part for him, Bruce's fingers plunge. The pair of them slide over the warm tongue, originally intent on only dampening those fingers. But the way he'd so easily parted his lips for him has Bruce's hunger spiking. There's the first swell of interest in the dark pants he wears - the material like a second skin that leaves nothing to the imagination. Not the hard lines of his legs or thighs or the stirrings if that thick, inhuman cock.
He's shameless in the way he plunges his fingers deeper, over Miyano's tongue, fucking his fingers on that soft mouth for a few seconds. Even when he feels the way the boy jerks, tongue moving and throat clenching as he gags, Bruce doesn't relent. There's a few deeper presses of his fingers against that gag reflex before they ease up, and his hand turns, enough that he can drag his fingertips along the roof of his mouth slowly as he pulls them out.
The wet fingers are trailed by a thin, gleaming string as he moves his fingers down towards those slender thighs. He presses them down against one of the symbols there, breaking the edge of it. And then he moves to the other thigh to do the same. Leaving only his mark on Miyano's stomach in tact. His claim. No other creature is welcome here. )
This one is mine.
( His voice is deep and firm, something the people around them don't question. Any words they might have to offer, any questions that might come are ignored as Bruce sinks fully to his knees between Miya's legs. He leans down pressing his lips one hip to suck a dark mark there as his hands move, trailing slowly over soft inner thighs and letting the edge of sharp nails graze his skin. )
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When the thick fingers slide into his mouth, over his tongue and press at the back of his throat, he honestly thinks the demon is trying to choke him, hurt him for the sake of his pain. Miyano's eyes well up as he gags on the digits, lips parted as wide as he can, fearful of the consequences for biting. He struggles for breath, chokes, saliva streaking his chin and throat, teary eyes rolling back before he's finally allowed to breathe again.
Sucking in shuddery, aching breaths, Miya almost doesn't hear the claim, only feeling the big hands back on his shuddering, bare body, smudging a couple of the symbols. He doesn't know what that means, except that the energy is different now, more focused, more centered on the dark shape moving to kneel between his spread legs.
It's then that it clicks, that Miyano realizes the demon isn't going to kill him -- at least not right away. He's going to enjoy his sacrifice first, right there in front of the hooded figures. The rush of fear at this realization is laced undeniably with a spark of pleasure at the sudden hot mouth pressed to Miyano's hip, the sharp nails dragging over his skin.
Shamefully, instead of trying to escape or even beg for mercy, Miya moans, lifting his hips instinctively towards the demon's mouth, whole body shivering in pleasure. It shouldn't, he knows it shouldn't, but it feels so good.]
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He pulls away long enough to look down at Miyano, at the bindings of his hands and wrists. Troublesome.
One of those large hands moves, flicking his fingers sharply in the direction of one of the bindings. A gray flame erupts on the surface of each, burning through the material enough that it falls away and leaves his hands free, the fire never touching or burning that beautiful pale skin. Satisfied, he sits back on his knees, thick thighs spread and shamelessly showing the outline of his hardening cock. )
Get on your hands and knees. ( The length of his tail twitches briefly behind him before it moves, moving around him and letting the soft, warm spade at the tip of his tail graze along the inside of Miya's thighs, touching and feeling as he waits. )
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So by the time the demon burns away the bindings -- so easily, confirming that yes, he's incredibly dangerous and powerful and shouldn't be messed with -- Miya is shamefully aroused. He's not fully hard yet, but even the stirring interest is immediately visible, and he has to fight the urge to clutch the shredded robe around himself once his hands are free.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Miyano's eyes are drawn helplessly to the (really big) bulge at the front of the demon's skin-tight pants. Any doubt he might’ve had about what's happening is gone, and he wonders for a brief, stupid moment if he should try to run.
But he dismisses the thought as soon as it rises -- even if he could slip past the hooded figures (who still watch, breathless and rapt), Miya doesn't think the demon would actually let him go. It'd be stupid to try. He's just being smart, at this point, drawing in a shaky breath and slowly obeying, turning onto his hands and knees on the altar, shivering all over, the remnants of the robe slipping to cover him again.
(And also, maybe, deep down, there's the tiniest spark of curiosity, nurtured by the countless books he's read, wondering if getting claimed by a demon, fucked by one is actually as mind-bendingly pleasurable as the stories say.)]
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spoils of war !!
His men are making their rounds, searching for any survivors from the fallen kingdom, tending to their own wounded. Bruce sits tall on the back of his large horse, peering through the dark helmet at the aftermath. Returning home will be a welcome relief, and he's grateful it's barely a day's ride. His men deserve the rest as well.
He's prepared to head back to camp when he hears it, the bustle of movement of some of the soldiers who spot someone alive and moving in the wreckage of one of the temples. Bruce steers his horse quickly towards the commotion, the large hooves carrying him quickly towards his men. By the time he reaches them, they've already gotten hands on whoever it is.
His approach is surely terrifying on his massive horse, his own armor gleaming wickedly in the light of the setting sun. His face is hidden behind the dark metal of his helmet, the sharp winged ears sticking off the back making his shadow appear less like a man and instead something more inhuman.
He's greeted quickly by his men who hold the survivor by his arms. It's a boy, not quite a man, wearing the flowing garments of the priestesses and acolytes. The more Bruce studies him, the more details he can take in, lingering on those warm eyes. Beautiful, even in his fearful state. )
I will deal with him. ( He decides, and the two soldiers nod quickly. They haul the boy close enough that Bruce can grab him easily, pulling him up and into the saddle with him. He holds the thin wrists easily, binding them with rope. ) Don't struggle. ( Is all he says as he ties the rope off, reaching to tilt the the boy's head back to look him in the face. )
FUCK YEAHHHH
Orphaned as a very small child, raised by the strict priests to be a holy, untouched acolyte, to serve the gods, Miyano has never questioned these words. He'd never let the fear that ran rampant affect him, had simply kept his head high and kept the prayer fires burning and knelt night after night to pray. He'd never thought that the priests who raised him could be wrong.
But here he is, exhausted and shivering in his torn, ash-stained robes, having been alone in his cell when the temple was overrun, when the pillars collapsed and the building folded in on itself. Miyano knows it's some sort of miracle that he'd survived with little more than scratches and bruises, that it was surely divine intervention.
Yet, looking up at the helmeted, huge, imposing figure of the warrior king -- for who else could it be? -- he wonders wildly if it was the gods who spared him or something far, far more sinister.
Of course he doesn't struggle, thin wrists bound, settled into the saddle beside the enormous man, who seems as immovable as the now-shattered statues that once filled the temple. Miyano swallows hard, eyes wide and frightened and teary, but his mouth set in determination. He won't cry. This man won't see him cry.]
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But Bruce doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he winds one arm around the teen, pulls him close to hold onto him as he steers the large horse back towards the others.
His soldiers are already dutifully packing up, more than halfway done when he reaches them. He looks over the state of his army, the injured that are being moved about, equipment and tents being packed away. A couple more hours and they'll be on their way. )
Do you need a healer? ( He prompts quietly, just for the two of them, as he keeps a hold around his waist. He tips his head down, watching his captive carefully. It'd be a shame to lose him on the journey home. )
If not, we will return my tent until the others are ready.
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Miyano swallows hard, putting the blasphemous thoughts away. If the warrior is a god, he's a cruel, invading one, not worthy of reverence or worship. He's a force of destruction, and the fact that he's spared one acolyte only suggests that he has something far far worse in mind for Miya.
The question has him looking upwards suddenly, eyes very wide, face pale. He's sore and bruised, but nothing life-threatening. The offer of a healer is -- strange. Perhaps the warrior simply wants him to be whole, before he's taken apart. So Miyano shakes his head, looking away again, shivers rippling through him. He doesn't trust his voice not to shake uncontrollably, so he presses his lips together hard and says nothing.]
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When they reach it, he moves to slide off his horse's back. The way he moves is dangerously silent for someone his size, the fluid grace of each motion a quiet nod to the smooth and powerful motions he makes on the battlefield. But for all that power, he's surprisingly gentle in the way he eases the acolyte off his horse's back to set him on his own feet.
No sooner than he's balanced on his own feet, Bruce reaches out, gripping his chin and turning the teen's face up to meet his own gaze. ) You'll answer me when I ask you a question, boy. ( His voice is calm and even, but the threat is there all the same. A few words feel like nothing in exchange for the compassion he's shown in sparing the acolyte. )
Do you understand?
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The sharp angle his neck is pushed into by nature of the enemy's height is slightly uncomfortable, but it's more the suggestion of barely restrained strength that makes Miya shiver all over. He swallows hard, feeling his breath quicken, his heart race. This man could so easily just break him.
The thought shouldn't make his knees weaken, his secret, shameful curiosity piqued.]
Y-Yes s-sir. [It's stammered out in a soft, high, shaky little voice.] I-I unders-stand.
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Slowly, his hand slips away, but he keeps the other pinned under his gaze for a few, long seconds. )
I'll ask you again. Do you need a healer? ( He reaches out, curving his hand around one of the thin arms to lead Miyano forward. His free hand reaches out, pushing aside the heavy flap of his tent to usher the other inside. )
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Then again, the gods had saved him only to deliver him into the hands of the enemy. Miyano stumbles into the tent, looking around briefly before forcing his gaze to his feet. He won't let curiosity make him lower his guard, he'll remain wary and cautious. The temple may be in ruins, but he can still behave like a faithful acolyte would.]
What...are you going to do to me? [It comes out barely above a whisper, Miyano's eyes fixed on his bare, bruised feet.[
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lil timeskip if thats cool~~
works for me~
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