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Kirimu spent his days in Amon’s laboratory in a haze, only vaguely aware of the concoctions in his body changing it. More obvious were the voidsent crawling under his skin, trying to take over; their hunger stayed a constant companion he refused to entertain. But whatever chemicals coursed through his veins now were somehow more difficult to deny, their low thrum on top of his mind.
Today, he woke from his chopped rest to find himself strapped at a fifty degree angle. Whereas a week ago he still would have dared to try to break his cuffs, he knew better now. The door to the lab slid open upon the sound of Amon’s footsteps in the hallway. Kirimu had, to his dismay, learned to recognize that steady clicking of heels anywhere.
As he made his way inside, the mage observed his current state with a cold eye, taking in the changes to his subject’s body with an air of detached professionalism.
“How are you faring, my dear experiment?” Amon inquired with mockery.
The word dear was enough to make Kirimu bristle. They both knew they found nothing dear about each other, and there was no concern for his wellbeing in any corner of Amon’s blackened heart. “You ask like you care.”
“Truly, must you be so suspicious?” Amon pressed a palm to his chest in feigned distress. “But you’re right. I care more about the results than your comfort. Such a shame you still resist those lovely whispers within. Aren’t you curious what they’d feel like if you just… let them in?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “Or perhaps you’d prefer a different kind of surrender?”
Kirimu snapped his teeth, though his tormentor was too far for him to effectively bite; his restraints ensured it. “Did Xande tell you to ask me that?”
The irritated twitch of Amon’s ear did not escape him. Neither did the clench of his jaw, though he quickly composed himself.
“Your sharp tongue isn’t as impressive when you’re chained up like a rabid dog,” he retorted coolly. “My liege sent me to check on your progress. He’s concerned about the time it has taken to break you.” His fingers drummed against his thigh, and what fake smile he sported in a see-through effort to keep the upper hand turned brittle. “But worry not. I’ve prepared something special for today. A concoction designed to heighten all sensations: pain, pleasure, the dull ache of transformation…”
Kirimu’s distrustful hiss stayed unacknowledged as Amon snapped on rubber gloves, then reached for a vial. Violet liquid swirled inside as he held it up to the light.
“Or would you prefer I tell His Majesty you’re still as stubborn as ever?”
“You can tell him to shove it,” Kirimu feigned bravery through rising panic. “I’ve had enough of—”
But Amon was already forcing the vial to his unwilling mouth. His grip was firm and unescapable, his fingers pressing against Kirimu’s jaw to force his mouth open just enough to tip the contents past his lips. “No no no, kitten, enough is such a boring word,” he cooed, watching the panic in Kirimu’s remaining eye with devious delight. “Let us see what more tastes like, shall we?”
As the liquid slid down his throat against the protests of his gag reflex, Amon leaned in, whispering in his ear: “Breathe it in. Let it burn. Let it twist. And when you writhe—oh, do let me watch.” He pulled back with a flourish, clapping his hands together. “Art in motion!”
Kirimu coughed as the potion hit his system too fast, too thick, like molten fire searing down his throat. His body convulsed against the restraints, muscles locking in agony, and for one terrifying moment, his vision swam with purple-edged shadows.
Then—heat. Not only pain anymore, but something worse: an insidious, creeping want threading through the torment. His breath hitched, claws digging into the metal beneath him with a screech his throat wouldn’t release.
Amon clicked his tongue, circling him like a vulture. “Ahhh, there it is,” he purred. “Tell me, does it hurt… or does it sing?” His grin widened. “Or are you too proud to admit it feels good to burn?”
The trill in his voice was not delight. It was hatred, it was anger—he despised this as much as Kirimu did. Not his torment… but his pleasure. And the fact his Xande wanted it, and mixed him up in it. Even in this altered state this was clear as day to Kirimu.
Then, further proof: Amon’s grin fell for the briefest moment, enough for Kirimu to catch something raw beneath the mask. With a sharp scoff, he turned away, tossing his hair over his shoulder in forced nonchalance.
“Spare me the self-righteous glare,” he sneered, though his fingers twitched at his sides. “You think I enjoy playing nursemaid to your pathetic resistance? Please.” His voice dripped venom, betraying his agitation. He spun back abruptly, gloved hand gripping Kirimu’s chin. “You want the truth? Fine,” he uttered, stripped of theatrics for once. “Xande gets what Xande wants, and neither of us gets a choice in the matter.”
Just as quickly, the mask slammed back into place. He released Kirimu like his skin burned him, stepping back with a mocking bow. “So by all means, keep fighting. It amuses me far more than your surrender ever could.”
But his ears stayed pinned flat against his skull.
Kirimu’s breath came ragged between clenched teeth, his body trembling from the potion’s cruel grip. But his glare remained sharp, unchained even when the rest of him wasn’t. “Choice?” He spat the word like poison. “You had one when you volunteered to be his pawn.” His lips curled, fangs bared in a bloody grin. “Does he know how much you hate sharing his attention?”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Amon went utterly still… then laughed, high and brittle, like shattering glass. “Ohhh, you abominable little wretch,” he crooned, fingers twitching toward another vial. “Is that what this is about? Jealousy?” He spun the object between his fingers, tilting his head with exaggerated curiosity. “If I did carve you into something truly hideous, do you think His Majesty would mourn?” His smile was a knife’s edge. “Or would he simply… lose interest?”
The air between them crackled not with aether, but something far more volatile.
Kirimu’s grin widened, despite the way his muscles still shuddered under the potion’s hold. “You’re really asking me what your Emperor thinks?” He let out a rasping chuckle. “If you want to know so badly, why not ask him yourself?”
The vial trembled in Amon’s grip. With a snarl, he hurled it against the far wall, where it shattered in a burst of mist.
“Enough.” His voice was a lash, sharp and final. “This interrogation is over. I have examinations to do.” With several steady breaths, he smoothed the irritation from his expression. “Examinations,” he repeated, as if reminding himself. He turned briskly toward his instruments, gathering them with unnecessary haste. “Muscle density. Reflex degradation. Void-tether stability.” Each word clipped, clinical, terse. “… Penile developments.”
Kirimu blinked at the last item on the list. “Excuse me?”
Amon’s back was to him, but Kirimu could see the set of his shoulders tighten just faintly, like a bowstring drawn taut. “You heard me.” No emotion in his voice—and that revealed much more than their presence. Too forced, too calculated. “You should have several changes due to the latest testosterone shots. Don’t tell me I am more familiar with Miqo’te biology than you are.”
“That’s not what I—” Kirimu started, but bit his tongue. Anxious bile stung at the back of his throat. He watched in unease as Amon carefully aligned his instruments on the trolley. The ticking of a distant clock and the soft clink of glass on metal accompanied the rush of blood in his ears.
He swallowed, his tail’s flicking betraying his growing apprehension. “And you… need to examine it. To keep track of… changes. Is that it?”
“Correct.”
Amon spared him a glance over his shoulder, all traces of emotional vulnerability now concealed. “I need to take measurements,” he continued, clearly to himself. “Compare them with earlier assessments. Note the changes in shape, size… sensitivity.” He picked up a slender caliper from the trolley, testing its precision.
“Sensitivity—” The word lodged in like a jagged stone. “You can’t possibly expect me to—”
Amon turned, finally, the caliper glinting ominously in his grip.
Kirimu’s entire body went rigid, his pupils narrowing to thin slits. His tail lashed violently, his ears flattening against his skull. “Touch me like that,” he growled in warning, “and I swear on whatever’s left of my gods, I’ll rip your throat out the second these restraints fail.”
Amon paused, then let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Oh, darling. Threats are adorable when you’re this helpless.” He twirled the caliper idly, stepping closer. He tapped the instrument against Kirimu’s thigh. “Measurements first. Then we’ll see if His Majesty’s… investment… is yielding the desired results.” He smiled, all teeth and zero enjoyment. “Or I could write you off as defective.”
“He should know full well I’m not.” Kirimu would normally never discuss this with anyone, let alone with this piece of work, but the way it boiled Amon from the inside was worth it.
“Should he? Then perhaps you should demonstrate, unless you’d rather I report that you’re uncooperative,” Amon tried to threaten unsuccessfully. “Do you enjoy the thought of His Majesty hearing how difficult you’re being? That his pet project is deliberately wasting his time?”
His breathing was just a fraction too quick. Kirimu could see it, the way Amon’s control frayed at the edges whenever Xande’s attention was on the line. And gods, if that wasn’t the most satisfying thing he’d felt in weeks. It almost made his growing arousal make sense. But, no. That was all the chemicals inside him. He’d rather rip his own dick off than have anything about Amon make it hard.
Amon's gaze flicked downward—just for a split second—before snapping back up with a glare. “How predictable,” he sneered. “Drugged out of your mind, yet still preening like a prized tomcat.”
He snatched up a clipboard, scribbling notes with aggressive strokes. “Subject’s physical responsiveness remains inconveniently intact.” His ears pinned back as he muttered under his breath, “Of course His Majesty would find that worth documenting.” The pen nearly snapped in his grip.
“Tell me,” he murmured, suddenly saccharine-sweet, “do you honestly think he’d still look at you twice if I carved those pretty fangs out of your mouth?” His thumb pressed mockingly against Kirimu’s lower lip.
Kirimu snapped his teeth just shy of Amon’s thumb. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, court mage.” His tail lashed once, slow and deliberate. “Are you going to throw another tantrum because Xande keeps forgetting your name when I’m in the room?”
Amon went rigid. For a heartbeat, Kirimu could swear he saw something crack behind those cold seagreen eyes—
—then the moment shattered as Amon grabbed him by the throat. “Careful,” he whispered, breathing hot against Kirimu’s flicking ear. “You’re not the only one here who knows how to ruin something beautiful.”
His grip tightened, just shy of crushing, before he shoved him back with a scoff. "Now hold still. We’re done playing.” But his hands shook as he reached for the calipers again.
Kirimu grinned in hollow victory.
Amon’s hands clenched to hide the tremble of his palms. Kirimu’s taunts hit too close. Too close. But he refused to let it show, forcing his voice to a frigid calm as he snapped the calipers open.
“Open your legs.” The order snapped out ice-cold, edged with barely-suppressed rage. “We’re wasting enough time as is.”
When Kirimu complied, more potion than true consent, he exhaled roughly, pressing the instrument between them—trying to focus on the measurements, to block out that mocking smile.
Kirimu suppressed a flinch at the chill against his skin. If he was going to be prodded like some exotic specimen, he’d be damned if he let Amon have the satisfaction of seeing him falter. So he kept his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his breathing steady as Amon’s fingers moved with meticulous precision. He was a soldier, for the love of gods. He’d been stabbed through the abdomen and laughed in the face of all manner of Allagan monstrosities. He could endure this.
But for all his mental fortitude, he couldn’t suppress the jolt that ran through him as the calipers pressed, adjusting to his swelling flesh.
Amon remained fixed on the numbers, his expression unreadable behind the mask of professionalism. But his breath came just a little faster as his fingertips brushed against flesh that had no business reacting to this kind of treatment.
There was a beat, tense and silent, before a rough scoff escaped the mage’s lips. “Of course.” He sounded more annoyed than anything. “Of course.”
Kirimu bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, hoping that the tang of iron would fortify his will. He could feel himself throbbing against the instrument, his body flushed with heat he refused to acknowledge. But the potion was still in his system, making his pulse hammer in his ears. It made everything unbearably hot. Too sensitive, too much. And—gods. It was difficult to think. He just wanted this to end.
Finally, finally, Amon’s movements stilled. He withdrew the instrument, scribbling more notes on the clipboard with short, terse slashes. When he spoke, his voice was as calm as ever, but his shoulders tensed. “Now we need to measure… reactivity. Stimulation will be required.”
The back of Kirimu’s neck went cold. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore the heat pooling in his abdomen. It’s the potion, he told himself. Just the potion. He could control this. He’d been beaten, starved, tortured. This was nothing. He could weather this.
He opened his mouth to protest—to try and find just the right words to keep this from going too far—but what came out instead was a tiny whine.
Amon’s ears twitched at the sound, his grip tightening around the clipboard, knuckles whitening. For a moment, he just stared at Kirimu, something unreadable flickering behind those hateful eyes. “You reek of desperation,” he hissed, tossing the clipboard aside with a clatter. “Is this what His Majesty finds so appealing?”
Kirimu wanted to snap back, but all that escaped was another ragged sound, his claws scoring deep gouges into the metal beneath him.
Amon turned away with a theatrical swirl of his robes—as if distancing himself could mask the way his heart jumped at the sounds Kirimu couldn’t suppress. “Ugh. Disgusting.” His voice wavered on the word.
He strode to his workstation and rummaged through tools with unnecessary force. Glass clinked violently as vials shook on their rack. “I am not touching you,” he snapped, though his fingers lingered too long on the slender tube of a syringe. “But since He insists on these sordid assessments…”
Soon he found what he was looking for. Amon didn’t as much as glance at his captive as he adjusted the settings. “Try not to embarrass yourself,” he muttered.
The machine crept ever closer. Exposed, too vulnerable, Kirimu’s breath caught. He squirmed in his shackles like he could escape it.
A small, strangled sound escaped him as the machine inched closer. Its hum had no right to be so loud, so invasive. His legs tensed—then twitched, involuntarily spreading wider. The cool metal against his skin made it worse, driving his body mad with need and the sharp jolt of adrenaline.
The whirring intensified as the device positioned itself. Cold, impersonal, efficient. Kirimu’s breath came in bursts, his body taut as a bowstring.
Then, contact.
The sudden, foreign sensation—smooth, clinical pressure warring with the most seductive vibration—made him thrash violently against the restraints, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. Metal screeched under his claws as he arched, tail lashing wildly.
And Amon just stood there, kept the device in place even as his hand shook. His expression was carefully blank, but his ears were pinned back, his pupils blown wide despite himself.
It didn’t take long before he forced his gaze away, back to his notes. His handwriting was nearly illegible now, the pen digging into the paper hard enough to tear. “Reactivity: excessive,” he muttered, strained. “Sub—subject displays marked physiological response to basic stimulus.”
Kirimu writhed, unable to suppress shuddering noises in the back of his throat. The potion, the device, the restraint… He was already overstimulated to the point of pain, but the pressure from the machine just kept building, relentless, insistent.
He couldn't think. His body trembled out of his control, heat flared in his abdomen and pooled between his legs. Gods, he wanted this to stop—he wanted more—he—
Amon moved the device to prod at a spine on his cock, and he yowled.
“Were these here before?” the mage asked, like swallowing back venom.
“Ask him,” was all Kirimu managed to utter of a scathing response—before realization set in as he dared look down. Why were those there? Wasn’t that a nunh thing? He wasn’t a nunh. He didn’t even have a clan.
“I would ask him,” Amon hissed, “if I didn’t already know the answer.”
Hesitation. A flicker of something unreadable in his expression as he stared at the newly-formed spines. “He’ll find this most fascinating,” he murmured against his will. His thumb brushed over one—testing its texture, its sharpness—before he jerked his hand back as if burned.
Kirimum’s tail lashed violently. “You can both take your fascination and—ah—shove it—”
“Spines or not," Amon snapped, “you still behave like a common beast in rut.” His tongue clicked in sharp disgust, but his pulse jumped as Kirimu’s claws scraped against the metal again.
Without warning, he wrenched the device away.
Kirimu writhed at the abrupt loss of contact, every muscle taut, breath coming in harsh, ragged pants. “Gods,” he hissed between clenched teeth. Every nerve felt raw, oversensitive, feverish. For a moment, his only awareness was of himself—the heat pooling in his core, the tension coiled tight enough to explode, the overwhelming need for release.
Then he heard Amon’s sharp breath, and his hazy vision snapped back into focus. “I should report you defective,” the mage said again, just a little too rushed, too tilted at the edges. “Perhaps His Majesty would then see the benefit in dismantling you for parts.” His hands clenched and unclenched as he fought to stay still, to keep his breathing even. “The parts that work, at least.”
Kirimu let out a shuddering laugh. “Go ahead. Write it in your little report.” His claws flexed against the fresh gouges in metal. “‘Subject remains functional where it counts.’”
Amon opened his mouth—to sneer, to snarl, something—
—when the door hissed open behind them.
Both froze.
“Amon.” The Emperor’s voice filled the animosity-charged air, smooth, measured, but undeniably interested.
Amon spun on his heel, robes flaring, blocking Kirimu from view with practiced swiftness as he bowed. “Your Majesty!” he trilled, obsequious and obnoxious. “I was just—”
“Spare me.” Xande didn’t even glance his way, his gaze instead sliding past him to Kirimu still bound, still flushed, still panting.
Amon’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“How delightful.” Kirimu heard the smirk in the Emperor’s voice—felt it like a rake down his spine.
He bared his teeth, straining against his bonds as Xande strode closer. Amon shifted to block his path, but the Emperor’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Stand aside,” came his order. “I want to examine my investment myself.”
Amon stuttered, “But—”
Xande’s fingers dug into Amon’s shoulder just enough to bruise before shoving him aside with a dismissive flick. “Enough.” His eyes never left Kirimu, dark between amusement and hunger. “Now then… let’s see what my wayward dragoon has grown into.”
Kirimu snarled—but his breath hitched as Xande’s hand trailed down his stomach, stopping just shy of his leaking cock.
Amon stood rigid behind them. His fingers twitched toward a discarded scalpel; even its soft clink as it moved on the table nearly drowned his voice. “… Your Majesty.”
Xande paused, his hand hovering over Kirimu’s heated flesh, and glanced back at Amon with a slow, deliberate raise of his brow. “Did I ask for your opinion?”
His lips pressed into a thin line, Amon stepped back with a stiff bow. “Of course not.”
Xande smirked, turning his attention back to Kirimu. His fingers traced along the newly-formed spines, pressing just hard enough to make Kirimu’s thighs jerk.
“Remarkable,” he murmured, low and appreciative. “Amon, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Amon’s nails bit into his own palms. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Kirimu exhaled sharply, his body strung tight between pain and pleasure, but his gaze locked onto Amon’s seething stillness. Despite everything… he grinned. That was worth every second.
Xande didn’t notice the gleam in Kirimu’s eye. He was far too focused on the way the spines throbbed against his fingertips, drinking in the gasps spilling from Kirimu’s lips. “I knew you had so much potential,” he murmured, moving to the next spine. He pressed harder this time, a cruel edge to his smirk. “And it appears you’re still growing.”
Rage flared inside Amon, but he remained silent. This was never supposed to happen, Kirimu read on his visage. The Emperor was meant to lose interest, to discard this mangy cat like every other failed experiment, yet here he was, praising the results while his most devoted supporter stood there like an afterthought.
Kirimu watched him through half-lidded eyes, tail flicking weakly in exhausted defiance. His grin widened when Amon’s mask cracked for the briefest second.
Xande dragged his thumb along Kirimu’s jaw. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Kirimu’s gaze never left Amon’s. “Immensely.”
Neither of them wanted Xande here. Neither of them wanted this. But Amon had no choice. And Kirimu had no mercy.
He exhaled, letting his head fall back against the table as Xande’s fingers trailed back lower… and Amon turned away. Silent. Seething. Defeated.
Kirimu closed his eyes, and laughed.
The sound made Xande pause, his hand stilling on his chest. “Did I say something funny?”
Kirimu let out another laugh, just to spite both of them. “You have no idea.”
Xande’s fingers curled into a fist, then in one sharp move grabbed Kirimu’s jaw, wrenching his head back. “Perhaps I should have Amon remind you of your place,” he said, his voice soft and dangerous, “since you seem to be forgetting it.”
The sudden shift was almost comical: where Kirimu had been grinning in vindictive triumph just moments ago, now his lips twisted into a seething scowl. And Amon, who had been glaring daggers at them both, now wore a smirk as sharp as the scalpel still lying in wait on the table. Like they’d switched faces.
Xande didn’t notice. His grip tightened on Kirimu’s jaw, nails biting into skin. “Disrespect will be met with consequences,” he reiterated, laced with dark promise.
Amon let out a soft laugh and took a step forward. “I’d be delighted to assist.” His hands flexed at his sides, waiting.
And Kirimu’s gaze sombered as he caught the subtle change: the shift in power, the shift in stance. He knew that stance too well. Amon was spoiling for a fight, and so was he.
But Xande had other ideas. “Then bring me some lubricant,” he ordered, “and hold his legs up.”
Suddenly the mage had nothing to smile about. His protests went unheard. Xande’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing dangerously, and Amon bit back a curse. Slowly, he moved back to the workstation, rummaging through a drawer and retrieving a small bottle of the requested fluid.
His hands shook as he crossed back to Kirimu and the table, pausing before slipping his fingers under the straps to loosen them. He then reached down, hooking his arms under Kirimu’s thighs to raise them.
Even as Kirimu’s breath hitched, eye flying open, Amon didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze fixed dead on the wall.
“Higher,” Xande commanded as he uncorked the vial, and Amon obeyed automatically, as if programmed to serve.
Kirimu’s face flushed crimson as Xande’s hand moved lower, slick with lube, trailing across heated flesh.
Xande let out a soft, amused huff of a laugh. “So impatient, my pet.”
A finger pressed against Kirimu’s rim, and his breath hitched. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. He forced himself to go still, teeth clenched, his glare fixed on the wall along with Amon’s. He tried to focus on the cold metal against his skin, the bite of the straps, the dull throb in his stomach, even the too-tight grip on his thighs. All more powerful sensations than they had any right to be while the drugs still coursed through him—but nothing compared to the searing hot fire when Xande pushed in.
Kirimu yowled, going rigid in Amon’s hold, which in turn tightened further. Nothing ever prepared him for just how thick just one of Xande’s digits was; at least the bastard had the courtesy of clipping his claws. The same couldn’t be said for his servant, whose nails dug deeper into his flesh. His grip was the only thing keeping Kirimu’s trembling legs up.
“You’d think you’d be used to taking something this size by now,” Xande taunted, and oh, Kirimu wished he could wipe that smile off his face with the ease he wiped Amon’s. He curled his finger, pressing harder.
Kirimu hissed, trying to pull away, but Amon held on too strong. He was forced to let Xande move him between pleasure and pain like a master musician, never quite satisfying. Claws scraped uselessly against the table as Xande worked him open with deliberate, taunting slowness, each twist drawing another choked sound from his throat. He could feel Amon’s grip tightening further and nails biting into his skin, but the mage still refused to look at him—refused to acknowledge anything but the damn wall.
And Kirimu wouldn’t have it. He wanted Amon to see. Wanted him to watch as Xande dragged pleasure from him like a confession. Wanted him to burn with it.
So when Xande increased his torment by forcing a second finger in, Kirimu arched against the restraints and moaned, loud and shameless.
Amon flinched. And Xande laughed, dark, satisfied, like he’d been waiting for that sound. “There it is,” he murmured, twisting his fingers just so. “Much better.”
Kirimu gasped, thighs twitching violently in Amon’s grip. He hated this—hated how his body betrayed him, how Xande played him like a damn instrument—but gods, it burned, it ached, it—
Amon’s breathing ran ragged now, his fingers digging bruises into Kirimu’s skin. He still wouldn’t look.
Kirimu bared his teeth. Fine. He let his head fall back with a broken groan, spine arching, cock dripping against his stomach. “F-fuck—”
Xande’s smirk widened. “Oh, I intend to.”
And Amon? Amon finally looked.
Kirimu tilted his head up to meet his gaze—wild, furious, ruined—and grinned. Got you.
Amon’s breath stuttered before his lips curled into a snarl. “Pathetic,” he whispered venomously, carefully only for his ears, but his fingers trembled against his thighs. He tried to look away again, but Xande chose that moment to stroke Kirimu’s cock to the rhythm of his ministrations and Kirimu arched, his cry ripping through the lab.
This, apparently, was too much. The mage’s grip tightened painfully before he forced himself to relax. “Your Majesty,” he pleaded, “perhaps we should—consider restraint.”
Xande barely acknowledged him. “He’s fine.” His fingers twisted deeper, steadily pumping in and out, and Kirimu’s claws screeched against the metal. “Aren’t you, Meracydia’s hero?”
Kirimu wanted to spit, to snarl, but all that came out was a shuddering gasp. But at least Amon watched. Watched his every twitch, heard his every stifled moan. Watched the way his cock leaked against Xande’s hand, flushed and desperate. Watched—and hated himself for it.
Kirimu locked eyes with him, panting, and smirked. That, he hated even more.
The moment of triumph was short-lived. Xande scissored his fingers, crooking them just so as to see how much more of Kirimu he could take. And it was only by biting his bottom lip that Kirimu managed to hold back a scream. He was shivering like a leaf, only held together by Amon’s hatred dug into his thighs.
He caught Amon’s gaze, no longer glued to the wall but his face. And the sight still seared, but for a different reason. Because he could no longer distance himself. The mage was furious—furious that he was forced to watch in the first place, furious that his hands were complicit, but most of all furious at himself for the way his body responded. In every shallow breath, every twitch of his fingers, every clench of his jaw… it was blatant.
“Interesting.” Xande curled his fingers, forcing another moan past Kirimu’s throat. “You’re particularly sensitive today. I wonder what could be the cause.”
His gaze flicked to Amon. “Perhaps it’s all those… stimulating tests.”
Amon cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I’m certain that’s merely the drug—”
“Oh, I’m aware.” The words were sharp. “Which you assured me would not be a problem.”
Amon shut his mouth.
Kirimu’s mind spun too fast to keep track of the conversation. His eye was glassy, unfocused, his body trembling as his toes curled in the air. He wanted, gods, he needed to focus, but all he could feel was burning heat, too hot, too much, gods—
Then Xande twisted his fingers again, and his thumb dragged down his spines just so to tear an agonized cry from his throat.
It wasn’t embarrassing enough that his body trembled beyond his control. Now his voice was betraying him too, even more gasps and moans and half-choked whines forced from him with terrifying efficiency. He tilted his head back, desperate for anything to muffle the sounds, finding nothing but Amon’s collar to hide his face in. It was enough. So averse he was to give these monsters the view of him on the precipice that it had to be.
Every sane part of him protested the idea of climaxing to this torture. The least sane, the newly awakened nunh in him begged in contrary to breed—breed what? Xande’s fist? He hissed his conflicted disgust into the fabric as his core tensed.
He was close—so close, too close—when Xande stopped. Completely. Withdrew his hands, took a step back, left him to writhe and pant seeking an end just out of reach.
“Finish him off, Amon,” he ordered as he walked across the laboratory to wash his hands. “Collect and analyze the results. Then bring him to me.”
Kirimu could sob. His head swam, body trembled with unfulfilled need, his skin burned with the humiliation of being put on display like this and left out to dry. All the while Xande stood at the wash basin, acting like he hadn’t just thoroughly wrecked him.
“But—” Amon’s voice strained for a different reason. “Your Majesty, I—”
The objections withered in his throat when Xande turned back with an icy stare. “You heard me.”
Amon scowled, dropping Kirimu’s quivering legs like piles of filth. Kirimu fell back with a gasp, tail lashing weakly against the metal. Through the fog, only the barest sensations pierced through: the bitter sting of being cast aside, used and abandoned, and the ache still pulsing in his cock.
He heard the sound of footsteps as the mage retreated, then reapproached. The click of heels paused at his side. He didn’t look. His teeth clenched tight. Neither spoke. But Kirimu felt Amon’s gaze on him—then, the sharpness of a scalpel at his throat.
He stiffened, eyes snapping open to find himself staring into Amon’s face. He’d made himself unreadable, his expression carefully blank. Kirimu wanted to spit, but it lodged in his throat with his breath. For a moment, the two just stared at each other.
“He didn’t mean that as in kill,” Kirimu warned.
The blade stung on his throat as Amon leaned in closer. “Oh, how I wish he did.”
For a heartbeat, Kirimu thought Amon would do it, that his hatred would finally spill over. His fingers tightened around the scalpel’s handle enough to draw a bead of crimson at his neck. But the mage sneered and the blade withdrew.
Fingers curled into Kirimu’s hair, wrenching his head back. “But alas,” he murmured, thick with contempt, “His Majesty wants you alive.”
His free hand closed around Kirimu’s cock without warning. Kirimu’s gasp tore through the silence.
“Too bad for both of us, huh?” Kirimu snarled, twisting against the restraint, but the blade returned to his throat, holding him in place with the threat of spilling blood. “Bastard.”
Amon’s mouth curled into an ugly smirk. He leaned in until their faces were a hairsbreadth away. “Watch your language,” he hissed, his grasp tightening. “You’re in no position to take that tone with me. You’re lucky I’m even willing to do this.”
“Willing.” Kirimu spat the word back at him. “As if you had a say.”
That got an irritated twitch in return. Amon’s eyes darkened as he began to work, stroking Kirimu without a hint of mercy. “Shut up,” he demanded, grip tight on the scalpel and his cock both. “Shut up. Shut up. I have to listen to your whining all day, and I will be damned if I’m forced to listen to more now.”
Kirimu’s lips pulled back, trampling the fine line between a grin and a grimace. “Make. Me.”
The sound Amon made could have been mistaken for a laugh, if it weren't so venomous. His fingers twisted, thumb pressing hard against the spines now lining Kirimu’s cock, and—
Kirimu’s breath broke.
“There,” Amon jeered, triumphant and vicious. His grip tightened further, dragging Kirimu closer to the edge with every brutal stroke. “No more clever words now?”
Kirimu arched off the table as his vision blurred—his claws still dug into the metal beneath him, his pride raging against the pleasure forcing its way through him. He wouldn’t give Amon the satisfaction of begging. But gods, he was close.
Amon watched him unravel with narrowed eyes, his own breath coming faster despite himself. His fingers never slowed, never eased. He wanted this over with. Wanted him shattered.
Kirimu hated him for it.
Hated him.
Hated him.
Hated—
—and his body betrayed him entirely.
With a shuddering gasp, Kirimu came hard, spilling over Amon’s fingers in hot, pulsing stripes. His vision whited out, his muscles locking in agonized ecstasy as he choked on his failed resistance.
Amon did not stop. Not until Kirimu was writhing beneath him, oversensitive and gasping, his entire being blazing with the aftershocks. Only then did he pull away, disdainfully gathering the evidence as Xande asked.
“Disgusting.”
Kirimu couldn’t even muster the energy to snarl back. His chest heaved, his limbs trembling, his mind still reeling. Amon stalked back to the basin, leaving him to struggle weakly in his restraints. He discarded his gloves and scrubbed his hands in frigid silence, not even deigning to look at him.
His pride was a bleeding, beaten thing—but he’d rather die than give Amon the last laugh. He waited until his adversary’s back was turned before stretching his neck, boldly lifting his chin. “That was the best you could do?”
Amon’s shoulders went rigid. His fingers clenched around the sides of the wash basin. “It was more than you deserved,” he said finally, in little more than a harsh whisper. When he spun back toward Kirimu, his glare sparked with anger.
Kirimu forced a sneer. “Please. I’ve had better than you in the gutter.”
“Then go back there.”
“Sure. Anywhere rather than here.”
Amon’s lip curled at that. Of course. Kirimu was always trying to get the last word, even now. Even after all of this. It was a wonder Amon hadn’t throttled him to death already.
And gods, they both knew he wanted to.
He stalked back towards the table, every step resonating with barely-suppressed fury. “You can never shut up, can you? Your insufferable pride. Your insatiable defiance.”
Kirimu met his gaze with contempt. “At least I’m not a spineless lapdog.”
Amon grabbed Kirimu’s jaw with bruising force and smashed his head back against the table. “I am not—I have never been—a lapdog, you arrogant little brute!” He leaned down until their breaths touched, teeth clenched. “You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for His Majesty. What I’ve given for his Empire. Everything in my life is owed to him, and all I ask for in return is to keep my dignity intact.”
Kirimu’s vision fragmented from the impact, doubles of his assailant circling it. Even through the throbbing pain he forced a retort, “And he couldn’t give you that much.”
“You know nothing,” Amon hissed. “You have no idea what goes on between my liege and I. No idea what I do for him in private. You are not fit to understand.”
“I doubt your dignity features heavily in what you do for him behind closed doors,” Kirimu laughed in derision.
“Watch. Your. Tongue, if you want to keep it in that filthy mouth.”
“Filthy? You’re one to talk when you just had your hand down my—mmmhph—!”
The mage’s hand slammed over Kirimu’s brazen lips, cutting off the rest of his sentence. “Shut up! I don’t want another word out of you.”
But he soon recoiled with an indignant yell as Kirimu licked his palm in retaliation.
“You—!” His ears pinned back, teeth bared in revulsion as he shook spit off. “You vile—deplorable—”
Victory was sweet despite the lingering ache between Kirimu’s legs. “Tastes like your failure.”
The world fractured further as Amon backhanded him across his smug smirk.
The impact snapped Kirimu’s head to the side, blood blooming at his nose. He inhaled sharply, laughed harder than he had in ages, then turned back grinning crimson. “And that tasted like desperation.”
Amon’s fingers twitched toward Kirimu’s throat, his pulse hammering with the urge to strangle that mocking grin right off him.
Instead, he snatched a syringe from the nearby tray and drove the needle into Kirimu’s arm before he could so much as flinch.
Sedative, huh? How mature to escape an argument by shutting your opponent down, Kirimu thought as his limbs turned leaden.
“Go to sleep,” Amon spat, watching as Kirimu’s eyelids drooped before his body finally slumped back against the table. “And spare me your nonsense.”
But even unconscious, even beaten, Kirimu’s smirk lingered like a scar. He’d no doubt wake up in Xande’s clutches, where he had much less power… but here, he’d won.
Amon wiped his hand against his robe and stormed out.
