YIELD
Written on December 13, 2021 (♐︎︎)
Content Warning: This ficlet has explicit incestuous rape.
Isilud could not remember how or when he had dared to object—dared to stammer out that this was sin. It had meant nothing—nothing save to comfort his own vanities. It was sin whether or not he objected. It was sin whether or not he struggled. He panted against the thick leather of the gloved hand wrenched between between his teeth, and tried to linger on the taste of blood.
"I doubt you will learn much from this," his father hissed—breath hot against the bare skin of his neck. "The flesh is a slow student."
Isilud closed his eyes hard, trying to blink away what might become a tear. He did his best not to think beyond that, to concentrate on stifling the urge to weep, the urge to sob, the urge to buck away from where he lay prone. To do else would be a confession of his circumstances beyond what he could bear. They seemed to be keeping to a rhythm now, and in the midst of it, he could almost take himself away from the other particulars of the act.
It was to no avail. His father sensed him drifting, and gave him reprimand. Folmarv hilted sharply into him as the blow landed, and he could not help but cry out in pain.
"Obedience in thought too, Isilud," he growled. "In thought, in body, in action."
What was he to think? How could this be reckoned? The warm scent of unperfumed oil, the scratchy wool of the blanket against his naked flesh, the aching burn of his parts as he was filled: how was he to think on all these things in obedience? If he was to be used as his father's whore, what more could be done beyond surrender?
He felt his face flush as he was pulled backwards. In the shifting of their bodies, in the shallow whisper of their breath, there was something still he had not yielded.
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