Smutty One shot: Inevitability

Hey y'all. So, spoons and ideas permitting, I've decided to participate in some kinktober writing. Yesterday's prompt on the list I was using was "Fight / Capture" and I made this. This one is definitely sharper than some of my other work, so bear that in mind. In the spirit of the season, I've leaned into some stronger horror vibes here. CW wise we have implied kidnapping, non con, horror vibes, mind / body alteration

Gdocs links for those who prefer to read it there:

Small text: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dGxcQ_EFzU7s24UnDO28FfZ9GFQol0xY8GVbxsi_zJU/edit

Big text: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jF4KP0baY-O7ZuAgom7LietF6g_X5zOpX_X0iUoAYaE/edit

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“—there won’t be any fight left.”

* * *

A sharp gasp: warm, heavy air, thick with the scent of burning sage filled her lungs. It scratched at her aching throat, and stung at her wrists, raw from her bindings. And yet, she was unbound. A trick, perhaps? No, that woman had left her here, in this place. What was the word again? sanctum. It was her sanctum. That woman always took her here to weave whatever foul magics were now hewn into her flesh. The sedatives seemed to have worn off early this time, though: just her luck. She sat up; overwhelming vertigo stuck her, clouding her vision and sending her off balance. Blood pounded in her head as the room swirled. Thinking was so hard. It was that woman; that fucking witch had done something to her, had been doing things to her. And now so much as gathering her thoughts was a struggle, like wading upstream. A current of distant simplicity sought to sweep her away, and into passive acceptance. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Gnashing her teeth, she dug her nails into the crook of her arm and pinched. Pain exploded in her arm. As her head cleared, a meek yelp escaped her lips. She rolled off the table she’d been placed upon, landing on all fours, then struggled to her feet. Never in her life had the simple act of pinching her arm hurt so bad. She was bleeding, and the culprit was obvious: her nails. They’d grown so sharp, that was new, wasn’t it? That woman—her captor—she was doing something, changing her. Each visit to her inner sanctum, each spell her captor cast altered her. The enchantments would sow themselves into her flesh, leaving glowing runes behind: permanent reminders which marked all that had been done to her.

Of course, that was only the beginning. Each time she awoke, her body was less her own. But keeping track of it had grown so difficult. Her vision was sharper, skin more sensitive. Of late, her fingers had been growing stiff, moving them, and manipulating things had begun to feel increasingly unnatural. Oh yeah, and there was also the tail. How could she forget? She had a fucking tail now, or at least the beginnings of one. It barely stuck a few inches out the base of her spine, but was there, and it had been growing longer with each trip to her sanctum.

How many times had she awoken on that table, immobilized while her captor stood over her, chanting some sinister incarnation? She’d lost count. She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. She’d had a life before this, before being taken. It was nothing but frayed little scraps, blurred edges lingering on the fringes of her memory. Her job? Something with numbers, she couldn’t recall, and the very concept seemed confusing and difficult to her now. Her friends and family, distant, unsatisfying silhouettes. Even her name eluded her. Swelling panic threatened to overwhelm her; she took a slow breath: sage. A pleasant enough scent, and as good a name as any; she needed a new one, after all. Sage set her jaw, and righted herself. She could worry about what she’d lost later, for now, she had an opportunity: escape. Something had gone wrong, the sedatives had worn off before her captor had returned, and Sage had no intention of squandering her good luck.

The coast seemed clear. Sage could not be certain, but what was she to do but take the risk? A step, then another, and another, each slow, deliberate, primed with the utmost care to ensure silence and caution. She reached the doorway: still nothing. No alarms, no traps, no guards or dogs, her captor was not lurking round the corner, lying in wait to pounce. And yet, as Sage made her way out into the hallway, down the corridor, she felt only mounting unease. Torches played dancing shadows against dim light on worn stone walls. Rhythmic dripping water followed Sage, echoing through the twisting intestines of her captor’s manor, the sound always trailing mere paces behind. From time to time, a deep, rumbling groan, followed by a gust of cool air would rush through the damp hallways. Each and every time, she had to fight the urge to jump in fright, to arch her back; her hairs would stand on end and cool sweat would streak down her spine. Not knowing what caused the commotion was the worst part. A strange invention? A machine of sorts, perhaps? Or something worse, maybe. A monster, a specter, a gate to someplace terrible and unknowable, Sage played helpless victim to her imagination.

Looming dread closed around her with every step away from that place, every step toward freedom. She could not see it, nor name it, but it was there. What was she doing, really? And why? Sage hadn’t the slightest idea what might lurk within these halls, nor what would happen were she caught. What sort of twisted punishment might her captor inflict on her? Worst still, what if there truly was some horrid monster stalking these halls, and it got to her first? Sage shuddered, she needed to not think of such things. She would escape; she would escape and then… then she would be lost regardless. If at any point Sage had known where, exactly, her captor had taken her, that knowledge was lost to her now.

With every step, a nagging voice in her head grew louder, one that asked a simple question: was she even doing the right thing? Were she to remain, Sage would stay at the mercy of her captor: a woman whose end goals and intentions were unclear, but who, at the end of the day, seemed to be fairly consistent in her modus operandi. But this? running off into the unknown could carry any number of consequences. It wasn’t too late; she could still slink back to the sanctum and await her captor’s arrival. Sage didn’t know what would become of her if she did, but it was a fate she’d grown familiar with at least. And her captor hadn’t exactly harmed her. At least, she hadn’t harmed Sage the same way that lurking monsters, or roving murderers, or unknowable horrors from worlds beyond, or even starvation could. Perhaps it would be safer to—no, she was being ridiculous, cowardly. She grit her teeth, and shut out the sinister whisper in her head.

Even so, that creeping wrongness remained. While Sage struggled through the dark, It slinked in the shadows of her mind: watching, waiting, reminding her just how wrong each step she took felt. Tension mounting, Sage forced another step, and stumbled. In the dim quiet of those crowded corridors, the sound seemed to stretch forever, an echoing call to all who might wish to hear it. A dinner bell even, perhaps. She froze. Her heart shuddered, stiff fingers twitched. Sage ran. No, she didn’t just run. She hurtled herself down those stone halls, sprinted, thrust, dashed and scrambled and charged and tore, even as her every instinct screamed at her to halt. She was rushing headlong into danger, into the unknown. It was too late for her. They knew. They had to know now. And they were closing in; she was closing in; every nightmare and every shadow was drawing near. Turn back, she needed to turn back and make her way back to that room, to accept her fate instead of rushing head-first into some clawing unknown. Somehow, Sage didn’t stop.

To say Sage moved with any sort of rhyme or reason, any intuition or intent, would be to tell a lie. She could see, but she was blind, taking corners at random, fully aware that she could run through these winding hallways for hours without finding her way out. But somehow, whether it be by sheer luck or hidden design, Sage came upon a door. Absent the luxury of consideration, Sage pressed forward, bursting outward in a desperate gasp for freedom. And with that gasp, she breathed fresh, sweet air. Sunlight visited gentle touch upon a verdan forest clearing. Flowers of every color bloomed around her. High in the trees, a chorus of birdsong. Everywhere she look, Sage found beauty. Yet, her prevailing feeling was not relief at escape, but the lingering shadow of uncertainty.

How long, she wondered, would she wander through these trees before their beauty turned to menace? How many hours, days, nights would she spend looking for civilization? How long could she even last? Sage hadn’t the slightest idea of when she’d last eaten, or had something to drink. And out there, she did not know when her next would be either. Within those walls, time was a blur. Sage spent most of her time in a daze, waiting for the next interruption of meals, experimentation, or proper sleep. Some might say that was no way to live, Sage would be inclined to agree, but at least back there she never went hungry. The quarters her captor kept her in were relatively small, but they were comfortable. It wasn’t much to give up, but it was better than stumbling blindly through the woods, dying alone of starvation, or winding up a meal for a bear or a pack of wolves—or worse. But no, she couldn’t. Staying carried too steep a price. As long as she still had a chance at escaping she had to try.

Sage took a cautious step out onto the earth, leaving her captor’s home behind. Had she really done it? Was she really out? Even if Sage had escaped, her captor could still give chase; she needed to move. She found the will to push forward. Cautious steps became a brisk walk, became a light jog. Her breath hitched in her throat, exhaustion mounting as the dread returned with a vengeance. It would be okay, though, right? She was close. So close. Close to what she couldn’t say, but she knew she was close. It would be over soon. Another heavy footfall, and Sage stumbled, then tripped, then tumbled forward to the ground.

Stifling a pained grunt, she rolled on to her side, then pushed herself up. When had she grown so dizzy? Floral scents crowded her nostrils, overwhelmed her senses. Everything was so, so heavy. And the light, so bright, it burned, sapped her strength. Sage didn’t belong here. She needed to push forward. Muscles screaming, she pulled herself forward, only to fall against a tree. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Just a moment of rest, she would recover her strength, then press on. Behind her, someone cleared their throat; Sage snapped to attention, whirling around to face her unwitting company. Truth be told, she hadn’t needed to look, not really. She’d known. She’d always known.

Her captor sat on a tree-stump, one leg crossed over the other, smirking. She raised her eyebrows in greeting, and broke into a full, toothy smile. Like that, that smothering dread was swept away; A great weight lifted from her shoulders. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Sage wasn’t supposed to be relieved to see her. She should be terrified. She was terrified. It didn’t matter how uncompromisingly beautiful that woman was, nor how strange and unknown the world outside her control would be. Sage had to run. So why wasn’t she? Just one step, if she could do that, then she could take another; she could keep going. She forced her leg forward, dragging herself away from that woman, those sparkling eyes, that enchanting smile.

Another step: it was working; she was doing it. Every step was more draining than the last, a more desperate push, but somehow, she was managing. She even found the strength to run, at least for a time. But with every step, Sage could feel her following behind. While Sage flailed forward in a mad scramble, her captor kept a leisurely, relaxed pace. To her, this was no more than a game. And all games end, eventually. Drained, Sage fell to her knees; her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her time had come. She turned. Not fifteen feet away, her captor sat upon a stum—a different stump, it had to be a different stump—watching, waiting. Her smile only broadened at the sight of her prey, maybe it was the look in Sage’s eye, one that shone with a new appreciation of the word inevitabile.

She didn’t speak, not when a simple snap of the fingers, and a point to the ground at her feet would suffice. Thus began Sage’s final battle. Her skin, her bones, her muscles, they all ached to follow, to settle, to take their place at her feet. There was more though, something else; something deep, and primal within Sage wanted to follow suit. A stern look, and another snap, then point, for firm, more insistent. That was when Sage realized that she’d fallen to her hands and knees. And it was so hard to breathe. Everything felt wrong, and Sage understood one simple truth: things would never feel right, until she obeyed. Without even realizing, she took a half step forward, shambling on all fours. It felt like rising from the depths of the sea, trading pressure and pain for immense relief, and bringing herself that much closer to her first true breath in so long. The encouraging smile on her face captured Sage’s attention, and by the time she regained her focus, she’d been drawn that much closer. This time, it wasn’t just release; it was bliss.

.A look must have crossed Sage’s face, perhaps the final realization of her defeat. It didn’t matter though, really. Whatever the look was, it prompted a sweet, musical laugh. Sage would give anything to hear that laughter again. Before she even noticed, Sage was bounding up to her, joy swelling to greater heights with every inch. She skidded to a halt before her captor, gazing up at her as Sage caught her breath. Her captor leaned forward, running a hand through Sage’s hair. “There’s a good girl,” she cooed. Pleasure erupted in Sage’s mind, in her heart and on her flesh; she moaned as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her Mistress patted her lap invitingly, and Sage obeyed, resting her head on Mistress’ soft, welcoming thighs. More soothing scritches followed, and Sage eagerly pressed her face into her owner’s lap, arching her back and breathing another long, low moan. Giggling, Mistress tapped Sage on the cheek, prompting her to look up into that soft expression, that perfect face, those possessive eyes that screamed ‘mine.’

“Look at you,” she murmured, continuing to visit idle strokes and scritches upon Sage’s scalp. “It gets easier every time, doesn’t it?” Sage was inclined to agree; she nodded along, nuzzling her face against Mistress’ softness. Another giggle, and Mistress sighed. “I suppose you’re likely too far gone at this point to understand what I’m saying, though.” A collar clicked around Sage’s neck, filling a need she hadn’t even noticed was there. “We should head home soon, pet. It’s another loss after all, and you know what that means. I wonder what my spells will weave this time? Perhaps your fingers will curl, or we'll get a peak at your ears, I’m sure you’d like that, wouldn’t you, girl?” Sage couldn’t understand the words, but how could anything said in such a sweet, loving tone be anything but true and right? She nodded along. “In the end, you’re already mine. You crave my presence; even when I’ve scrubbed away your memories of submission and bliss, some deep-seated part of you can’t bear the thought of being without me.”

It was true. Sage knew every word she spoke was true, not because she understood, but because Mistress could never be anything but correct. “How long will it be, I wonder? It can’t be too long now. One of these days you’ll awaken in my sanctum, hardly a thought in your pretty little head, and the very notion of running won’t so much as cross your mind. Then, my pet, we can cease our fun and games, and you can simply enjoy the bliss of belonging to me. Sleep now. Sleep, forget, and let us begin the game again. But don’t worry. You won’t have to struggle much longer, my dear; because soon—”