🖤 ﹕﹙DARKHEART﹚ ⇅

Sword loathed Darkheart. He’d always hated him, and there was no good reason behind it—just pure, unadulterated dread. Darkheart had taken what he wanted, forcing Sword into the skin of a girl, stripping away anything remotely masculine until only trembling limbs remained. Sword knew Venomshank could fix this, but even thinking about asking made his stomach turn; the effort alone felt like a fresh violation. So he endured the endless rounds with Darkheart, shaking violently as those heavy arms encircled his shoulders, dragging him close enough for whispers to seep into his ears—soft, intimate words that made him flinch before the taking began again. Every time, Sword emerged from their sessions looking exactly the same: legs still shaky, eyes rimmed red, hollowed out by Darkheart’s relentless grip.

Venomshank dropped Sword off at the edge of the training grounds, his face obscured by the cold iron plates of his plague mask. The breathless rasp of his exhale was lost beneath the metal grating as he spoke, though the low vibration still traveled straight into Sword’s chest. “Don’t forget,” Venomshank said, patting the hilt of his own blade before turning back toward the mess hall without another word, leaving Sword standing alone in the dim light.

The moment Venomshank’s footsteps faded, Darkheart moved like smoke across the floorboards. He didn’t bother knocking; he simply materialized beside Sword, moving fast enough that his hand landed on the boy’s shoulder before Sword could blink. In one fluid motion, Darkheart snatched up the pile of clothes waiting by the door—a ridiculous red Lolita dress with puffed sleeves, a lace headband that looked far too large for anyone else, let alone someone who was supposed to be male, and sheer stockings that seemed designed to strangle rather than cover.

Darkheart held them up triumphantly, the fabric catching the candlelight and casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. His face twisted into a smile that wasn’t quite friendly, nor entirely cruel—it was something worse, filled with possessive glee.

“There he is,” he whispered, letting the hem of the dress slide through his fingers as if testing its weight. “Our little masterpiece!”

Inside, Sword stood frozen in Darkheart’s cavernous room, the garment swallowing him whole. Fear coiled tight in his gut—he knew exactly what came next when the other man entered. Finally, Darkheart crossed the threshold and loomed over Sword, his seven-foot frame blotting out the light and dwarfing the five-eight figure trapped within. The wide, triumphant smile vanished instantly, replaced by a raw need to assert dominance.

“We see you’re on the verge of crying… tell us, do you enjoy our presence? Do you enjoy being raped? Because why haven’t you told on us yet?” Darkheart paused, tilting his head. “Why don’t you thank Venomshank properly? You're scared, aren’t you?”

He leaned closer, his nose brushing against Sword’s, sending a shiver down both boys’ spines. Then the hungry grin returned, sharpened now with teasing cockiness.

“You are far too pathetic… so terrified we might actually hurt you, hmm?”

Sword's tears were already a steady stream, hot and humiliating against his cheeks. But seeing Darkheart begin to undress pushed him past the point of simple sadness into something rawer, more visceral. The air in the room suddenly grew thick and heavy, smelling faintly of old wood, sweat, and something metallic like ozone.

Slowly, deliberately, Darkheart reached down to the waistband of his trousers. With a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone, he unbuckled the leather black belt, letting it clatter loudly onto the floor where it rolled harmlessly away. He didn't rush; there was no urgency in his movements, only that same terrifying calmness that made Sword feel exposed even when fully clothed. One hand went to the button at his throat, popping it free with a sharp click, followed by the slow undoing of buttons all the way down his torso. As the fabric loosened, Darkheart pulled the shirt off first, tossing it aside without a second glance, revealing broad, scarred shoulders and a chest that seemed impossibly dense compared to Sword's own fragile frame.

Beneath the layers lay dark denim pants, which he slid down his hips one leg at a time, exposing thighs that flexed powerfully as he stepped out of them. They pooled around his ankles, leaving him bare-chested and pantless, standing completely naked before the trembling boy. The sight did nothing to soothe Sword; instead, it intensified the primal panic coiling in his gut. His sobs deepened into ragged gasps, tears blurring everything until Darkheart himself became a shifting silhouette looming overhead.

“Look at you,” Darkheart rumbled, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. “All dressed up for nothing.”

He grabbed the hem of Sword's red Lolita dress and yanked upward, tearing the bodice apart with a wet rip. Sword cried out as the garment fell open, baring his small, pale chest and forcing his arms wide to keep balance. Before Sword could process the exposure, Darkheart closed the distance between them. There was no gentle coaxing this time—only the overwhelming pressure of massive hands grabbing Sword's hips, hauling him forward until their bodies collided. Darkheart pinned him flat against his own muscular chest, crushing the wind from the smaller man's lungs.

“Now,” Darkheart growled, pressing down harder, making sure every inch of contact registered. “Let's see how well those pretty legs handle being used.”

With a rough tug on Sword's wrists, he shoved the tiny boy backward, sending him sprawling onto the bedspread. Darkheart immediately climbed atop him, spanning his body with effortless ease, his seven-foot height turning the mattress into a precarious platform. He settled directly over Sword's lower half, positioning himself squarely above the vulnerable stretch of flesh. A wicked grin split his face, teeth glinting in the candlelight.

“Spread 'em,” he commanded, his tone dripping with mock politeness despite the brutal intent. Sword hesitated, then obeyed, parting his legs as wide as they would go, offering complete access. Without warning, Darkheart sank downward, burying his lengths right into the back entrance. It hit with a sickening squelch, stretching Sword's insides beyond what should be possible, eliciting a high-pitched shriek that echoed off the walls.

“That's it,” Darkheart murmured, holding perfectly still for a heartbeat to ensure maximum penetration, feeling the slick heat of the tight channel clamp around him.