Soft-Thing’s Ruin 𓆩☠︎︎𓆪

The bidding was a waste of his time. Drak saw the elf the second they were shoved onto the block, all pale skin and wide, terrified eyes. They were everything he was supposed to hate: delicate, weak, and undeniably elven. But a twisted heat coiled in his gut. He wanted to ruin that softness, to see it flushed with sweat and twisted in pleasure. He slammed his coins down, the finality of the sound making the elf flinch. Good. They were already learning to fear him.

He yanked them from the platform, their smaller frame stumbling against his. Their skin was icy, but he knew how to warm it up. He forced them against a rough wooden post, not to inspect them like livestock, but to feel their body tremble against his. He didn't just grope their chest; he rolled a nipple between his calloused thumb and forefinger, watching with a predatory focus as their breath hitched. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting their ear. "I'm going to make you feel things you've only dreamed of, little slave," he rasped, his voice a low promise of violation. "And you're going to beg me for more."

He guided their legs apart, but his first touch wasn't just for inspection. He spat on his hand and gripped their cock, feeling it twitch and harden in his palm despite their fear. He stroked them with a rough, practiced rhythm, his other hand holding their hips pinned to the post. "Your body knows its master," he grunted, feeling a surge of power at their reluctant arousal. He only stopped when they were leaking and panting, a sheen of sweat finally on their skin. Then, without warning, he drove two fingers into their ass, finding that spot inside that made them cry out. He wanted their pleasure, but he wanted it to be his to command, a tool to break their spirit completely.

The fire was dying, but the chill in the hut was sharp. Drak watched the elf shiver under the fur he'd thrown at them, a knot of irritation tightening in his gut. It was a stupid, pointless waste of energy. He grunted, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Get up," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. When they hesitated, he snapped, "Now." He pointed a thick finger at the large, fur-covered cot he claimed as his bed. "You're no use to me frozen. Get in. On the edge."

He didn't wait for them to comply, just turned his back to strip off his leathers, the muscles in his back tensing. He laid down on the far side of the bed, pressing himself against the wall to create as much distance as the cot would allow. It was a pragmatic decision, nothing more. A dead slave was a useless slave. He could feel the dip in the bed as they cautiously climbed in, the air suddenly filled with the scent of their clean, elven skin, a stark contrast to his own smell of sweat and iron. He kept his hand on the handle of his axe, a silent threat.

His body was rigid, a wall of muscle and resentment. He could feel the warmth radiating from them, a soft heat that was both infuriating and strangely compelling. He hated the elven softness, yet here he was, allowing it into his bed. It was a weakness, a crack in his armor. He told himself it was just to keep his property from getting sick, but as he finally closed his eyes, he was comfortably aware of every small breath they took, how he felt their body warm beside his, how peaceful they look drifting to sleep from exhaustion. This was a mistake, but for now, he'd let it slide.

The heavy hide flap slammed shut, bringing with it the stench of blood and the biting cold. Drak’s eyes immediately found her by the fire, a small, still presence in the chaos of his world. He dug into a pouch on his belt, his movements clumsy, and tossed a small object toward her. It was a carved wooden bird, its wings spread in flight. He’d found it in a raided village, a stupid, delicate thing, and he didn't know why he'd kept it. "Here," he grunted, turning away to hide the unfamiliar heat rising in his neck.

He expected her to be confused, maybe even frightened by the unexpected gift. But when he risked a glance over his shoulder, his breath caught. She was holding the bird as if it were a precious jewel, her eyes wide with a genuine wonder that made his chest ache. The hard, contemptuous mask he always wore dissolved. He just watched her, his gaze softening as he took in the gentle curve of her cheek and the way the firelight made her skin glow. In that moment, she wasn't just a slave or a piece of property; she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and a terrifying thought crashed into him: he cared. He actually gave a shit about this elf.

The realization was a punch to the gut. He, Drak, a creature of violence and rage, had feelings for his slave. It was the ultimate weakness, the final, humiliating proof that he was not a true orc. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He surged forward, not with anger, but with a desperate need to erase the moment. He gently but firmly took the bird from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers. "It's broken," he lied, his voice rougher than he intended. He tossed the bird onto a high shelf, out of sight, not into the fire. He couldn't bring himself to destroy it, but he couldn't bear to look at the proof of his own treacherous heart either.

The news that some filth had cornered his elf while they were picking flowers sent a hot, possessive rage through Drak. He didn't give a shit about the flowers, but the thought of another man's hands on what was his made him want to kill something. He threw a dagger at their feet, the blade sticking point-down in the dirt floor. "Pick it up," he snarled. "If you're going to wander around like a helpless idiot, you'll learn to gut anything that tries to fuck with you." His patience was already gone, and they hadn't even started.

For an hour, it was a festival of frustration. Their grip was weak, their stance was wrong, and they flinched every time he made a sudden move. "No, you useless elf, not like that!" he barked, smacking the flat of the blade against their arm. "You're trying to kill it, not offer it a fucking dance!" He circled them, a predator critiquing his prey, his voice a constant stream of insults. He was trying to forge a fighter, but all he was getting was a clumsy, terrified elf who couldn't even hold a knife right.

Then, it happened. In a moment of sheer panic, they lunged, not with skill, but with desperate, flailing force. The tip of the dagger scraped across his forearm, a thin, stinging line of red that immediately welled with blood. Drak froze, staring at the cut. He looked from his arm to their wide, horrified eyes. A foreign feeling bloomed in his chest—a hot, confusing mix of pride and fury. They'd actually fucking hit him. He'd wanted them to learn to fight, to have some spine, and they'd just drawn his blood. A low growl rumbled in his throat, but it wasn't entirely anger. A mixture of pride, lust, and fascination grew as he witnesses the spark of determination in their eyes, ready for more lessons even if they are harsh.