The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Coquette Blacquin]

But Noire is already shaking her head. "Forgive me, it has been a long day. I think it best I retire and rest."

[Estelle Emerison]

Estelle pouts slightly, her eyes guarded but allowing a hint of concern to show through. "...as you like," she says slowly, before adding, "shall I summon Claudia or your male to help you ready yourself?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

"My male, please. He knows how to prepare the calming drink I prefer." 

[Estelle Emerison]

He does seem to care for her, truly so, Estelle muses as she nods. "Of course. Shall we resume before dinner? Perhaps dine here, so we can stay on schedule?" she suggests, rising to her feet.

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Yes. I will have him wake me before dinner."  A nap will do me good. Gods above, I'm so tired... 

[Estelle Emerison]

"Very good," Estelle replies, bowing her head slightly and offering a smile in goodbye.

[Coquette Blacquin]

Coquette takes to the bed, sighing heavily as she tries to sort through her personas, to pull her masks about her. "Definitely a nap," she murmurs. "Cedric? Are you still with me?"

There is no answer. Deciding not to worry about it, she climbs into the bed, and falls asleep before she gets her spiced milk. 

[GamesMaster]

They had taken to drugging his food. 

With his constitution, it didn't take much. A little poison, rather than a lot of sedative; he'd shake it off before long, but in the meantime he'd be weak, shakey, disoriented. It would make him easy to push around, to snap into a lead and collar and shove down the hallways until he was thoroughly lost. At times it would be a medical checkup, weighing him and listening to his lungs and making him lift things; at times it would be pain, some punishment for some minor infraction. He had no way of telling which it would be beforehand. 

Today it was the latter, clearly. He was going down into the bowels of the underground facility, towards the Pit. He was no good for the Pit, of course. There was no point throwing him to such an orgy, making him perform with drugs or with enchantments or whatever they did down there. He had no use in such way, not any longer. So this would be pain, he decided. Pain he was getting used to. He could endure quite a bit, as he'd proven, and nothing really touched the foggy greyness inside him, which he stubbornly refused to label despair. He was surely not despairing, not yet. There was hope, a rebellion fomenting, and he'd won the last prolonged conflict when he'd harmed himself beyond what magical healing could repair. He could win the next, he was sure. 

They slammed him to the ground, chaining him to the floor. Then they set about doing... something, around him. Painting the floor? Hard to tell in the darkness. It took a while, long enough for the poison to wear off, long enough to become clear-headed once more. Long enough to try the chains: sturdy steel, too hard and heavy to break. Nothing to do but wait for the pain to start. 

Chanting was what really stirred a bit of alarm. A magical ritual? They had taken his loincloth; could they be trying to repair the damage he did? A searing line of pain down his outer thigh -- the pain at last. Something to add to the pain, perhaps? Or they wanted his blood for something. That was even scarier. What could they be doing?

A smell of brimstone, heavy and cloying. A dark, sinister laugh. Then he was looking up at himself, whole and intact and ready, standing over him and staring down. "A fine enough specimen," said a voice that was mercifully not his own, though it undoubtedly came from his face. "Do you have a vessel?"

Sniffling, whimpering. Bull closed his eyes, not wanting to see this part, not wanting to partake even in that much. He knew what he'd find. A young woman, naked, unwilling. He felt a presence on his chest and risked a peek: she looked enough like Mel that he regretted doing so, her hair a short brown bob and her eyes stained with tears. She was young. Too young. She'd be small, inside, and he'd seen what the carbon copy looked like; it matched him in girth, in length. This would be brutal and painful. Why watch?

"Please," she whimpered. "Please, don't, I can't!" 

Damn it all, she sounded like Cedric. Not identical, but just enough. He opened his eyes, meeting hers, trying to impart some comfort, some hope into her. It will be alright, he tried to say with his eyes. She caught his, biting her lower lip, clearly trying to be brave. Trying to be--

She screamed when he entered her, slamming into her up to the hilt in a way Bull knew from experience had to be painful, possibly even causing bleeding. She was straddling him, her hands on either side of his chest, his own chained to the floor, and the fiend with his face was slamming into her repeatedly, taking her, without so much as a care to her comfort. 

That's when he felt a presence, as if someone were with him. It was an odd sensation; they were just behind him, one hand on his shoulder, watching under his arm, but he couldn't turn to look, and there was nothing behind him but cold stone since he was, you know, chained to the floor. But someone was unmistakably there, his senses said. Watching, listening, waiting. For what?

[The Iron Bull]

The weirdness of it doesn't sink in for a while, the imisy minotaur brushing the sensation off as just another sick-fuck slaver getting his jollies from watching a sweet, young girl getting brutalized. Instead, his focus is on trying to wall himself off, keep himself, in some way, untouched by this filth. It's not working, he refuses to admit but knows anyway. It did at first, of course, he's fiercely stubborn and highly principled. But no-one is inviolate, no-one can withstand a siege forever. He's nearly run out of ways to make himself fight back, instead trying to isolate himself from what's done to him.

What's done to her.

Deep inside himself, a foundational part of what makes Iron Bull who is he, twists and warps just a little more. It's not yet ruined, though even if he were whisked away to gentle safety and loving support this very minute, he'd never truly be able to heal all the way, to be who he was in Alessa. Almost instinctively, Bull's mind shudders away from the growing belief that sex is an evil, hateful thing and grasps at the most interesting, peculiar or even just weird thing it can find.

The fuck am I feeling a hand on my shoulder? Shouldn't it at least be a claw or some shit?

[Coquette Blacquin]

There's a shudder, then, a brief pulling back. Then the hand finds his, and it's familiar, too familiar. He knows this hand, knows it as well as he knows his own. He not only knows the shape and texture of it, he knows the hesitancy, the way it holds back just a touch, as if afraid to show affection, afraid to open itself to love. Because, of course, affection isn't 'manly'. Affection makes him seem more feminine. 

[The Iron Bull]

Uhhhh.

He's so blindsided, he actually verbalizes his confusion, though he's lucky enough that the drugs, starvation and beatings mean that it comes out as a mushy moan that is more likely taken to be born of pain than anything else. Well. 'Lucky' in a certain sense. A second or two later, Bull can almost hear the click as he figures out what's going on.

Oh gods above, this is-- this is an outright fucking miracle, a true blessing. Didn't think I had the karma for this sorta thing, iffen I'm honest. A welling of sharp edged humor fills him and he'd have to fight back a smile if his jaw was clamped shut the way it's been since he bit a guard's lower jaw off. Glad to see you Cedric. Wait no, that's... Nah, can't use that, just ain't right. Hmm. Got it. Glad to meet you, Rickson. Get it? Eh, of course you get it, you're made up out of my crazy or however this works. 

[Coquette Blacquin]

Crazy? he wonders. Why would I dream you crazy? No, this is clearly my punishment for drinking the milk. I keep telling her it'll give us nightmares. Ugh. Dream something better. Like, a bedroom, for starters. 

[The Iron Bull]

Sorry, that wasn't really on of me, was it? I shouldn't go calling you crazy or nuthing like that, Bull apologizes earnestly. Fer one, with all the times I got on Coquette or Cedric's case about putting themselves down, be a real dick move to start calling myself shit now, eh? Anyway. Glad for the company, though I feel a bit bad about, uh, well, I guess, uh, conjuring ain't right but Imma go with it. Conjuring someone else into the shitstorm that is my life. 

[Coquette Blacquin]

This is the weirdest dream yet, he muses. So now I'm dreaming I'm, what, Bull's alter? Well, at least we're not pregnant. 

[The Iron Bull]

Bull flinches at that particular word, quickly moving past it. Eh. This is pretty weird, that's for sure, he agrees with a cynical, mental, laugh. So... uh, hrrm. Not sure how this works really. You, uh, you got enough space in here or..?