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Heavy iron links grind against the pulley mechanism bolted into the stone ceiling as Talon dangles suspended in the darkness of what used to be a wine cellar beneath the Du Couteau estate. He's been in worse positions before—cornered in Demacian dungeons, pinned beneath collapsing rubble in Shurima, bleeding out in Freljordian snow—but he's never been this exposed, this vulnerable, this utterly at someone else's mercy. And, certainly, never to them.
The restraints are professional work. He'd appreciate the craftsmanship more if he weren't the one bound in them. Thick leather straps encircle his thighs, his calves folded tight against them, heels bound to hamstrings. Each leg bound separately, the frog-tie leaves nothing hidden, nothing protected. His arms are similarly immobilized behind him, wrists lashed to elbows and just as useless. The whole assembly is suspended high enough that his body hangs off the ground, chains groaning under his weight with a scrape of metal against metal that sets his teeth on edge. The room is dimly lit, candles flickering weakly across cold bare stone wall, and beneath him, half hidden in the gloom, sits the thing they've prepared for him.
A fucking machine, industrial and cold. Wheeled or something, thick silicone attachment angled upward: when they crank the chain, he'll lower onto it. When they raise it again, he'll be lifted off. Up and down. As many times as they want. For as long as they want.
His heart hammers against his ribs. How did he end up here? He'd returned from a mission to find Katarina's note—We need to talk. Training room. Come alone.—and like an idiot, he'd gone. Walked right into their trap. Cassiopeia's venom had worked fast, paralyzing him long enough for Kat to get the restraints on, and by the time he could move again, he'd been strung up like this.
"You're awake." Katarina's voice cuts through the dark as she steps into the light. She's in the black catsuit she favors for mobility, loose fire-red hair framing the sharp angles of her face. "Good. We wouldn't want you to miss this." Beneath the vertical scar he'd put there, the cold fury in her green eyes makes something in his chest constrict.
The sound of scales across stone announces Cassiopeia's arrival too. From the waist up she's still recognizably Du Couteau, what with the cheekbones and the eyes, but her lower body is all serpent; golden-bronze scales catch the light. "Our dear brother," she purrs, dripping venom—both kinds. "So dutiful. So loyal. So convinced he's really one of us."
Talon's jaw clenches. He won't beg. Won't give them the satisfaction.
"But you're not, are you?" Katarina continues, moving closer until she's standing directly in front of him. Eye level with his suspended body, one pale finger of hers strokes his thigh. "Father took you in, gave you our name, trained you like you belonged. And we had to accept it. The orphan gutter rat playing at being Du Couteau."
He flinches despite himself, and Cassiopeia adds: "While we—his blood—had to prove ourselves. Had to earn what you were just given. Had to watch him parade you around like his son." Her golden eyes drop pointedly to what's between his legs. "Except you're not even that, are you?"
They both look at him then, at his spread thighs, at what's unmistakably visible between them. The body he's kept hidden under layers of armor and cloth and spent years trying to forget exists outside of missions that require it.
"So we thought," Katarina says, so soft it feels dangerous, "that it's time you remembered your place. Not a brother. Not a sister. Just a tool." She reaches out to caress his face. "A weapon. A thing we can use however we like."
Cassiopeia slides toward the crank mechanism, her human hands resting on the smooth lever. "And we're going to use you thoroughly."
"Wait—" The word escapes before Talon can stop it, and he hates how it sounds: desperate, afraid, nothing like the perfect assassin he's supposed to be.
Katarina smiles. "We're just getting started."
The crank turns then with a metallic groan, and Talon feels himself being lowered, as the machine below him whirs to life. The attachment rises through its own mechanism to meet him partway, and he pulls against the restraints, instinct overriding long years of training, but the leather doesn't budge and he only manages to make himself sway noticeably in his bonds.
"Look at you," Katarina murmurs as the mechanism brings him down. "So helpless, so exposed. This is how all those targets felt when you came for them in the dark?" She runs her hands up his sides, over his ribs, and he shudders, tries to pull away from the touch. "Did they beg too?"
"Please," he grits out, hating himself for it. "Don't—"
"Don't what?" Her hands move higher, palms sliding over his bare chest. "Don't touch what's ours? Don't remind you what you actually are beneath all that posturing?" She pinches one nipple hard enough to make him gasp. "You don't get to say no. You haven't earned that right."
Then the machine makes contact, just the tip of its attachment pressing against him, and he feels his whole body seizing up. At that, Cassiopeia strikes from behind, fangs sinking into the juncture of his shoulder and his neck. More venom floods his system, not enough to paralyze completely but enough to make his muscles go loose, enough to override his ability to prepare for what's coming. He makes a dying choked sound as she pulls back, tongue flicking out to taste the blood welling from the puncture wounds.
"There," she hisses, satisfied. "Much better. Can't have you fighting it too hard—you might hurt yourself."
And then the crank turns again, lowering him further, and the machine begins to breach him. It's too big, too much, and despite the venom he can feel every inch as it pushes inside. Katarina watches his face intently, green gaze drinking in every twitch of discomfort.
"Beautiful," she whispers, running her fingers through his hair, almost affectionately before gripping it hard enough to hurt. "You should see yourself right now. So full and flushed, taking it like you were made for it."
The mechanism engages, ramps up, and suddenly he's being fucked, raised and lowered on the pulley system in time with the machine's thrusts. The attachment is angled perfectly to hit deep inside, battering against that spot at the very end of him with each stroke, and the sensation is overpowering—too much, too intense, walking the razor edge between pain and something he refuses to name. He bites down on a sound that wants to escape, not permitting himself to give them that, but his face is burning and he thinks he may be leaking, and neither of those he can control at all.
Katarina moves around him as though she's inspecting a piece of meat or some gear, hands roaming freely over his helplessly suspended body. She traces the lines of muscle in his arms, the ridges of his abs.
"Father trained you so well," she muses. "Perfect form. Little killer. But he never taught you what it means to be property, did he? Never showed you what happens when you forget you're just a tool in someone else's hand."
Cassiopeia coils beneath him, upper body rising so she can run her tongue along his spine. "We've been so patient," she says, tasting the sweat that's starting to bead on his skin. "Years of watching you walk around like you belonged. Years of biting our tongues." She sinks her fangs in again, into a different spot. "No more."
More venom floods his system. The world rises and falls, the machine meeting each trough. And Talon can feel something building despite himself, some terrible response. His body is doing things independently of his mind, and he fights it with every ounce of strength he has left. His inner muscles are clenching around the attachment with each thrust, slick and responsive in a way that makes shame burn hot in his chest.
"Don't bother," Kat says, reading him too easily. "Your body knows what it is even if you don't want to admit it." Her hand wraps easily around his throat as the pulley hauls him up, then drops him again. "Not a man. Just a wet hole pretending to be something more."
He's hauled up, dropped, and then jerked up again—and on one of those downward strokes, the machine's attachment punches in deep, hitting something inside that sends white static across his vision. The orgasm hits him then as a knife-stab to the gut, and he bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood. His body convulses in the restraints, waves of unwanted pleasure crashing through him, his inner walls straining to grip the hated machine. He bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood, but it's not enough to stop the broken sound that tears from his throat. At that, both sisters laugh, one sharp and cruel, the other sibilant, musical, and satisfied.
"There it is," Katarina purrs, reaching between his legs to feel that small sensitive peak, which he realizes has grown hard despite everything. "That's it. See how easy that was?"
The machine keeps going, keeps fucking into his oversensitive body. The angle has adjusted enough that each thrust now pummels that spot deep inside. There's the stretch of it, the impossible fullness, and within minutes Talon feels another orgasm building. This one is worse, more intense and more unbearable, verging into actual pain as his body responds despite his mind screaming at it to stop.
"Again, already?" Cassiopeia sounds delighted. "This is magnificent. You really are just a natural whore, aren't you? All those years playing at being Father's heir, and this is what you actually are."
"Please—" His voice can scarcely carry the word. "Please stop, I can't—"
"You must," Katarina says. "You will. You don't get to decide when this ends—we do."
The second orgasm rips through him harder than the first, and this time he can't hold back the cry that escapes. His eyes roll back in his head, body shaking so hard the chains rattle, and he feels himself gush, actually gush, fluid running down his thighs.
"Look at that," Cassiopeia breathes. "He's soaking. Just drenched."
And still the machine goes and goes. The mechanical precision never wavers, never tires, and Talon realizes with growing horror that they could keep him like this for hours—days—as long as they want.
The third orgasm is weaker, more of a shuddering clench than explosive release, but it still wrings a whimper from him. His oversensitized body is very dry now, every scraping thrust of the machine bringing pain, but the ties hold him exactly where he is, where he doesn't want to be: spread open, denied any possibility of resistance.
"He's not even fun anymore," Katarina says finally, "just a wet hole that cries. I never could understand what Father saw in him."
The words hit like a physical blow. Something snaps and he jerks violently in the bonds, finds some reserve of strength the venom hasn't fully suppressed. "Fuck you," he snarls, and his voice has some of its usual edge back. "Fuck both of you. You're just bitter Father saw something worth training in me instead of his spoiled, his useless—"
Katarina's hand cracks across his face hard enough to snap his head to the side.
"Cassiopeia," she says, "call the enforcers. Our brother needs a more thorough lesson in respect."
The serpent woman's smile is all teeth as she slithers toward the door. "With pleasure."
#
The enforcers file in minutes later: five of them, broad-shouldered men in nondescript uniforms that mark them as Du Couteau household guards. They don't react to the sight of Talon suspended and impaled on the machine, simply arrange themselves in a semicircle and wait for orders like the trained hounds they are. At a gesture from Katarina, one of them steps forward to disengage the machine. The attachment withdraws with a horrible wet sound, and Talon can't suppress the gasp as it leaves him empty, hollowed out. He's still clenching on nothing as the chains lower him, the ground closer now in view, but his legs still can't touch. The frog-tie keeps his heels pressed to his thighs, still spread wide, just at a more convenient height now.
"He's all yours," Katarina says, retreating alongside Cassiopeia to watch from the wall. "He's all yours. Take him. Hurt him. Show him what happens when you forget you're not actually a man."
The first enforcer steps between Talon's spread legs. He's already hard when he opens his trousers, cock thick and flushed and so much bigger than the machine. He thrusts in with a brutal stroke that punches the air from Talon's lungs, and the stretch burns even through the venom's lingering haze. It's a punishing pace he sets, one hand gripping Talon's waist while the other wraps around his throat, and Talon tries to pull away, tries to find some angle that doesn't feel like being cleaved in half. But with the restraints holding him perfectly in place, all he can do is take it, body jolting with each savage thrust, and when the man's cock drives in and in, on repeat, Talon feels something spasm yet again.
"Did he just come again? From being used like a cheap whore?" Cassiopeia's trill is full of delight. "You—" she directs to the enforcer, "—I'll double your pay tonight. This is even better than I dreamed."
When the first man finishes, he pulls out with a rough jerk, pleased. He steps back but a second man is already there, shoving in hard enough to make Talon see stars. This one is even bigger, wider, and he feels something tear with the stretch. Pain cuts a bright line through the venom's fog, and he makes a high sound he doesn't recognize as his own.
"There we go. That's the sound we wanted to hear," says Kat.
The third enforcer is even less gentle than the first two. He fucks with blind selfishness, chasing his own pleasure, and when he comes, Talon feels the hot rush of it inside, and even as Talon's body clenches weakly around the intrusion, it starts to leak out because there's already so much inside him from the previous two.
The fourth man steps up, and by then Talon is a broken, battered mess. His body is a wreck of fluids, sweat and come and blood from where something definitely tore. He can feel everything dripping from his ass and thighs, tears streaming down his face, mixing with snot he can't wipe away. This is his fault, he knows; he made it worse by fighting. He should have stayed down.
The fifth and final enforcer is by far the largest, and when he pushes in Talon finds it in himself to scream. The man's cock is too big, batters too deep, hits that spot over and over until he blacks out, all energy poured into one last weak, agonized clench. When consciousness returns, the man is still fucking into him, still using him, and he's helpless; there's nothing he can do. Katarina's expression hasn't changed, cold gaze fixed on him as if Talon is already a corpse. Beside her, Cassiopeia's tongue flicks across her upper lip. "Now that's a sight I've wanted to see for years."
Neither looks away.
When it's finally over and the last man pulls out, Talon feels the come run out of him, dripping obscenely onto the stone floor beneath. Hanging limp in his bonds, he can't see it, can't move—mind barely conscious, spirit thoroughly shattered. The guards may or may not be filing out, footsteps fading; he can't be sure.
Katarina is there, lifting his eyelid with a finger. Torchlight stabs his pupil and some fresh flicker of awareness stirs. She grips his chin. "Still in there? Good. I want you to remember this. Remember what you are."
Talon can barely focus on her face. Everything hurts. Everything is wrong.
"Not our brother," she says clearly, making sure he hears every word. "Not our equal. Not even a real man—just a set of holes Father found useful and we inherited. Do you understand?"
She waits. He doesn't answer—he can't.
"You will eventually." She releases his chin, steps back. "Leave him. Let him hang. We'll collect him in the morning if he's still breathing."
Cassiopeia slithers close one last time, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his cheek. "You wanted to be family so badly. "Well, now you are. This is what belonging means for someone like you."
They leave him there. The door booms shut. Then nothing.
Talon hangs in the dark, alone with just the drip of fluid on stone and his own ragged breathing. His mind circles uselessly around the same thought: he'd wanted so desperately to belong to this family. To be one of them.
Now he is. But not in the way he'd imagined.
The chains creak overhead. He closes his eyes and waits for morning.