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“It’s just one word, Princess. That’s all I’m asking. Don’t you know how much it hurts me to see family like this?”
Outis grabs her by her hair, yanking it like a leash, and Ishmael hisses, teeth freshly bared. She tries to snap and claw at anything she can reach— throat, eyes, heart—but Outis just laughs and shakes her even harder.
She hates that Outis likes it. She hates more that she doesn’t completely hate it.
“Ma-maaa,” Outis coos, like Ishmael is a particularly dumb dog. “Cmon, baby, you can do it!”
Ishmael growls. “Fuck off,” she spits out. Like hell she’s going to perform her own humiliation. She thinks she’d rather die than call Outis—any Outis—her fucking Mama.
Outis smiles, something that stretches from ear to ear. Like she’s hungry, or excited. Like someone took a knife and carved a gash through her face. Ishmael nearly shudders as she sees it bearing down on her.
She's never seen Outis like this. Never seen a crack to her steel-like composure.
“Ahh, I see. My girl’s going through her rebellious phase, isn’t she? Never thought I’d see the day… you used to be such a good little girl.”
My girl. Such a good little girl. That same shiver washes through Ishmael’s gut again.
She forces herself to ignore it. “Better than some asshole pretending to play family. It’s pathetic, really. Even the fucking seagull we took in as a pet was more of a family than you ever were."
This time, Outis goes icily silent. She lifts Ishmael by her collar, harsh enough that she gasps and high enough that she’s flailing like a fish speared on a hook. Fuck, Outis is strong. Sure, she’s always been strong, but Ishmael could always make up for it through her scathing comments and indifference.
Here though, her strength feels like it’s utterly dwarfing her. She’s not even that much taller, and yet, it’s enough to make Ishmael feel small. She could do so many things, she thinks, like pummeling her to the ground, forcing her to kiss her own blood and dirt. Or even shoving her against the wall, bending her back, back, back, until she cries out in pain, or between her legs until she fucking breaks—
“I see I was too nice, so how 'bout this? Say I'm sorry, Mama, or I’ll have to take your toys away,” Outis says, not so sweetly now.
It’s enough to jolt Ishmael out of whatever is wrong with her mind. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m an adult. I don’t have toys.”
“Oh, but you do.” Outis tilts her head to where Dante and the others must be at. “Like the blonde kiddo and her papa. Such a sweet pair. I saw how you were gushing around them. Dunno why, I mean, it’s not like they're your family.”
Blonde kiddo. Her papa. She must be talking about Don Quixote and Yi Sang. Ishmael clenches her jaw at the heat behind her threat. Fuck this Mirror World and their fucked-up family problems. She’s going to have a talk with Dante after this.
It comes out strangled as she forces the words out, like she’s extracting a harpoon from deep within her chest. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she mumbles, still glaring, still seething because hell if she’s going to let this Outis take everything.
“What’s that? Couldn’t hear ya, kiddo! Gotta speak louder if you want Mama to listen!” Her grip moves to her neck, an iron clamp promising to bruise.
Fuck. Is she serious? “I’m—sorry, Mama,” Ishmael gasps out, close enough to a beg that she feels her insides heating up.
Outis sighs, voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “I still can’t hear ya sweetheart. But I can see you’re trying real hard. Just one more time, okay, kiddo? One more time for Mama!”
Her hand clamps hard enough that Ishmael’s eyes roll back. “I’m—urk—sorry—I’m sorry, Mama!” she rasps. Her dignity dribbles humiliatingly down her chin and thighs.
Outis grins, that same grin that has Ishmael shuddering hard again. “Now that’s the spirit! Always knew you liked to make your Mama happy. Don’t worry, I forgive ya. That’s what family’s for, after all!”
She lets go, and Ishmael crumples like a broken doll to the floor. She’s wheezing, coughing, not even realizing that Outis is still touching her. Petting her.
Until she tugs her hair in a facsimile of affection. “That’s my good little girl,” she purrs. One more time, something that has Ishmael groaning, and then she’s gone, leaving her heaving and throbbing.
She’s wet. She’s so fucking wet from being choked. From Outis having her way with her. From her calling her baby, sweetheart, Princess, my girl. Saliva coats her lips. Her hand slides to her clit before she can think better of it. Ishmael throws her head back as she rubs herself to wretched, maddening completion.
She comes when Outis’ name spills from her lips. She comes from her voice, my girl, my good little girl ringing through her head.