Fic: A Queen On Her Throne (Gaila, R)
Title: A Queen On Her Throne
Rating: R
Characters: Gaila (mirrorverse)
Word Count: 663
Prompt: From
where_no_woman: When you hunt predators, the best camouflage is weakness.
Warnings: Violence, consent issues/dub-con, sexual content (warning policy in profile)
Summary: She is a queen, and they think they can own her, restrain her, make her their slave. But Gaila is so much more than their fantasies could imagine.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Note: I wrote this for a drabblefest sometime in January and am just now getting around to posting it.
It is sick, how easily men are moved by body language. The twitch of a hip, the lick of her lips; she slides her hands down her torso, fingers bumping over her nipples, dipping into the divot of her navel, and they salivate after her, eyes wide and shiny. Gaila shimmies her shoulders, dropping the chain-mail bodice to the floor, where it clanks inelegantly and pools on the stone; she falls to her knees, bends over backwards, bares her stomach and the sacred place between her legs. Submissive. Sexual. Slave. They lust after her, paunchy and flushed puce with the desire to conquer, fleshy stubbed fingers groping, grabbing, clutching, scratching, burning for a touch of her skin. Predatory men, perverse men, stupid men. Weak.
With a crook of her finger, she summons one to follow her, as she always does, and he heaves himself to his feet, the highest bidder with a low, phlegmy chuckle, gazing at her with thick, unseeing eyes as his friends laugh and pound him on the back, congratulating him as they loathe him for having her, taking what they think is theirs. They all think she is theirs: the whore, the slut, the animal woman. Gaila encourages their assumptions by placing his hand on the rounded curve of her buttock, letting him squeeze it like he's checking the ripeness of produce, which perhaps he is.
In the room, away from the eyes of others, he takes her with his cock, grunting and wheezing behind her while she studies her splayed fingers on the cream-colored bed. Inside her, he thinks he controls her; inside her, he thinks he violates her. She tightens her muscles, feels him choke, lean back and spurt across her back, what he thinks is the mark of his claim on her body. So stupid, that thought; at the end of the night she will simply wash him away. He smacks her thigh, again leaving a mark that will fade within minutes, and says, Turn over, I want to eat you out. She does as he demands, and smiles; he falters. Orion women are taught never to smile in front of customers. Orion women have very sharp teeth.
He is too shocked to fight back. Why wouldn't he be? She has bared her neck and throat to him; she has taken him inside her; she has quivered beneath him and the press of his hot, sweating body. Like the previous one, like all the others, he has assumed. Foolish. Pathetic.
She leaves her mark on him, indelibly clawed and bitten into his cheeks and neck, and leaves him to bleed out on the creamy bed. The crimson stain in the silk looks so much more violent than the green of her fingers, but blood is passive; blood is harmless. Her fingers, calm and gentle though they look, are not. What idiots men must be, to look at her and think they are safe from harm. How complacent, how blind. Gaila is clever and cruel. Other women see it, other women stay away. But men do not live their lives afraid of shadows; men do not look for danger in their clubhouses and comfortable homes; men do not fear abduction, rape, and torture from slavers. They are trusting and naïve, like livestock. They are easily hunted.
Gaila cleans herself with water, purifies herself, speaks the names of the Thousand Gods although she does not quite know if they truly exist. Perhaps they do, and simply choose to work in secretive, twisted methods, hidden in the shadows of the between-worlds. She enjoys the thought of that, gods deceptive and cunning and unrepentant, the best sort of gods. Gods who are, in their complexities and their darkness, like her.
She is often called a goddess, both by the men she kills and those she saves. It is, perhaps, an apt comparison.
Read @ Dreamwidth, where this post has
comments.
Rating: R
Characters: Gaila (mirrorverse)
Word Count: 663
Prompt: From
where_no_woman: When you hunt predators, the best camouflage is weakness.
Warnings: Violence, consent issues/dub-con, sexual content (warning policy in profile)
Summary: She is a queen, and they think they can own her, restrain her, make her their slave. But Gaila is so much more than their fantasies could imagine.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Note: I wrote this for a drabblefest sometime in January and am just now getting around to posting it.
It is sick, how easily men are moved by body language. The twitch of a hip, the lick of her lips; she slides her hands down her torso, fingers bumping over her nipples, dipping into the divot of her navel, and they salivate after her, eyes wide and shiny. Gaila shimmies her shoulders, dropping the chain-mail bodice to the floor, where it clanks inelegantly and pools on the stone; she falls to her knees, bends over backwards, bares her stomach and the sacred place between her legs. Submissive. Sexual. Slave. They lust after her, paunchy and flushed puce with the desire to conquer, fleshy stubbed fingers groping, grabbing, clutching, scratching, burning for a touch of her skin. Predatory men, perverse men, stupid men. Weak.
With a crook of her finger, she summons one to follow her, as she always does, and he heaves himself to his feet, the highest bidder with a low, phlegmy chuckle, gazing at her with thick, unseeing eyes as his friends laugh and pound him on the back, congratulating him as they loathe him for having her, taking what they think is theirs. They all think she is theirs: the whore, the slut, the animal woman. Gaila encourages their assumptions by placing his hand on the rounded curve of her buttock, letting him squeeze it like he's checking the ripeness of produce, which perhaps he is.
In the room, away from the eyes of others, he takes her with his cock, grunting and wheezing behind her while she studies her splayed fingers on the cream-colored bed. Inside her, he thinks he controls her; inside her, he thinks he violates her. She tightens her muscles, feels him choke, lean back and spurt across her back, what he thinks is the mark of his claim on her body. So stupid, that thought; at the end of the night she will simply wash him away. He smacks her thigh, again leaving a mark that will fade within minutes, and says, Turn over, I want to eat you out. She does as he demands, and smiles; he falters. Orion women are taught never to smile in front of customers. Orion women have very sharp teeth.
He is too shocked to fight back. Why wouldn't he be? She has bared her neck and throat to him; she has taken him inside her; she has quivered beneath him and the press of his hot, sweating body. Like the previous one, like all the others, he has assumed. Foolish. Pathetic.
She leaves her mark on him, indelibly clawed and bitten into his cheeks and neck, and leaves him to bleed out on the creamy bed. The crimson stain in the silk looks so much more violent than the green of her fingers, but blood is passive; blood is harmless. Her fingers, calm and gentle though they look, are not. What idiots men must be, to look at her and think they are safe from harm. How complacent, how blind. Gaila is clever and cruel. Other women see it, other women stay away. But men do not live their lives afraid of shadows; men do not look for danger in their clubhouses and comfortable homes; men do not fear abduction, rape, and torture from slavers. They are trusting and naïve, like livestock. They are easily hunted.
Gaila cleans herself with water, purifies herself, speaks the names of the Thousand Gods although she does not quite know if they truly exist. Perhaps they do, and simply choose to work in secretive, twisted methods, hidden in the shadows of the between-worlds. She enjoys the thought of that, gods deceptive and cunning and unrepentant, the best sort of gods. Gods who are, in their complexities and their darkness, like her.
She is often called a goddess, both by the men she kills and those she saves. It is, perhaps, an apt comparison.
Read @ Dreamwidth, where this post has
comments.