She isn’t: ‘Innocent’.
A resounding slap(echoing through the room; echoing through her soul—and what the fuck did that even mean?)—hard; flesh against flesh.
Introspection: Met with Indifference.
"Nng." The Hero’s breast stings red; nipple thrumming in agony,
"Where is this coming from?” Red hair—shifts; The Princess, tilts, her head in lazy inquiry(
—Never, asks, questions).
Before, she can answer(Does, the other, want her to speak?);
“Hm~?” A hoisted chin;
Violet eyes — Scrutiny.
The Hero, trembles. “I-I…” swallows, thick; again:
Shakes her head.
A cruel, smirk. “While, I do realize, how voracious, a slut, you truly are; I also recognize the difference between masochism and penance.”
Gentle fingers; caress, the swell of an abused breast.
“I’m.” Swallows. It’s not, just, the state she’s in, “I-I…” (It, is, because she has to answer—); grit teeth. “…I’m just. Like him…”
(An echo … )
And, the glint in The Princess’ eye; the curve, to those lips(the simple bullying)—lets her know, the other: Now; slaps, with her words.
Her jaw, locks. “The Prince.”
“Ah;” Gentle caresses; a finger, along the profile of her neck; before—hooking, to, the ring of her(her?)collar. “Do you feel guilty?"
(She (Always), speaks, what she's stumbling to….)
“Then, you’re not like him.” Terse. A decisive wrench.
The Princess, looks down, from on high—
Down; at the piece of trash, that she is. And, The Hero, sees: Something.
Soft and dangerous…
(It, isn’t, forgiveness. It isn’t that easy.)
A bowed head—fleeing eyes;
(Doesn’t know, what for —
On this ship)This; is the realest thing she’s got.
(Can’t put, words, to it…
The feeling)Too much, for six days.
“You don't have to apologize to me, dear; I know, exactly, what you are.”
“An.” Thwack. “Incomparable.” Thwack.
The Hero groans(pants—wanting, to be defined). Bites it back—the inside of a slapped cheek. “Y-You‘ve,” recovers; “never wanted to apologize?”
A nail, pressed, into the edge of her collar. “I don’t approve of mediocrity.”
“…Even,” gasps; fumbles, a few times—looks, up, to compensate, “in, yourself.”
Catches: A smile,
(Thinks—knows; that’s, another, form of control;
Not, having, to answer.
(Is, that why she plays The Game? Plays: People?)
Hearts and Minds
—It’s addictive, isn’t it?
Can’t help, the memory, of The Photographer:(“Oh: You’re just like him.”)
(Wants to Win.)
The Princess, arcs, a brow. The Hero’s hands, ball, into fists. “Worse, than him.”
Her brother bought into this bullshit: Lying, politics, and manipulation. Maybe, it’s some kind of fucked up survival mechanism
—What’s her excuse?
Slapped so hard, her teeth rattle.
“Did, that, get your attention?” Violet eyes; a harsh, draw, of the leash. “In this room. Even your, thoughts, are mine.”
The Hero, gapes(unable to look away—
Wonders: if that's her twisted brand of jealousy);
(Feels: through all the lives, infiltrated; trespassed; marred—)
She’s never, touched,
(What will it take, to affect you…?)
Each night — a little bit more,
More words: More understanding.
Each, day, excruciating;
Her own Game.
(Can’t — distinguish, the two.)
“Oh honey…" doting fingers—and The Princess pulls her into an unyielding hug(she must appear, lost), “Don't think. Lose yourself to simple.” A kiss(She had no idea, she’d been craving); returns, hungrily(—Control); as a lowered hand, grazes, her folds, ”Let me give that to you…"
The Hero, thinks: Of repentance, and Winning, and subspace—
(What does that even, mean, anyway?)
Squirms, despite herself.
(It feels: Cathartic….