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Dichotomy

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She isn’t: ‘Innocent’.

Thwack

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,

(Exultation…)

"Where is this coming from?” Red hair—shifts; The Princess, tilts, her head in lazy inquiry(

—Never, asks, questions).

Thwack

The backside—

“Fuck!”

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.”

Wince.

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 )

“Who, dear?”

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.

(Demeans: discovery.)

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?"

Wide eyes—

(She (Always), speaks, what she's stumbling to….)

“Then, you’re not like him.” Terse. A decisive wrench.

Withdrawn touch.

(Makes, It:

Fact.)

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.)

Still: “…sorry.”

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.”

(Guilty—)

“An.” Thwack. “Incomparable.” Thwack.

Silence.

The Hero groans(pantswanting, 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,

Silence.

(Thinks—knows; that’s, another, form of control;

Dominance.)

Not, having, to answer.

(Is, that why she plays The Game? Plays: People?)

Hearts and Minds

—It’s addictive, isn’t it?

(Control.)

Can’t help, the memory, of The Photographer:(“Oh: You’re just like him.”)

“Worse.”

(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?

Thwack:

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);

Nods.

(Feels: through all the lives, infiltrated; trespassed; marred—)

She’s never, touched,

Hers.

(What will it take, to affect you?)

Each night — a little bit more,

More words: More understanding.

Each, day, excruciating;

But: Night:

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….

Reciprocal.)

Nods

(Lets, her.)