Personal Demons

Personal Demons

By Eline (writing as Larissa Mau)

Disclaimer: This is fan fiction, based on commercially created and copyrighted characters and scenarios. There is no money being made off this fic.

Yaoi/BL. Rated for readers 18 and above.

Warnings: Non-consensual, sort of (like the game)

Readers beware! Spoilers for some scenes in the game and about some characters.

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Quos deus vult perdere prius dementat.

They say that those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first drive him mad. How very apt.

I stare blindly at the wall in front of me, desperately remembering quotes in the untidy and cramp confines of the inspection room.

Behind me, Durer is fucking. There is no other word for it. It is what he does.

The body under Durer’s hands moans and writhes wantonly but I am ignoring it. It is as though I am a thousand miles away and yet I can still see all the unwanted details, hear every hated sigh from that man who wears my face but is not me.

He is not me. I am not Durer’s whore. I might strip and spread for him but it is not I who is enjoying this violation. Dieu—*he* is not me—

And I am distracted by Durer, who has found a new use for the paintbrush—curse him. Paint, of all things . . .

The body moans again and I feel myself withdraw even further in loathing. Let Durer’s whore enjoy that bastard’s attentions. Apparently, if he was of a mind to, Durer could use his vast experience to torment his partners sexually.

I wish Durer’s overused prick would fall off. If malnutrition, pneumonia or the consumption does not claim me, a nasty case of the clap or syphilis will surely accompany me to my grave. Or Durer might save me from that ignoble end by killing me himself. The welts I wear from his last fit of possessive rage are still half-healed.

Dieu—this penance is harsh. I have seen atrocities in the war and done terrible things but my crimes must have been truly heinous to warrant the attentions of both Durer and his papa, Monsieur le Directeur himself. I suppress a bitter laugh. God and La République did not find me pleasing, but creatures like Durer and Bollanet are easily appeased.

My sense of humour has grown as black as the mould that decorates the walls. Has it only been a year since I passed through the gates of this miniature hell?

I should know better by now. When Durer had watched as I worked, I should have known that it was the perfect opportunity for him to corner me in private. Durer did not converse with the inmates without reason.

I am a fool. Durer makes conversation the way a tiger stalks its prey.

Do you like chocolate? Do you like lemonade? Do you like to paint?

Even if I had seen it coming, there would have been no where to run. And so I stand between a devil and a hard place, my mind fleeing from Durer and his whore.

Coward that I am, I did not want to see myself become a willing participant in my own rape. I did not want to see that aberration in my persona. While serving in the battalion, I had an inkling of my ungodly penchant for my own sex. Durer’s whore confirmed all that I had long suspected about myself—a sodomite who actually enjoys Durer’s depraved ministrations.

But in a way, I am grateful for Durer’s whore. He takes over when I can barely restrain the urge to vomit all over Durer’s leather boots every time I feel his revolting touch on my skin. He would do everything I would not do, say everything and anything that would please sadists like Bollanet and Durer so that they would finally leave me—us—alone.

Durer pauses in the midst of his fucking and asks a question. That dull, submissive voice answers and Durer laughs before getting on with it. My jailer is most aroused by inflicting pain and humiliation on his victims but even he knows that there is little satisfaction to be had out of tormenting that empty shell that spreads his legs so willingly.

The pace quickens and bitter experience has taught me to anticipate this body’s eventual climax. Durer’s whore moans as Durer’s prick spears him. I hate this—I hate it that Durer’s whore wants it. I hate it when this body responds to that man—when we—

Dieu!

In that moment, I am one with Durer’s whore and there is no escape from the crashing wave of pleasure that engulfs us both.

In that moment, I despise him. I despise myself.

I am not you!

And yet we are panting and shaking from the exertion as Durer pulls out casually and leaves. Unable to stand, our legs give way and we crumple to the floor in the dizzying aftermath of the orgasm. At times like this, I am entirely too aware of the other who shares every ght ght and sensation in my aching body. Durer’s whore.

“I am not you . . . I am not you!”

It is too much. And I am falling away into the darkness with denial on my lips. When it is safe again, I might wake without memory of all that happened between now and then. It might be enough to distance myself from this—or not.

Deus vult. God willing, I might live through this without going insane.

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