Archive of Our Own

It took Sir Drakan many moons to track down the witch and capture it. It pleases him greatly to finally see it bound and gagged, his squires dragging it forth into the light by the heavy iron chains. The witch is still defiant, digging its heels in just enough to show token resistance, but not so much as to still be in denial about its fate. 

The pyre. 

Of course, Sir Drakan still has to confirm that it really is a witch, but it's all just standard procedure. Drakan has never been wrong about a witch. 

“Well done,” he tells his squires, stepping closer to his prey to inspect it. 

“You're sure this is the witch, Sir?” asks Eilind. “Not that I would ever doubt you, Sir, it's just…” 

“It's just what?” Drakan barks. Were he not in a triumphant mood, he would never tolerate such insolence. 

“Never heard of a man witch before,” Joa finishes. 

The witch is of a tall, slender build - though not as tall as Sir Drakan, naturally - with hair cut short enough to be mistaken for a man. Nor is it wearing skirts like a woman would, but witches can hardly be called women to begin with. Women are gentle and god-fearing, with pure hearts and pure souls, all the qualities witches reject. If anything, witches are demons taking on the appearance of women to exploit the grace offered to them - all to spite the god Almighty. 

Drakan grunts. “Witches are wily creatures, and they will use any trick to deceive us and escape punishment. Let's not be so sure this is a man.” 

He grips the witch by its chin to inspect its face. It's beaten and bloody, and the eyes glower at him with seething hatred, like burning coals. Drakan has seen this look in every witch he has subjugated, and it always makes his heart race with excitement. 

“This is certainly a witch, I can tell you that much,” he says. “But let us see if we have caught ourselves a man witch.” 

The iron chains are tightly wound around the witch's waist and wrists, leaving its chest free for Drakan to fondle. It really does seem flat, but to make sure… He rips the fabric of the witch's shirt, leaving it hanging in tatters around the chains as he exposes its torso. 

“No tits at all,” Drakan says, almost admiringly. Maybe they did catch themselves a man witch, the first he's ever heard of. 

The witch hunter and his squires stare at the witch's tan and freckled skin, beautiful and blooming with bruises. It awakens a strange hunger in Drakan’s belly. He takes off his gloves and drags his palm across the chest, smooth but for the nipples hardening under his touch. He pinches one of them, and a noise escapes the witch, muffled through the gag. 

Oh… 

Drakan twists the nipple even harder, and the witch flinches, exclaiming louder. Its voice is deeper than Drakan expected. 

The squires snicker as Drakan keeps pulling and pinching at the witch, making it squirm in its chains. He does not usually torment his prey quite this much, but the strange hunger in him is spurring him on. He needs more of those noises, but the witch is growing accustomed to the pain and starts to hold them back. 

“What if you pinched his balls, Sir,” Joa suggests, in an unusually breathy voice. 

It's a great idea. 

Sir Drakan would never touch the cock of another man, but the same way a witch can never be a woman, neither can it be a man. He plunges his hand between the witch's legs, ready to make it squeal in pain as he clenches his fist around - 

Nothing. 

There's nothing between the witch’s legs, or at least no cock and balls.  Instead, he feels an inward dip, growing wet through the fabric as he probes. 

The witch goes rigid. 

“Sir?” 

Drakan can't tell which squire is talking, not with the blood rushing through his ears. 

“This is not a man witch after all,” Sir Drakan murmurs. “We’ve caught an abomination. A true demon.” 

Drakan has never touched a woman in a sinful way, barely seen one naked since his youth. He is a holy servant of the Almighty, and while he may one day be permitted to marry a wife and plant his seed - it is not yet time for him. For all that, he knows exactly what the witch has between its legs. A cunt. A dripping wet cunt, and the more he strokes it, even through its breeches, the more the witch is reacting to it. It’s almost as if the witch is moving its hips against Drakan’s fingers, and the sounds - no longer pained. When Drakan looks at its face he finds it flushed with lidded eyes. The hate is gone, replaced with - 

“He’s like a bitch in heat, Sir,” Joa remarks, leering. 

Drakan can’t stand it anymore. He pulls the gag off, releasing the honey sweet moans he craves. His cock throbs with them, the open mouthed needy whines and pants as the witch rides his hand, making it wetter and stickier by the second. 

“Ah, ah, please,” the witch begs, all too close to Drakan’s ear. 

In shock, Drakan steps back, and the witch nearly slumps to the ground. There is no denying it - for all that it has the thighs and cunt of a woman, the deep and silky voice belongs to a man, just like its boyish face and torso. Only a truly despicable, depraved act of witchcraft could have created a wretch like this, and it is Drakan’s duty to rid the world of it.

“What, you’re not, hah, not even going to finish me?” the witch says between heavy breaths. It rubs its thighs together where it stands, still desperate for friction. 

“I will take it to the keep for interrogation before we burn it,” Sir Drakan tells his squires, ignoring the witch.

“Yes, Sir,” Joa and Eilind say in unison, though they share a look between them. 

Sir Drakan turns around without further comment. His apprentices are fully capable of handling the witch for the time being, and he needs to clear his mind. 

Sir Drakan is a man of God, but he is no priest. He’s not above taking himself in hand when he needs to. It’s only natural, seeing as he is a man, and men have needs. He’s not ashamed of it at all. Though, he is a little bit ashamed of the thoughts he thinks while he does the deed. 

Maybe it’s only natural to think of his squires, seeing as he spends so much more time around them than any woman. He would never actually bend Eilind over a table and fuck him from behind, or press Joa against a wall while covering his mouth and bite his neck. Once he has a wife, fantasies like these will disperse like dew in the sun. He won’t wonder about what it would be like if both of his squires licked along his length, fighting over who could take him in their mouth, sucking competitively until they were kissing one another instead… He would have to grip both of them by their hair and force their heads back down to his cock, alternate between fucking each of their throats and cum on both of their faces. He is a fair master, after all. 

His squires have such a close, brotherly bond, and Drakan would never dream of bringing such a bond to ruin. Not like his master had done, back when he had been a witch hunter squire himself… No, he always makes sure to treat his squires equally, and ensure there is no reason for bad blood between them. He watches them closely, every day, sees how they train together, joke together, how they embrace one another… And if he passes by their rooms at night, listening close, of course he is not hoping to hear the quiet moans of a secret tryst. It would be wrong to hope for such a thing, just as it is wrong to bring himself to completion thinking about just that. 

Which is probably why he can’t stop thinking about that damned witch instead. 

The whole ride home is torturous, with Drakan’s cock refusing to soften for the entirety of it. Sometimes he thinks he can hear sounds from the wagon where they keep their captive and one of the squires keeping watch, though surely it’s just his rattled mind playing tricks on him. Eilind would never fall for a witch’s seductions - not only is he well trained, as Sir Drakan has extremely high standards for any squires he takes on, but out of all the young men seeking his tutelage, Eilind has always been the most pure and noble of heart. Drakan has complete faith in him.  

… Not that any amount of faith can rid Drakan of the mental image that forms in his mind, of Eilind gingerly spreading the witch’s legs to take a look, then leaning down closer, and closer… So close that he can taste the witch’s wetness, and he does, licking into the cunt and making the witch writhe. Eilind, in his maiden-like innocence, tortures the witch simply out of curiosity, makes a meal of it without growing hard himself. 

In Drakan’s fantasies, Joa is always the one to claim sweet Eilind. Unlike Eilind, Joa is not from a noble family. He has risen above his station through skill alone, though it does not hurt that there is a sharp handsomeness to him that will only flourish with age. As long as he does not make any of his usual foulmouthed comments, nobody takes him for a simple farmer’s son. 

“I’ll check on Eilind,” Joa says, momentarily breaking Drakan out of his reverie. 

“Do that,” Drakan replies, his mind already running ahead of him, thinking about Joa climbing into the wagon, licking his lips as he sees his beloved brother in arms, busy between the witch’s shaking thighs. 

Joa is no virgin, that much is clear, and he knows what to do with his cock, already out and dripping with arousal. He strokes it idly as he straddles the witch, then shoves it into the witch’s mouth. The witch takes it eagerly and barely gags as Joa fucks deeper and deeper into it, lost to the pleasure of serving its captors. 

Drakan shifts in his saddle, restless with the maddening heat pulsing at his groin. If only he did not have armor in the way, if he could touch himself right now… He would probably spill in two strokes. The thought of his squires moving as one against the bound witch, the bumps of the road jostling them around and masking their sounds…

Drakan knows nothing untoward is happening in that wagon. His squires would never take something that’s his.

Sir Drakan takes his time before visiting the dungeons. As a show of authority, of course. He has nothing to fear from the sorry creature shackled to the wall by its ankles. Its hands are still bound behind its back as well, though it is mere precaution. Drakan knows enough about witches to know it cannot harm him, not without access to any weapons or spellcrafting components - at least not one so scrawny at this. He quickly halts all thoughts of the many ways he could overpower the witch with his body.  

The witch looks at him with an unimpressed gaze. It’s kneeling on the floor, still filthy with dried blood, sweat, and dirt from the road. Its shirt is still in tatters. 

“Have you finally come down to ravish me, then?” it says, deadpan. 

The words spear through Drakan like a lightning bolt. He took care of his erection mere minutes ago, yet just the thought threatens to bring it back again. 

“To interrogate,” he growls.

“Right.”

The witch scoots closer to him, still on its knees. A shiver runs up Drakan’s spine. The witch is so close, its face right in front of his slowly hardening cock. He does not move away.

“And how,” the witch says huskily, “would you want to have me interrogated… Sir?” 

Drakan is speechless. He can do nothing but watch as the witch leans in to nuzzle the bulge before it. He is powerless to stop the way the bulge grows bigger, straining in his britches. He can feel warm breath and wet tongue through the fabric. He needs it on his skin. More than anything, he wants than to pin the witch down and brutally fuck its throat, but he can’t let the witch win over him like that. He can’t let it have the upper hand - 

The witch looks up at him through lidded eyes, and Drakan snaps. 

Just like in the fantasies about his squires, Drakan grabs the witch’s head and pushes it hard against his crotch. The sound of surprise makes his blood burn with arousal. He bucks his hips, groaning at the friction. He needs more. He nearly tears his britches off in his haste to free his cock, and even before he can force himself inside the witch the heat envelops him. 

“God Almighty,” Drakan whispers. 

That he could have gone his whole life without knowing what it’s like to have his cock sucked terrifies him. He had sworn to himself that he would never do what he had seen his own master do, all those years ago, that he would never humiliate his own squire this way, he would not even subject a woman to it, even as he kept thinking about it, dreaming about it… He would never enact such depravity. 

Now he will never be able to forget this. The suction at the head, the tongue along his shaft, how he can’t keep from moaning at the sensation of it. The way the witch can take all of him down its throat, mouth stretched around his girth. It’s better than anything he ever imagined, and that is a burden too heavy to bear.

He can’t have this just once. 

Drakan’s hips are bucking involuntarily, and his grip on the witch’s hair is surely painful, but he can’t stop himself. He needs this. His orgasm is building like an oncoming storm and the witch is going to take it. He’s going to make the witch take it over and over again until it gets burned at the pyre. It sealed its fate the moment it begged him for release. It sealed its fate the moment it chose to become a witch. 

He comes down its throat with a strangled cry, and the witch swallows it all without gagging.

Sir Drakan makes some rearrangements. 

He never thought he would ever keep a witch in his private chambers, but he’d rather that than having to go down to the dungeons every day, nor does he want to roll around in filth. He fastens the witch’s chain in such a way that it can reach his bed, a wash basin and a chamber pot, but nothing else. He will bring it meals every day. It’s much more than a witch deserves, but if Drakan is going to fuck it, then he’s going to have standards. 

The witch smiles self-assuredly the entire time it is being moved to its new location, but Drakan will make sure to wipe the smile off very, very soon.

“Clean yourself,” he demands. 

“As the Sir commands,” the witch agrees, already shedding whatever remains of its clothes. “May I have the pleasure of knowing my captor’s name? Unless you prefer to only go by Sir, like many others I know.” 

Oh, how Drakan wants the witch screaming his name. “It’s Sir Drakan. First order of the Holy Witch Hunter Corps.”

“My word! I am ever thankful to be in the capable hands of the Holy Witch Hunter Corps and not just some amateur bounty hunter.”

Drakan can tell it’s being sarcastic, but he’s too distracted by seeing the witch fully naked for the first time. It has pale hairs trailing down its belly and thighs and covering its mound. Drakan shamelessly palms his crotch as he ogles it, as well as the gangly limbs and slight curves.

The witch turns to Drakan, hands resting on its hips. “What, you’re not gonna ask me for my name?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” The witch shrugs and steps into the wash basin. “It's even lukewarm! And there's soap. How very magnanimous of my host.”

The more the witch tries to rile him up, the more it’s going to regret it. There’s a reason Drakan has held the door shut on all his depraved fantasies, and he’s held it shut for a very, very long time. Since this wretch has worked so hard to pry it open, Drakan can promise it will reap its rewards a thousandfold. He undoes his breeches. 

Drakan had not realized what nice hands the witch has, seeing as they were tied all this time. But now… The long, delicate fingers roam over the witch’s body as it washes itself, almost as if putting on a show for Drakan. It sighs contentedly, as if the bath is a hot spring loosening up all its knotted muscles - with the occasional hiss as it scrubs the soap over its darkest bruises. Drakan thumbs the head of his cock, watching intently.

What fascinates Drakan is how easily he can shift his perception of the witch’s body. It’s easy to see the witch as a young man, like it could be another one of his squires. In fact, the witch seems to have both the delicate features of someone like Eilind, as well as the roguishness he appreciates in Joa. If he were to have only one squire, a squire he could spoil with attention, a squire he could love like… a son of his own, perhaps. If he had a son like this young man, he would be a proud, doting father, never needing anything more in his life. But this is not a young man, but a witch - and when he looks at it like a woman, he can see it too. Immediately, the shadowy spectre of his future wife is replaced by the witch - if her hair were longer, and a flattering dress accentuated her curves… A strong and beautiful wife with a clever smile, who will giggle when he lifts her skirts and moan so sweetly when he claims her. A wife growing heavy with his child… 

Drakan grips hard around the base of his cock, breathing heavily as he waits for the sudden spike in arousal to recede. For as long as this witch is in his keep, he will not waste his seed by spilling anywhere else but deep inside it. 

The witch is humming as it washes its hair, rinsing it thoroughly. It’s so very lucky for Drakan to have caught this creature, one who can be his squire and wife at the same time, while still being so thoroughly undeserving of the dignity he would offer either of those. In fact, whatever dignity it possesses, Drakan will strip it away. 

“I’m almost ready,” the witch says. Its hand travels slowly down its stomach, then between its legs. It parts its lips in a sigh and arches its back slightly as it starts cleaning between its folds. “Ahh. Mmh.”

This is taking too long. 

Drakan hauls the witch out of the basin and throws it onto his bed, water be damned. He is the one in control, not the witch, never the witch. 

“So strong,” the witch purrs. 

“Shut your mouth, harlot,” Drakan growls as he grips its thighs hard to spread them. He hopes it bruises. 

As much as he wants to claim the witch like a battering ram, fast and mercilessly, he does not immediately see an obvious hole like he expected there to be. To not betray his lack of experience, he drags the tip of his cock up and down the folds until he finds a give, and then - then - 

The witch moans beneath him as Drakan forces his entire cock into it, and he moans too, already spilling into the tight, slick heat. He thrusts desperately, but his body has already betrayed him, his seed coming out of him in pulse after pulse. He shivers at the thought of it catching. 

The witch, body bent in half, held down by Drakan, simply raises its eyebrows at him, and Drakan feels his face grow red. 

“Well,” it says.

“I told you to shut your mouth.”

“You could’ve told me it was your first time.”

“It’s not -” 

“I’m just that attractive, then?”

Drakan bristles. “You are a depraved demon spawn!”

The witch puts a finger on his lips. “Shh. Let me take care of you. I take good care of first-timers.”

To Drakan’s horror, the witch has no trouble flipping him over on the bed, so that he was the one lying down on his back, the witch on top. He tried sitting up and found himself quite boneless, flopping back down from a slight push on his chest. 

“None of that. Now look at what you did to me,” the witch says, lifting itself up so that Drakan’s cock slides out of it, followed by thick globs of come. His come. “You were quite pent up, I take it. I bet you’ll be good to go another round very, very soon.” 

Drakan wouldn’t have known what to say even if the witch didn’t lean down to kiss him. 

It’s a strange, unexpected sensation, and he doesn’t know if he quite likes it, but the way the witch is so casually taking what it wants from him lights a fire in his gut. He responds to it like a fight, eliciting an excited noise from the witch. He can tell it has much more experience, so he makes up for his lack with ferocity, biting at its lip. 

“Very good,” the witch gasps. “Keep going.”

As they do keep going, the witch starts removing his shirt. Drakan doesn’t even notice, as he is too focused on the fact that the witch smells like herbs, like rosemary and thyme and some he doesn’t recognize, even after all they’ve put it through. He does notice when the witch breaks the kiss to remove his pants, and that they are now equally nude. 

“Delicious,” the witch mumbles, smacking its lips. “Such thick thighs…”

“What are you going to do to me?” Drakan asks, regretting immediately how helpless it makes him seem.

“Nothing you don’t want,” says the witch. “Relax. Feel my hands on your body.”

Drakan does not want to relax, but the hands… The hands on his body do feel nice. The witch is feeling out his torso and his arms, caressing his muscles. Then he feels a tongue on his neck, and he gasps. The witch is licking and suckling at him like his sweat is wine, going further and further down until it takes one of his nipples into its mouth.

“Ngah!”  

“Do you like that?” the witch asks smugly.

Drakan refuses to answer, and the witch continues, undeterred. 

Even without getting touched at all, his cock is growing hard again. The witch continues its quest to explore every inch of Drakan’s front, fondling and licking and cooing - even admiring his belly, something that he never considered attractive about himself. It’s twisting his mind, the way the witch acts like it wants him, like it really does want him to fuck it. Like a lover. Like a real lover, like a loving wife, not a captive witch held here against its will. It can’t be wanting him, Drakan knows. It’s all part of a ploy to escape its fate in flames. 

Then the witch starts massaging his balls, and his train of thought melts away. 

“You're hard for me again,” the witch observes. “Do you want me?” 

“Yes,” Drakan says, unthinkingly. 

“Will you fuck me good this time?” 

“Yes.” 

The witch sinks down on him, whining as it takes all of him at a torturously slow pace. Or maybe it's Drakan who whines. 

It starts to move. Slow, at first. Like riding a horse, the witch rides him, and it takes his hands and places them on its hips.

“Feel me,” it says.

And Drakan does. He runs his big, calloused hands over the witch’s hips, its waist, its ass… Its skin is so smooth, its flesh so supple, Drakan thinks he might be drooling. He feels its muscles working beneath his touch as the witch grinds down on him again and again, massaging his cock, milking him. He can feel his seed from earlier. Some of it trickles out mixed with the witch’s wet arousal, and he thinks of pushing it in deeper with each plunge.

The witch leans forward to kiss him again, and Drakan swallows it hungrily. With the weight shifting away from his hips, he finds himself thrusting upwards, hard enough to jostle the witch.

“Ah! Yes, Drakan, yes!” 

Desire burns hot in him. He wants the witch to come on his cock. He wants to fuck it so hard it can no longer speak. He wants to subjugate it, dominate it so completely that all it wants is to get fucked by him. He wants to fill the witch with his seed until it takes, and fuck it through its entire pregnancy. He wants the witch to serve him as a wife, its womb bearing him many children to carry on his legacy. He wants the witch to serve him as a squire, sucking his cock in secret, letting him take it against the wall in the armory. He wants the witch to keep kissing him and tell him how handsome he is and how much it wants him. He wants the witch to burn in Hell for all eternity for cursing him with the knowledge of how it feels to fuck it, to have his cock sucked, to have a warm body in his arms.  

“Keep going, k-keep going,” the witch pleads, panting as it rides against the thrusts so fervently the whole bed shakes. “Please, keep going!”

Not even the wrath of God could’ve stopped Drakan. For a moment, they are one being, melded together, moving in perfect harmony. The witch sways right above him, its hands gripping the headboard of the bed, and it’s coming undone. He watches as it convulses, muscles clenching and unclenching, eyes nearly rolling back.

“Nnnrgh, mmn! Hahh…”

It really does look like a young man in the throes of pleasure, squeezing around Drakan’s cock as he comes.

Drakan comes too. 

He holds the witch down on his cock as he fills it up. He thinks about filling it up so full it makes its belly bulge out, sloshing with seed. He thinks about the young man carrying his child. Drakan groans as his cock throbs with another spurt. 

Sleep comes over him so swiftly after that, he thinks the witch lovingly running its fingers through his hair must be a dream. 

When Sir Drakan wakes, it’s the dark of night. His body is so heavy he doesn’t think he can move, and he doesn’t remember how he got here. 

He’s in his bed, it seems. It feels like his bed, but something is - oh. He’s not alone. There’s a body in his arms, pressed with their back against his chest. They’re smaller than him, asleep, breathing softly. They’re naked. 

Is it… Has Drakan taken Eilind to bed? He couldn’t possibly have, but… Drakan buries his nose into his hair and takes a deep breath. Sweet Eilind. Sweet, innocent Eilind… Drakan imagines the shock he must’ve had when he saw Drakan’s enormous cock, wondering how he could ever fit such a thing inside himself - yet reaching out to touch it with curiosity, and blushing like a young maiden when Drakan groans with encouragement, spurring him on… 

Drakan hums and caresses Eilind. His smooth skin, his flat chest… Oh, how Drakan has longed for this. He feels himself hardening against his squire’s ass. Did he claim him? The stiffness of his limbs suggests strenuous activity before he fell asleep. Maybe Drakan claimed him more than once. Maybe he fucked Eilind long and good, making his cute little cock spurt over and over again, all the while Eilind begged to be filled anew each time, and Drakan had no choice but to comply… 

When Drakan reaches down to pleasure his loyal squire once more, he can’t find Eilind’s cock. He always imagined Eilind to be quite small, but surely he would have something between the legs? All he can find is a strange wetness…

“Mm,” sighs the body. It’s not Eilind’s voice. 

Something makes a clinking noise. Drakan suddenly becomes aware of the iron chain touching his calf, and all at once reality crashes down on him. 

The witch is asleep in his arms, in his bed. 

This realization does not make his erection flag. On the contrary, he pulls the witch closer to squeeze his cock in between its still slick thighs. He groans. Never before has he had so many erections in such a short span of time, but every time he imagines himself impregnating the witch, the maddening, impossible need flares up in him, like a command by the Almighty.

As he keeps sliding in and out between the thighs, they get slicker. At first he thinks the witch is growing more aroused, but soon he realizes it’s his cum trickling out.

“Can’t have that,” he murmurs, and penetrates the witch. 

He doesn’t expect it to stay pliant with sleep as he fucks slowly into it, but somehow it does. And oh, what a feeling. To have such a good hole so readily at his disposal, with no resistance, no smarmy remarks, it’s heaven. He thinks of filling the witch with his cum every night, leaving it none the wiser in the morning. 

The sudden, extra hard thrust definitely wakes it, however. 

“Nnh, what,” it mumbles groggily. “Oh… Hey there, big boy. Mmm.” 

It drives Drakan to madness, how not even waking up with a cock violating its cunt seems to shake the witch’s flippant attitude. The way it starts moving in tandem with his thrusts seem to suggest it likes getting woken up this way. What a depraved wretch. It compels Drakan to bite at its shoulder, only for it to gasp in ecstasy. 

Soon enough Drakan is fucking it hard from behind while he pushes its face down into the mattress, muffling its joyous cries. He will find a way to punish the witch for turning him into this. He will take what he wants from it. He will take all the pleasure he is owed, and give it none in return unless he decides to. He will make it bear his child, no matter if he must fuck it a hundred times, a thousand times. He will.

Drakan fills the witch with his seed, willing it to enter its womb. Then he falls back to sleep, cock still inside his prisoner. 

When he wakes again, it is to a lovely warmth between his legs. This time, he remembers the witch’s presence. 

Looking down, he finds it languidly stroking his cock and sucking at his balls. It’s incredibly pleasurable, and the sight of it alone makes him spurt precum. He should tell the witch to stop, to punish it for being so presumptuous as to service him without his permission…

Later. He will punish it later. 

“Good morning,” the witch says cheerily. “I really enjoyed how you woke me up earlier, so I figured it’s only fair to return the favor. Isn’t it nice?”

Drakan grunts. 

“And you simply must forgive my transgressions, but I did clean up a little while you slept.” 

Drakan grunts again. The witch should stop talking and start sucking again. Or better yet, straddle him and ride his cock.  

There’s a knock on the door. 

It figures that Drakan cannot avoid his duties forever, and he should be thankful it’s not interrupting him being actually balls deep inside the witch… But his hatred of whoever is behind that door is burning brighter than a pyre. He throws on his shirt, and it’s just long enough to cover his swelling member. 

It’s Joa.

“Morning Sir,” says his squire. “Your presence is needed at the meeting today.”

“I’ll be there,” Drakan says, channeling every ounce of his irritability into the words. 

Joa is clearly craning his neck to catch a glimpse of who else is inside Drakan’s chambers. “How’s the interrogations going? Not done yet, I take it?” 

“No.” 

Joa grins wolfishly. “Can I help? I think it would be very useful for me, as your apprentice, to learn some of those interrogation techniques… You know, just in case.”

Drakan slams the door shut in his face. 

The witch is lounging on his bed like a cat in a sun spot, head propped up on its hand. “Aw, you’re not going to share me with your cute squires?” 

The words set Drakan aflame like a wildfire. He drags the witch out of bed and slams it against the wall. For a split second, its expression seems fearful. That split second is everything Drakan wants. 

“You belong only to me,” Drakan growls at it as he plunges his cock into it. “You’re mine.”

“Nngh…” 

Drakan is pressing the witch into the wall with his entire body, rendering it completely helpless. “You’re my possession. I decide your fate. You’re mine. You’re mine.” 

The witch cries out with every hard thrust. It must be sore from all the fucking, and the wall is surely digging into all of its bruises. 

“You’re mine. Do you understand?” Drakan nearly spits at it. Maybe he should spit at it. 

“Yes,” the witch whimpers. “I-I’m yours.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours! I belong only to you, Sir Drakan…” 

Drakan roars as he cums. He won’t be so late for the meeting after all. 

Were it not for his duties or the need to bathe or eat meals, Drakan would never leave his chambers. He would spend every waking - and sometimes sleeping - hour fucking his witch. He can’t stop thinking about it. Every free moment he has, he wants to feel its cunt or mouth on his cock. Even at the times inbetween, when he’s flaccid, his captive is giving him massages, playing with his hair, or simply cuddling him. Drakan will never admit out loud how much he enjoys those moments, and they rarely last very long before he’s rock hard again. He never thought it was possible for a man to possess this much stamina, but, well… Maybe it’s a result of his long period of celibacy. 

Sometimes Drakan brings his meals to his room and feeds the witch from his hand like a pet. It’s much better food than it is usually given, and Drakan always makes sure to feed it his cock soon after. Watching this vile creature act so subservient to him is like an addiction. He slaps it, he bites it, he pulls at its hair, and no matter what he does to hurt it, it still takes him eagerly, begging for his cock. It’s no wonder his chamber is always reeking of sex these days, always so noticeable whenever he returns to it. The strong smell, the increasing amount of cum stains on his bed, the naked and vulnerable witch on top of it - oh, he has no choice but to fuck it one more time, like he’s a beast in its rut. 

Another reason he hates leaving his chambers is the worry that someone else will claim the witch. Of course, only Drakan, his squires and a few of his servants are aware of it, and none of them would ever dare to transgress in such a way. He even thinks the witch would tell him about it, if anyone tried something. Though, he has forbidden the chosen servants to clean his room unless he is present in it as well - and Joa did make those jokes about wanting to help… But Drakan trusts his squires. He trusts them with his life, and he trusts them to never, ever take what is his.

Drakan works hard not to neglect his squires. He still trains them diligently, every day, but they no longer hold his attention the way they used to. His thoughts keep drifting to the witch, moaning beneath him as he plants his seed inside it. One day it will take. Maybe it has taken already, and it’s simply too early to tell. 

He knows the witch shall burn, eventually. All witches burn. It’s the law. But there’s no law that says a witch must be executed immediately, and if he impregnates it… Well, they can hardly burn his innocent, unborn child. He would have to keep the witch alive until the birth… And maybe by then, as unlikely as it seems, the witch will have renounced its heretical ways. With the help of the Almighty, he can turn the witch to a righteous path, make it a woman again. Of course, nobody would want to marry a reformed witch… Except for Drakan. Drakan will take her for his wife despite all her wicked ways and her child out of wedlock.

Sir Drakan will save her from her gruesome fate.

“Mm, so affectionate today,” the witch purrs. 

Drakan kisses her deeply as he rolls his hips against her. He has come inside her two times already, and the sounds of his thrusts are wet and sloppy.

“I’m going to save you from damnation,” he tells her, almost reverently.

The witch’s eyes widen. “I didn’t know that was an option.”

Drakan licks her neck, making her moan. “If you carry my child, they can’t burn you. I won’t let them. You’re mine.” 

“Oh, is that all?” the witch laughs. “Go on, then. Give me your seed.”

Drakan’s mind goes blank at those words. Had he not climaxed earlier, he would have done so right then and there. She spreads her thighs further, as if to let him in deeper. She wants it. She wants him to seed her womb. She wants to be his wife. 

“I’ll marry you,” he murmurs into her ear. “You will be redeemed as my wife. I will provide for you and our children. No more witchcraft.” 

“You mean it?”

“Every word.” He kisses her again, and his heart soars when she returns his affections. 

He rolls them over so that she is sitting in his lap where he can hold her close against him. She is so delicate in his embrace, so easy to break. But he won't break her. He will protect her, now. 

“You really wish to bind our fates together?” she asks, as if she truly cannot believe that Drakan wants to keep her.

He looks deep into her eyes, a rich brown that glows like amber in the sun. “Yes. I swear it.”

She cups his cheek with her hand. It’s such a loving, intimate gesture that Drakan has never experienced before. Heat radiates from the witch’s touch - no, not witch anymore.

“What is your name?” he whispers, like it’s a confession. His heart beats like a battle drum.

“My name is Cyvyn,” she says, and it really does look like her eyes are glowing. “And by my name I make you mine.” 

Cyvyn’s hand is burning on his face, and he can feel his heartbeat in the burn, in his fingertips, in his cock. Without moving, he is coming again, nestled deep inside her. Close to her womb. He can tell she is willing the seed to catch. 

She’s perfect. 

“Cyvyn,” Drakan breathes. “Cyvyn, Cyvyn…”

Her name shall be his prayer. He knows he can’t fuck her again this soon, but he still tries, even as he shivers from the overstimulation. He wants to keep his cock inside her forever. Her belly will grow round with his seed as well as his child. She’s his. He’s hers, just like she said… 

There’s a knock on his door.

“Come back later,” he shouts. “I’m not to be disturbed.”

“It’s urgent,” replies Eilind’s voice. 

Cyvyn laughs like tinkling bells while Drakan growls in anger. He pulls out of her as slowly and carefully as he can, but he can’t stop all the cum that flows out of her cunt. What a waste. 

“What is it?” Drakan barks as he opens the door. He rarely raises his voice to Eilind, and he does not miss the way his squire’s eyes widen in fear. “It better be from the damn king himself -”

“It is,” Eilind squeaks, quickly shoving a letter into Drakan’s hands.

It bears the royal seal. 

There is no way around it, Sir Drakan has been summoned to the capital. It’s only a day’s ride away, but Drakan has never before spent more than a couple hours at a time away from Cyvyn. Over two days… It’s like a trial of faith by the Almighty. 

For a moment, Drakan considers bringing Cyvyn with him, but it wouldn’t be safe. Until she is clearly with child, he cannot risk anyone else finding out she’s a witch. A former witch.

“You don’t think I’ll be here when you come back?” Cyvyn asks in such a saccharine voice, Drakan thinks it might be sarcasm again. 

“I don’t trust anyone else to leave you be,” Drakan admits. He knows as he says it that it is foolish to think that way. 

“It’s so sweet how you worry. Will you make love to me one last time before you go?”

Of course he does. 

He makes love to her not just once, but twice, taking her in slow strokes, making her feel every bit of his cock. Then, just as he is about to step out of the keep, he turns back to go fuck her one more time. It’s a fast and desperate fuck, with heavy breaths and loud slaps of skin against skin. Only after that is he able to ride out.

Hours pass on horseback, and Sir Drakan cannot get rid of a strange, nagging feeling. 

It is not unusual for someone of his station to be summoned before the King. It’s not his first time receiving such a summons. His keep does not need him, and he trusts his squires to handle any matters coming their way. They are not far from completing their apprenticeship and becoming full witch hunters of their own, after all. They do not need to be under his constant observation.

Or do they?

Drakan halts his horse. 

He looks at the letter again. Nothing about it suggests forgery, and the seal is real enough, as far as he can tell. Drakan thinks he can find signs of it having been resealed, that someone read the letter before giving it to him. He might, of course, just be making it all up in his head. His paranoia is affecting his judgement. He knows it is.

But he can’t stop thinking about his squires sneaking into his room. Joa throwing away his clothes as he walks towards the bed, Eilind much more shy. He thinks about them holding down Cyvyn, his Cyvyn, and claiming her for their own. He thinks Joa would fuck her cunt while she sucks Eilind off. Joa would thrust in her so hard Eilind would feel it, and his squires would kiss as they defile her together. Maybe they would make Cyvyn ride both of their cocks at once. Would she enjoy that? Would she enjoy taking two men at once, or would she cry from being taken by someone other than her Drakan? Especially now that she is promised to him, promised to walk the Almighty’s path in life… 

Drakan turns his horse around. He has no proof, only instinct, but he cannot let his squires break Cyvyn that way. 

Drakan nearly rides his horse to death in his haste to get back. He tried pacing himself, but every time an image of Joa or Eilind forcing themself on Cyvyn appears in his mind, he can’t help but spur his steed on to go faster. As soon as he can see the keep’s entrance, he jumps off his horse to run inside. 

It’s eerily quiet.

Drakan does not see any of his servants or anyone else as he marches towards his chambers. His steps echo along the stone floor in a way he cannot recall hearing before. It’s like being alone in misty woods, the familiar made unfamiliar.

When he flings the door open to his chambers, he’s relieved to see neither of his squires inside. He is just about to breathe out when he realizes - Cyvyn isn’t there, either. 

Her chain is still there, her shackle unlocked.

Drakan roars with rage, unsheathing his sword as he heads towards the wing his squires reside in. 

He will kill them for this. All the years of trust and training has been wasted on them, for they have taken his prize, his future wife. Such a thing can never be forgiven or forgotten. 

Drakan slows down as he gets closer to their rooms, expecting to hear the sounds of their illicit pleasure. He doesn’t. It’s strange, but then, it has been hours. He might find them cuddling, instead. 

The fury that thought instills in him is such that he kicks down the door to Joa’s room. 

There are no bodies on the bed, but the room is not empty. On the floor, half dressed, are Joa and Eilind. They lie in unnatural positions, as if they have simply fallen where they stood, and never got up. For a heartbeat, Drakan thinks they might be dead, his worry cutting through his hatred. 

They’re breathing. 

Caught between conflicting emotions, he attempts to slap Joa awake. When that does not work, he upends on him the jug of wine Drakan finds standing on the table, and lo and behold - the squire sputters awake. 

“Wh- wuh, what,” Joa starts, but does not get to finish when Drakan hauls him up. 

“Where is she,” he snarls. 

By the expression, Drakan can tell that Joa knows exactly who he means. 

“Uh, he, she, um… We just, we weren’t -” 

“You were just going to what.” 

Drakan has never seen Joa so pale. Nor has he seen the strange mark on his chest, a dark shape, like a sickle, or a moon… 

Drakan freezes. 

Eilind, too, has the mark. The witch mark. It takes an ancient spell to create it and few witches still wear it, but those who do… 

“Have you been in league with the witch this entire time?” Drakan feels numb all over. “Did you help her escape?”

“What? No! We would never do that!” Joa bristles. “How can you think that?” 

Drakan stabs at Joa’s chest with his finger. “Explain this.” 

Joa’s eyes widen in horror. “Oh God,” he whispers. “He… He marked me. This was not there before, I swear it, I swear upon my father and mother and the Almighty, I did not have this before. Please, trust me!” 

Drakan leaned in close. “And why should I?” 

“B-because you’ve got one as well.” 

No.

It can’t be.

Joa scrambles to find his mirror and holds it up for Drakan to see. It takes a moment to focus on the warped reflection, but then he sees it, clear as day. 

On his face, where Cyvyn had touched him so lovingly. A dark moon to turn his life to ruin. 

The harlot. The demon whore. The abomination that has brought depravity upon his house.

“That fucking bitch,” Drakan says.

A loud crack rumbles through the keep. 

“What was that?” asks Joa. 

The stone floor shakes beneath them.

“Take Eilind. We have to get out of here.” 

They hurry through corridors even as stones fall from the ceiling and the walls break apart. Sometimes Drakan catches a glimpse of something he should have noticed earlier - smears of blood, made to look like sigils. He spots them on doors and walls and even on the floor, not too many, but surely enough to bind the keep in a curse. 

By the time they’ve made it out, Eilind too has woken up from his spellbound sleep. Just in time to watch all of Sir Drakan’s legacy crumble to dust in front of them all. 

Drakan has been very, very stupid.