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Tomas dangled in place, sweat already dampening the insides of his elbows and dripping in slow rivulets down his sides. His arms were drawn high above his head, wrists wrapped in coils of tight, unfamiliar cord—too smooth for rope, too flexible for chain. His ankles were fixed wide apart to the stone floor, locked with the same material, leaving him stretched upright and exposed. The tension in his body wasn't just from the strain of suspension. Heat had begun to spread through his limbs, working outward from his spine like a fever given breath.

He had been drugged. He could feel it—beneath the resistance in his muscles, beneath the rising flush in his chest. Whatever they'd dosed him with wasn't designed to knock him out. It was meant to make every breath, every inch of contact, feel more sensitive than normal. From the darkness, soft claws tapped against the floor, evenly spaced, unhurried.

A figure peeled from the shadows with the casual poise of something that had been watching for far too long. He wasn't tall by human standards, but the confidence in his step made it irrelevant. Black fur hugged a lithe frame, each movement smooth and deliberate, his claws clicking against stone in patterns that almost sounded like thought. His eyes were bright green—unnatural, piercing, clever. They settled on Tomas without blinking.

“I watched you long, man-thing," the Skaven said, his voice slick with amusement. “Saw how you step-crept through ruin-stone, thought you were ghost-quiet, yes-yes. So careful. So proud."

He paced slowly around the suspended man, claws brushing the hilts of knives slung across his harness. Vials clinked faintly at his sides—glass, not scrap. His tools were clean, chosen. Ritual.

“You never saw my line-snare. Never smelled the dust I moved-shifted so you'd trip-step. You thought yourself hunter." He stepped closer now, his voice dropping low, lips curling back slightly in a mockery of a smile. “But you are mouse-prey. And I am knife."

Tomas glared down at him, jaw tight, refusing to answer. The Skaven simply tilted his head, examining his captive like a craftsman inspecting a half-finished piece of work.

“You know why you are still alive-hanging?" he asked, tone soft but threaded with threat. “Not because you're useful. Not yet. But because I want-need to ask you things."

He came closer still, standing just behind Tomas now, breath warm against the nape of his neck. Tomas jerked instinctively, trying to twist away, but the bindings held him fast.

“Your mission. The who-send, the why-come. I will hear answers, but not loud-shouted. No blade-flay or fire-burn. No. That's for war-beasts." His tongue flicked the edge of Tomas's ear. “I do it slow. Deep. From inside."

Tomas closed his eyes, his jaw locking hard as the words sank in. There was something far worse in the assassin's calm than in the threats of any screeching warlord. It wasn't a boast. It was a statement of fact. No rage, no fury. Just method. Just time. He could feel the Skaven behind him again, close enough that his breath stirred the sweat gathering at the base of Tomas's skull.

The heat of him was wrong—too warm, too steady. And yet the presence of another body had never felt so intrusive. Every inch of skin was alive now, nerves thrumming with the venom's slow spread, coiling just under the surface like a fever with no outlet.

“You resist now," the Skaven muttured, voice smooth, almost kind. “Yes-yes. Pride. Bravery. Good mask, very strong." A pause. Then, quieter, deadlier: “But poison does not care."

A tongue slid across the back of Tomas's neck again, slower this time. Lingering. He shuddered despite himself, muscles twitching beneath the slick touch. The Skaven chuckled softly at the reaction. Tomas hated how intimate it was. Not the touch—the focus. This wasn't blind rutting, wasn't brute force.

This creature was studying him, tasting him. Like he wanted to know how every inch of him would respond, how to map every nerve, how to use it. There was no rage to push against. No screams to shut out. Just a creeping certainty that this was going to last. He clenched his teeth harder as the Skaven whispered at his ear again.

“Crave-touch will come. You will beg-squirm for it. Not because you want-want, no. Because the body will need. Yes-yes. Even from me."

Tomas forced a breath through his nose, sharp and angry. He couldn't give him that. Wouldn't. But even now, he could feel the heat gathering in his stomach, pooling low, like a traitorous ache. The poison didn't burn—it simmered. Like coals buried under flesh, stoking the worst kind of anticipation. Another lick, this time curling over the ridge of his spine, from waist to shoulder. The Skaven purred at the end of it, a low sound of satisfaction.

“You taste-change. Skin tells truth. Blood stirs-stirs. Little tremble in thigh."

Tomas bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to sting. Pain helped. For now. He'd trained to resist interrogation. He could take beatings, endure broken fingers, survive days without food, water, sleep. But nothing had prepared him for this. For being touched like a lover by a thing that saw him as prey and possession all in one. For the betrayal of his own skin reacting to it.

The Skaven moved again, slow, circling now to stand in front of him. Green eyes met his without blinking, searching his face, drinking in every detail of defiance and strain.

“You hold secrets," he said, softly. “You think you can keep them buried. But the longer I taste, the louder your body will speak-squeal. Until even truth is begged."

His claws rose, gently pressing against Tomas's sides—just beneath the ribs—and held there. Not to scratch. Just to feel him breathe. Tomas stared back, breathing hard, chest rising into the Skaven's touch without choice. His arms burned, his thighs ached, and the flush in his groin pulsed, warm and dangerous. He told himself it was just blood. Just chemical interference. But the shame creeping up his spine knew better.

“You are mine for night-whole," the Skaven said, tilting his head slightly. “You will break."

There was no heat behind the words—no cruelty for the sake of it. Just certainty. Like he was reciting a fact that had already played out in his mind a dozen times. His claws trailed lower as he spoke, curling over Tomas's hips now, gripping flesh firmly—not to hurt, but to possess.

Tomas tried to steady his breath, but the poison made it hard. His chest was too tight, his limbs too warm. His cock had begun to swell, half-hard and maddening, each pulse a humiliation. It wasn't arousal in any normal sense. It was stimulus—flesh reacting to touch and venom, blood moving where it had no right to go. He hated it. Hated how real it felt.

The Skaven sank to his knees without a sound. Clawed hands gripped Tomas's thighs and spread them as far as the restraints would allow. His breath hitched as warm air ghosted over his exposed cock. He could feel the heat of that muzzle hovering there—close enough that each exhale rolled over the sensitive skin like a whisper.

“You react already," came the low whisper. “Venom works-deep. I taste-check now."

And then Tomas felt the rat's tongue press flat against the base of his shaft. It was warm, slick, far too precise. The first long lick traveled upward along the underside, slow and steady, until it flicked against the tip. Tomas clenched his fists against the cords, the sudden shock of pleasure making him hiss through his teeth. He'd been prepared for pain. For violence. Not this.

The Skaven purred faintly, as if pleased by the tension in Tomas's thighs. Another lick followed, firmer this time, circling the head before retreating. Then his mouth opened fully and took the cock in, not all at once, but in slow, maddening increments, each inch enveloped in heat and wet pressure.

Tomas gasped. His hips jerked, barely, held in place by the ankle restraints. The position left him entirely exposed, vulnerable to every flick and curl of the tongue as the Skaven worked him with unhurried focus. There was no rhythm to it, no rutting motion. Just calculated teasing, dragging his pleasure out inch by inch.

“I feel-see your tremble," the Skaven uttered between strokes, lips brushing slick flesh as he spoke. “Not want-want, but still you rise-harden. That is truth I take from you."

Tomas could feel it building already. Not climax—not yet—but that awful, inevitable pressure of the body betraying the mind. His skin prickled, nerves lit up like fire beneath his skin, and still the Skaven sucked with that terrible patience, mouth warm and skilled in a way that no beast should be. It was obscene. Unnatural. And it was working.

“You think-resist, but your cock speaks better," the voice muttered, thick with breath as he pulled back and licked the length again, now with more pressure, tongue rougher near the tip. “I draw you out, strip you down. No lies left when you moan."

Tomas shook his head, but his breath caught as a claw stroked up along his inner thigh. His jaw clenched. The Skaven didn't push further. Instead, he cupped Tomas's balls, rolling them with terrifying gentleness, while the flat of his tongue worked back up the shaft, curling around the head, flicking the slit.

Tomas let out a sound, something between a grunt and a curse. He couldn't help it. The Skaven stilled for a moment, his tongue pressing flat against the underside of Tomas's cock, holding it there in his maw like a mark claimed. Tomas tried to brace himself, muscles twitching against the restraints, but there was no relief, no way to twist free from the heated mouth wrapped around him.

Then the rat pulled back, slowly, deliberately, letting Tomas feel every fraction of retreat until only the tip remained inside his mouth.

“You make noise now," the Skaven said softly, lips brushing the head with every word. “Mmm, yes-yes. Good start."

He released him with a wet pop and gave the head a slow lick that ended in a nip—teeth grazing just enough to make Tomas flinch.

“But not enough. No, no. I want more."

Tomas glared down, teeth bared, but the assassin only smiled.

“Tell me who-send. Name," he murmured, rubbing his muzzle along the shaft like a cat scenting its prey. “Speak, or I take it back again. And again. No finish. Only ache-starve."

Tomas stayed silent, chest rising fast, jaw set tight.

The Skaven chittered in delight. “Still fight. Mmm. Brave man-thing."

He leaned back in and dragged his tongue across the head, slow and wet, before letting his teeth rake lightly over the foreskin. Tomas twitched, a gasp caught halfway in his throat.

“You know this breaks faster than bone, yes-yes?" the Skaven whispered. “Cock betrays first. Always."

He mouthed at the foreskin again, this time suckling lightly at the tip as it pushed free, his claws pressing at Tomas's thighs to keep him still. His tongue danced in slow spirals, teasing the sensitive slit, and Tomas cursed under his breath, hips twitching as the sensation surged through him like a shock.

“Still no answer?" the Skaven purred. “Then I punish-deny."

Without another word, he pulled away completely, standing with an elegant, infuriating calm. Tomas was left exposed, throbbing, dripping, every inch of his cock aching with denied release.

“Not ready yet," the Skaven muttered, mostly to himself. “Need more softening."

He circled behind Tomas again, and claws gripped his hips, firm now, possessive. The Skaven pressed himself up against the back of Tomas's thigh, and he could feel the heat there—the rat was hard. Not rutting forward, not dry-humping like a beast, but waiting. Letting Tomas feel him. The implication was worse than any thrust. A moment passed in silence. Then that voice again, low and too close to his ear.

“You will fill me later. Mmm, yes-yes. But first you tell what I need."

A warm tongue traced the curve of his shoulder blade. Another lick followed, curling up along his spine, slower this time. Then another bite—not cruel, just firm, right below the shoulder.

“Name. Commander. Give me your sender."

Tomas grunted, breath catching, but he said nothing. The Skaven didn't stop. He dropped lower again, back to his knees, wrapping a hand around Tomas's cock, stroking once, slow and tight, his claws not cutting but just rough enough to make the sensation sharper. He opened his mouth again and began to suck, rhythm faster now—still controlled, but more insistent. Every time Tomas gasped, the Skaven hummed with satisfaction around him.

Tomas felt his climax climbing, unbearable and near. Then it stopped. The Skaven pulled away at the last second, mouth glistening, green eyes sharp with cruel delight.

“You give me silence," he said, licking his lips. “So I give you nothing."

He leaned back in and licked the head again, then nipped the foreskin with sharp teeth, enough to make Tomas jerk and hiss in frustration. The Skaven chuckled low in his throat.

“Say it. Even one name. And I give you reward."

He wrapped his mouth around the head once more, suckling so gently it felt like fire through Tomas's poisoned nerves.

“You are close. I can smell it," the Skaven whispered. “Drip-drip, ache-ache. Say one thing, and I let you come."

Tomas gasped, body jerking again as the Skaven's mouth closed over the head of his cock with a firm, twisting suck. It was unbearable—each stroke a mix of pleasure and humiliation, his skin prickling with shame at how close he was to finishing, how his body had become a traitor with every throb and twitch. He couldn't take much more of this. Not without giving something.

“Garen," he gasped, barely managing to force the word past his teeth. “Commander Garen."

The Skaven stopped. For a heartbeat, silence. His lips still rested against the head, hot breath spilling over slick skin. Then, slowly, he pulled back and sat back on his haunches. And laughed. It wasn't the amused chittering from earlier. This laugh had sharp edges. It was serrated, biting through the air with rising pitch, echoing off the stone like something unhinged. He laughed as though Tomas had told him the funniest thing in the world—like he couldn't believe the audacity.

“Ohh, you think me stupid-simple, yes-yes?" the Skaven gasped through his teeth. “You dare lie to me? When you are bound-tied, cock swollen, breath shallow, dripping for my mercy?"

The laughter cut off. Gone. What followed was silence—flat and suffocating. He stood slowly. The look in his green eyes had changed. No more amusement. No more games. Only the cold precision of a predator now fully invested in the pain he would deliver.

“What I did before…" he began, voice low. “Was mercy-kind. Gentle. A gift, mm? A reward."

He stepped forward again, claws clicking against the floor, and then—without warning—plunged them into Tomas's thighs. This time deeper. Not testing. Punishing. Tomas screamed, breath torn from his chest as white-hot agony raced up through his legs. The Skaven didn't flinch. His grip tightened, claws shifting inside torn muscle, his face inches from Tomas's.

“But this…" he snarled, fangs bared, “this is what you earn when you treat Eshin like fool-thing."

He let go just as suddenly, blood slicking his hands, dripping to the floor in thick drops. Then, with terrifying grace, he turned, lifting his tail high as he backed slowly into position. Tomas barely had time to breathe before the Skaven lowered himself—smooth, practiced, merciless. The head of Tomas's cock pressed into hot, slick flesh. The Skaven exhaled once—sharp, controlled—and then sank down completely, impaling himself in one steady, fluid motion until he had taken every inch.

Tomas groaned through gritted teeth, overwhelmed by the sudden clenching heat around him, the way the Skaven's insides gripped him like a vice. The pain in his thighs made the pleasure unbearable. Blended. Confusing. And the assassin didn't move. He sat there, perfectly still, tail twitching once in satisfaction.

“No more nice-play," he murmured, voice quiet again, coiled with menace. “No suck-soft. No tease. You feel me now. You are inside. Deep."

He clenched—tight and deliberate. Tomas jerked, unable to suppress a groan.

“But no thrust. No grind. No spill."

His inner muscles flexed again, milking with slow, pulsing contractions that walked the line between pleasure and cruelty.

“You lie-lie to me," the Skaven said, barely turning his head. “Now you earn your edge-break. All night. Until I have truth."

Another pulse. Another wave of heat around Tomas's cock, tight enough to make him shake.

“It is maddening, yes-yes? To be inside. To feel what could-be. So close, yet never granted."

Tomas shook in his bonds, blood trailing in lazy rivulets down his legs, mixing with sweat and the humiliating drip of precum from his still-pulsing cock buried inside the Skaven's unmoving body. The pain in his thighs had dulled to a throbbing ache, but the real agony was deeper—hot and swollen and growing unbearable inside his gut. The venom made every twitch of the Skaven's inner muscles feel like fire, like the edge of orgasm waiting just beyond reach. He couldn't think. Could barely hold a coherent thought.

“Speak," the Skaven's voice had returned to calm now. “Or suffer more. Hours more. I do not tire."

Tomas opened his mouth, then closed it again. His whole body trembled. The tremors weren't just from pain anymore—they were from the strain of holding back, of clenching every muscle against the aching need to move, to come, to end this.

“Commander Halbrecht," he choked, voice rough and broken. “It was Halbrecht."

The Skaven froze, body going perfectly still around him—but not in denial. Not disbelief. Satisfaction.

“Mmm," the assassin hummed, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder, green eyes alight with cruel delight. “Yes-yes. That is true-name."

Tomas sagged in his bindings, shoulders slumping forward, breath ragged. He barely noticed how hard he was still pulsing inside the Skaven's tailhole, how slick his cock had become from constant teasing and clenching. But the rat didn't move.

“Do you know why?" he asked, voice low and close. “Why you were sent?"

Tomas shook his head slowly, blinking through haze.

“They just told me to map the ruins," he muttered. “No details. No target. Just mark the paths. Report back."

The Skaven tilted his head, tongue clicking faintly behind his teeth. “Mmm. Just a scout. Not even bait. Your commander thinks low of you, yes-yes. But you gave what I need."

He rolled his hips once, finally—just once—and Tomas groaned aloud, nearly collapsing from the sudden jolt of pleasure.

“Very good," the Skaven whispered, and there was mockery in every syllable. “Very brave. Very strong."

He clenched again, then began to move. It started slow. A steady, rolling grind of his hips as he rode down the full length of Tomas's cock and lifted again with practiced ease. His inner walls gripped and twisted around the shaft with every motion, milking him with obscene precision. No more teasing. No more tests. This was rhythm, full and deliberate.

“You've earned," he breathed, voice gone quiet and breathless now. “Yes-yes. Your reward."

Tomas groaned again, too far gone to hold anything back. The friction was maddening. The warmth, the squeeze, the motion—each thrust downward was a full-body ache of pleasure that rolled up through his belly and threatened to tear something loose.

The Skaven braced himself, one hand on Tomas's thigh, claws digging into the blood-slicked skin as he bounced faster, harder. His other hand reached between his own legs, curling around his own cock—short, pink, twitching, already slick with leaking fluid.

He stroked in time with his riding, panting softly now as his tail curled around Tomas's calf like a living restraint.

“You feel it?" he gasped. “So deep. So full. Man-thing seed soon spill."

Tomas could only groan in answer. His climax was too close now—torn from him by venom and pressure and the sheer relentless motion of the rat's body working his cock like a weapon. The Skaven moaned, a chittering gasp as his own cock twitched violently in his hand. He slammed himself down hard one final time, hips grinding, muscles clenching like a vice as his own orgasm ripped through him.

Tomas cried out a second later, the sound raw and torn from deep in his chest as his body convulsed. He emptied himself into the Skaven's tight, clenching heat, pulse after pulse dragging out a climax that left him trembling, hollowed out. His vision blurred at the edges. Every inch of him ached—his limbs from suspension, his thighs from blood loss, his cock from the unrelenting pressure of release.

The Skaven stayed seated a moment longer, grinding down just once more to savor the last twitch of Tomas's cock inside him. Then, with a slow breath, he rose, Tomas's seed already beginning to trail down the insides of his thighs. They stood in silence for a beat, both of them panting.

Then the rat turned.

Tomas was too spent to flinch when the Skaven grabbed his face in one clawed hand, claws pressing into his cheeks just enough to hold him still. He looked into Tomas's eyes—green gaze sharp and bright, his pupils slitted and unreadable.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was not gentle. It was possession, mouth forced against Tomas's, tongue sliding past lips with a hunger that had nothing to do with lust. It was wet, claiming, and deep, the taste of blood and sex clinging between them. Tomas tried to turn away on instinct, but the claws tightened. He was held, taken.

When the Skaven finally pulled back, he didn't let go. He kept his grip firm on Tomas's jaw, watching him for a long moment with a smug, quiet satisfaction. His claws held Tomas's face still, the grip firm but no longer cruel. There was something else in it now—possessiveness. Warning.

“You're mine now," the Skaven whispered, voice low and satisfied. “Yes-yes. Claimed. Not in name, but in use. You filled me, but you broke yourself doing it."

Tomas trembled, still bound, still aching from the strain, the blood drying along his thighs, the venom leaving his nerves raw. His cock was soft now, spent—but nothing in him felt released. The pressure, the violation, the heat of that gaze—it lingered deeper than anything physical. The Skaven leaned in, his muzzle brushing close. He pressed his nose to Tomas's cheek, nuzzling slowly, deliberately, the way a beast might press scent into its mate. Not tender. Not kind. A form of branding.

“Your seed's in me," he uttered. “But my scent is on you. My mark in your wounds, my heat in your mouth, my voice in your ear."

He dragged his muzzle down along Tomas's jaw, across the side of his neck, rubbing into his skin with slow, grinding motions. Tomas tried not to recoil, but there was no room to move, no strength left to resist.

“No Skaven will dare take-touch what I've used-marked. They would smell me, know me. Know you are mine. And if one does try…" He exhaled a hot breath just beneath Tomas's ear. “I gut him throat to tail, slow-slow. Make an example from his bones."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look Tomas in the eye. The green in his gaze glowed faintly in the dark, alight with satisfaction, but beneath it—something else. Possession. Not lust anymore. Ownership.

“You'll walk from here," the Skaven said, “but not unchanged. Not untouched."

His claw trailed across Tomas's chest. “You'll feel it for days—stretch-ache in thighs, in back, in your pride. You'll lie to yourself. Say it meant nothing. That you were only used. But your cock told truth, and your silence now tells more."

He stepped back, finally letting Tomas go. One slow retreat into the shadow, each movement as controlled and fluid as ever. The last thing visible was his face—his muzzle half-turned in a grin, and those eyes. Watching.

“I'll find you again," he said, voice already fading into the dark. “My man-thing toy. My brave little prize."

Only his green eyes lingered then—hanging in the darkness like twin cuts of emerald glass. Bright. Watching. And then they vanished. A second later, the bindings fell away. Tomas collapsed to the ground, catching himself with a trembling arm before he fully crumpled. His knees hit the stone hard. The ache in his body was immediate and deep—an echo of everything done to him, still written in pain and in the slick trail that ran down the sides of his thighs.

Beside him, folded with eerie neatness, was his gear. His pack. His tunic. His blade. Arranged as if nothing had happened. As if this was just another camp to leave behind.

But the silence said otherwise.

Tomas dressed slowly, numbly. Every motion stiff, mechanical. His hands hesitated over the belt buckle, over the hem of his shirt. As if by covering himself, he could undo what had been done. He knew better. He wouldn't report this. He couldn't. Because to admit it out loud would mean saying it happened. That it worked.

That somewhere in the dark, a Skaven with green eyes and a killer's grace had claimed him—not just in body, but in something quieter. Deeper. Something Tomas could not explain.

And would never escape.