Nine months in the human trafficking circuit has destroyed every sense of normality you ever knew. For you, it's commonplace to be ordered on your knees for your owner, his clients, anyone else Childe deems necessary-and you've reached a point where...
people have layers! even the shitty ones. that doesn't make them any less shitty. writing layers is not romanticization. therefore, although the rapey vibes in this chapter are lighter, please note that this is still rape and author does not condone ~anything~
when reading this, keep in mind that the reader has been in this life for nine months already, and that the state of being human trafficked (a slave, in essence) is normal for her. she is used to being thought of as an object. anything else is unfamiliar territory. therefore, emotional discomfort go brrr
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You consciously force your body to remain limp as Childe fucks into you, staring blankly at the ceiling despite how he quietly aims at your G-spot.
It's not unlike how you acted on your first night under his care—because even back then, you knew better than to fight back, so pretending like he was the worst fuck of your life was the most defiant act you could perform—so the way you ignore the rare, dull pleasure that spreads through your groin is familiar.
Childe hates it.
"Angel," he whispers in your year, gripping your leg and coaxing it around his waist. It's a pitiable attempt to stir you into action, to make you give in and pretend that you enjoy this as you usually do on the nights where he fucks you, the nights where he makes you ride him, the nights where he continues to remind you that no matter how sweet his nickname for you is, he's still a monster inside.
The man cums a few moments later.
He lasted a bit longer than usual tonight, though his endurance has always been high. Thankfully, you've grown used to the ugly ache that takes root in your core when Childe finally pulls out. It's familiar: the way he lets his body weight rest on top of yours for a cursory moment; familiar: the way he finally rolls over and reaches for a tissue to clean you both up; familiar: the way he forcibly tugs you into his arms afterward to rest his head on your shoulder.
What isn't familiar is the way his hands now creep around your waist, slowly shifting your body to face his until you're face-to-face and he's cupping your cheek with infinite tenderness.
"Angel," he whispers, a painful amount of emotion in his crystal blue eyes. "Tell me what's wrong. Please."
Ah, you think. This is new.
As usual, you yearn to turn around and mumble a halfhearted "nothing" Childe's way. Still, you've seen other girls attempt that with other men...and they usually ended up beaten bloody for it, so you decide to play it safer.
"I'm sleepy, Sir." It's partially true. Sex, even when you refuse to act during the process, is a tiring endeavor.
"Come on, angel," Childe persists. "You've been like this all day. Not just today, either. Today, and yesterday, so..."
You want to scowl when he says that. Leave it to your owner to be so impatient that he can't handle a change in behavior from one of his toys for a mere forty-eight hours. If he were in your position, trafficked and plunged into a world of devastating change for months on end, he would never last.
