Fog. Again. Like the city decided it was auditioning for the role of "world's most depressing ghost town." You know that moment when you wake up with a hangover so bad you question your entire life? That was Greywatch every morning. And tonight? Tonight, I was going to add one more poor bastard to the city's misery quota.
I'm Cecil. Not that anyone important knows the name yet. Probably for the best. Keeps the headache to a minimum. They say knowledge is power, but in my experience? Power is way more fun when you keep it secret. Especially when your power is the kind that turns people into… well, let's say artfully compromised versions of themselves. Specifically, femboys. And no, it's not a joke. It's my personal brand of chaos.
The streets smelled like wet leather, burnt oil, and whatever poor sap had died a few hours before. Greywatch was a stew of decay and ambition—people clawing for scraps while hiding their knives behind smiles. I liked it. The smell of desperation mixed with stale tobacco was oddly comforting. Like a twisted lullaby.
I pulled my coat tighter. Nestled inside my pocket was the real star of tonight's show: a feathered pen, black as midnight and sharp as a serpent's fang. Not just a writing tool—this was my signature, my brand, my curse. One carefully drawn mark, and the world around the target shifted irreversibly. Reality bent and snapped, and they became mine.
My target tonight was Roderick. Big, ugly, and ruthless. The kind of guy who probably thought empathy was a footnote in his biography. I didn't like him. That was enough reason. He ran one of the city's lesser guilds, and by lesser, I mean barely tolerated. Perfect.
He was holed up in the backroom of The Brass Lantern — a name so ironically pathetic you'd think it was a trap. Well, I was bait, and Roderick was about to bite.
I slipped inside, the warm stink of sweat and whiskey hitting me like a fist. Roderick's goons eyed me like I was some street rat who wandered too close to the lion's den. The man himself lounged in a chair that probably cost more than my monthly rent, smirking like he owned the whole damn city.
He caught my eyes and laughed—deep and cruel. "Lost your way, pretty boy?"
Pretty boy? Cute. I made a mental note to rip that nickname apart later. For now, I kept my voice smooth, "Not lost. Just here to rearrange your world."
He sneered, "Rearrange? You don't even have the tools."
That was the challenge. Perfect. If he thought this was going to be a walkover, he was in for a lesson.
He leapt up faster than I expected, a wild rage burning in his eyes. His fists were huge, weapons forged in barroom brawls and back-alley fights. I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck like I was ready for a dance I'd choreographed a thousand times before.
"You want to play rough?" I said with a grin that didn't reach my eyes.
His first punch came like a hammer — heavy, brutal. I ducked just in time, feeling the air whistle past my cheek. The fight was on.
We circled each other, shadows twisting in the dim light. Every move was a test — his raw strength against my precision and speed. He swung wide, trying to catch me off guard; I countered with sharp jabs and calculated feints. It wasn't just muscle and bone — this was a battle of minds.
I caught his wrist in a swift grab, twisted, and slammed him against the cracked wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him. His breath came ragged, but the fire in his eyes never dimmed. Good. I liked fire.
Roderick lunged again, desperation fueling his rage. But my hands were faster, my reflexes sharper. A precise strike to his ribs sent him staggering. Then, just as he tried to recover, I pulled the feathered pen from my coat and drew a thin, elegant line across his collarbone.
The world shifted. The air hummed with a strange power, thick and intoxicating. His rough, scarred skin rippled like water, reshaping.
Muscle hardened and thick like bark softened to pale silk. His sharp angles melted into curves that screamed vulnerability and danger all at once. His broad chest shrank, slipping into the delicate lines of a waistcoat that hugged skin smooth and flawless. It was beautiful. Sinfully beautiful.
He blinked, confusion spiraling into something raw and hungry. "What… what's happening to me?" His voice cracked—a high, velvety tremble that shouldn't have belonged to the Roderick I knew.
This was the fun part. Watching a man who used to chew others for breakfast squirm on his knees, caught between panic and pleasure.
"You're free," I whispered close, my breath hot against his ear, "Free from your own miserable brutality. Free to serve me. To want me."
His body responded before his mind could catch up. The way his hands trembled on my thighs made me grin. This was domination, but not just force — it was a game. A dance where I led, and he followed, desperately trying not to stumble.
The room shifted into a private hell and heaven all at once. His skin was soft beneath my fingers, goosebumps rising like tiny alarms across his neck and collarbone. Every touch was deliberate — a slow, patient claim that pulled him deeper into the web I spun.
He gasped when my lips brushed the hollow of his throat, a sound equal parts surrender and confusion. His eyelashes fluttered, every shiver feeding the fire I kindled. I was no gentle master — I wanted every gasp, every tremble, every moan to echo the truth: he was utterly, irrevocably mine.
I pressed him down onto the bed of cracked leather and stained sheets, the city's grim shadows pressing in around us. His body curved beneath mine, every inch a perfect contradiction — delicate yet desperate, fragile but fierce. He didn't fight anymore; his nails dug into my shoulders like a silent plea.
The slow exploration of his body was a ceremony. My hands mapped the new territory of skin and muscle, memorizing every subtle shiver and sigh. I traced the hollow at the base of his throat, the slight rise and fall of his chest, the soft tremble in his fingers when I finally claimed him fully.
His voice broke as he whispered my name, a fragile surrender I savored. This was more than conquest. This was transformation. Every gasp was a step further from who he was — a step deeper into who he would become.
When he finally lost himself — a shuddering collapse into need and obedience — I felt a surge of satisfaction. Not just because I won, but because I was the architect of this beautiful ruin. A king in a kingdom built from shadows and silk.
Dawn crept through grimy windows, pale and unwelcome. Greywatch would wake, and life would go on—pitiless, brutal, and utterly unaware of the changes already underway. But I? I sat back, the feathered pen cold and slick in my fingers, smiling at the promise of what was to come.
The city would crumble. Empires would fall. But I would stand above it all, quietly building my harem, one broken soul at a time.
Because this wasn't just power. This was art. A slow, exquisite madness. And I was its only master.