Eidolon

Warning (PG16)

This episode contains adult themes. Reader discretion recommended.

Takumi observed Rei through half-lidded eyes. Even flushed, even after such a blatant act of submission, she did not look humbled or broken. Rei looked fiercer, more sensual; a queen who had chosen to kneel, her power undiminished. The sight sent a fresh desire through him, an urge to push her against the window and make her beg for the release he had just taken for himself; but he suppressed it, the mastery over his own impulses as complete as her mastery over him in that moment.

He opened the car door and stepped out into the cool air. “Follow me,” he commanded. She exited and fell into step behind him. Cillian left the driver’s side, his gaze fixed on a point in the middle distance, his posture rigid. He looked like a man who had heard more than he ever wanted to.

“Wait by the car,” Takumi instructed him, his tone dismissive. Then he placed a firm, possessive hand on Rei’s hip, guiding her towards a nondescript door set into a plain, weathered brick building.

At the threshold, he stopped. He reached into the upper pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a handkerchief of pristine black silk. “You will be blindfolded until after the branding,” he stated, his voice inflexible. A hum of primal fear vibrated through Rei’s veins, but she simply complied, closing her eyes and welcoming the soft, sudden darkness as the silk was tied securely behind her head and the world vanished. “You are not allowed to speak,” he continued, his voice close to her ear, “You may make sounds. But no words.”

She nodded once, a slight dip of her chin. Then, Takumi’s hand left her hip. She heard the sound of his knuckles against wood, not a simple knock, but a weird, complex series of raps, a staccato code. A long moment passed before the door creaked open.

“Uso mo hōben,” Takumi said softly. The door opened wider, and his hand returned to Rei’s hip, steering her forward into the unknown. Inside, the air changed. It was cooler, smelling of antiseptic, aged paper, and something metallic. Their footsteps echoed on a hard floor. “Kumi,” a deep, resonant baritone greeted, “It has been a while.” Takumi chuckled, a dry sound, “Mirage City has kept me busy.”

“I can see that,” the baritone replied, a joking lilt in his tone. Rei felt Takumi’s grip on her hip tighten. The man with the baritone voice laughed, as if Takumi had made some humorous gesture. “It‘s rare for you to brand anyone, Kumi,” the man commented as they walked, their footsteps leading them through what felt like a maze of hallways, “In fact, in all my time at this post, I haven’t experienced it.” Takumi’s response was a whisper, so low Rei almost missed it, “It’s rare to find anyone worth branding.”

They turned, passed through another door and the atmosphere shifted again. The air grew stiller, charged with a faint, ozone-like hum. “The artist is in there,” the baritone said. Blindfolded, Rei had no way of knowing that the hallways they had crossed were lined with sketches, paintings and holograms – a secret gallery of Iron Oni iconography.

The ‘artist’ waiting for her was no ordinary tattooist. She was a master of the Oni syndicate’s most guarded art: metal ink tattoos. The technology was a closely held secret, the ink possessing clandestine nanobot-like qualities. The tattoos were not just symbols; they were living archives, storing and sharing information. In case of betrayal, they were a master’s ultimate tool of control, capable of inflicting searing pain or delivering a lethal poison directly into the bearer’s bloodstream. The branding Takumi had promised was not a metaphor. It was the most literal, and most merciless, form of ownership imaginable.

The room they entered had a sterile yet intimate atmosphere, smelling of ink and leather. A powerful light was focused on a chair and a workstation that looked more like a collection of torture devices than pieces of tools and furniture. The chair consisted of polished wood with leather upholstery and wide restraining straps.

“Yumi,” Takumi greeted, his voice shedding a layer of its corporate frost. A woman stepped into the light. She had large intelligent eyes and a geometric haircut. Her hands, covered in faint, intricate tattoos of her own, flowed languidly by her sides as she walked. “Kumi,” she replied, her voice a low, smoky contralto. Her eyes swept over the blindfolded Rei with a practiced, assessing look, “I must say, I’m surprised that you’re branding someone… even if she clearly has a banging body.” The words were layered with a humorous, yet unmistakably bitter, jealousy.

Takumi didn’t rise to the bait. He simply gave a low chuckle. Yumi’s eyes crinkled, “So? The concubine brand?” He nodded his head, “My signet with the ancient cherry blossom style.” Rei’s breath hitched behind her blindfold. A concubine? A tattoo? It was all becoming terrifyingly clear. This was his way of making his declaration permanent, of marking her as his in the most profound way his underworld understood. Of course, he would take her new role so seriously, he took everything with the gravity of a blood oath.

Takumi’s hand on her hip guided her forward to the leather-bound workstation. He placed her hands on the cool, worn edge, then leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “You will need to undress,” he whispered, the intimacy of the tone a stark contrast to the clinical setting, “I will take your dress and underwear off now.”

He was already moving, his hands efficient and surprisingly gentle as he found the zip of her dress and drew it down. The charcoal wool pooled at her feet, revealing the delicate, featherlight lingerie beneath. A soft, stifled giggle came from Yumi.

“Such gentleness, Kumi,” she teased, her voice dripping with implication, “I never knew you had it in you to undress a woman like that. So… tenderly.” Rei tensed, the muscles in her back going rigid. The implication that this woman knew Takumi’s methods intimately was a poison-tipped dart. Takumi felt the tension and a faint, satisfied smile touched his lips. 

“Behave, Yumi,” he said, his tone more entertained than reproachful. He knelt, his movements unhurried, and slipped Rei’s delicate panties down her legs. Then he guided her to lie face-down on the cold leather of the workstation. The position was one of utter vulnerability.

Takumi ran a slow, appreciating hand down the length of her spine as Yumi approached, the click of her heels rapid and decisive. “Where shall we place the brand, old friend?” Yumi asked, her voice now all business. Takumi’s hand stopped, his palm warm and heavy, right at the base of her spine, just above the cleft of her ass. The implication was unmistakable. 

Rei felt a foreign finger, Yumi’s, touch the same spot, a clinical, probing pressure. The artist laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Of course,” she said, her finger stroking slightly downward in a gesture that was knowing, “A favorite spot.” Jealousy, hot and unwelcome, laced through Rei. Her hands, resting by her head, clenched into fists. She fought to keep her breathing even, to remain the silent, obedient canvas.

“I will need her ready in a few hours, at most,” Takumi stated, stepping back, “We have dinner plans.” Yumi sighed, a sound of theatrical exasperation, “You have always been too pushy, Kumi. But rest easy, it’s more than enough time.” Takumi’s footsteps moved away, then returned. She felt him press a rolled-up piece of thick fabric into her hand. “Take your punishment like a good, soon-to-be Oni concubine,” he murmured, his voice a complex combination of warmth and command, “Bite down on this when the pain cuts deep. I will be back to collect you before you know it.”

Then, his presence was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving her alone in the sterile room with the artist and the humming machines, the ghost of Takumi’s touch already being overwritten by the searing promise of the brand to come.