[ the worst thing about going from two legs to four was the altered balance, and also the constant stress of forgetting that he was so much taller now. taller, stronger, faster, bulkier; it had taken the better part of a year to get back to fighting trim and another to start winning in the arena. for all that he was a favorite of the druids, the prototype they had used when they began their mass alterations on the enslaved human populations, he was only one of many gladiators fighting in the emperor's arenas.
in his stall between fights he was kept harnessed and chained, a constant stream of stable slaves attending him for every need. they trimmed his hooves, brushed his coat and hair, fed him, watered him, washed him, massaged him, even pleasured him while he remained under bit and bridle, champing restlessly at the flexible roll of leather between his teeth and stamping his hooves. there were so many places on his body he could no longer reach himself, even if he weren't harnessed. the straps itch and chafe and all he can do is rub against the stall walls, trying to shift them, while the stable attendants are alternately frightened of his rumored ferocity or too bold with their touches, fascinated by the sight of his penis sliding free from its black sheath. most of the other earth slaves had been changed into more submissive forms, half-cats and dogs and fauns, some only with the additions of fluffy ears and tails. nothing as large and potentially dangerous as a half-horse like shiro.
of course, something like shiro wouldn't be wasted as a stable attendant. they would be gladiators or soldiers, making their way like shiro, capitalizing on combat ability.
he switches his tail restlessly as another unwanted roil of heat slides through his belly. before the thought of getting sexually aroused after a gladiator match would have been appalling but now it's simply life as usual, lifting and replacing his hobbled hooves in the same locations. he can hardly move for how he's been tied today, can't touch himself or rub on anything, all he can do is flex his muscles and bounce his cock against his belly, grunting behind his bit as he pleasures himself humiliatingly. ]
["Don't be STUPID." That had been the extent of Matt's training as stableboy -- sweep the hallway, keep his mouth shut and his eyes down and don't make a nuisance of himself. And never ever go into any of the stalls. There were things in there, the grim-faced Galra stablemaster had grit out, that would be more than happy to chew Matt up and spit him out.
And it wasn't like he didn't know how vulnerable he was. He wasn't a nimble cat or a sturdy dog like most other stablehands were -- he was more...experimental. The Galra were more amused by him than anything else, finding it fun to pull at his tufted tail and his patchy ears, enjoying how easily Matt got upset these days, big brown eyes so quick to well up with tears. Even when he got mad, kicked out with little cloven hooves, they just laughed.
Not that the other humans were any better -- especially the ones who were half-dog now, wagging tails and lolling tongues. They teased him almost as bad as their masters did, chasing him into corners, snickering and blaming their "herding instincts", reaching out boldly to grope and grab and wonder aloud why such a cute calf wasn't better endowed, whether they should offer to help with that. "Maybe he'll be better use as a milker if we knock him up first," one particularly bold stablehand had leered, pinching hard at Matt's flat chest and making him let out an embarrassing sort of lowing sound.
He'd bolted after that, stomping on feet and wrenching away, breaking all sorts of rules by running through the halls and -- in desperation, that was the only thing that'd drive him to disobey this badly -- flinging open the nearest occupied stall and bolting inside. The door slammed shut behind him, rattling with the force, and Matt stumbled backwards, breathing heavily, flushed and teary and shivering all over.
The stall was small and dark, and the warmth of a sleek, velvet-furred side startled him, but there was nowhere to dart away to. Just the wall to press back against, the shape of powerful flanks and muscular legs, the sound of frustrated, heated panting and the scent of lust and sweat heavy in the cramped quarters. And Matt should be afraid, should try to escape, but the animal part of him can smell sex in the air, warm and liquid, and he's shivering, aching sweet and sore with sudden want.
It's so dangerous, so wrong, but he reaches out in the low light, hands small and soft and warm, stroking over the equine shape closest to him, murmuring something gentle and nonsensical.]
[ he spooks when his door slams open, a helpless prey instinct that
even his human intelligence can't overcome, but fortunately or
unfortunately he's chained so neatly in his cross-ties today that he can't
spin or buck or do anything more than jerk in place, tossing his head.
he'd heard the sound of running feet-- hooves, on the cement walkway of
the stable, and he's had his stall door rattle before with bodies being
pressed up against it, but usually he drives off that kind of activity with
a snort of fury and steelshod hooves slammed against the heavy boards.
he's never had someone actually try to get inside the box stall with him
when they weren't on orders to be there, and armed with the galra version
of a cattle prod.
the straps running between his harness and the great steel rings in
the walls won't permit him to turn around in the stall, so he can't see the
person in with him even if he strains and tries to look over his shoulder,
but he can smell them-- young, male, and an unfamiliar animal overtone that
must be the species of their alteration. he's used to snarling predators
with their claws and quick, aggressive movements. the bit in his mouth
muffles anything he might say, so all he can do is prance anxiously and
switch his tail as gentle hands slide over his scarred and branded flanks.
his skin shivers at the touch. ]
[Matt squeaks a little at the sound -- it's nothing like the soft, gentle involuntary sounds he makes now, all variations on mild farm animal lowing and (humiliatingly) mooing. Despite the obvious correlation (there's a word he'd almost forgotten, keen scientific mind almost thoroughly overshadowed by bovine docility) between horse and prey, the rumbles and grunts are closer to predatory growls. They rumble in the cramped space, overwhelmingly anxious, fretful, and Matt acts without thinking.
Matt isn't quite sure what his purpose is yet -- he's not a fighter, he's not particularly graceful or alluring, just gentle and empathetic and soft in every possible way -- or why he was altered the way he was. He's tried to ignore it, tried to curl up and sleep every night ignoring the urges threatening to overwhelm him, has studiously kept his hands above the covers and far away from between his legs. He's tried to ignore how easily he went from lanky and lean to soft and rounded, how quickly he submits to any sort of show of dominance, how every teasing word from Galra or human hybrid alike centers around sweet innocent little milkcow just waiting for the right stud. He isn't sure if he'll be able to go back once he accepts what he is now.
But when he moves, it's with a knowledge he didn't know he possessed, pressing forward, warm and soft and soothing, pressing his cheek fearlessly to one rounded side, broad and barrel-shaped, stroking his palms over the sweat-dampened softly furred skin.]
It's okay, it's okay. [He's cooing it, stretching up on his tiny cloven feet to reach over the stallion's back, so high he can barely see over it. He knows he's small and fragile and the centaur could easily crush him, but he also knows that there's fear and unease in every restrained movement, and it makes his heart ache to know this magnificent creature is afraid.
He just wants to help. He wants to help so badly it hurts. So he cuddles closer, tail twitching, ears flopping as he tries to interpret the huffs and nickers coming from the stallion.] I'm not going to hurt you. You're okay. You're okay. It's okay.
[ shiro's also never had someone try to hug him before, or
stroke him to soothe him and murmur words of comfort. having something
unknown in the stall with him that he can't see is enough to kill any
lingering arousal, but the actual spike of fear is quick to fade as well.
he thinks sometimes that must be why the druids did this to him-- to make
a small, fragile human strong, but also give them the instincts of a prey
animal to watch them struggle constantly with implanted instincts. shiro
was never a coward before and he's not a coward now, he's actually better
equipped to defend himself with his size and strength, but he's easier to
startle, easier to work up into an unthinking panic and aggression in
unfamiliar situations. his sides heave under the stranger's small, warm
hands, not at all unpleasant, but he can't see anything except the space
directly in front of him with the blinders affixed to the sides of his
bridle. his nostrils flare helplessly as if bigger lungfuls of scent will
identify the intruder, and his fine black ears are tipped back sharply to
catch any noises. not pinned, but not relaxed.
he huffs sharply when the stranger says he's not going to hurt him.
disbelief, perhaps. ]
Well, I'm not. [Matt huffs it out, the sound coming out nowhere near the stallion's majestic rumble -- more a soft "gmoo" sound. Very embarrassing, and he twitches his tail again, absently scritching his short nails through the rougher hair along the horse-half spine. The concern hasn't abated at all, even as his eyes adjust and he can see the ripple of a heavily muscled bare human back, silhouetted in the dim light. There isn't any way this beautiful centaur needs his protection or comfort.
But there's the thud of footsteps -- the bored stablehands, still searching for their escaped prey -- and Matt's shivering and pressing closer, fitting easily into the curve between flank and side, towards the stallion's hindquarters. He doesn't speak, closing his eyes and trying to be silent, not wanting to draw any undue attention.
Still, his hands never stop their gentle, reassuring stroking, learning the shape of the centaur's back, his side, the scars marring his warm dark skin. Despite his anxiety, Matt nuzzles closer, one ear flicking against the stallion's side.]
Shhhh, don't get their attention. They'll go soon.
[ that tiny noise sounds vaguely familiar, although shiro hasn't had
occasion to think of it in years... a cow, maybe? the galra have used
almost every species under the sun, although he doesn't think he's ever met
a half cow before that wasn't a bull-type, big and musclebound. whatever
kind of creature is in the stall with him, he's small and light, two hooves
instead of four, and slowly shiro relaxes into the steady petting. his
skin stops twitching under the exploring fingers and his black and white
tail goes still, and more tellingly he lets the cross-tie chains go slack,
no longer pulling against them. the cross-ties and harness aren't designed
to be actively uncomfortable if he stands quietly and doesn't fight against
their hold.
of course then there's the sound of footsteps and jeering voices,
and shiro pins his ears back reflexively. the half-cow is on the wrong
side of him, easily visible to anyone that opens the door, but shiro can't
exactly tell him that it's okay to move closer and use him a shield, not
while bridled. all he can do as the latch is tested is make angry horse
noises and let fly with his hooves, the chains giving him enough slack to
slam against the wall. the kicking might not deter experienced stablehands
but the sudden creaking and groaning of the chains is more worrisome as he
throws his full weight against them, indicating that anyone trying to open
that door might just find themselves in the stall with an angry, loose
stallion. ]
[Despite their motivation to follow their noses and chase down their reluctant prey, none of the canine stablehands wants to risk the wrath of a pissed-off stallion -- especially not the prize jewel of the competitive circuit. So they back off, speculating loudly that "cute little thing couldn't be in there anyway, have you seen the size of that monster? I heard the last stableboy who got caught in there couldn't walk right for days."
Typical dirty back-hallway talk, and Matt rolls his eyes dismissively. The one thing all Galra hybrids seemed to have in common was a voracious sexual appetite, and speculation ran wild between various species about size, shape and stamina. Embarrassingly that was just one more thing that was confusing about this new form -- Matt was clearly meant to be receptive in some fashion, but nothing from bulls to tomcats particularly...thrilled him. It was never enough.
Huffing another of those soft, mellow sounds, Matt absently let one hand stroke down the sleek side of the stallion, palm warm and flat against his belly. It just figured that in this new world order he'd end up a chubby cow-twink size queen.]
You wouldn't do that, though, would you? [He murmurs sweetly, fingers straying further and further back under the stallion's stomach, gentler on the softer, more sensitive skin.] You wouldn't hurt me.
[ shiro wouldn't, but it's slightly concerning that the little half-cow believes that with so little evidence. shiro can barely move, can't speak, has his hands bound together tightly in front of him, but he could pin a handler to the side of the stall with his weight and crush them. he could trample someone that got underneath his hooves. the little cow should be afraid of him. he should be afraid of everything in the gladiator stable.
but he's not. apparently. there's something strangely familiar about his voice, too, that shiro can't quite place, his ears pricked and swiveling to follow the sound. even bridled and wearing blinders he keeps his head turned as far as the straps allow him, trying to see.
he doesn't startle when soft fingers start to edge back under his belly, the shining black coat giving way to satin-soft skin nearer his sheath and the high insides of his thighs. shiro twitches his tail and stamps once, warning, but there's not much of anything he can actually do to stop the other. his stomach muscles ripple under the questing fingers. ]
Mmmph. Right. Well, um...thank you for...for scaring them away, and um...
[In another life, Matt would simply speak his thanks and leave. He would let it be. He wouldn't be tucked back near tense, quivering hindquarters with knife-sharp hooves that could trample him without any effort. He wouldn't be nosing, soft and seeking and affectionate, at the stallion's soft flank, while his hands slip curiously over the delicately twitching skin. He wouldn't be wondering if all the rumors are true, if a well-placed touch could coax this magnificent creature's magnificent organ free of it's protective sheath, if his hands would be big enough to reach around it's girth --
-- what it would feel like in his mouth.
His knees are trembling, and he wants to be down on them, wants to bend over against the stall wall and set his hooves wide, lift his tail and offer his gratitude for the centaur saving him in the best way he knows how. He wants, and the tight quarters are abruptly frustrating, getting a small huffy snort of irritation. If there were only a bit more room he could do this better.
So instead he lets his hands -- not trembling, not tentative, knowing, like they've done this a million times before -- massage gently at the shape of the centaur's sheath, squeezing and coaxing, accompanied by Matt's soft warm body cuddled up to the broad side of the stallion, and a gentle, sweet:] Can I? Please? Please?
[ well. shit. this is the part where he should be protesting that
he doesn't need anyone to thank him like that, he hadn't done it to
get some kind of reward. but he can't explain that, can't grab the boy's
hands or move out of their range. truth be told part of him doesn't want
to. he's milked twice a day unless he's being punished or if they want him
particularly aggressive for an upcoming fight, so his body is well trained
by now to expect this. the gentle massaging of his sheath has him shifting
restlessly, tail flicking this way and that as heat begins to curl in his
belly, and he can't stop himself from parking out, spreading his back legs
wider, as far as the hobbles allow, and stretching forward.
the boy's hands are so soft and warm on him, and without a trace of
hesitation as they press and rub. he feels like he knows what he's doing,
and it's not worth throwing a tantrum to get him to stop, so shiro
surrenders, dipping his head to give permission.
it doesn't take long at all to get him worked up. his balls are hot
and swollen, full after a long day of going unmilked, and he grunts softly
as his mottled cock slides free into the boy's warm hands. ]
[Matt nods approvingly, affectionately, nosing along the centaur's side, tail twitching back and forth in impatience. He likes the feel of twitching, sensitive skin under his hands, likes feeling the working of the stallion's powerful muscles, likes the sounds rumbling in the cramped space. Too cramped, actually, and with a scuffle of small hooves and the gentle scrape of nub horns against the underside of the equine belly, the half-calf is carefully getting down on his knees under the stallion, sighing in approval.
It's actually probably safer under here, especially once Matt reaches out to untie the rope hobbling the centaur's back legs, then shifts onto his knees, his ears just long enough to flick against the underside of the stallion's stomach. He hums appreciatively as his eyes adjust to the darkness, just in time to see the centaur's inner thighs shivering, the muscles alongside his sheath working as his cock slides into view, right into Matt's eager, soft hands.
There's only a heartbeat of hesitation, because the stallion is huge, thick and hard and hot, and Matt's mouth shouldn't be watering, and he shouldn't immediately begin stroking along the massive length, fingers barely reaching around the thick girth. He's squirming on his knees, thighs pressed together hard, tail crooked instinctively and held to one side, soft pleading sounds filling his throat until he finally gives in.
It's explicitly taught to any stablehands responsible for milking any gladiator beasts that the process be quick, efficient and clinical. It's a chore, same as mucking out stalls or hosing down the hallways, and it wouldn't do to condition any of the gladiators to anticipate it as anything more than a simple release. Matt undoes that the second he leans in and lets himself drag his soft, hot tongue up the length of the stallion's cock, moaning loud and shameless at the taste, hands tugging harder, sliding quicker over what's now slippery from his mouth.]
[ leave it to the galra to take anything remotely pleasurable and
turn it into some kind of unpleasant mechanical process. they'd started
shiro gently with multiple attendants, soft hands stroking his skin,
playing with his nipples and his thighs and even his equine hole, easing
him into the process. half the attendants pleasured themselves at the same
time to get him used to the scent and sounds of it until his body became
conditioned to respond to much less elaborate preparations. the simple act
of leading him to the milking stalls and clipping his short lead to the
sturdy post there was enough to get him responding, or just a brush of
contact around his belly. for the most part these days he's not even
milked by hand but by machine, a few perfunctory caresses to get his cock
unsheathed and then guided into the flexible rubber molding of the suction
tube. more rarely they pull him from his stall and lead him to a machine
mocked up in poor imitation of a mare, clearly designed to stimulate his
equine instincts, and jerk his lead forward until he has to rear up and
mount. he usually has an audience for that, as if it's somehow
entertaining to watch him thrust violently into a mechanical sex toy,
spurred on by deliberately timed lashes of the whip.
sometimes, of course, they bring him to a slave, or bring slaves to
him, putting on a different kind of performance that is almost always about
edging him until he can barely think straight, until that last release is
the culmination of sheer animal need. he hates the loss of control but
there's something horribly satisfying about giving in to the mindless
pleasure, mounting a warm body and emptying himself inside, breeding
instincts finally satiated.
if anything, this feels more like those early sessions when he was
still being conditioned, still being coaxed to proper responses, when the
attendants had touched him like they were actually interested. his shaft
flexes in the boy's hands, stiffening further and bobbing up towards his
stomach, and shiro can't help planting his hooves when the hobbles are
undone and thrusting a little, soft equine grunts escaping him at each
movement. the brushes of velvet calf ears tickle his stomach and he's
careful with his shifting, restless hooves, keeping them well away. he can
hear the half-cow making intoxicating little sounds too, can smell honest
arousal off him, and shiro's nostrils flare wide, pulling in deep lungfuls
of the scent. the half-cow smells delicious, wet and willing and fertile,
and then shiro shudders all over at the first hot touch of a mouth on his
straining cock. ]
[The sounds the stallion makes, though rumbling and imposing, are also enough to make Matt's chest ache with pride and something like affection, mind all but blank with happiness -- he's helping, he's doing good, he's being good, and it's probably horrifying on some level that such a shameless, illicitly lewd act makes him react like this, but it does. He's wiggling happily on his knees, both hands eager and a little clumsy as they squeeze and stroke the heavy, hot weight of the centaur's cock, making up for lack of finesse with eagerness.
The cramped quarters are already overheated from the stallion's shuddering panting, and the sounds Matt's making -- wet, obscene, filthy sounds, gulping and groaning and trying to swallow down as much of the enormous shaft as he possibly can, chin and throat streaking with saliva and precome, eyes half-closed in drunken bliss at the taste -- are impossibly loud, echoing against the stall walls. When the stallion thrusts, cock sliding thick into Matt's throat, making him grunt softly in surprise, it's too much for him to handle anymore.
One hand keeps working along the stiff length, but the other moves, shoves between the too-tight fabric of the shorts the calf wears and his swollen, slick sex. Matt moans in relief, shivering as he ruts down against his fingers in time with his mouth over the stallion's cock, wishing they had more room, maybe one of the stalls equipped with a breeding bench that would put him at the right height, bent over and on display. He can feel and hear the centaur shivering and shuddering above him, knows it wouldn't take much -- if any -- convincing to get him to mount up and feed his lovely fat cock inside a warm willing body.]
[ they could certainly move to one, if the little half-cow would be so bold as to untie him and lead him out of the box stall by his halter like it was official business. shiro groans behind his bit, wishing furiously that he could see what was going on. the noises and scents are driving him crazy, the hot vise of the calf's throat tightening around him just for a second before shiro pulls back, worried about pushing too much or too fast. just the feel of that soft, clever tongue tickling over the head of his cock is overwhelming, teasing along the veins and greedily lapping up the fat drops of precome he's producing.
then a new scent wafts up, and shiro jerks mindlessly at his restraints, snorting in helpless eagerness over the smell of a breeder's slick permeating the warm closeness of the stall. he wants to bury his face in it, wants to drag his tongue over it, and his cock jerks and twitches violently, gushing out a stream of precome. ]
[Honestly, Matt's becoming more and more tempted to do just that, move to one of the bigger stalls, pretend he's supposed to, that it's just business as usual. He feels hollow, empty, even taking three, four of his own fingers, free hand clumsier over what it can reach of the stallion's shaft. Hopefully his eagerness to relax his aching jaw, to take more cock down his throat makes up for that, though.
The gush makes him grunt, soft and surprised, but he takes it like a champ, swallowing eagerly, ears twitching, tail flicking like a contentedly nursing calf. With some effort, he forces himself to stop fucking down on his own hand, dragging his slick fingers loose and going back to stroking the thick cock with both hands. Now he can taste himself on the overheated flesh, moaning approvingly, tongue flicking eager and coaxing at the dripping head. It's not ideal, but it's enough, it'll be enough to make the stallion come down his throat, in his mouth, over his face.]
[ it's enough. shiro's body is too well conditioned by now to hold out against such eagerness, especially with the rich, delicious scent of a willing breeder filling his nose. his stallion instincts make him strain forward, jerking against the chains, but in this case it's better that he doesn't have free range of motion to pump his hips. he rears briefly, an aborted mounting attempt that pulls his cock away from that warm, wet mouth for an agonizing second, and lets out a long, harsh groan as his balls tighten and he starts to come, the head of his cock flaring wide as hot seed begins to spurt. soft, rhythmic grunts accompany each pulse and he can only imagine what's happening below his belly, how messy he's making his partner. ]
[Messy is an understatement -- Matt gamely tries to swallow as much as he can, lunging forward to get his mouth back onto the stallion's pulsing cock, gulping and choking until his stomach aches with fullness, warm and heavy. He has to pull back to breathe, but it's still coming, hot and thick, over his face, his chest, soaking his thin tunic so it sticks to his skin, transparent and slippery.
And perhaps he should be disgusted, should recoil, but instead he closes his eyes and breathes, ragged and sated, one hand still stroking gently along the stallion's heavy shaft, the other reaching up, resting palm flat on the twitching belly above his head. He's covered in come now, warm over the bridge of his nose, in his hair, on his bared neck, and yet there's a feeling of disappointment at the last twitching pulses of the centaur's climax, dripping over his fingers as he finally slips his hand away.
There's a pause, broken only by their almost-equally-shaky breathing, and then Matt laughs, licks his lips, laughs again, softer. He's barely aware that his shorts are soaked as well, that he came untouched, just from the taste and feel of the stallion's come.]
[ mindless animal pleasure blanks out his thoughts for a few long moments after, enjoying the satisfying rush of endorphins as his cock twitches and pulses in matt's warm hand and finally begins to soften, still stretched to full extension but hanging down limply between his hind legs. his nose is full of pleasure scents, the sharp smell of his own ejaculate and the soft, exciting smell of his partner's come.
he champs at the bit in his mouth and lets out a series of quiet, affectionate nickers, responding to the sound of the half-cow's laugh. ]
[Matt's fingers linger, still amazed at the weight and size of the stallion's cock, even relaxed and limp. He's still aching, throbbing between his own drenched thighs, and he feels like he could easily go again, could stroke the massive beast back to full arousal and take him properly this time. But the soft sounds draw his attention, and, knees wobbling, come cooling and drying, sealing his thin clothes to his shivering body, he crawls to one side, stands.
Fingers dragging through the mess across his face, Matt absently sucks the digits clean, standing as tall as he can on little hooves, reaching to untie the rope around the stallion's human wrists. He can't reach the gag, but if the centaur bends down, perhaps he --
-- and then the smell, the sound, the shape all comes together in a moment of gut-clenching clarity, and Matt forgets about everything else because he knows. He knows. His voice is very very hoarse, eyes wide, tracing the familiar features in the half-lit stall.]
[ he hasn't heard anyone say his name in so long it's almost like a foreign word now, something that he has to stop and take a moment to recognize.
then he jolts against the chains in shock as matt moves forward enough for him to see, looking down at the familiar face distorted by galra influence. the hair color hasn't changed, but there are tiny horns curling through it. ]
Matt?
[ his voice is muffled by the bit in his mouth, the name almost unrecognizable. ]
[Matt falters back, hands coming up to cover his face, like that'll somehow undo what he just did. What they just did. He backs up, into a corner, shoulders hunched, eyes squeezed closed.]
[ he tries to reach out as matt backs away, not understanding-- what the hell is matt apologizing for? but he's brought up short by his chains, and jerks his head reflexively, pulling hard at the restraints. whatever matt's sorry for, they're not going to be able to talk about it with a gag in shiro's mouth. ]
Get this-- get this out, Matt, please.
[ except it's more a string of garbled syllables while shiro paws angrily at the ground like a real horse. ]
[Matt startles at the sounds, the pawing, suddenly aware that Shiro (who's always been bigger than him) outweighs him by a few hundred pounds of pure muscle now. But he still hurries to obey, shivering now, because realistically he's soaking wet and while it was warm and perfect a few minutes ago, now it's cooling and making him cold all over.
Still, he stands up as tall as he can, shakily pulls out the bit, long velvety ears down and back in something between submission and fear, tail twitching anxiously. He unties Shiro's wrists too, leaving just the chained-in-place harness still on, the padlocks too much for his trembling hands. Then he takes a step back, hunches inside his clinging, sopping wet clothes and looks down at his hooves.]
[ shiro doesn't let him go far. he reaches out as soon as his hands are free to try and pull matt into him, desperate to hold him and offer comfort. the stiffness of his muscles and his jaw can wait, all he wants is wrap his arms around matt's small, vulnerable frame and protect him.
even if he is absolutely covered in shiro's own fluids. the stallion part of him doesn't mind that at all, maybe even finding a tiny thread of satisfaction in scent-marking a partner. ]
You're alive, [ he whispers. ]
I can't believe-- are you okay? Are you hurt?
[ he sinks down helplessly to his knees in the front, trying to get a better view, his legs folding awkwardly. ]
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Centaur!Shiro
in his stall between fights he was kept harnessed and chained, a constant stream of stable slaves attending him for every need. they trimmed his hooves, brushed his coat and hair, fed him, watered him, washed him, massaged him, even pleasured him while he remained under bit and bridle, champing restlessly at the flexible roll of leather between his teeth and stamping his hooves. there were so many places on his body he could no longer reach himself, even if he weren't harnessed. the straps itch and chafe and all he can do is rub against the stall walls, trying to shift them, while the stable attendants are alternately frightened of his rumored ferocity or too bold with their touches, fascinated by the sight of his penis sliding free from its black sheath. most of the other earth slaves had been changed into more submissive forms, half-cats and dogs and fauns, some only with the additions of fluffy ears and tails. nothing as large and potentially dangerous as a half-horse like shiro.
of course, something like shiro wouldn't be wasted as a stable attendant. they would be gladiators or soldiers, making their way like shiro, capitalizing on combat ability.
he switches his tail restlessly as another unwanted roil of heat slides through his belly. before the thought of getting sexually aroused after a gladiator match would have been appalling but now it's simply life as usual, lifting and replacing his hobbled hooves in the same locations. he can hardly move for how he's been tied today, can't touch himself or rub on anything, all he can do is flex his muscles and bounce his cock against his belly, grunting behind his bit as he pleasures himself humiliatingly. ]
no subject
And it wasn't like he didn't know how vulnerable he was. He wasn't a nimble cat or a sturdy dog like most other stablehands were -- he was more...experimental. The Galra were more amused by him than anything else, finding it fun to pull at his tufted tail and his patchy ears, enjoying how easily Matt got upset these days, big brown eyes so quick to well up with tears. Even when he got mad, kicked out with little cloven hooves, they just laughed.
Not that the other humans were any better -- especially the ones who were half-dog now, wagging tails and lolling tongues. They teased him almost as bad as their masters did, chasing him into corners, snickering and blaming their "herding instincts", reaching out boldly to grope and grab and wonder aloud why such a cute calf wasn't better endowed, whether they should offer to help with that. "Maybe he'll be better use as a milker if we knock him up first," one particularly bold stablehand had leered, pinching hard at Matt's flat chest and making him let out an embarrassing sort of lowing sound.
He'd bolted after that, stomping on feet and wrenching away, breaking all sorts of rules by running through the halls and -- in desperation, that was the only thing that'd drive him to disobey this badly -- flinging open the nearest occupied stall and bolting inside. The door slammed shut behind him, rattling with the force, and Matt stumbled backwards, breathing heavily, flushed and teary and shivering all over.
The stall was small and dark, and the warmth of a sleek, velvet-furred side startled him, but there was nowhere to dart away to. Just the wall to press back against, the shape of powerful flanks and muscular legs, the sound of frustrated, heated panting and the scent of lust and sweat heavy in the cramped quarters. And Matt should be afraid, should try to escape, but the animal part of him can smell sex in the air, warm and liquid, and he's shivering, aching sweet and sore with sudden want.
It's so dangerous, so wrong, but he reaches out in the low light, hands small and soft and warm, stroking over the equine shape closest to him, murmuring something gentle and nonsensical.]
Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you...
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[ he spooks when his door slams open, a helpless prey instinct that even his human intelligence can't overcome, but fortunately or unfortunately he's chained so neatly in his cross-ties today that he can't spin or buck or do anything more than jerk in place, tossing his head. he'd heard the sound of running feet-- hooves, on the cement walkway of the stable, and he's had his stall door rattle before with bodies being pressed up against it, but usually he drives off that kind of activity with a snort of fury and steelshod hooves slammed against the heavy boards. he's never had someone actually try to get inside the box stall with him when they weren't on orders to be there, and armed with the galra version of a cattle prod.
the straps running between his harness and the great steel rings in the walls won't permit him to turn around in the stall, so he can't see the person in with him even if he strains and tries to look over his shoulder, but he can smell them-- young, male, and an unfamiliar animal overtone that must be the species of their alteration. he's used to snarling predators with their claws and quick, aggressive movements. the bit in his mouth muffles anything he might say, so all he can do is prance anxiously and switch his tail as gentle hands slide over his scarred and branded flanks. his skin shivers at the touch. ]
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Matt isn't quite sure what his purpose is yet -- he's not a fighter, he's not particularly graceful or alluring, just gentle and empathetic and soft in every possible way -- or why he was altered the way he was. He's tried to ignore it, tried to curl up and sleep every night ignoring the urges threatening to overwhelm him, has studiously kept his hands above the covers and far away from between his legs. He's tried to ignore how easily he went from lanky and lean to soft and rounded, how quickly he submits to any sort of show of dominance, how every teasing word from Galra or human hybrid alike centers around sweet innocent little milkcow just waiting for the right stud. He isn't sure if he'll be able to go back once he accepts what he is now.
But when he moves, it's with a knowledge he didn't know he possessed, pressing forward, warm and soft and soothing, pressing his cheek fearlessly to one rounded side, broad and barrel-shaped, stroking his palms over the sweat-dampened softly furred skin.]
It's okay, it's okay. [He's cooing it, stretching up on his tiny cloven feet to reach over the stallion's back, so high he can barely see over it. He knows he's small and fragile and the centaur could easily crush him, but he also knows that there's fear and unease in every restrained movement, and it makes his heart ache to know this magnificent creature is afraid.
He just wants to help. He wants to help so badly it hurts. So he cuddles closer, tail twitching, ears flopping as he tries to interpret the huffs and nickers coming from the stallion.] I'm not going to hurt you. You're okay. You're okay. It's okay.
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[ shiro's also never had someone try to hug him before, or stroke him to soothe him and murmur words of comfort. having something unknown in the stall with him that he can't see is enough to kill any lingering arousal, but the actual spike of fear is quick to fade as well. he thinks sometimes that must be why the druids did this to him-- to make a small, fragile human strong, but also give them the instincts of a prey animal to watch them struggle constantly with implanted instincts. shiro was never a coward before and he's not a coward now, he's actually better equipped to defend himself with his size and strength, but he's easier to startle, easier to work up into an unthinking panic and aggression in unfamiliar situations. his sides heave under the stranger's small, warm hands, not at all unpleasant, but he can't see anything except the space directly in front of him with the blinders affixed to the sides of his bridle. his nostrils flare helplessly as if bigger lungfuls of scent will identify the intruder, and his fine black ears are tipped back sharply to catch any noises. not pinned, but not relaxed.
he huffs sharply when the stranger says he's not going to hurt him. disbelief, perhaps. ]
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But there's the thud of footsteps -- the bored stablehands, still searching for their escaped prey -- and Matt's shivering and pressing closer, fitting easily into the curve between flank and side, towards the stallion's hindquarters. He doesn't speak, closing his eyes and trying to be silent, not wanting to draw any undue attention.
Still, his hands never stop their gentle, reassuring stroking, learning the shape of the centaur's back, his side, the scars marring his warm dark skin. Despite his anxiety, Matt nuzzles closer, one ear flicking against the stallion's side.]
Shhhh, don't get their attention. They'll go soon.
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[ that tiny noise sounds vaguely familiar, although shiro hasn't had occasion to think of it in years... a cow, maybe? the galra have used almost every species under the sun, although he doesn't think he's ever met a half cow before that wasn't a bull-type, big and musclebound. whatever kind of creature is in the stall with him, he's small and light, two hooves instead of four, and slowly shiro relaxes into the steady petting. his skin stops twitching under the exploring fingers and his black and white tail goes still, and more tellingly he lets the cross-tie chains go slack, no longer pulling against them. the cross-ties and harness aren't designed to be actively uncomfortable if he stands quietly and doesn't fight against their hold.
of course then there's the sound of footsteps and jeering voices, and shiro pins his ears back reflexively. the half-cow is on the wrong side of him, easily visible to anyone that opens the door, but shiro can't exactly tell him that it's okay to move closer and use him a shield, not while bridled. all he can do as the latch is tested is make angry horse noises and let fly with his hooves, the chains giving him enough slack to slam against the wall. the kicking might not deter experienced stablehands but the sudden creaking and groaning of the chains is more worrisome as he throws his full weight against them, indicating that anyone trying to open that door might just find themselves in the stall with an angry, loose stallion. ]
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Typical dirty back-hallway talk, and Matt rolls his eyes dismissively. The one thing all Galra hybrids seemed to have in common was a voracious sexual appetite, and speculation ran wild between various species about size, shape and stamina. Embarrassingly that was just one more thing that was confusing about this new form -- Matt was clearly meant to be receptive in some fashion, but nothing from bulls to tomcats particularly...thrilled him. It was never enough.
Huffing another of those soft, mellow sounds, Matt absently let one hand stroke down the sleek side of the stallion, palm warm and flat against his belly. It just figured that in this new world order he'd end up a chubby cow-twink size queen.]
You wouldn't do that, though, would you? [He murmurs sweetly, fingers straying further and further back under the stallion's stomach, gentler on the softer, more sensitive skin.] You wouldn't hurt me.
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but he's not. apparently. there's something strangely familiar about his voice, too, that shiro can't quite place, his ears pricked and swiveling to follow the sound. even bridled and wearing blinders he keeps his head turned as far as the straps allow him, trying to see.
he doesn't startle when soft fingers start to edge back under his belly, the shining black coat giving way to satin-soft skin nearer his sheath and the high insides of his thighs. shiro twitches his tail and stamps once, warning, but there's not much of anything he can actually do to stop the other. his stomach muscles ripple under the questing fingers. ]
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[In another life, Matt would simply speak his thanks and leave. He would let it be. He wouldn't be tucked back near tense, quivering hindquarters with knife-sharp hooves that could trample him without any effort. He wouldn't be nosing, soft and seeking and affectionate, at the stallion's soft flank, while his hands slip curiously over the delicately twitching skin. He wouldn't be wondering if all the rumors are true, if a well-placed touch could coax this magnificent creature's magnificent organ free of it's protective sheath, if his hands would be big enough to reach around it's girth --
-- what it would feel like in his mouth.
His knees are trembling, and he wants to be down on them, wants to bend over against the stall wall and set his hooves wide, lift his tail and offer his gratitude for the centaur saving him in the best way he knows how. He wants, and the tight quarters are abruptly frustrating, getting a small huffy snort of irritation. If there were only a bit more room he could do this better.
So instead he lets his hands -- not trembling, not tentative, knowing, like they've done this a million times before -- massage gently at the shape of the centaur's sheath, squeezing and coaxing, accompanied by Matt's soft warm body cuddled up to the broad side of the stallion, and a gentle, sweet:] Can I? Please? Please?
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[ well. shit. this is the part where he should be protesting that he doesn't need anyone to thank him like that, he hadn't done it to get some kind of reward. but he can't explain that, can't grab the boy's hands or move out of their range. truth be told part of him doesn't want to. he's milked twice a day unless he's being punished or if they want him particularly aggressive for an upcoming fight, so his body is well trained by now to expect this. the gentle massaging of his sheath has him shifting restlessly, tail flicking this way and that as heat begins to curl in his belly, and he can't stop himself from parking out, spreading his back legs wider, as far as the hobbles allow, and stretching forward.
the boy's hands are so soft and warm on him, and without a trace of hesitation as they press and rub. he feels like he knows what he's doing, and it's not worth throwing a tantrum to get him to stop, so shiro surrenders, dipping his head to give permission.
it doesn't take long at all to get him worked up. his balls are hot and swollen, full after a long day of going unmilked, and he grunts softly as his mottled cock slides free into the boy's warm hands. ]
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It's actually probably safer under here, especially once Matt reaches out to untie the rope hobbling the centaur's back legs, then shifts onto his knees, his ears just long enough to flick against the underside of the stallion's stomach. He hums appreciatively as his eyes adjust to the darkness, just in time to see the centaur's inner thighs shivering, the muscles alongside his sheath working as his cock slides into view, right into Matt's eager, soft hands.
There's only a heartbeat of hesitation, because the stallion is huge, thick and hard and hot, and Matt's mouth shouldn't be watering, and he shouldn't immediately begin stroking along the massive length, fingers barely reaching around the thick girth. He's squirming on his knees, thighs pressed together hard, tail crooked instinctively and held to one side, soft pleading sounds filling his throat until he finally gives in.
It's explicitly taught to any stablehands responsible for milking any gladiator beasts that the process be quick, efficient and clinical. It's a chore, same as mucking out stalls or hosing down the hallways, and it wouldn't do to condition any of the gladiators to anticipate it as anything more than a simple release. Matt undoes that the second he leans in and lets himself drag his soft, hot tongue up the length of the stallion's cock, moaning loud and shameless at the taste, hands tugging harder, sliding quicker over what's now slippery from his mouth.]
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[ leave it to the galra to take anything remotely pleasurable and turn it into some kind of unpleasant mechanical process. they'd started shiro gently with multiple attendants, soft hands stroking his skin, playing with his nipples and his thighs and even his equine hole, easing him into the process. half the attendants pleasured themselves at the same time to get him used to the scent and sounds of it until his body became conditioned to respond to much less elaborate preparations. the simple act of leading him to the milking stalls and clipping his short lead to the sturdy post there was enough to get him responding, or just a brush of contact around his belly. for the most part these days he's not even milked by hand but by machine, a few perfunctory caresses to get his cock unsheathed and then guided into the flexible rubber molding of the suction tube. more rarely they pull him from his stall and lead him to a machine mocked up in poor imitation of a mare, clearly designed to stimulate his equine instincts, and jerk his lead forward until he has to rear up and mount. he usually has an audience for that, as if it's somehow entertaining to watch him thrust violently into a mechanical sex toy, spurred on by deliberately timed lashes of the whip.
sometimes, of course, they bring him to a slave, or bring slaves to him, putting on a different kind of performance that is almost always about edging him until he can barely think straight, until that last release is the culmination of sheer animal need. he hates the loss of control but there's something horribly satisfying about giving in to the mindless pleasure, mounting a warm body and emptying himself inside, breeding instincts finally satiated.
if anything, this feels more like those early sessions when he was still being conditioned, still being coaxed to proper responses, when the attendants had touched him like they were actually interested. his shaft flexes in the boy's hands, stiffening further and bobbing up towards his stomach, and shiro can't help planting his hooves when the hobbles are undone and thrusting a little, soft equine grunts escaping him at each movement. the brushes of velvet calf ears tickle his stomach and he's careful with his shifting, restless hooves, keeping them well away. he can hear the half-cow making intoxicating little sounds too, can smell honest arousal off him, and shiro's nostrils flare wide, pulling in deep lungfuls of the scent. the half-cow smells delicious, wet and willing and fertile, and then shiro shudders all over at the first hot touch of a mouth on his straining cock. ]
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The cramped quarters are already overheated from the stallion's shuddering panting, and the sounds Matt's making -- wet, obscene, filthy sounds, gulping and groaning and trying to swallow down as much of the enormous shaft as he possibly can, chin and throat streaking with saliva and precome, eyes half-closed in drunken bliss at the taste -- are impossibly loud, echoing against the stall walls. When the stallion thrusts, cock sliding thick into Matt's throat, making him grunt softly in surprise, it's too much for him to handle anymore.
One hand keeps working along the stiff length, but the other moves, shoves between the too-tight fabric of the shorts the calf wears and his swollen, slick sex. Matt moans in relief, shivering as he ruts down against his fingers in time with his mouth over the stallion's cock, wishing they had more room, maybe one of the stalls equipped with a breeding bench that would put him at the right height, bent over and on display. He can feel and hear the centaur shivering and shuddering above him, knows it wouldn't take much -- if any -- convincing to get him to mount up and feed his lovely fat cock inside a warm willing body.]
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then a new scent wafts up, and shiro jerks mindlessly at his restraints, snorting in helpless eagerness over the smell of a breeder's slick permeating the warm closeness of the stall. he wants to bury his face in it, wants to drag his tongue over it, and his cock jerks and twitches violently, gushing out a stream of precome. ]
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The gush makes him grunt, soft and surprised, but he takes it like a champ, swallowing eagerly, ears twitching, tail flicking like a contentedly nursing calf. With some effort, he forces himself to stop fucking down on his own hand, dragging his slick fingers loose and going back to stroking the thick cock with both hands. Now he can taste himself on the overheated flesh, moaning approvingly, tongue flicking eager and coaxing at the dripping head. It's not ideal, but it's enough, it'll be enough to make the stallion come down his throat, in his mouth, over his face.]
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And perhaps he should be disgusted, should recoil, but instead he closes his eyes and breathes, ragged and sated, one hand still stroking gently along the stallion's heavy shaft, the other reaching up, resting palm flat on the twitching belly above his head. He's covered in come now, warm over the bridge of his nose, in his hair, on his bared neck, and yet there's a feeling of disappointment at the last twitching pulses of the centaur's climax, dripping over his fingers as he finally slips his hand away.
There's a pause, broken only by their almost-equally-shaky breathing, and then Matt laughs, licks his lips, laughs again, softer. He's barely aware that his shorts are soaked as well, that he came untouched, just from the taste and feel of the stallion's come.]
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he champs at the bit in his mouth and lets out a series of quiet, affectionate nickers, responding to the sound of the half-cow's laugh. ]
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Fingers dragging through the mess across his face, Matt absently sucks the digits clean, standing as tall as he can on little hooves, reaching to untie the rope around the stallion's human wrists. He can't reach the gag, but if the centaur bends down, perhaps he --
-- and then the smell, the sound, the shape all comes together in a moment of gut-clenching clarity, and Matt forgets about everything else because he knows. He knows. His voice is very very hoarse, eyes wide, tracing the familiar features in the half-lit stall.]
...Shiro.
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then he jolts against the chains in shock as matt moves forward enough for him to see, looking down at the familiar face distorted by galra influence. the hair color hasn't changed, but there are tiny horns curling through it. ]
Matt?
[ his voice is muffled by the bit in his mouth, the name almost unrecognizable. ]
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I-I'm. I'm so. I'm sorry.
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Get this-- get this out, Matt, please.
[ except it's more a string of garbled syllables while shiro paws angrily at the ground like a real horse. ]
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Still, he stands up as tall as he can, shakily pulls out the bit, long velvety ears down and back in something between submission and fear, tail twitching anxiously. He unties Shiro's wrists too, leaving just the chained-in-place harness still on, the padlocks too much for his trembling hands. Then he takes a step back, hunches inside his clinging, sopping wet clothes and looks down at his hooves.]
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even if he is absolutely covered in shiro's own fluids. the stallion part of him doesn't mind that at all, maybe even finding a tiny thread of satisfaction in scent-marking a partner. ]
You're alive, [ he whispers. ]
I can't believe-- are you okay? Are you hurt?
[ he sinks down helplessly to his knees in the front, trying to get a better view, his legs folding awkwardly. ]
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