Archive of Our Own ^beta

All Wemmbu could see were the jagged silhouettes of trees, black shadows stretching endlessly in every direction. He ran, limbs burning, lungs screaming for air, but the fear driving him made it impossible to slow. Something or someone was behind him, relentless, and he knew there was no way he could outrun it forever.

The forest seemed alive, pressing in from all sides, but there was no sound of animals, no rustle of anything except the pounding of his own heartbeat. Darkness pressed down, thick and suffocating, and every instinct screamed at him to flee faster.

Panic clawed at him, sharp and bitter. He dove into the sky, quickly unfolding his elytra. Fireworks shot from his hands, flares of light piercing the oppressive blackness as he surged upward, desperately trying to put distance between himself and whatever or whoever was below. The wind tore past him, whipping his hair into his eyes.

Shit… shit shit shit… How the fuck did this happen?

His mind raced, heart hammering, fingers trembling as he launched another rocket. Every shot of light left streaks behind him, illuminating the forest for just a moment before darkness swallowed it again.

Wemmbu twisted midair, heart hammering in his chest, and dared a glance over his shoulder. The sight made his stomach drop. There he was. ClownPierce. gliding effortlessly through the darkness, every movement precise, every motion deliberate. The mask hid his expression, but Wemmbu knew exactly what it was: amusement. Pure, dangerous amusement.

“Oh, Wemmbu oh, Wemmbu,” the voice carried, low and teasing, echoing through the night. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “You really think you can get away?”

Wemmbu swallowed hard, wings straining as he angled sharply to avoid a towering pine. “Why do you always have to chase me?!” he yelled, voice cracking from both fear and frustration.

ClownPierce laughed, a low, predatory sound that made Wemmbu’s chest tighten. “Because it’s fun, of course,” he said, voice sliding over the wind like a blade. “Watching you scramble, flailing, trying to survive.. it’s just too entertaining to stop.”

Panic coiled in Wemmbu’s stomach like a living thing. He pressed another rocket from his elytra, fire flaring as he surged upward, twisting his body sharply to dodge a low branch. Sparks showered the dark forest below, fleeting and bright, but it was never enough to shake his pursuer. ClownPierce was relentless.

“I can’t let you—” Wemmbu panted, but even as he spoke, he knew the truth. One slip, one hesitation, one exhausted second, and it would be over. ClownPierce would never stop. Not until he caught him. Not until he broke him completely.

“Slowing down already?” ClownPierce teased, closing the distance effortlessly, shadowing his movements. “Don’t tell me you’re scared. I can feel it.”

“I’m not scared!” Wemmbu shouted, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “Just shut and leave me alone”

“Oh, I know,” came the amused reply. “That’s why you’re trembling. Look at you, flailing, panicking, fighting to keep up. You’re gorgeous when you’re desperate.”

Heat and terror tangled in Wemmbu’s chest. He twisted again, rockets firing in quick bursts, narrowly missing a thick branch. The forest was a blur of black shapes below, the night pressing in, but his eyes kept darting to ClownPierce, to that impossible predator who moved through the air like he owned it.

“Stop looking at me” Wemmbu hissed, desperate, trying to focus on maneuvering instead of the thrill that tingled at his skin from ClownPierce’s words.

ClownPierce laughed again, dark and low, his voice drifting through the wind like smoke. “I own the sky, Wemmbu and I own you. You’ll never escape.”

Wemmbu swallowed hard, twisting to fire another rocket, feeling the tension coil tighter and tighter in his chest. Every second spent in the air, every turn, every flare of light brought him closer to exhaustion and closer to the predator behind him. He knew without doubt that one misstep would mean the end.

And still, he couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop feeling the heat of being hunted, the sharp thrill that made his stomach twist. ClownPierce was relentless, terrifying and impossibly, maddeningly alive in a way Wemmbu couldn’t ignore.

But Wemmbu quickly shoved the heat and fear aside. There was no time for that not now. Survival came first. Every second spent thinking, every hesitation, could mean the end. He needed to focus. Needed to stay ahead. Needed to… somehow get away.

How did this happen? How had he ended up here, soaring through the blackened forest with ClownPierce effortlessly closing in behind him, the predator always one step away? His mind flashed back too fast, too chaotic flashes of a miscalculation, a moment of overconfidence, a lapse in judgment. And now it had all led to this: running, flying for his life.

A sharp gust of wind forced him to adjust his wings, the elytra straining as he angled to avoid a cluster of low-hanging branches. Sparks from the fireworks flared brightly in the darkness, momentary beacons that showed the shadows below. But they also illuminated him, gave his pursuer perfect visual. ClownPierce didn’t need more than that—he thrived on it.

“Focus, Wemmbu,” he muttered to himself, voice barely audible over the roar of wind. But the words were thin, unconvincing. His chest heaved, lungs burning, arms trembling as he fired another rocket, propelling himself higher. His stomach churned with adrenaline, fear, and that shameful, maddening thrill he refused to acknowledge.

oh.

now I remember.

Zam

It all started with him going out, hunting, searching for the materials he needed to finish the orbital cannon. His goal was simple in theory: destroy the Zam Empire. In practice it was a relentless grind of frustration, humiliation, and anger. Every defeat left him raw, simmering with a mix of shame and fury. Every failed mission added fuel to a fire that refused to die. He didn’t just want revenge, he wanted Zam gone. Completely.

He was alone. Egg Chan had refused to fight anymore, weary of endless war, and Wemmbu couldn’t blame him. Fighting over and over, day after day, took its toll. But Wemmbu couldn’t stop. Not yet. He needed Zam gone so he could finally have peace. So he could reclaim control. So he could be the strongest without hunters or guards destroying what he built. His dream was simple, almost childish in its clarity: one day, the orbital cannon would fire, Zam would fall, and he could build his own civilization, untouched and unchallenged.

But of course, Zam knew him. Of course, he sent people after him. And yes, they failed. Every guard, every soldier, every attempt came to nothing. He’d learned quickly how to hide, how to vanish, thanks to Parrot, who had taught him all the tricks. But he knew—oh, he knew—that Zam was getting angrier with every failed attempt. Every guard sent after him only multiplied in number, more determined, more desperate.

And then there was the taunting. Pathetic, he heard it in every thought, in every voice echoing in his head. You can’t even catch me alone. Every word stoked the fire, fanning the flames of a dark, obsessive satisfaction. He had countless plans for revenge, for torment, for making Zam pay for everything but none of that mattered right now. Right now, he needed focus.

It was fully dark as he wandered the forest, careful with every step. He could hear monsters in the distance, their growls and shrieks echoing through the trees. None of them dared approach; they were distracted, and so was he, lost in the rhythm of his mission and the storm of his thoughts.

Pheww

A single firework shot into the sky.

And suddenly, alarms blared in his head. Were those the guards? FlameFrags? How had they tracked him so quickly? He was already far away… he should have been safe by now.

Panic surged. He rifled through his inventory, desperate for any invisible potions, any tool, any edge but of course, he was empty. He had nothing. Only his reflexes, his wings, and sheer will.

And so he ran. He ran as fast as he could, weaving through the forest, heart hammering, mind racing. Every shadow could be another threat, every sound a trap. There was no time to think about the heat in his chest, the thrill under his skin, or the mess of emotions clawing at him. 

And that’s how we got here.

It was painfully obvious: Zam had hired him. Every move, every pursuit, every relentless step made that clear. Desperation radiated from the empire, but Wemmbu couldn’t let himself falter. He would have fought back if he had the tools, if he had the gear, if he wasn’t completely exposed. Right now, he was vulnerable, weak. Naked in a storm with a predator circling above him.

Even thinking about trying to fight made his stomach twist. The assassin ClownPierce wasn’t just skilled; he was terrifying. Every encounter, every move, was calculated, precise. Wemmbu had trained, yes, but he was nothing compared to this. He couldn’t afford arrogance, not for a single heartbeat.

He needed to think. Fast. Fast, and without hesitation.

As he spiraled through the forest, weaving around tree after tree, the wind tearing past his face, he focused on breathing, on timing, on the rhythm of his own survival. Years of training, years of pushing his body, his mind, his reflexes to the limit, all of it had led to this. He twisted sharply, narrowly avoiding a branch that would have shredded his wings, and in the back of his mind, he counted the seconds.

Enderpearls. Ten of them, tucked safely in a shulker box buried deep in his inventory. The thought of them was a lifeline, a tiny hope but he needed the perfect moment. One opening, one fleeting second to grab them without dying.

He dove lower, firework bursts flaring behind him, dodging shadows and sharp angles, before finally finding a hollow beneath a canopy thick enough to block sight. Carefully, silently, he folded his wings and began digging underground, his fingers clawing at soil, roots, and stone. Every second counted. Every movement had to be precise.

Hours passed or maybe minutes; time lost meaning in the panic-fueled haze. ClownPierce was out there, somewhere, and Wemmbu could feel it, like a shadow crawling just beyond the edge of his vision. Then, finally, a brief relief. The space above him went silent. The predator’s presence receded, leaving a small, tenuous bubble of solitude.

He exhaled sharply, trying not to make a sound as he opened the shulker box, fingers trembling. Enderpearls nestled safely inside. Yes. Finally.

But relief never lasts.

Before he could even turn around, a chill raced down his spine. Death or the ghost of it flashed across his vision. He froze, instincts screaming too late.

“How…?” he whispered, voice trembling, chest tight.

“Don’t think I’m the strongest for no reason, Wemmbu,” came ClownPierce’s smooth, low drawl, every word dripping with menace. The distance didn’t matter; the presence alone crushed him, filled the air with suffocating inevitability.

Before Wemmbu could react, could even attempt an escape, hands—cold, unyielding—clamped around his wrists. He tried to jerk them free, but it was useless. With a fluid motion that betrayed years of practiced skill, ClownPierce twisted his arms over his head, pinning him against the wall. His wings twitched, useless, and the stone beneath him felt impossibly solid, anchoring him in place.

Wemmbu’s heart hammered so violently he was certain ClownPierce could hear it. Think. Move. Anything. But his mind went blank, chest tight, limbs trembling. Every survival instinct screamed at him to run, to vanish, to fight and yet, he was trapped. Completely.

The assassin’s voice came again, low and teasing, brushing against his ear like smoke: “You’ve been running all night… and yet here you are. Still alive. Still… terrified.”

Fear and frustration twisted inside him like a living thing, pooling low in his stomach, making his limbs jitter and mind race a hundred miles an hour. This isn’t over. I can still get out. I have to.

“Let… let go of me,” he stammered, voice trembling despite his attempts at control. “We could talk about this. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.” His chest heaved, mind darting through possible escape routes, every desperate thought a fleeting lifeline. Maybe he could trick ClownPierce, maybe he could bluff, maybe, just maybe—he could find a way out.

ClownPierce’s laugh was low, dark, deliberate, curling around him like smoke. “Oh, Wemmbu.” The voice slid over him, soft, teasing, dangerous. “I want you. It’s been fun running, chasing, watching you squirm. But it ends here.”

Wemmbu froze mid-breath. The words sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with fear. Heat pooled deep, sharp, in a place he’d rather not acknowledge. His stomach twisted, muscles tensing as an unfamiliar, guilty thrill prickled along his spine. Fuck. That’s… kind of… attractive?

His body betrayed him before his mind could catch up. He felt it, the hardening in his pants, the undeniable evidence that he was already responding, even in this impossible, terrifying moment. His chest tightened, throat dry, every nerve screaming, why the hell am I getting turned on right now?

“I really have shitty taste,” he muttered to himself under his breath, cheeks flushing as shame collided with the unwanted arousal. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers brushing uselessly against the wall. longing for something to grab, something to do, anything to regain control.

ClownPierce’s presence pressed even closer, smirk audible in every subtle shift of weight, in the tension that radiated off him. “You’re trembling,” the voice teased, low, knowing. “Do you like that? Do you like being caught? Being mine?”

Wemmbu’s mind screamed, No, no, no! You’re insane. You’re vulnerable. You’re fucked. But the body… oh, the body didn’t care. It throbbed, burned, an uncooperative traitor to his fear-fueled logic. He swallowed hard, wishing desperately that he could disappear, that he could rewind, that he could somehow stop feeling this way while trapped beneath the hands of someone so impossibly strong, so unnervingly confident.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to escape. But every instinct, every nerve, every pulse screamed for him to obey, to feel, to submit even as he cursed himself for enjoying it. The tension coiled tighter, a dangerous, exquisite wire wound around him, until his mind, body, and fear were impossible to separate.

This is insane. This is so fucked up.

He shivered, and the heat pooled sharper, undeniable. ClownPierce’s grip on his wrists, the smirk behind the mask, the low voice—all of it twisted together, chaotic and maddening, driving him higher and higher on a wave of panic, thrill, and guilt-fueled desire.

“Did Zam send you here?” I blurted, my voice harsher than I meant, already knowing the answer but saying it anyway, anything to distract ClownPierce while my brain clawed for an escape route. If I could keep him talking, maybe I could slip free, maybe I could do something other than stand here burning under his grip. And if I focused on the question, maybe I could ignore the heat pooling lower and lower, the traitorous pulse in my stomach.

He chuckled again, low and deep under that mask, like a wolf humoring prey. “Well, yes,” he said, voice curling around the words like smoke, “but I fully intended to find you even if that little prince didn’t hire me.”

I stiffened as his other hand slid onto my waist, the weight of it searing through my clothes, heavy, unshakable. He drew closer with a slow, deliberate step, the kind that made the world shrink until it was just him, me, and the pounding of my own heart.

Don’t make a sound. Don’t make a sound. Don’t—

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to make any humiliating noise at the heat radiating from that hand. My breath trembled anyway. “Then why are you here?” I asked, voice breaking halfway through despite every ounce of control I had left.

His reply hit harder than a blade. “You,” he said simply, a word like a hammer. His grip on my waist tightened. “Wemmbu… you’re driving me insane. For fuck’s sake, you don’t know how much I’m holding back from fucking you right now.”

A whimper escaped me before I could stop it, soft and cracked, and my chest went tight with mortification. My breathing quickened, no matter how hard I tried to force it slow. The space between us vanished inch by inch, until I could see the gleam of his eyes through the mask, could feel the ghost of his breath brush my lips.

What am I doing? My mind screamed it, panicked, furious, but my body swayed forward anyway, a traitorous magnet drawn to his heat. My wrists still pinned above my head, my heart still slamming against my ribs, my whole body trembling between the need to fight and the urge to just… let go.

His thumb stroked a small, maddening circle into my hip, and I shuddered again, the sound of my breath embarrassingly loud in the quiet space between us. I tried to avert my eyes, but they kept dragging back to his dark, hungry, focused solely on me.

Stop this. Focus. Focus, you idiot, my mind hissed, but the scent of leather and iron and smoke filled my head, dizzying, intoxicating. Every inch he leaned closer made the tension in my gut coil tighter, hotter, until I was shaking, shame and arousal spilling together in a mess I couldn’t untangle.

“Come on,” ClownPierce murmured, voice low and velvet‑rough against my ear. “Say it. Say how much you want me right now. I could give it to you… just say the magic word.”

As he spoke, his hand on my waist tightened, dragging me closer until our hips met, his body heat swallowing mine. Then his thigh slid forward, slow and deliberate, until it was right between my legs, pressing up just enough to make me gasp.

A tremor ran through me from head to toe. My face burned, breath shuddering out of me in small, shaky bursts. My eyes fluttered half‑closed, heavy‑lidded with something I couldn’t fight. My hips twitched on their own, shame and hunger colliding until I couldn’t hold still; I rocked down against the firm muscle of his thigh, a soft, broken sound escaping before I could stop it.

ClownPierce’s masked face tilted, watching, savoring. His gloved fingers dug a little harder into my waist, guiding me down, and the friction made white sparks dance in my vision. My head tipped back, eyes rolling up. It felt too good too sharp and perfect and dangerous and something inside me finally snapped.

“Please…” The word cracked out of me like a plea. “Please, Clown, please, I need you so bad, fuck—” The moan tore from my throat as he jerked his leg up sharply, forcing me down harder, and my whole body arched into him.

Before I could say another word, before I could beg again, the pressure on my wrists changed. ClownPierce let go. My arms dropped uselessly to my sides, and for one insane second I mourned the loss of his grip, the warmth, the control pinning me in place.

Then everything went black.

Fabric slid over my eyes—soft, thick, shutting out the dim forest light. A blindfold. My breath caught in my throat. Without my sight, everything else sharpened: the scent of leather and sweat, the warmth of his breath at my neck, the rasp of his gloved fingers against my skin. My pulse hammered in my ears, deafening.

I heard a shuffle in front of me but couldn’t see it, could only tilt my head, lips parting to ask, “Wha—”

Something warm and possessive covered my mouth, cutting off the question. His mouth. His kiss.

It wasn’t gentle. Teeth clashed against mine, biting, claiming, forcing its way in until there was nothing left but taste and heat. His tongue slid against mine, taking, marking, drowning me. I couldn’t stop the noise that burst from my throat—desperate, helpless sound swallowed between his lips.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, then clawed at his arms, seeking some anchor as he deepened the kiss, biting and dragging over my lower lip until it throbbed. Every scrape of his teeth and press of his mouth claimed more of me, branded me. I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t want him to stop.

Blindfolded, everything felt bigger, closer, and hotter. The world dissolved into sound and touch: the low growl at the back of his throat, the slick slide of our mouths, the way his fingers roamed, possessive and sure. My knees threatened to give out completely.

I was lost, trembling, gasping against him, the darkness behind the blindfold turning every touch into lightning, every taste into fire.

I wrapped my hands around his neck, pulling him closer, desperate to hold on, to never let go. The heat between us was intoxicating, my chest pounding as his hands roamed possessively over my body. I mourned the loss of his lips against mine, but I needed air, and every shallow breath only made the tension coil tighter.

He nipped along my neck, teasing, and I couldn’t stop the soft moans that slipped out, betraying how much I wanted him. Every inch of clothing felt tight and restrictive, but I didn’t care—I needed him, more than I’d ever admit. So I quickly shifted down on my knees I shifted closer, seeking any contact, trying to feel him through every layer, every movement and my hands closed around his pants, and before I could think, I tugged them down.

His hands tangled in my hair, rough and commanding, and a shiver ran through me. I bit back a gasp, my mind spinning with desire and frustration, craving more of him, more of this closeness. My senses were heightened—every brush of his touch, every subtle pressure, every whispered sound made my heart race, my body burn.

“You’re doing so well, Wemmbu.” The praise, the recognition, sent another shiver through me, urging me to lean closer, to respond to him in kind.

So I wrapped my around around the heat and bobbed down and up. I pressed my lips against it, letting my tongue glide teasingly along the ridges of the veins, savoring every taut curve.

His grunts filled the air, good I’m doing this correct he pondered. Finally, I pressed my lips to the tip, bobbing slowly, trying to take it all in, chasing the heat that pulsed beneath my mouth.

His grunts grew louder as I quickened, tears stinging my eyes, my mouth burning with the strain but I didn’t want to stop. I liked the ache, the raw edge of it.

His hands yanked my hair harder, his hips driving roughly and faster. I could barely breathe, tears streaming down my cheeks but I savored every sharp, consuming sensation he gave me.

He came quickly, then stopped, letting go of my hair but I still swallowed everything. “Good boy,”.ClownPierce murmured. My legs felt like jelly, but he steadied me, spinning me around. In one swift motion, he stripped me bare, his hand pinched my nipple I let out a loud, uninhibited moan, driven purely by lust I never wanted to stop. He wasted no time, quickly unbuckling my pants, and then my boxers, leaving me completely exposed

Then his other gloved hand covered my mouth, and I eagerly sucked it, while his other hand roamed over my dick, bobbing up and down, I screamed, stars dancing behind my eyes, until a sudden weight flushed across my cheeks.

He released the hand from my mouth and slid it down, teasingly slow, until it traced the rim, sending shivers through me.

“Please, Clown please pleas-“ I whimpered. Finally, he slid in slowly—just one finger at first, sliding easily thanks to the wetness of the gloved finger. I moaned and whimpered, begging him to go faster. He added another finger, and I felt the delicious stretch and burn. It hurt so much, but I loved every second of it.

He quickened his pace, harder and rougher, and so did my moans. Without hesitation, he added a third and fourth finger, stretching me deliciously I was so close. But just as I teetered on the edge, he pulled them all out. A flash of anger surged through me in an instant.

Before I could even speak, he slid his dick in, he started with just the head, and I screamed, pain flashing sharply through me. But he didn’t stop—he pushed in, and the burn was all I could feel.

“Relax,” he commanded, and I obeyed. Slowly, it eased in, and though it should have been quick, it felt like hours before I was fully taken, every inch a delicious torment

He gave me a moment to adjust to the overwhelming stretch, letting me feel every inch before he moved again. Then he pulled back and thrust in once more slowly, deliberate, but with a harshness that made me gasp and shiver. Drool spilled from my mouth, my mind hazy and clouded, incapable of thought, consumed entirely by the sensations coursing through me. Every nerve was alight, every inch of me stretched and filled, aching and trembling under him.

He paused just long enough to let the heat sink in, then began moving again—first slow, then faster, harder, each thrust rougher than the last. My moans grew louder, ragged, mingling with his grunts as the rhythm intensified, my body responding instinctively, craving every harsh, consuming motion.

My stomach clenched, my legs quivering, and the tension coiled tighter and tighter until I felt as if I might shatter, every thrust pushing me closer to a breaking point I didn’t want to escape. My mind was gone there was only him, only this relentless, dizzying, raw pleasure that made me ache for more.

“Fuck fuck… fuck FUCK!” I moaned shamelessly, my voice raw and trembling with need.

Fwop, fwop, fwop

each movement relentless, driving deeper, faster, harder. He didn’t stop. I could feel him moving with a force that left me gasping, my body trembling under each powerful thrust.

Between the sound of skin slapping against skin, I could hear his low, rough grunts, the moans that matched my own. And every so often, his voice cut through praising me, commanding me, making me shiver uncontrollably with shameful, desperate pleasure.

I was lost to it all lost to the rhythm, to the raw heat, to the sharp, consuming pleasure that pulsed through me with every motion. My body arched instinctively, every nerve screaming, every muscle trembling as he drove me further, faster, deeper, leaving me aching and craving more.

“ClownPierce… I’m gonna—?!” I gasped, but before I could finish, he hit my sweet spot.

Snap

I came instantly, my eyes rolling back as stars danced behind my lids, a blinding wave of heat and light washing over me. Every nerve ending felt alight, my body trembling uncontrollably under the intensity.

In a heartbeat, he followed, and I could feel the shudder of his release, his low, guttural groan mixing with my own moans. The world narrowed to nothing but the two of us, our movements, our breaths, and the raw, overwhelming pleasure that had consumed every inch of me.

But I could tell we weren’t finished. He spun me around and pulled me up, and instinctively, I wrapped my legs around him, clinging to his body.

“We’re not finished,” he murmured deeply, his voice low and commanding.

Before I could react, he slid back in, harder and deeper than before, stretching me exquisitely. The sensation was overwhelming so intense that I teetered on the edge, almost coming from the sheer oversensitivity—but he held himself steady, controlling me, denying me release while keeping me gasping and trembling in delicious anticipation.

This time, he moved slower, letting the stretch linger as he kissed me deeply, intimately. I kissed back, lost in the heat of him, my body trembling under his touch.

Then, suddenly, he sped up, each thrust precise, hitting my sweet spot every single time. I couldn’t help it.

screams tore from my throat with every stroke, raw, unrestrained, each one mingling with his low, guttural moans as he drove me closer and closer to the edge.

I trembled, my body still hypersensitive from the last round, every nerve ending on fire. I knew I was going to come in a matter of seconds, but he didn’t stop—he kept thrusting, over and over, relentless and unyielding.

Time blurred. Each stroke, each precise movement, sent jolts of pleasure through me, my body quivering and my breaths coming in ragged gasps. It felt like hours had passed, though it could have only been moments, every second stretched by the exquisite torment and intensity. My muscles clung to him instinctively, every shiver, every gasp, every cry building toward a crescendo I couldn’t hold back any longer.

I collapsed, utterly spent, my body trembling as exhaustion took over. Warmth spread across my belly, comforting and intimate, grounding me in the aftershocks of everything we’d just shared.

“You can run all you want, Wemmbu… but you’ll never escape me,” he murmured, his tone a velvet snare around the words.

_________