
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7603477.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Aldnoah.Zero_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Cruhteo/Slaine_Troyard
  Character:
      Cruhteo_(Aldnoah.Zero), Slaine_Troyard
  Additional Tags:
      Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, graphic_depictions_of_sexual_abuse, no_one_is
      happy_here, don't_tell_me_I_didn't_warn_you, POV_Alternating, Pre-Canon
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-27 Updated: 2016-12-12 Chapters: 2/3 Words: 4400
****** The Harder the Fall ******
by Chryselis
Summary
     There are times when Cruhteo feels like a man possessed.
     By what, he isn't quite sure. When the urge takes him over,
     everything he thinks he knows about himself feels uncertain. But
     sometimes, a moment of lucidity emerges from the twisted heat
     constricting him, highlighting the bizarre situation he has worked
     himself into.
     He doesn't know who he is anymore, and Slaine Troyard is the one who
     stole that certainty away from him.
Notes
     Warning: This fic is an exploration of a highly abusive relationship
     between Cruhteo and Slaine and it'll only get more detailed from
     here. Like it says in the tags, don't tell me I didn't warn you.
***** Chapter 1 *****
There are times when Cruhteo feels like a man possessed.
By what, he isn't quite sure. When the urge takes him over, everything he
thinks he knows about himself feels uncertain. But sometimes, a moment of
lucidity emerges from the twisted heat constricting him, highlighting the
bizarre situation he has worked himself into.
He can't even remember how it started anymore.
Was it the first time those glassy azure eyes looked up to him in fear, still
sparkling with glints of hope? He had pitied their ignorance, all while the
hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The fear was mutual. The hope less
so. He couldn't be expected to look after a Terran, no matter how loyal his
father may have been.
Maybe it was when he noticed the boy had to be fitted for a larger uniform,
suddenly awkward and lithe limbs carrying him away from childhood? He had made
note of how slim and fragile the pale wrists peeking out from his sleeves had
looked, before he was caught staring and sleeves were readjusted. Brows
furrowed, although the reasons why stood worlds apart.
He had sought to create distance, and struggled with the anxious glances and
stuttered responses to his increased coldness. The more he pulled and pushed
the boundaries of their relationship with blunt words and harsh actions, the
more the boy submitted, pliant, willing, desperate for scraps of warmth.
Those moments irritated him, had plagued his mind until one day the sight of
barely parted lips, stained on the back of his eyelids, forced him to the
bottle.
When he drinks, Cruhteo sinks into the large red chair in the corner of his
office. There's a small ornate table next to it, offering up his favourite
poison and a crystal glass in sacrifice. Without thinking, he lazily pours,
sets back the bottle, and swigs down the liquid in one go. Whenever thoughts
resurface, he pours, drowning them out. The warm buzz of alcohol brings him
comfort in the cold fortress he's built himself, far away from young boys who
haven't yet faced the reality of adulthood. It helps him feel safe, alone. It
helps beckon sleep before the idea of ghostly white fingers pulls pleadingly at
the fabric of his cravat. It helps his entire body stay warm, so that he
doesn't have to feel the ice running through his veins when he wraps a hand
around himself, stiff and ridden with guilt.
Over the weeks, it becomes a habit that other people notice. He shoots
threatening glares at subordinates who witness him emerging after long bouts
locked in his office, standing not quite straight, hair not quite as slick. His
intensity is amplified by how furtively they all seem to turn away, and he
notices some tense as he props himself up on his cane, tap-tap of his
arrhythmic steps shooting out a resounding warning.
They wouldn't understand, that he's doing all he can. That this is the best
solution, he thinks.
 
As long as he can keep himself under control, he knocks back glass after glass.
 
Then comes a time when the pattern breaks, where circumstances push you to your
limit.
 
The bottle on his side table is empty. As is the cabinet. It shouldn't be, and
hasn't been, for well over two months now. A vein in his neck pulses, he grabs
the empty bottle in anger, ready to smash it against something, anything -
A knock on the door.
"About time," he mutters to himself. He had been explicit in his request that
the stock be replenished discreetly, away from prying eyes, and while he was
away from the office. He will probably be angry in the morning, but right
now... He exhales, focusing on the key code for the door's lock.
The seal decompresses and the swish of displaced air reveals a timid looking
figure, unsure of how to handle the delivery it's carrying. Blonde bangs hang
over his long lashed-eyes as he looks up to Cruhteo, like a child caught red
handed, knowing they aren't supposed to meet like this.
Of course, it dawns on him. He did this to himself. To keep him away he had
made very clear that Slaine should be assigned or delegated any menial task
available. Work the Terran harder to make him prove his loyalty. The irony is
palpable, that he should stand here, now, ready to hand him the bitter tasting
medicine. Was the soldier who delegated this task making fun of him? Did they
know? No, it's impossible. There are no signs. He knows they're all afraid,
afraid of the day when he might drink a little too much and his cane might slip
a little more readily than usual. Feelings in his gut boil at the thought.
 
They should know their place.
 
Like Slaine does.
 
Eager, obedient Slaine.
 
Smaller hands reach out, wordlessly, face cast down. He is anxious, Cruhteo
notes, aware that his timing is inconvenient. The older man tenses, himself
feeling caught in the act, and relieves him of the delivery.
"I'm sorry," blurts out Slaine, hanging even lower now, bent into a bow, "I
couldn't come earlier, what with the other tasks you assigned me today-"
Cruhteo cuts him off by raising his hand. Not now, he thinks, not today. If
anything, never. Slaine lingers in the doorway waiting to be dismissed, while
Cruhteo saunters to the red chair, throne of his worst moments, and slumps
after placing the new bottle on the table.
Slaine shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hands contorting behind
his back.
"Lord Cruhteo, should I leave?" He asks gingerly, having had to step into the
office when the door closed automatically.
Cruhteo doesn't even hear himself as he breathes out "stay".
 
It's already too late. It's only alcohol. And he looks so eager, Cruhteo knows
that all he wants is an allusion to familiarity. Kind, lonely Slaine, always
looking up to him in vain hope that Cruhteo may decide to be the father figure
he needs him to be. The older man laughs and looks up, only to see Slaine
standing closer to him, looking concerned.
Oh, the naivety makes him ache.
"I'm tired," he gestures to the boy, glass tilted in his loosened grip, "come
here and pour me a glass."
Slaine's hands are shaking as he stares, bewildered by the simple command. Of
course. He doesn't know how to open the bottle.
"Leftmost cabinet," Cruhteo drawls, "there should be a bottle opener in the
drawer."
He watches carefully as the slender frame makes its way around his office, and
realises it's been a while since he last saw Slaine outside of an official
capacity. He has grown into his new uniform, filling it out ever so slightly.
It catches on his hips.
While Slaine is fiddling with the bottle, features softened, unsuspectingly
happy to be included in a moment he can't even begin to understand, Cruhteo
can't help but bait him with what he came for:
"You've been working well lately, for a Terran."
Distracted by the sudden kindness, Slaine pulls a little too hard on the cork
he was struggling to unscrew and spills wine down his uniform. In a flash,
Cruhteo's hand is on his wrist, tilting it straight so the wine keeps from
spilling more. Slaine is clearly in shock, shivering both at the touch and at
his mistake, pre-emptively cowering from a strike he assumes will follow. Their
eyes meet and the boy flinches, before letting his eyes widen again, looking
right at the man before him. Cruhteo can see his own reflection in tantalising
blue, and his thoughts in that moment make him feel sick.
He doesn't know who he is anymore, and Slaine Troyard is the one who stole that
certainty away from him.
Amidst the blur of long shifts, weariness, and the promise of alcohol to soothe
his aching head, bubbles a distorted idea, a challenge to the lonely moments
that led up to this one. He lets go of Slaine's wrist, and rather than
reprimand him he offers a simple command:
"Strip."
 
 
***
 
There are times when Slaine thinks he might have died and gone to hell.
After all, he can't move his body anymore. He is losing his mind, a puppet
whose limbs arch and jerk to the touch of the cruellest master. There's no more
strength to cry, even though the tears sometimes flow unnoticed. All he has is
reckless abandon to sick pleasure, to feel something, anything.
He remembers exactly how it started.
Why has the moment seared his mind so clearly? It would be much easier to
forget the awful lie, the promise of affection now burning, venom in his veins
blooming hot at the sound of his own name. He had taken a larger, safer, sturdy
hand in his own and held tight, until the sweetness was banished by a command,
directing his innocence to the very thing that would pierce it over and over
until there was nothing left.
It's his own fault.
Maybe if he hadn't deluded himself into thinking that there must have been a
reason Princess Asseylum had entrusted him to Lord Cruhteo. Why would she have
willingly let him climb into the jaws of a monster?
Or was it because he missed his father so, that he had blindly clung onto the
hope that the closest he now had to a replacement would one day look at him and
see more than a piece of filth on the boots of the Versian army?
It definitely is his own fault.
In the split second he had looked into Cruhteo's eyes in fear and stupidly,
stupidly allowed himself to relax when the fingers wrapped around his wrist
felt like comfort more than punishment, he saw something change in the man
before him.
He wishes now it had been a blow from the cane, an insult - not that those
hadn't followed - but anything would've been better than living like this.
A tantalising inch away from death, life never merciful, unrelenting.
Gnarled hands tighten around his hips as a beast buries himself in him,
frenzied, panting and sweating heavily. It pushes hard, nothing ever hard
enough, and the desk Slaine is bent over shakes, sending something or other
flying off it. Slaine wants to let himself get knocked out against the edge of
the desk, he wants to share the numbness the towering figure keeps from him
because surely, he must be dead inside to keep on living this way.
Slaine isn't, not just yet, and the dread that swells up inside him before
every thrust and lick tells him that something is about to break.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The statement is gentle, genuine in its surprise.
     "You're hard," Cruhteo says, and the tip of his cane presses
     inquisitively upwards between Slaine's shivering thighs.
     ***
     Maybe, Slaine thinks, this is happening because of who, and how, I
     am.
Chapter Notes
     PLEASE READ THIS WARNING:
     This chapter depicts EXTREMELY GRAPHIC SEXUAL ABUSE and the resulting
     emotional reactions, both from POV of abuser and abused. Please don't
     read it if you're not equipped to deal with emotionally challenging
     content.
     I'm writing this because while watching AZ, I felt Cruhteo fit the
     perfect profile of an abuser and I (sadly) couldn't help but imagine
     the things he could justify doing to Slaine given the right "excuse",
     which is what abusers often believe. I also feel that Slaine's
     character is complex, but not pushed enough in the show given the
     amount of on-screen torture he receives from Cruhteo. This is an
     attempt at filling in the gaps while also pushing the conception of
     troubled characters in a war setting.
     It is in no way my intent to cheapen the experiences of IRL survivors
     of trauma, and if anything I aim to depict traumatic events in a way
     that non-victims can begin to understand, if only just a little. I
     hope the way I present the characters in this makes you think.
     Because of this, I'm also really curious as to what your reaction is
     as a reader, so please do comment to discuss it - although I
     understand that not everyone wants to engage openly with this type of
     material.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Slaine stands there, bottle of wine still in hand, stain spreading across the
front of his uniform. Cruhteo leans forward to take it off him and casually
pours himself a glass, swirling the liquid around impatiently.
The silence makes his brow twitch and his fingers restless. 
"Did you not hear me Slaine? Strip." 
Although the mood had been imperative, his use of the word is a suggestion. It
isn't an order, he tells himself, it's a way to test the limits of the Terran's
loyalty. Of his naivety. Of his, or Cruhteo's own, stupidity. 
But he knows he didn't say:
"Remove your jacket immediately, then take it to be cleaned." 
Nor did he remark:
"Take it off now before the wine stains your shirt too." 
He gave one word, open ended, up to interpretation. Cruhteo sees the boy
thinking, hears the options clattering as each is reduced to impossibility,
shattering as they hit against the circumstances that are his new reality:
 
"Strip," says the man who took you in after your father died, who was supposed
to care for and look after you.
"Strip," says the count, the higher ranked soldier in an army base whose
authority is near total.
"Strip," says the drunkard, the grown man to whom you've been delivering
bottles of wine while the taste of it has never even touched your own lips.
"Strip," says the degenerate, who borrows, uses your likeness in his thoughts
for pleasure while his wife raises his children on a planet far away.
 
Cruhteo knows this. Yet, the uncertainty hanging in the air fills him with a
thrill, so much so that he could almost -
 
"Strip," he repeats once more, tone flat and head lulling against the chair's
velvety fabric, tilted back enough to look down on the boy standing before him.
The glass finds its way to his lips now, habit hardwired, need immediately
soothed by the faintly bitter warmth sliding into him, around him, filling him
with exhilaration. 
Slaine is shaking now, unknowingly feeding the possibility growing in Cruhteo's
mind by showing no sign of resistance to banish it. Another sip, and the warmth
boils, searing into anger. What power of denial Slaine Troyard could've had to
save himself begins to pale against the towering height of an ego, fuelled by
eager alcohol, as Cruhteo leans forward, fingers tensing and curling into the
armrest of his chair. In that moment, a mind is made up, and the small wavering
figure shifts nervously, hands fumbling over buttons until the jacket opens to
reveal a burgundy stained shirt underneath. 
The boy's lips part, a question shy of the tip of his tongue. Cruhteo sits back
and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch. Another sip. Slaine's eyes dart to
the bottle of wine, and the man takes another sip. Glass? He's not paying
attention. Useless Terran, pathetic without orders to guide him. Spineless,
cowardly, hesitant - the count downs another glass he filled without realising
and leans forward once more. 
"You took too long and the shirt is stained now too. Remove it." 
Cruhteo wonders if he's making this difficult, although the wine tells him
otherwise. Here, he is king. After all, if war has taught him one thing, it's
that there is no right or wrong, only authority. Only the satisfying conviction
that your side is righteous, and he is, Cruhteo is a righteous man who fights
for the freedom and the survival of his people, of those chosen to wield a
power far greater than any the Terrans can muster. Terrans like this boy, scum
who kill and deny the obvious supremacy of the Vers empire, squirming on the
blue planet below, bugs, ready to be crushed. Dirty. Subhuman. Nothing. 
To win this war, Vers must be indomitable. Unflinching, merciless, supreme.
Cruhteo serves only Vers and the emperor's will is word therefore the Terran
cannot be seen to disobey. He cannot be seen refusing to submit. 
A muffled, pained sound pulls him away from his thoughts, revealing that he has
struck the Terran with his cane. Likely after he let the jacket and shirt fall
to the ground. 
Of course, there is only one way for the servant to truly realise his place.
Cruhteo's glance takes in the wide, horror-stricken eyes, the pale, naked
chest, and he closes the gap with his cane once more, this time without any
force behind it. The end of the cane trails, following the obvious course of
action, leading down a delicate torso and aiming for the crook between two ever
so slightly bowed legs, only to hit an obstacle covered by taught, strained
fabric. The absurdity of the evidence pulls Cruhteo into a welcoming reality,
mouth curving upwards, brow incredulous, exalted even. Never had his fantasies
been so daring as to imagine anything other than his own desire. That the
Terran... No, Slaine, could awaken to what Cruhteo so desperately tried to
dream away. 
The statement is gentle, genuine in its surprise. 
"You're hard," Cruhteo says, and the tip of his cane presses inquisitively
upwards between Slaine's shivering thighs.
 
***
 
In the moment Cruhteo issues the order to strip, everything escapes him. Slaine
can only feel terror rising, robbing him of his senses, sending his body into a
state of high alarm his mind has no control over. 
Say something, he thinks, anything. Ask why. Suggest that you should head out
and tend to your uniform at once. Apologise. There must be something, anything
that he won't react angrily to. Something to soften the blow. 
Instead Slaine's hands move despite themselves, latching on to the command to
save their body from imminent shutdown. Some form of survival mechanism is
telling him to keep his head still and keep moving, to obey, that there is some
logic in the man's mind for the actions he's making him perform whose
consequences aren't as horrific as Slaine is starting to consider. The count
only seems to care about drinking, maybe he is simply aggravated by the spilt
alcohol. He's already pouring glass after glass, swallowing his addiction at a
speed that must correlate with its severity. 
But despite Slaine's efforts the blow comes, and the man doesn't even seem to
realise it. The hit lands, albeit less determined than usual, on Slaine's side,
designed to make him buckle. But he doesn't.
 Don't flinch, Slaine thinks. Take it, don't invite another. That only makes
him angrier. Let him make his own mind up and don't give him any more reasons
or excuses to make this situation worse.
 
Yet although Slaine's thoughts gallop ahead, his body remains rooted in the
moment Lord Cruhteo grabbed his wrist and told him to strip. The time all hope
of compassion and comfort was extinguished by the hungry look in his superior's
eyes. 
Why had no one ever taught Slaine that screams of true, bone-chilling terror
would echo only in the chamber of his mind? Then maybe he would've realised,
that he is long lost to fear, alone, isolated where no one can hear him. Where
even his body betrays him at the worst moment, when a known instrument of pain
is making a target of him, and he wants to shout and cry for someone to help.
But who would? And wouldn't the consequences be worse? 
No more reasons or excuses, he had thought. Yet here he stands, his body alien,
removed, an autonomous chunk of flesh holding down a mind already long gone,
frantic, clawing at the door of the room it's confined in, only to be reminded
that it cannot exist alone. It cannot exist outside the vessel, and the vessel
is pumping blood through muscles and mechanisms the conscious being does not
control or understand. 
He doesn't understand what is happening. The hour, the circumstances, the wine,
the stained uniform, the hit from Cruhteo and now the bowed lips resembling a
genuine smile, the closest to affection he has seen directed at him since his
father died. 
Slaine Troyard doesn't understand why he can't run. Why he can't cry. Why he is
glued to the spot as a hard object touches him where no one ever has before and
where he himself has only recently hazarded to associate the idea of caresses
with pleasure and a release he assumed must be normal. 
"You're hard," offers the count, and he isn't sure what that explanation means
but he guesses it's referring to his current condition.
 
Now Slaine wonders.
 
Is it normal?
 
Do other men experience this? Are Versians the same?
 
Or is he sick? Wrong? Is that why Cruhteo keeps his distance and prods at him
like an animal? Is that what he is to the man? An animal? Something to be
examined, ordered around, used with no will of its own? Is this why he was left
behind, taken away from his home planet? Abandoned? 
Those thoughts anchor his mind back into his body, stomach laden with melting
lead leaking out through his eyes, and the sobs rattle his ribcage, hitting the
roof of his mouth before he swallows them back down, body convulsing and sounds
muted by the last bastion of his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
 
Maybe, he thinks, this is happening because of who, and how, I am.
 
***
 
The Terran is crying, muffled sniffs and shakes pulling Cruhteo out of his
reverie. Why would his servant react like this now, after such apparent
enthusiasm? This irks him, and the corner of his eye and mouth twitch in
irritation as he draws back the cane, resting it against the side of his chair.
His appetite is unfairly whet, and he will not be teased, so he beckons the boy
over and pours another glass of wine, ignoring the wretched thing before him as
he sighs deeply. 
Sacrifices must be made for the greater cause, he thinks, even if such fine
wine does not deserve to go to waste. 
Cruhteo's eyes slowly look up from under drooped, drowsy lids, sliding towards
Slaine as if the act were a chore. 
"Come here Slaine," the count drawls, his speech already duller, missing the
usual authoritarian edge one might expect. Yet the words are heavier in their
lack of refinement, betraying the uncertain danger that comes with the
influence of alcohol. Cruhteo notes the swift wiping away of tears, the boy
already tidying away his emotional outburst, approaching cautiously -
reverently, dare he add. Cruhteo breathes in deeply, moved by the sight:
untouched, raw pale skin, body so young yet already eager. Obedient, apt for
learning. Perfect to mould. Primed for him, ready to be taken, beaten into Vers
submission. 
"Closer. You will drink this." 
Cruhteo raises the glass and an impatient eyebrow. Slaine steps in and hovers
close, uneven rasping breath timed to the beating of his ragged heart. 
"Open your mouth. Tilt your head back." 
Cruhteo brings the glass to Slaine's lips and slowly tips it so that the wine
pours down his throat until the boy chokes and coughs, unaccustomed to the
bitter taste and its accompanying warmth. 
"Good. Now clean up what you spilt."
Slaine hastily wipes his chin with the back of his hand, then brings it up to
his mouth and licks the traces of wine there, worried questioning eyes set on
Cruhteo who follows every movement of the soft, small tongue lapping
reluctantly at the unsavoury liquid. They both gulp. Cruhteo smiles, breathing
out deeply through his nose as he runs his own tongue over his lips in
excitement. Slaine smiles back, and the count reaches for his cane, dragging it
nonchalantly along the inside of his servant's leg, then over his crotch, where
to his disappointment Slaine's own excitement seems to have subsided. 
But it happened once, and the boy is still here. 
So, he will make it happen again.
 
***
 
What can I do but smile? If I cry again he'll make me drink more.
 
Slaine does not yet realise that the wine will later become a closer friend of
his than any man ever will.
 
The second drink doesn't sting as much, and makes his pain and worry feel just
a smidge lighter.
 
Maybe the wine isn't so bad after all.
 
***
 
Cruhteo's new toy proves to be entertaining indeed, and he wonders why the
thought seemed so outlandish to him up until this point. Really, it is more a
point of curiosity. Do Terrans feel arousal as Versians do? Is their physiology
truly identical? Is this a reaction born out of submission, or lust? 
He cocks his head and rolls the tip of the cane against Slaine's crotch,
pleased to see that it takes little effort for the small body to start to
shiver and tighten. The Terran's mouth hangs open, pants and cries bleeding
into the most alluring moans Cruhteo has ever heard, and he presses the cane
harder against his crotch. This is a creature of sin, made to turn man weak
through the failings of the flesh. How lucky Slaine is, Cruhteo muses, to
experience such treatment at the hand of someone so much more experienced while
the sensations are brand new. 
The moments begin to blur together as he reaches the bottom of the bottle,
especially once a hand finds its way to the neck of the bottle rather than the
curve of the wineglass. At some point along the way he asked Slaine to remove
the rest of his clothes it would seem, which is logical. How else could he test
the extent of his unwavering obedience, but by probing every inch of his mind
and body? Cruhteo may be unforgiving, but he is not without reason. He is a
calm, righteous man. 
And calm he remains as he watches the golden end of his cane slide in and out
from the quivering figure bent over in front of him, nails digging into the
plush rug it's hiding it’s face against. 
Cruhteo remains silent, enraptured by what he perceives as a melodious mixture
of pain and pleasure playing to his ears. It reminds him of the sounds he hears
when he tries to sleep at night, of kataphrakt maintenance workers power
cleaning blood spatters from crushed Terran soldiers off the feet of his
Tharsis, of the shouts of men determined to bring their ideology home, of a
wife never quite warm, never quite alluring enough to satisfy him. 
The novelty of it is, however, only momentary, and without the distraction of
alcohol Cruhteo becomes preoccupied with the heat firing up his own body. He
abruptly pulls back his cane and finally rises from his chair, relaxed,
confident, and curious to see if his fantasies come anywhere near close to what
is about to become reality.
 
***
 
Slaine feels relief wash over him when the count forces him to his knees and
stands. Out of the corner of his eye he spots blood on the end of the cane and
covers his mouth reflexively to hold down the bile that rises in his throat.
But the physical pain pales in comparison to the elated feeling that overcomes
him when Cruhteo grabs his hair and forces him level with his crotch. 
For the first time Slaine notices that Cruhteo is also... Hard. That he himself
is not the only one afflicted. 
"You did this to me, now you have to take responsibility to rid me of it."
 
Ah, of course.
 
I'm disgusting. Filthy. I’m the one who did this.
 
"Open your mouth. Keep your hands off me."
 
I won't touch you. I can't touch anyone ever again.
 
"I'll teach you how to service a Versian count properly."
 
Anything, anything to make up for this. For what I've done.
 
I hate myself.
 
I want to die.
Chapter End Notes
     I'd also like to raise awareness about the issue of male survivors of
     rape and the misconception that "getting an erection means you
     consented to it". See here for some educational reading on the topic:
     http://freethoughtblogs.com/hetpat/2014/09/11/the-flesh-is-weak-on-
     the-erection-equals-consent-rape-myth/
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
