(A.N.: I know that in Homestuck, Equius is played like a creep for laughs, but I'm actually really interested in his character. What would it be like to be a physically powerful, naturally submissive enforcer of a forgotten system? How would his obligations and desires conflict with his individuality? Thus, I wrote this thing. It was originally supposed to be a one shot, but it ended up being long so I'm splitting it up into chapters. Please rate and review, I love feedback.)

It's difficult explain how it felt to kneel before him. How it felt when he forced you to tense your muscles around an arrow that he put inside of you. How it felt as he wrapped the wire of a bow around your neck, pulling it get tighter and tighter. How he tightened it until your vision was clouded, and your reason was gone, and he stole everything you held dear. To have nothing left but his smile, and your pain, and the blue blood pouring out of your body, around his feet, as his body hurts yours, breaks yours.

Dominates yours.

It's difficult to explain the climax he drove you to. It was more than physical, more than emotional, more anything you can describe. You had never felt anything as intense as his skinny arms flexing to hurt you, or as your own muscled arms, so capable of breaking his lanky frame in half, laying docile beneath him. This would be it. This would be your life's climax. Your sad little life story would get no dénouement, no slow winding down, no peaceful drifting off. He chose to end you with a final pinnacle of emotion, of sensation, of fulfillment. He was extracting your life from you, taking your every thought or emotion, your every obligation or desire. He took your every living experience and made them smaller and smaller, purer and purer, cutting you off from the world. You felt your very essence shrinking as the world grew hazy. Every joy grew more joyful, every pain more painful, every wonder and horror becoming bright and clear. You became little more than a brightly colored singularity, ready to be swallowed by a sea of black, of void, of power.

There is no experience in life quite like dying.

They would wonder, when you were no more than one of his chosen corpses, why you died smiling. Why you sweated in death as well as in life. Why you hadn't stopped him from murdering you. These questions held no meaning for you, as the answer was lost in his body dominating yours, his blood dominating yours. It was lost as he made you an effortless sacrifice to his artistic psychosis, his violent vision for a mural of multicolored blood.

They never realized. It was always about the blood.