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imaginesofeverykind · 20 days

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Witches Brew ~ Chapter 1

Warnings: HEAVY mentions of blood/gore, magic described as visceral, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, gore themes, Aegon being the epitome of ‘omg i’ll do whatever except tell mum’, Body horror, 18+ Minors DNI

Tags: DnD-Esque style AU, Targaryens aren't royalty but they are Noblefolk, some things are purposefully vague :S :S

Chapter Song: Go Tell Aunt Rhody (RE7 soundtrack) - Michael A. Levine, Jordan Reyne

Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.

Word Count: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

Vicious rapping squanders the peace and quiet of a relatively silent part of the swamp. Moonlight splits off, cutting through the canopy of overgrowth that shields a peculiar abode entangled within the trunk of an elder tree. The crickets sing among the toads’ baritone croaks until they cease, abiding by the loud pounding on the wooden door that barely stays on its hinges, splintering from wood rot.

”Please!”

A guttural plea, desperation lingering atop the vowels. No one ever came to the decrepit hut unless they were on the brink, teetering the veil of life, quite literally on death's door. But death hardly answered, in its wake, oftentimes stood you; for those who braved the trek.

He had almost given up, muscles begging him for rest, for a modicum of reprieve from the toil it took just to arrive at the steps of a stranger's hut. The weight, the pain, it was enough to finally buckle his shaky grime covered knees, splinters embedded themselves into the palms of his hands the moment his hands hit the wood beneath him.

“I need —,” a whimper, is all that managed to escape his throat. His eyes flickered to the body beside him — not body, he wasn’t dead yet — to his brother laying beside him, laboured breaths that sucked through his barred teeth in discomfort.

Lips curled into a snarl, he brought his fist down on the decking one final time, “open the door you fucking wretch!”

He nearly cowered when the door yanked open, yellow light spilling out into the dark bog from the hearth that roared inside. No one stood in the frame of the door, no one beckoned him inside the derelict home and despite this, he rose to his feet, scraping his newly acquired trousers. There was little energy left in him, just enough to drag the mauled body of his brother - one that inched closer to the afterlife - over the threshold of the hut.

”Sit.”

He spun on his feet, nearly tripping over the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth when his eyes landed on you, who had appeared, simply materializing from nothing. It was only mere seconds until he was set on you again, a frantic torment that willed him near you, “Hag, you must help him!” Despite his weary disposition, he demanded help.

A nobleman. You think, taking his appearance in. Both men donned the same white hair, similarly crafted attire that screamed wealth and you are automatically aware of who was inside your abode. The township off the Kings Road comes to your mind, owned by a Lord as it had been for the past century.

”Well?! Must I get on my knees?” He was angry, that much was clear, but he was more afraid above all.

You waved dismissively, though not toward the stranger, the Lordling. The table of apothecary jars and dissected creatures vanish, though they never are truly gone, and you gesture for the man to place his injured companion. He’s confused at first, most people are when they come to you. Magic was no longer what it was, you could feel it wane the harder religion sought to destroy it. He most likely has never seen it this close.

But he silently obeys, with great effort hauling his brother up on the table and like you had before, appeared behind him as silently as the fog that began to seep through the crack beneath the door. He flinched away instantly, you fought back a sly smirk but your focus was on the man with long matted locks. The hair was a brilliant white, the same as his brothers, identical as the Lord of the closest settlement, but it was marred with the crimson syrup of blood.

You bring a finger to his mutilated face, your pointed nails more akin to talons than that of humans, they threaten to crack the white porcelain of his skin. Swiping a long line down, coating the pads of your fingertips in blood and bringing it to your mouth for a taste. Bitter. The able bodied man recoiled at the sight, but you pay him no mind as you examine the injured one.

His eye was gone. That was a shame. You were fond of eyes as payment.

”Can you heal him?” The man beside you asked, voice small, almost childlike and feeble. ”Name your price, make him whole again and I’ll — I’ll give you whatever you want. Fix him.” His anguish raked through your ears and rattled against your mind like razor sharp teeth, your neck instinctively lolling from left to right as if to ward off the discomfort that followed.

”They’ll know.” You answer cryptically, caressing the side of the younger man's face much like a mother would when tucking in a babe for the evening.

“Can. You. Fix. Him?” His patience was wearing thin.

You sigh, turning to face him properly for the first time since he arrived. Violet eyes. Magic touched his very heritage and yet his own kin sought to erase it, the irony was not lost on you. “He will be different.” You say as a warning, a politeness he certainly didn’t deserve yet you gave it anyway.

Anger overcame him, outstretching his hands and coiling his fingers around the scruff of your filthy dress to yank you toward him. You happen to catch the brief glint of silver, but you had caught it, the blade with your hand wrapping around it to stop it from piercing your chest. Not that it would have damaged your heart, you wonder if his intent was to scare or if he simply forgot which side the human heart resided.

The blade cut through your skin, rivers of red beginning to run down your wrist. The pain is welcome.

“Fix him. Or else I’ll drag you to Oldtown where you can burn in the circle you filthy animal.”

Animal. As if you were no longer good enough to be likened to a person, a human person capable of human things. ‘They fear what they cannot control,’ the voice is recalled into your mind, a vague memory of the past resurfacing as though it meant to reassure you.

Your lips twist into an awry smirk, and the second he blinks you have once again dissolved through his hands like an apparition. Reappearing by his brother's side, sliced hand outstretched to let your own blood drip tantalizingly slow over the unconscious man’s face.

In your other hand is a surprisingly ornate steel flask, an eyesore amongst the natural clutter. Whatever liquid you have delicately poured down the man’s throat is sanguine, syrupy thick like honey. You sense there is something not quite right mere seconds before the man begins to convulse violently, gasping for air that he cannot breathe.

”What have you done?!” Nostrils flared and ire rising, the able bodied one charged toward you like a boar gone rabid.

You grew tired of his impetulant outbursts, whispering a soft incantation with hurried hand flourishes and his movements ceded. Burnt into the wooden boards around his feet, still smoking with specks of orange embers were runes, etched into a circle. Something felt off, the air reeked of acrid mildew mixed with copper and you knew instantly what triggered the reaction.

Ignoring the binded man’s threats you let the magic sing to you, caress you, consume you while softly speaking in a forgotten and forbidden tongue.

The windows and door fly open, inviting in a malstrom of wind, tempestuous and bludgeoning, the centre it wishes to converge is at the body on the table still choking, still clawing at himself for air. His spirit dwindles at every garbled breath but you sense his will and you could feel his fight, he was a warrior through and through even in the face of imminent mortal peril. Not many of those who seek you, offer the same resoluteness.

The older brother is driven to shield his face from the vacuum of wind battering him against the unseen magical force which keeps him in place. Fear was evident in his eyes, perhaps even a touch of regret and guilt though you don’t linger too long as you shout a final mantra, holding both your forearms with formidable strength that is unbroken until the last word passes your lips, you break your grasp.

And then suddenly, the gale force of destruction dissipates.

Silence follows. And you are sat beside the young brother, placing a paste across the part of his face which had been torn away viciously. “What attacked him?” It was the first time you had spoken so directly, but it was because you knew the answer, the nobleman before you couldn’t possibly know what lurked through the mangroves and stalked beneath the stillwater.

He doesn’t appear to comprehend the question at first, muttering to himself a litany of false truths to explain what had happened right in front of him. His very own trembling brings him back from his prison of thoughts as his gaze lifts cautiously to meet yours, “a Direwolf.”

“How did you know it was a Direwolf?” You ask instantly, predicting that he would say as much. No matter, you step over to the cabinet that housed jars filled with all sorts of assorted components for potion making or spell casting, the moon light coming through the window casting an eerie shadow on the workspace.

”What else do you call a giant fucking wolf, what does it matter?” He grew restless again.

You dripped a small phial of black liquid into the mortar filled with other ingredients with great haste, eyes curiously peering out the window looking at the moon as you grimly sigh and mix together what’s been obtained. “It matters,” you grit, trying to grind the remainder of the paste, “the difference between a Direwolf and what attacked him is an exceptionally vindictive blood curse.”

He blinked at you, “what?”

You discard the mortar and cross the room swiftly, shelves littered with bones, glowing rocks and a variety of ceremonial looking daggers. Though magic and its very history were being erased by the ‘new god’, you still hoped those within the settlement weren’t entirely sheltered.

“He will know no master lest it is the moon, he will know no anger stronger than wrath, he will know only pain and isolation.”

The expression that fell across his face told you all that was needed; He understood fully what was at stake, just as you had moments before. Though his resolve hardened and he met your gaze once more, “cure him. Whatever it takes, I do not care!” Both of you knew he was in no position to demand, not when he was still held in place by unseen magic and you had proven many times how easily it was to simply disappear.

And that is what you did, if only briefly, shooting him a coy smile before vanishing and leaving him in ruination for the moment. In the silence, forced to look at his brother made his lip tremble. He hoarsely called out to him, shaky words choking in half sobs to beckon him awake and rip him from unconsciousness to no avail.

”He’s not here,” You softly say, causing him to jump when you reappear and brush past him. “His soul is in limbo, he won’t hear you.” But I can, you think, the energy sings to your soul in a gentle hymn and your blood sings back to it. In your hand a lock of silver hair clasped in your fist, having come from where you disappeared to, though it caused immediate alarm for the man.

He pointed a finger at your hand and grimaced, his bottom lip still trembling but no longer from hopelessness. Though he doesn’t ask the question out loud, you know what he’s thinking and you were certain he wouldn’t like the answer regardless of how you explained it.

“Whatever it takes,” you gently repeated his words and it was enough to silence him, for far longer than you thought was possible. Though the silence was welcomed, encouraging concentration while you handled the spellcraft with the care and love that had been taught to you. The woman in your memory that provided warmth and affection was not your mother by blood and yet she lived through your very essence as if she were.

She was there with every spell, whispering gently and coaxing a power buried deep within you. She was in the walls of the hut, imbuing you with much needed protection from creatures and men. And she was here, watching you through omniscient delight as you dedicated part of your essence to a stranger and his injured brother.

The serenity only just takes the edge of tension away, as if you weren’t tending to the impossible feat of near resurrection and stitching a man whole together once more. Life was fragile, mortality was inevitable even to those who yearn against it but magic could manipulate it enough even if it took great energy. It wasn’t without drawbacks, though. Transactional in nature, to undo what has been done required blood magic, the type of magic you were versed well in but it almost always came with consequence.

’What is taken, must be given back’ the words of your ‘mother’ echoed superfluously everytime your duty required meddling with the laws of nature. Perhaps that was why many travelers or townsfolk revered you as a hag, if not for the way you dressed or looked or lived, then for your duty as an indiscriminate arbiter of unfairness and misfortune.

Magic was fair, balanced and it obeyed karmic laws, this was why you cradled such energy. Life was not, it was often unfair and that much had been made clear the moment your real mother left you in a swamp to be taken by whatever monsters prowled in search for their next meal.

So you do what needed to be done - if only a little self serving to you personally but - you give back the injured man what had been clawed away and take something from his family locked away in their fortress within the walls of their beloved township. Not without a final twist in the knife for the older brother who demanded your help many hours ago. Appearing beside him like a shade, gripping his wrist abruptly and slicing a line across his palm to draw blood.

He attempted to fight back but he was bound, he could only wince and complain while you squeezed the blood into a medium phial. When you had finished, he snatched his hand back, holding it to his chest as if to soothe the pain and grimaced at you almost childishly, “you could’ve asked.”

A faint smile tickles the corner of your lips, though it was no matter of if his words were amusing or his mannerism when he calmed down were fascinating, there was still a task at hand.

The final part of the brutal rite fell appropriately on the witching hour, where the crow sings thrice while the moon is still high. To complete everything, you dropped several dribbles of the brother's blood into the injured’s mouth and finished off your words of sacrilege.

”He will recover,” You announce, finally after what seemed like hours upon hours of the sounds of your transfixed mumblings and careful spell work.

The man hadn’t heard you at first, in fact he had barely registered the runic circle by his feet had disappeared quite some time ago which meant he was no longer bound in place yet he still remained as if he were. But the only thing that broke him from his trance had been the shallow breath followed by his younger brother lurching forward in a confused panic.

No longer was his face torn, eye gouged, the only indication of that was the faint pink scar that remained. His eyes — both, set on you and he surged forward straight toward your neck. Not that you could blame him for being in such a state, though it would be rather humorous to allow him to indulge in his urges and let him throttle you, you step out of his reach like an alluring treat that only served to frustrate him.

The older one flung himself forward, fretting over the younger and the tension immediately dispersed into quaint relief. Though it lasted no longer than a matter of moments, chaos stalked the two like they were messengers from the god of chaos himself, the energy between them repelling from one another like static in a storm. You could merely watch on in light amusement at the bickering duo.

“— I already think so low of you and yet you exceed expectations once more. Bringing me to this devil whisperer's den?!”

”Well I was simply not going to bring you home marked and dying!”

“If you must lie that you care for me dear brother, at least have the conviction to not pretend you had my interests at heart when we both know you wish to save your skin. Now I have to explain to mother why I stench of sin.”

You laughed, quite loudly it had broken the two from grappling one another to look over. The glimpses of lives you often see when people stop by are often times quite enlightening, just as it appeared in the present between two quarrelling brothers. One who thirsts for recognition and appreciation while the other wishes to disappear and fade to obscurity.

“Do we amuse you, hag?” The younger ones eyes set on you, his grimace was apparent as he did little to hide his contempt.

“Quite.” You hum, barefoot toes curling into the splintered wood while thinking aimlessly. No words followed, not when your gaze cast on the elder who had gone a shade lighter in his face, his limbs beginning to quake and tremble. Cracked lips curling into a smile as you watch him collapse to the floor, writhing in what one could assume was unrelenting pain, the type of pain that embedded itself into a person.

“Aegon — Brother!” The younger falls to his brothers side and you watch curiously, how interesting the dynamic was between the brothers. Their resentment ran deep yet there was still a matter of love beneath it, a bond that weaved itself between them despite such obtuse differences.

The younger was furious, shooting his deadly gaze at you with nostrils flared and he lunged at you, this time for mere entertainment, you let his hands wrap around your neck and press you hard against the cabinet. “You fucking monster! What have you done to me! To him?!” He spat, rightfully so, you thought that someone as pious as him would befall such a fate, though from the little information you’ve gathered on the two, Aegon — as you now know him — did not share such piety.

A weary smirk pulled at the corner of your lips, choking out, “I am no monster, little lordling though it pleases me so, to bestow a mark on your family who seeks to reject their very own heritage.”

The screams and pleas of Aegon in the background fuelled this one’s anger, “we’ll have you burnt for that —“ His hands tighten their grip, leaving you to his mercy for now in his hands like a ragdoll force to move at his whim, jerking you forward and then slamming you back into the cabinet. Glass shattered from the impact around the both of you but your focus remained on him, the only thing to do in the instance was laugh and so you did.

“Quite the ferocious brute you are — you’d have made a fine servant to the moon, though I cannot say the same about your brother.” His hands squeezed down on your windpipe with malicious intent but you remain unperturbed despite the immense pressure building within your head. Like a bubble about to burst.

The elders' whimpers of pain droned on in the background, mixing into the symphony of nature that carried on throughout the marsh. You had a little too much fun toying with people, if they were to treat you a certain way, who were you to not at least get amusement from it?

You laughed, bringing a fist full of powder up and flicking it in his face before disappearing through his fingertips like grains of sand. The powder served distraction enough, staggering him back and you silently thank your motherly figure for always ensuring you carried turmeric. Even if it was to ward off bad spirits only.

When you reappeared, your lips barely skimming the shell of Aegon’s ear as you whisper a soft incantation, it felt lewd and profane but at once his pain ceased. The wrinkling in his forehead and face softened while beads of sweat trickled downward, threatening to sully his eyesight by falling into it.

In your hand was the phial of blood you had taken from Aegon, the other held the scruff of his neck. His brother only just recovered from having powder flung in his face, the searing and burning had barely stopped when his eyes settled on you, hovering over Aegon like an enchantress with ill intent.

You crushed the phial in your hands, glass cutting the insides of your palm mixing two bloods together, placing your bloodied hand to Aegon’s sweaty forehead and began muttering swift words. You turned to the younger one, haggard and crazed with a look in your eye that seemed to elicit fear in both of them, raising a clawed hand up you pointing directly at him.

“I have done what is asked of me, to unmark and unburden you. And the cost has been paid. He —“ you look down at Aegon’s fearful eyes, and something in your mind whispers to you to show mercy, it is not your voice, rather hers the one who taught you the ways of magic, “he may now be a servant of the moon but he is bound to me. Every lunar cycle when the moon is at its fullest he must come to me lest he be made an example from the zealot’s who poison your minds with promises of false salvation and piety.” You were still rather on the theatrical side, not truly enforcing a blood bind on him. And yet, it had the desired effect. Fear.

“And if he doesn’t?” The younger asks in mock defiance, serving as a mask to hide the fear so prevalent in his eyes.

“Then when you pray at night you better hope your false god listens.”

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dappersautismcreature · 8 months

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mushroom stew

characters: Bad, Cellbit

tws: cannibalism, violence, gore, slavery/indentured servitude, child solider(ish), death of many npcs, spiders

Bad stretched and yawned as he strode out onto the field— he looked over his opponents for the games.

Nobody looked particularly dangerous. Most of them were young, 18-25 looking, with tough faces and plain clothes. That was pretty usual for the games. People joined or were forced to join by a company or a slavers crew, either for their own money, or someone else’s money. Bad had almost never met someone who was there purely by choice, they could say they were, but the unbearable hunger in their eyes gave them away. Life spent drifting from PvP server to PvP server was wretched, and poor. People needed to hope for more— the games gave them that.

But there was a price— Bad grimaced as he did another pass of examining his enemies— the first fifty of these people to die would be perma-killed. Forty-five would be stuck in limbo for anywhere from a couple days to a month, depending on how long it took between the time they died and the game’s end. Only the last five could come out alive— and only the winner would be blessed to erase all his wounds. Bad had met people on these fields with limps, with twisted spines, and burns, broken fingers, and missing limbs, eyepatches. Bad himself sported almost a dozen deep scars on his torso and neck and face. In his early days he’d been stuck in limbo for almost three weeks. Now though, after a few decades of practice— he was confident in his ability to come in the top five. Now he could actually fulfill his purpose, the reason he was here.

Snow crunched under a hundred bodies, everyone held their breaths. Silence was mandatory before the start. The horns sounded— and Bad had never felt so alive. He took in a deep breath, letting time slow, and watched as people around him scattered. Boots skidded on icy ground, there were yells, cries of terror. Bad blinked, coiling his muscles, and leaped from his position. His feet thudded against snow, he lengthened his stride, running and running.

A body slammed into him, small, compact. Bad fell straight on his ass, hissing. The demon sprang to his feet, hands clutching his wooden ax. “Who dares.” He growled, tail curling up like a scorpion’s. The air fizzled, his Thor’s Curse reacting to the sudden threat.

“I-I-” a kid gasped. His voice was thin, and young. He was still on his back, scattered snow and mud all around him. The young human’s curly brown hair hung around his face, covering his ears completely. He was ragged and boney. Stark blue eyes wide and rimmed with exhaustion. Barely a wisp of peach fuzz graced his chin and upper lip.

Bad’s posture relaxed slightly. The demon knew what he had to do. He grabbed the kid by the wrist and hauled him to his feet. Then the demon began to run again. “I’m Bad.” He said between breaths. “My name is Bad.”

The kid could barely keep up, stumbling over himself. Eventually he seemed to find his feet, and his breath. “Cellbit.”

They slowed down when they reached the outskirts of the swamp. Bad took his ax and felled a tree, while Cellbit gathered mushrooms. Both of them worked with ruthless efficiency— and Bad was calmed by the fact that at least this wasn’t the kids first game. Somewhat friendly people ran by, calling his name in recognition. But a few called Cellbit’s. Bad’s ear flattened against his head, ok, definitely not this kid’s first game. How old was he? The demon held his ax out to anyone who got too close, tail lashing. He made it clear, this kid was his team now.

“Stone swords?” Cellbit asked once they had a good supply of mushrooms and wood tucked into their backpacks. Bad nodded, and followed him to a cliffside. He quickly made himself a wooden pickaxe, and got just enough stone to craft a stone sword. He could hear Cellbit working next to him.

When he looked up, another player was in front of him, staring wildly at him over his crafting table. Flames licked their limbs, and they had glowing red eyes. They looked hungry. Bad stared back, gripping the handle of his new sword. “Cellbit?” He called.

“Yeah?” The kid called back.

“I’m going to kill this guy, I’ll be right back.” He lunged at the player, hearing a faint confirmation from Cellbit. His opponent desperately held up his wooden sword, parrying Bad’s first blow. But the demon was too fast for him, stabbing underneath his defense and sliding his sword clean into the other’s ribs. The player’s red eyes widened, and he sank to his knees, mouthing something that Bad couldn’t understand. The demon stepped back, his sword was yanked from the body with a slick noise. Blood fell on the grass.

As he walked back over to Cellbit something nagged at him, the way that player had stared— he hadn’t fought back. Maybe he knew him, maybe he knew of him. Dread sank in his stomach but he shook his head and turned to the kid.

“There’s a guy over there, in a ditch.” Cellbit said, eyes stony. He was clutching his new stone sword with one hand, and with the other he pointed. “Let’s go kill him.”

Bad’s breath stuck in his throat, but he nodded and the two crept over. The demon gave the go-ahead to the kid— time to see how he came this far in the games. Time to see what he could do.

The kid leaped over the side of the ditch, sword held low and out. “Die!” He screamed, stabbing it into his opponent's stomach. The player fell without a sound. Bad watched as Cellbit twisted the sword deeper and lunged forward to bite into the dead body’s throat. Blood sprayed across the kid’s cheeks and he tore up, stripping flesh from where the neck met the torso up to the jaw. Cellbit raised his head to meet Bad’s eyes, and the demon shivered. The hunger in them— stronger than he’d ever seen.

The kid did not break eye contact, as one hand left the sword’s handle, and shoved the hanging strip of gore into his mouth. Blood still fountained out of the hole in the body’s neck, bubbling and spilling into the mud. Bad looked away as Cellbit went for one more bite. This kid was muffined.

A few moments later Cellbit met him at the top of the ditch— with his sleeve the kid wiped dripping blood from his chin. Then he took his fingernail and picked at his teeth, all the while watching the demon in front of him. Bad had at least three feet’s height on the shrimp, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t intimidated.

“Well done.” Bad spat out. It wasn’t near the worst thing he’d seen here, but it was close. Still, time to put his mind back to the games. “Nice kill. Let’s go find a ravine.”

They found one a couple hundred meters away, Bad dropped down and killed the player hiding in it. The ravine was all theirs. Time to get some iron. Bad mined some of the more open veins, then set up a furnace. While he was stationary he brought out some of the mushrooms and began to make soup. Cellbit returned with more iron, and together they crouched in the corner and waited. Bad leaned against the stone walls and stared at the sky. Cellbit awkwardly checked and rechecked the furnaces.

“So how old are you kid, hm?” Bad asked in the quiet. “Don’t lie to me, I can smell when you do.”

“I don’t believe you.” Cellbit snorted. But he still answered the question truthfully. “I’m fifteen.” Now that he was talking more, Bad could hear an accent in his speech.

“You company?” Bad asked, tail flicking lazily.

“No, why? You company?” Cellbit grinned, showing his teeth.

Bad rolled his eyes. “Nope, just curious. Slavers then? You get snatched? Slavers are scum, but slavers who take kids are worse.”

Cellbit was quiet, staring into the coals of the furnace. “Worse than scum. Yeah.” He shifted to curl tighter up into himself.

Bad allowed himself to close his eyes for a second. A fifteen year old who was experienced in the games, kidnapped and entered into them by slavers. Muffins. He had to get Cellbit out of here. “And your curse? You really chose Cannibal, you know what that can do to a person? Why not Stomper? Something safer?”

“I didn’t choose.” Cellbit growled, baring his teeth again. “Shut up Thor.”

Bad thudded his head against the wall and laughed coldly. He was going to find these slavers and tear them to bits. “Do you wanna know why I’m here then?” He offered an apology.

“No.”

“Okay.” Bad stared up at the blue sky, watching for enemies. He turned to the furnaces to check on things, musing over calculations in his head. They’d probably have enough now. He made himself an iron sword and some armor.

“Guy up there!” Cellbit shouted quietly to him.

Bad’s head shot up. “Oh snap!” He held his sword up, spotting the guy crouching over the edge of the ravine. “Don’t come down here!” The demon called, showing his teeth and swinging his sword.

Cellbit quickly crafted himself iron gear and jumped up on top of the furnaces. “I’m full iron!” He cried defiantly— despite definitely not being full iron.

Bad’s eyes caught sight of the white ball in the player’s hands, but before he could call out Cellbit had already seen it. “Switcher!” The kid cried, backing up. Bad also retreated, staying out of sight under some rock. The two of them crouched down, waiting for the enemy to make a move.

Another player fell down, landing on some rock’s above them. They cried out as they took damage from the fall, still raising their sword. They were no match for Cellbit who lunged at them and sunk his sword into their stomach. The player’s dead body fell with a sickly sound at the bottom of the ravine.

Bad raised his head at the death message, realizing that over half of the players were now dead. No more permadeaths from now on. Deep down he breathed a sigh of relief. Up above them, another player ran away. Bad shook himself. “I forgot I was a Thor!” He laughed, raising his ax and sending lightning down to strike them. He missed.

Cellbit handed Bad an iron chestplate as he watched for more opponents, ax still raised to the sky. Lightning thrummed through him and he whooped. His hair stood on end, he felt unbeatable. “We’re going to dominate this game kid!” The demon grinned. Cellbit handed him iron pants and shook his head in disbelief.

Bad continued to send lightning towards anyone who got close to their ravine. Soon they were ready to leave. They both quickly ate some mushroom stew, then towered up quickly to the top.

The sun was setting, and they ran through the darkening swamp. Using their compasses, they looked for more people to kill. “Over here!” Cellbit called. “There’s one of the people that tried to get into the ravine earlier!” He ran off.

Bad followed, pulling out his sword in one hand, compass in the other.

“They are going to pay for that!” Cellbit cried darkly, letting out a fake evil laugh. Bad snickered. They lost sight of the player a few times, but eventually found him again, they got closer and closer.

Cellbit was right on their tail. “Come back here!” He snarled.

“I’ll cut him off!” Bad called as they turned. He dove around a pond and a tree, readying his sword as he closed in on their victim. The player turned towards him, a few seconds too late, as Bad slashed them across the chest. Cellbit got in a good hit on their shoulder, making them stagger away. Bad chased, slashing twice through their back. But the player was fast, and gained ground, getting out of the demon’s reach.

They lost sight of him going around a ravine, but they kept up the trail. Bad met up with Cellbit and the two of them ran hard, keeping the same breakneck pace. Eventually Bad had to stop, bending over with his hands on his knees. Curse these old lungs. He gasped. Shouldn’t have smoked so much in his early days. “You got this!” He called to the kid, who was still sprinting ahead of him. After a second’s rest Bad ran after them. The chase wasn’t over.

They burst out of the trees, and back onto the snowy plains. Bad caught sight of Cellbit once again. The kid was booking it across the flat space, closing in on their target. Bad grinned as he saw Cellbit work to curve the frantic player back towards him. They met soon enough, sandwiching them between the two. Bad swung and missed.

“How did you miss it!” The kid growled, running past him. Bad rolled his eyes and gave one last burst of speed. He got ahead of Cellbit, and with one swift brutal slash to the back of the neck, he severed the player’s spine. They fell face-first into the snow, head twisted unnaturally. Cellbit pounced on their backpack, looting it quickly.

“Nice one.” The kid panted, shoveling containers of mushroom stew into his own backpack. He sat back on his haunches, staining his pants red with bloody snow.

“You too, you too.” Bad hunched over again, breathing deep. “C’mon let’s go.” He hauled Cellbit to his feet, the two of them took up a steady jog once again.

They found the next player on the edge of a ravine, Cellbit got the first few hits with his sword. Then they were chasing again. The player tried to double back after crossing another ravine, getting a good hit on Bad. The demon fell back.

Cellbit growled and body slammed the enemy into the deep hole. The kid leaned over the side. “They survived!” Bad joined him at the edge and peered down. A moment later they saw the player’s death message. Bad met Cellbit’s eyes, and then they both turned back to the ravine.

“Must be a team down there.” Bad grit his teeth. He saw movement, at least two people.

“There’s water over here!” Cellbit called from one end of the ravine. “C’mon!”

“Cannonball!” Bad jumped down first before the hotheaded kid could, landing perfectly in the small cave pool. Cellbit landed behind him. Both of them were soaked up to their knees now. They advanced. The remains of a mineshaft lined the sides of the ravine, cobwebs and oak plank supports. They scrambled over collapsed rocks.

“They’re dying to the spiders!” Cellbit laughed, jumping over the last pile of stone and leaping towards the players.

Bad caught sight of one of them running for cover, a giant cave spider right on their tail. When the two of them caught up, the players had squeezed themselves into a hole and sealed it off with cobblestone.

“Look at them!” Cellbit cackled. “They buried themselves with the spider!” The kid was loose and happy, seemingly in his element. He swung his sword lazily in arcs.

“That’s- yeah that’s not a good idea.” Bad laughed, bringing out his pickaxe and smoothly tearing into the rock. Cellbit joined him.

“Careful Cell-” Bad called. Suddenly the players spilled out of their hiding spot, getting two good solid hits on the kids shoulder and chest. Bad stepped back and was caught off guard as two thick fangs sunk into his calf. “Go away!” He growled, stabbing his sword straight into its skull. He turned back to see Cellbit holding his own against only one of the player’s. The other had retreated back into the hiding spot.

From the side he surprised the one attacking his kid by stabbing his sword deep into their ribs. Seeing their friend being double teamed, the other sprung back out and both focused on Cellbit.

“Die!” Bad snarled, slashing at both of them from behind them as Cellbit was backed into the wall. Bad managed to sink his sword into the first player’s stomach, ripping it out brutally, almost cutting them in half. The body fell, glancing off of the demon on its way down. Bad felt gore slide down his iron chestplate.

“Help!” Cellbit cried, blood dripping down his face. The remaining enemy had him pinned against the stone, their blade plunged deep into his shoulder. His sword had been knocked from his hand, and was now a few meters away from his straining hand. The kid kicked at his enemy desperately.

Bad slammed into the player with his shoulder, throwing them off balance and allowing Cellbit to fall away and scramble for his sword on the stone floor. The demon snarled as the player turned to lunge at him. Bad twisted, letting the blade slash through his shirt and ribs. He spun and slashed his opponent across the chest. The player fell back and returned the hit.

Cellbit came in and slammed the flat of his sword against the back of their knee. They buckled and swung their blade around to meet Cellbit’s iron as the kid blocked. Rising back to two feet, the player pushed down, trying to overpower him. Bad stabbed them in the shoulder, making them twist as the demon drove the sword into an oak pole, pinning them there.

“Just die!” Cellbit finished them off by driving his sword through the middle of their throat. Bad met the player’s eyes as they went dim. Blood gushed out to fully coat Cellbit’s blade, spilling down the body’s chest and onto the dusty stone.

Cellbit staggered to the side, leaning heavily against the wall. “Holy shit, that was close.” He gasped, hand reaching up to the cuts on the side of his torso. He winced.

Bad yanked the sword out of the body’s neck. It slumped against him on its way down and he kicked it to the side with his knee. “Good fight kid.” He handed Cellbit his sword back. He wiped his own sword off on the body’s clothes. The demon stayed alert. “Stupid spiders.” He growled, keeping his eyes peeled for more. “Must be a spawner somewhere.”

Cellbit just nodded, exhausted. He started rooting through the backpacks, pulling out a few iron ingots and some sponge. “Must’ve been a Launcher.” He murmured.

“Oh! You wanna use those to get out of here?” Bad asked, scooping a few from his hand.

“Can we?” Cellbit asked, hesitant. “I thought it was just Launchers.”

“Yeah.” Bad nodded. “If you take them from a Launcher you can use them yourself.” He started placing them on the ground.

“Oh.” Cellbit watched him. The kid cried out as a spider leapt onto him and sunk its fangs into his upper arm. “Shit! Spider!”

Bad stabbed it through the abdomen, knocking it off of him. Cellbit staggered away, biting his lip to keep from crying. This was clearly getting to be too much for him. The demon reached out to pat the kid gently on the back. Then Bad kept stacking the sponges, and climbed up the rocks.

“Wish me luck.” He said, then jumped onto the top sponge. “If I die-” the demon shot upwards, flying over the top of the ravine and crashing to the ground up above. “Ouch.” He grumbled, sitting up and leaning over to see if Cellbit was coming.

“Ah! I hate spiders!” He heard the kid cry out— voice cracking— before he too was sent flying. Bad just stood back as Cellbit also crashed into the grassy mud. “That was cool.” The kid groaned, lifting himself off the ground. Bad laughed. Cellbit laughed back, near hysterical. They were both absolutely done with things.

They found a place to take shelter for the rest of the night and heal. Bad helped Cellbit dress his wounds, and taught him to use swamp lily for cave spider poison. Then the demon started a fire and cooked up some warm mushroom stew. Cellbit had set out his bed roll against a huge log, and was curled up against it. His thin blanket was draped over his shoulder and tucked under his chin. Bad wouldn’t be surprised if the kid fell asleep before dinner was ready.

Tomorrow was the Feast, when a big supply drop would happen. Whoever got this drop was almost sure to win, Bad was humming with tension,even though the drop was at least 7 hours out. He wasn’t sure of the exact time, as nobody carried clocks on them, but his idea would improve once the sun began to rise. The kid could sleep, Bad would keep watch. He didn’t need as much sleep.

The mushroom stew didn’t take long, Bad ladled a portion each into the two bowls he always carried with him. He crawled over to Cellbit’s still form, gently tapping his shoulder twice with the tip of his tail. The kid was awake after the first, a hand darting out— fast as a snake— to grab the tail tight in one fist.

Bad grimaced and smiled. “Just me.” He whispered. Cellbit let go. “Before you go to bed, eat some stew, drink some water. Please.” He handed the kid his bowl, and crawled back to his spot— on the other side of the fire.

Cellbit sat up slowly, no doubt his entire body was sore. He took his spoon from his pack and shoveled bite after bite into his mouth. They were all used to mushroom stew, the same two edible mushrooms that spawned in the swamps were always there, always quick to take and eat. But Cellbit’s eyes lit up at the taste of Bad’s stew. The demon knew how to make those knobby, nasty mushrooms taste somewhat decent. “Thank you.” The soft accented whisper was barely heard over the fire. But Bad appreciated it, and bobbed his head in acknowledgment.

After soup was eaten, and water drunk, Cellbit turned back over on his bedroll. The kid had one hand on his iron sword, which he held down by his side. His other arm made a makeshift pillow against his face.

Bad pretended like he didn’t watch as slowly, Cellbit allowed himself to let his guard down, and sleep. The demon wondered just how often the kid had slept during these games— if he’d ever slept on these fields. Bad certainly hadn’t, even in his many rounds. Only six-ish more hours until the sun rose, and they’d pack up, head out for the Feast. Bad leaned back against his tree, and kept his ears perked for movement. They’d set up camp in between the swamp and the snowy plain, tucked in a ditch with a log and a few small trees. There was cover for them, but not much beyond that, several dozen meters of empty ground were their best protection.

He was used to this— running scenarios through his head the night before a Feast. By his estimation there should be less than a fourth of the original number of players. If he was going on averages, the number was more like ten to fifteen. Bad squinted at the leaves over his head. Most people who survived this long probably had a teammate, at least one. So they could probably expect six to ten teams to also be after the Feast, maybe minus a few because of distance or reluctance. There were always a few people who just hunkered down and hid until the Pit. A shiver went up Bad’s spine, the amount of times he’d died in that Pit ran through his mind. Death after death after death, his hands scrabbling at the stone. The worst part was always knowing he was so close.

Bad let out a small scream as he felt teeth gouge into his upper arm. His other hand came up to press back against the forehead of Cellbit. The kid’s fangs were fully dug into his flesh and Bad winced as they tugged the wound wider. “Cellbit!” His eyes were fully narrowed into slits, shiny and hungry and violent. Bad shoved again, shaking his shoulder in another attempt to dislodge the grip. Blood shone on Cellbit’s chin as he only dug in deeper. “Cellbit stop! Please.” Bad hissed louder. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The kid did not let go.

Bad grit his teeth and with his free hand reached to where Cellbit’s jaw hinged. Pressing down with a firm thumb, he worked at the joint until the pressure caused pain. Cellbit yelped and his grip on the demon loosened. Bad slipped away, leaping over the fire and on top of the log. His tail was curled up over his back in a defensive position.

Cellbit stayed frozen, teeth snapping shut with a click. He opened his mouth again, and shut it again. Then repeated the action a few more times. His eyes were still, empty hungry slits. He turned his head to stare at the demon on the log.

Bad shook his head and sat back, gripping the bite mark and wiping the blood away. “Kid, it’s too late at night to do this please.” He swung his legs back and forth. “Wait until morning?” He spoke softly and calmly, not letting fear into his heart. As far as he knew it was the only way to calm the Cannibal Curse, to show it no fear, and hopefully no more blood.

Cellbit stayed still, only his chest moving up and down in slow, steady breaths. Bad crept down from the log, reaching into his backpack to retrieve some bandages. The kid’s eyes watched his every movement. Bad kept talking calmly to him, telling him about the ingredients in the stew, and where they were, and how very very chill he was right now. Yep, Bad was not creeped out by this at all. It definitely wasn’t disturbing to see a Cursed kid staring into his soul with the demon’s own blood staining his teeth. Bad cleaned the bite wound and wrapped bandages around his upper arm. When that was settled he sat down where he was, only a meter from the kid.

Cellbit was crouched in the dirt. His hair was wild, mussed from sleep. Somehow his eyes had gotten crazier than his normal. Bad stared back at him, blinking slowly. Seconds passed, then minutes, and finally after about half an hour Cellbit was settled and awake. The kid groggily stared at the fresh dressing on Bad’s arm. His hand slowly rose to his mouth, and he twisted his body to sit back down on his butt. With dirty hands he wiped the sticky dark red blood from his lips— again, again, again he wiped. He couldn’t get clean, and he was frantic for it. Frantic for the demon’s blood to never have been spilt by him.

Bad wilted with sympathy, and handed the kid his water bottle. “It’s ok, I’m not mad, you do what you have to Cellbit.” Bad scooted over to sit next to him.

The wild haired kid laughed. “Never had someone have that reaction to me trying to eat them.” He took a big swig of water and spat it out.

Bad smirked. “Never had someone try to eat me before. There’s a reason why people don’t choose the Cannibal Curse.”

Cellbit’s cracked smile morphed into a sour frown. “Yeah.” He murmured.

“Hey.” Bad flicked his tail. “Once you’re out of here, you’ll be free, okay?”

“Sure.” Cellbit growled.

“I mean it, you point me at em and I’ll rip those bastards to shreds. You’ll never have to see this place again.” Bad clenched the dirt beneath him in his clawed hands.

Cellbit leaned into his side, the kid’s head smashing against his heart. “I don’t know if I want to believe you.” He mumbled, then yawned.

The demon was stiff with shock. The kid— besides the time just now when he’d tried to eat him— had never even brushed up against him. Muffins, had he like, imprinted on him or something? He didn’t know how kids worked!

Bad patted Cellbit’s head awkwardly, cooing noises coming from somewhere deep within him. His fingertips brushed up against something hidden within the kid’s wild hair, two somethings actually. They were ears, two small, fluffy cat ears. Perched where Bad had expected human ears should be. The demon froze again, was this kid seriously also a cat hybrid? Bad looked up at the sky and cursed the universe for sending him the cutest little murder-muffin child ever. Cellbit fell asleep like that, and Bad could swear he started purring.

When the sun rose, Bad was deep in meditation. His legs had long since fallen asleep but he didn’t dare move and disturb the sleeping cat hybrid. But as the birds started chirping, Cellbit blinked himself awake. The kid sprang away from Bad, embarrassed. Smoothly— the demon just ignored him and stood up to stretch.

“Time to get going for the Feast.” Bad murmured, doing a quick survey of the fields around them. No players in sight, good. They were a good 1000 blocks out from where the drop would be, they needed to leave, now. Bad had his things packed up in a minute, and Cellbit was right behind him. The kid was oddly cheery given the circumstances, but Bad just accepted it. The games made everyone a little weird, even if that weirdness was being a morning person.

The two of them trekked towards the coords, alert for danger. Their compasses pointed to people ahead of them, at least a couple. Bad readied his sword and advanced— Cellbit was about three meters back and at 4 o’clock, flanking him. The players came into view, one dashing by and the other ahead, in full iron.

Bad signaled for them to focus the fully armored player first, they were the most dangerous. Cellbit nodded in agreement, and they crept up towards them. A lava pool sat to their right, and Bad circled around it, hoping to catch the player off-guard and knock him into it. Unfortunately they saw him. When the demon lunged, they met him with equal force, exchanging blow after blow. Cellbit came up behind both of them and body slammed the player into a nearby ditch. They scrambled to their feet and took off running. Bad and Cellbit took up the chase.

Horns sounded, nearly knocking Bad off balance. He stopped running. Cellbit skidded to a halt next to him. “The Feast!” The kid cried, spinning around. The two of them focused on a thin beacon in the near distance, announcing the location of the large supply drop.

“Let’s go! Go go go!” Bad shouted, sprinting off towards it. Cellbit whooped and followed. They dashed towards it, anxiety building the longer they were away from it. The horns meant that there was 40 seconds until it dropped, hopefully just enough time to get there— and kill anyone guarding it.

Cellbit passed by Bad, terror spurring him onward. “There’s a full iron!” He called back once he reached the lip of a large circle of cleared terrain. The ground below was pure stone, inorganically dug out just for the Feast. Cellbit paused, staring down at it.

“Let’s get them!” Bad cried, running straight up to him and leaping down without hesitating. The two attacked the full iron player viciously, Cellbit taking on the bulk of the attack. The kid swung his sword over and over again, clashing against his opponent's iron chestplate. Bad helped him at his flank, getting in a few good hits before he was hit from behind.

A wildcat dragged him off his feet, sinking its claws into his shoulders. Bad twisted and stabbed wildly at it. “A Chameleon!” He cried out a warning to Cellbit as the wildcat shifted back into a player and ran off towards the middle of the circle. Bad ran after it, running directly into Cellbit’s fight. He took his chance and cut through the full iron player— wedging his sword in the slot by his armpit, shoving up and through the important artery there. Blood spurted around the iron blade as Bad uncaringly dragged it back out and the body collapsed.

In just a split second Bad glanced up at the tower above them— made of spindly oak planks. Muffins, a player tower. He brought up his ax, calling a warning to Cellbit. Thunder shook his heart as he called down lightning— directly to the top of the tower. The wood was burnt almost immediately to a crisp, showering debris down on the both of them.

Another lightning strike landed just a meter from him— and suddenly the Feast was here. A player jumped down and landed brokenly on one of the chests— desperate for anything. Cellbit dispatched him swiftly with a calculated slash to the throat. “He’s dead!” The kid called, giddy.

Bad opened the closest chest to him and snatched the diamond sword within. As he was scavenging Cellbit called out warning him. Bad turned around to see another desperate player attempting to open another chest, Cellbit chased him off with a couple of well placed hits. It was a mad frenzy. As Bad took a second to watch, he saw another player run up out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh no you don’t!” Bad yelled, lunging and slamming the butt of his new diamond sword into the side of their helmetless head. The body crumpled immediately. Bad stepped over it to run and help Cellbit with one of his fights. But the kid had his teeth sunk in— and the player dead— by the time Bad arrived. They turned back without a word to the Feast.

Quickly they looted. Like deer, looking up every other second. Bad slipped on some diamond boots and gathered precious health potions into his backpack. The demon grinned as Cellbit slipped on a diamond chestplate.

“I need boots!” The kid called and Bad spun, looking over the dead bodies around them.

“That guy has boots.” He said, gesturing to the full iron player he had finished off earlier.

“Look out,” Cellbit warned, rushing over to yank the boots off of the dead player. “There’s a guy up there.”

Bad looked up and sure enough, on the lip of the circle was yet another player. This one waited, and watched. Bad switched between watching them, and the other player, who’d slowly been towering above them still. The demon shifted on his feet, anxiously holding his ax. With a cry he called lightning to hit the tower once more— another miss, more burnt wood and splinters.

Cellbit and Bad stood back to back, ready, waiting. The demon aligned himself with the tower, and called down yet another strike. His teeth tasted weird in the back of his mouth, and he could see faint spots in his eyesight. But Bad felt on top of the world. “Die!” He cried, sending another, then another, until the tower exploded violently.

“Woah!” Cellbit shouted from behind him, the kid turned to stare.

Somehow the player was still alive. Not for long, if Bad and his undefeatable lightning had anything to say about it. The demon waited, aligning himself perfectly this time. “Die die die!” He laughed, lightning struck once more, and the player’s body slammed to the ground.

“Nice one!” Cellbit called. Bad turned back to the Feast, ready for more.

“Let’s clear these out.” Bad instructed, digging into the chests. Cellbit lay his chestplate on the enchantment table in the middle. Mere seconds passed.

“Watch out! Behind us!” Bad jumped over the chests and sprinted towards a player who was headed their way. He hit them once, a slash deep in the shoulder, and they turned away. Bad returned to Cellbit, not wanting to lose anything good in the Feast.

They stayed like that for a bit more, anxiously scaring off other players. They were gathering like hungry ravens around a kill, eyes dark. Bad and Cellbit burned any remaining items, and exploded the chests, before heading out once again. On their way they added yet another player kill to their list. Bad had lost count at this point.

The sun had risen on a cloudy day in the snowy plains. Their breath turned to wisps of fog, and the wind nipped at their faces. Distantly small songbirds sang in the bushes, but nearby it was silent, scared. Bad pulled out his compass, looking for their next targets. They headed towards the swamp once more.

But the demon’s compass pointed down, deep down. So they dug down as carefully as they could, passing by a spider spawner on their way. It was good for gaining levels, so they camped it and each enchanted their swords.

Eventually they were met with an underground ravine, and spotted the player they had been searching for. Bad pulled out his tnt and raised an eyebrow to Cellbit. Cellbit stared back at him and then nodded once. The demon snickered, and placed it right above the player's head. He was lost in it now, as Thor Curse’s said, he was lightning sick. Bad lit the tnt with his flint and steel and backed up. The first missed, so he placed another, then another. And finally, their enemy was dead.

Embarrassingly, on their way out— they got lost. The cave tunnels were winding and dark, with random torches placed by the player they had just killed. The two bickered and complained. It was a whole hour before they were finally out again. Rain was falling lightly on the swamp grass, but dark clouds and rumbles on the horizon forecasted a big storm.

They searched for loners in the swamp, using their compasses and hefting their backpacks over their heads to keep dry. Cellbit’s ears kept flickering in annoyance at the wetness. Bad had such an urge to tease him about it— but something told him he’d be bitten again for that.

A lone player they found was trying to hide in a small hole. Cellbit quickly finished them off out of sight of Bad. When the kid emerged he was wiping bits of flesh from the corners of his mouth. Bad’s tail danced in the rain, he didn’t care anymore— whatever it took to win. It was raining steadily now, and rolls of thunder made their ears ring. Lightning lit up the fields in the distance— the sun had set.

They went after a team of two next, these players had also chosen to stay underground. Bad was cautious, ready for traps. He knew of at least a few that meant death for them, almost instant death.

Cellbit found the players first, driving one of them— unarmored and defenseless right into Bad’s waiting sword. The demon cut them almost in half, sword sinking up through their ribs and lodging into their spine. Bad hissed as he drew his blade out— and wiped it on the body’s clothes.

Next, the teammate. Bad found them first this time, as they quite literally ran into each other. Bad sprung back as they placed lava in between them. The demon sidestepped and stabbed at his enemy. He quickly disoriented them and spun smoothly to strike them from behind, killing them instantly with a blade through the back of the neck.

Bad checked, four players left, two enemies. They could do this, they could actually win. Bad would let the kid take the win, and then they could both go kill his slavers together. The demon almost skipped at the fantasy.

They went back up to the surface, compasses out and ran across the snowy plains hunting for the last two people. Eventually they came across a tower, and Cellbit groaned as the compasses pointed down once more.

“You gotta be kidding me.” The kid moaned, throwing his head up.

“Underground again.” Bad rolled his eyes, crouching down to pinpoint the location. The demon offered to dig down, and in a one by two hole, started his descent. Dirt turned to stone. Cellbit followed him down with a water bucket, and soon they were right on top of their enemy. Bad frantically mined through stone, teeth bared, ready for a fight. Cellbit broke through the rock first, jumping down to brutally stab through the poor player’s iron chestplate. Bad only heard a choked scream, and they were dead.

Bad sighed, and backed up. The kid emerged smiling wide. “Good fight.” The demon murmured. Cellbit shrugged and started towering back up. Bad followed. One more person left.

Their compasses pointed right at them, off in the distance. They were on the hunt again. Red poppies stood tall out of snow covered grass. Scattered footprints scuffed the white powder, spraying it every which way. Bad and Cellbit thundered past.

Bad looked down at his compass, swerving side to side to check if they were close. The needle barely moved, they were. The demon slowed down next to a pond, circling it. Cellbit was opposite him, also examining his compass closely.

“Another one underground.” Bad growled— pocketing his tool. His tail lashed with frustration.

Cellbit looked up at him, a quip forming on his lips. He disappeared. Just like that.

“Cellbit!” Bad yelled. Muffins, this wasn’t good. That meant only one thing— this player was an Endermage. The demon dug his pickaxe desperately into the earth, nearing the fight, not hearing anything besides his own desperate breaths. His kid was going to die if he couldn’t get there in time. He tore at the stone, lightning sparking in his eyes and mouth. He could smell the ozone— like burning plastic.

Bad’s heart sank as Cellbit’s death message popped up. The demon screamed out in rage and dug even faster. Panic shot through him, he could be next, at any minute. There was a cool down— and five seconds of invincibility immediately afterwards— but it was still putting his life in his enemies hands. A horrible tugging feeling in his gut was the only warning he had before the demon was pulled through space.

Then he was falling. One. Solidly hitting lava, screaming as he expected to burn. Two. Bad wasn’t burning, wasn’t dying. Three. Get up, get up, get up. Four. The demon screamed again, dragging himself out and onto nearby cobblestone. Five.

The heat from the cobblestone hit him suddenly as the invincibility wore off. He was down in a ravine— lava pool right next to him, enemy above him. Bad crouched, backing up until he was hidden from sight by a large stone overhang. Good, the Endermage shouldn’t know where he was. His breaths came heavy as the heat sucked the oxygen from the air. Bad set his backpack down carefully— and withdrew his bow and quiver. He slung his quiver onto his back and then the pack after it. Carefully, the demon nocked an arrow, and swung up and around to where he’d last seen the player. He aimed, and fired. Bad didn’t know if he’d missed or not, but he nocked another arrow and waited three seconds. No retaliation. He popped his head out again, and shot once more. The player had built up a wall, blocking Bad’s arrows.

“Muffins.” The demon cursed under his breath. There was no other option besides chasing after them. Bad started towering up, building a wall at his back first so he couldn’t be knocked off. When he was level with where he’d last seen his opponent he looked over, a similar— but taller— walled tower had been built. Bad rolled his eyes. Now what.

The demon scooted over to it, sliding along a precarious ledge in the wall of the ravine. Grasping a handhold he leaned forward and placed two tnt, hoping one would launch the other towards the tower. Bad lit it and scrambled back to his tower. When he looked back— the top of the tower, and the player, were gone. He flicked his flint and steel desperately needing light, and spotted them just as they whipped around the corner on a ledge across from his.

Bad growled and bridged over the ravine as fast as he could. The demon crept quietly along the wall, sword drawn. He fought off a skeleton that blindsided him— but once he was done with that, the player had disappeared. The compass pointed down into the ground once again. Bad wavered, unsure of what to do. The player could have laid down traps, they could still Endermage him. And the Pit was coming up soon— when they’d be teleported instantly into a deep deep hole to fight to the death.

Bad decided to follow the player down, parallel to their deep tunnel. He dug and dug, getting closer and closer. The compass in his hand was shivering madly. Bad could practically smell the blood already. He needed to get his revenge for Cellbit, needed to sink his teeth into the flesh of this player.

That same tugging feeling was back, swooping his stomach out from under him. For a second he thought he’d been Endermage-d again. But when he blinked his eyes open and staggered on his feet— he could see the tall walls of the Pit surrounding him. Bad lashed his tail and spun around, ready to face his enemy. He twirled his sword once, gripped the handle tight, and raced over to where the player was desperately towering up the side.

In a flash of brilliant thought, the demon whipped out his only enderpearl. Bad tossed it smoothly a few blocks above the player’s head— then he held his breath. Bad sprang into re-existence right on top of them, wrapping his legs around their neck, he leaned back into the wall and pushed. The player toppled off of the tower and the demon spun midair to catch himself on the lip of the tower. Bracing himself with his feet against the stone wall— he looked down at his enemy.

The player had staggered to their feet and taken a few steps— desperately trying to distance themself. Bad shook his head, grinning— and leapt off to land smoothly in front of them. He advanced, sword out. “Bring it buddy.” The demon slid his tongue over his sharp teeth and tensed. With brutal force and no time for his opponent to react— Bad stabbed his diamond sword through their neck and up into their skull. The thrust carved through flesh, cartilage and bone— settling the blade solidly into the body. Bad swung the sword to the side and sent it crashing to the stone floor. That was honestly a little underwhelming.

He kicked dust at the body— before turning and looking up at the sky. Bad felt the familiar instant drain— as the lightning left his blood and exhaustion swamped him. He always hated the silence right afterwards, how it made his skin crawl and jaw ache. Soon, he would be teleported back to the Game Hall, and paraded around in front of businessmen and server owners. The demon tapped one clawed finger against his palm— anxious, tired, and sick.

He was looking forward to finding Cellbit. No doubt the slavers would be bragging about their prized third place catch. Bad would find them— Bad would probably meet them, shake hands with them and memorize their faces, as Cellbit was trapped somewhere, still wounded. Bad had talked to slaver’s catches before— those types of organizations had special arrangements to teleport their players right back to their cages.

The demon stretched with his arms over his head, and yawned. The Game was over— but another one was beginning. Bad lunged to one side, then the other, working cramps out of his legs. His tail twitched. The pull returned one more time, sinking into his gut harshly and tugging him through space. Time to go rescue his kid.

#qsmp #qsmp fanfiction #badboyhalo #cellbit #q!bbh #q!cellbit #mushroom art spores

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f4ye-4 · 25 days

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if it’s okay with you, high school nanami with reader who would punch herself if she was upset HOW WOULD BRO REACT

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐟𝐭. 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧!𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢

loool look at this emo mf

light angst/fluff ending • drabble • gn/fem!reader

Teen!Nanami Kento can be seen as someone who’s broody and indifferent to people’s feelings but he really cares about his loved ones.

So, when you’re feeling down about something that happened, serious enough to catch you sobbing in a classroom ,in a edginess state, his heart stops.

wretched tears ricocheted the walls of the classroom, you were alone, no one around, arms crossed over your snuggled knees, hugging them firmly.

it was lunch break and as soon as the crowd of students rushed out to eat, you fled. it was too much, a plethora of bad feelings were swamping you recently, and you couldn’t handle it no more.

your eyes are sore, from all those precious crystal pearls that Nanami used to wipe off whenever you were down for any reason and you wished he was there. but now, it was just you and yourself, your heart throbbing in discomfort, threatening to crump in your ribs.

dangling from side to side, your head started to feel hefty, a headache getting up to your nerves. it was getting harder and harder to keep up with reality, meanwhile your head just slipped off abruptly, causing you to hit violently the bare wood of the desk leg.

you blink your eyes, eyelids half-closed in strain. a realization hit you. the pain you've rode out up to now is nothing compared to what you've just felt. it’s not bad if you finish what’s already started right ?

tears were now muffled, replaced by loud and ceaseless metal sounds. it sounded foolish -yet insane because there was nothing good to outcome from this. but now you couldn’t care less.

what you didn’t know, was that the thwacking of your head was now resounding all along the school corridor, within the reach of anyone who’s willing to hear. Of which nanami.

the teenage boy just passed by classrooms, wandering here and there, waiting for the lunch break to end. he perked an eyebrow at the unknown sounds, heading to their source. warily opening the door, he didn’t expected to see you, kneeled on the floorboard, in a bad predicament.

he rushed over you in worry, gently grabbing your shoulders to squeeze you lightly, uttering sweet words to you, hoping to get you out of your trance.

recovering your spirits, you just leant in his touch, his arms offering you a warm embrace to rest in.

-alright y/n, let’s get back home mh? it has been a tough day for you. we’ll talk about this later okay? whispering to your ears and stroking your hair, soothed, your heartbeat slowed down, while he helped you to get up.

-don’t do that again, i’m here, everything is safe. Nanami said quietly before leaving a little peck on your cheek.

i loved this request because i knew nanamin would be so gentle 😞😞 it was so endearing to write

╰┈➤back2blog • back2mlist

#faye’s stuff #𓇼due to be edited #faye’s requests #nanami x reader #jjk angst #jjk x reader

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no-saints-around-here · 2 years

Text

Wedding Dress

Yandere Boyfriend Izana

Masterlist

‎‎

A/N: nothing as wild as the other fic in this! its super late now so i'll edit this when I wake up :)

‎

tw: explicit smut scene, stealthing/dubcon, mild emotional manipulation, breeding kink, exhibitionism, painful penetration, mentions of forced pregnancy, dead dove do not eat

“Try it on for me?” It was hard to ignore your boyfriend’s whining despite your very real need to actually concentrate on the assignment in front of you, but you knew that all it would take was one glimpse of those large violet eyes accompanied by that small pout and it would be nigh impossible for you to refuse Izana. Yet at the same time, there wasn’t any doubt in your mind about what your boyfriend was playing at, and you did truly understand. Busy was a generous understatement for the amount of work you had been swamped under by anxious teachers for the past few weeks leading up to your finals, and you hadn’t had the time to entertain a very needy Izana between all the assessments you’ve been churning through day after day.

And it seems his patience had reached the end of its fuse, judging from the increasing volume of grumbling coming from just out of your sight. You supposed it wouldn’t hurt to spare him a few minutes of your time - it was the least you could do.

There was no stopping the chuckle that broke free from your lips at the sight of the tanned boy holding up what seemed like a gown straight out of those magazines you loved to browse, the gorgeous white embroidered fabric almost seeming to shimmer in the harsh afternoon light pouring in through your wide windows. “A wedding dress, Izzy? We’re a bit young, don’t you think?”

You knew you shouldn’t have given him anything more than a courteous glance and a sweet smile, let alone asked about it, if you had wanted to get on with your work; Izana all but pounced on the opportunity to finally steal your attention away from those wretched papers, thrusting the dress eagerly at you. And you swore that you saw the sparkles going off behind those usually empty eyes as he waited expectantly for you. To try on the dress? To move? It was definitely the former you mused, seeing Izana absolutely wasn’t having it when you moved to lay the dress ever so gingerly across your bed before attempting to return your attention to your books, your boyfriend dramatically throwing himself into your arms. “Put it on,” he demanded, his much larger self draped across your lap like a heavy blanket and completely obstructing your view of your papers, fists clutching at your skirt.

Letting a fond sigh slip, you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I’ll try it on later, okay Izzy?” You placated, attempting to shift your figure round his as best you could while balancing his mass pressing down on and pinning your legs to your chair. Ignoring Izana’s wishes wasn’t something you did very often, if ever; you didn’t like to see him upset, but you were so close. You just really needed this last good grade on your finals to make your dream school, and this was your last chance to boost your grades to that level.

“No!” The boy insisted again, burying his face into your thighs. “Try it now.”

“Come on Izzy, I’m busy.”

Unfortunately, that failed to work as well, seeming to instead prod the delinquent into action. In a blink of an eye, Izana had already snatched up the pile of papers right before your fingers could close around them, leaping to his feet in the next heartbeat with a triumphant cry of ‘Got it!’. Which left you almost tumbling off your seat from the sudden absence of weight holding you in place, the sudden breeze that rushed through open windows carrying with it your surprised shout. You did fortunately manage to catch yourself, though with the onslaught of dizziness from standing so quickly, you did almost make friends with the floor again. “Give those back!” Despite knowing you were never getting your priceless worksheets back, you still nonetheless tried your best, reaching up on your tiptoes as far as you could, pushed up against the other’s lean for the best leverage. Yet from where Izana was dangling his prize from, well over his head and at a height you have never even dreamt of seeing, it was a lost cause.

“I want you to try the dress! Now!”

This again. “Don’t you have anything else to do, Izzy?” You sighed out, rubbing the palms of your hands into weary eyes as you dropped back down onto the balls of your feet. “What’s Kakucho doing?”

You had thought you caught a glimpse of that signature buzzcut and scarred eye earlier from just behind the door to your room when Izana had first wandered in uninvited. Okay, uninvited was way too harsh a term since you did tell your boyfriend he was always welcomed to come round. But Kakucho was usually hot on the heels of his best friend, and it was strange to not see the other around.

“Don’t know, don’t care. He’s not my minder.” He grumbled, poking lightly at your side with his free hand. “Put it on.”

Looks like you weren’t getting an answer, and Izzy wasn’t going to drop this.

‎

Throwing up your hands with a resigned groaned, Izana knew he had you. Those wide eyes followed your delicate figure as you finally, finally turned to shuffle the few steps to your bed, all the while grumbling under your breath about how lucky he was that he was cute. See? This would have been so much easier if you had just listened to him from the start - he already knew how irresistible he was after all. You could never say no to these dashing looks. But when you turned to leave, your arms lost in the flowing sea of white cloth bundled up ever so neatly, it was one tanned arm thrown up that stopped you. “Wait, where’re you going?”

You turned to throw a confused look at him, the tilt of your head and furrowed eyebrows sending blood rushing south from his head. Too cute. “To the bathroom? To change?”

“Change here.”

You spluttered at his bold claim, your lips moving yet failing to voice anything coherent as the boy watched gears attempting to turn in your head through those adorable doe eyes. One hand shot up to point at those wide open windows, the same ones Izana was fond of climbing through in the middle of the night. “Everyone can see?!” You squeaked, your voice rising an octave in indignation.

“They won’t,” He replied confidently. “Just change here.”

They would, in fact - Izana knew very well the exact distance at which one could start getting glimpses into your room (having sent Kakucho to test it out and report back of course), and there was no doubt in his mind that you would be putting an unintentional show for some jealous eyes below. Though this train of thoughts would go, and remain, unsaid as you let out yet another sigh, one more of already countless today. Glancing up at the clock, as if you knew he was never going to let this end if you kept trying to argue, you seemed to have come to a decision, carefully replacing the gown on your bed. “Turn around. Don’t look,” You warned.

Turning to face away from him, you concentrated on stripping off your shirt, followed quickly by your skirt, which you simply unbuckled and allowed to drop free; Izana against your explicit instructions watched with almost bated breath as more and more of your skin was revealed to his hungry eyes until he could no longer resist. A sudden warm touch to your waist - his warm touch - and you screamed, flowed by a harsh rustle of leaves as a flock of birds fled the nearby tree. Your sweet, innocent face instantly flaring red as his came to rest on your shoulder, Izana was more amused at you slapping one hand over his eyes, the other flying to cover the back of your kitten-printed panties. “Izzy!! I said don’t look!”

“You’ll need help with the dress.” Hot breath tickled the shell of your ear as your boyfriend reached up to tug away your hand, the other wandering hand brushed a burning trail over your skin, a journey that ended with him lightly tugging at the band of your underwear. “Besides, nothing I haven’t seen before.”

‎

There was a pause as you processed his words, a rare moment of peace that allowed the sounds of life from the outside floated into your usually quiet room. “Help me already,” you settled on muttering, your cheeks somehow only flushing even harder as you lifted the gown up and across your body, gaze fixed instead on a spot on the ground as he took his time zipping and buckling the various fasteners. Heaven only knows why you were still with this insufferable man, though the cheeky grin he flashed at you that made your heart skip a beat said otherwise.

Yet when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, the first look you had of yourself clad in white, all your previous problems, the world, it all seemed to fade away, your eyes fixed on the image reflected at you. Was that.. you? “I-is this tailor made Izzy?” Gaping at the form-hugging dress that fitted you like a glove, you could only stare jaw-dropped at yourself as you slowly spun, breath stuck in your throat - the beauty in the flowing, glittering gown looking nothing like you. Nothing like you ever thought you could look like. You whirled to face the smug tanned boy. “How much did this cost?”

But there was, of course, no answer for your question, though his lack of words didn’t stop your boyfriend from mentally running the numbers - he always did wonder what you would think if you knew of the pools of spilt blood and broken bones that paid for every inch of that dress, the number of lives brought to absolute ruin directly or indirectly in his bid to raise the funds. Though this was nothing Izana wanted you to worry or even think about - every drop was well worth paying for the awe that shone in your doe eyes, and if operating in the shadows away from where your gaze fell, then so be it. Turning his focus back to you, your boyfriend allowed his gaze to wander.

The wedding dress was nothing short of a masterpiece, the fabric soft and luxurious against your skin, yet covered with a delicate threaded pattern that was visible only when tilted at a certain angle in the light. Light and flowy, yet at the same time just heavy enough in all the right places to accentuate your curves, you looked especially divine to him this fine afternoon. The white almost as if a halo around your form, the brightness of the fabric glimmering under the afternoon sun was a sharp contrast from his own tanned skin as he bundled the soft cloths into his arms.

Your outfit, though helping to emphasize that touched-by-heaven feel to your presence, wasn’t yet perfect - there was something still missing to complete the outfit.

You only had time to let out an eep when Izana casually reached under your dress to yank down your panties, your face once more lighting on fire as your underwear was allowed to fall freely down your legs, pooling at your feet. “IZANA! STOP THAT!”

But the other was barely bothered by your (honestly, very light) smacks to his arm as he swatted away your hand, gently pushing you backwards to force you to step out and away from the embarrassing piece of cloth. “You can’t wear these with a wedding dress.” Or rather, he wouldn’t let you wear this with your dress.

Ah, you were always so shy about your panties, Izana mused, as you spun around to hide your blushing face from him. He didn’t quite understand why, but it made for very cute reactions that he couldn’t complain about, plus served as a good distraction, the tanned boy quickly swiping and tucking your underwear into his pocket. Certainly you wouldn’t miss them if he borrowed these for a bit - Kakucho would be sure to appreciate the little token for all his hard work. “DON’T LOOK AT THEM!”

Fishing out the plain white pair he had kept in his other pocket, this one was a world away from your usual preference of underwear, a ring of delicate lace carefully stitched to line the band of the lingerie and meeting at the front with a small pink bow. “Here, wear these.”

You couldn’t meet his gaze as Izana pulled your new pair up your legs, both hands still shyly covering as much of your burning face as you could, only finally dropping your hands to bunch a fistful of fabric when he gave your behind a playful smack. “There. All done.” Of course he already came in those and only half-heartedly washed off what he could be bothered to to make them look new at a glance. But again, not that you needed to know, though the faintest whisper reminding Izana of having the desecretated cloth pressed firmly against your crotch only served to make him unbearably hard.

“I hate you so much, Kurokawa Izana.” You muttered under your breath, letting out a huff. You didn’t mean that in the slightest. The chime of a distant bell did break the silent spell that had fallen over the quiet surroundings, shaking you back to the reality of your waiting homework. “If we’re done here, I’ll change out and get back to work, okay?”

Silence was all you received back, and you took that as a yes from him, hands reaching for the zip on the back of the dress. It took but a heartbeat for you to go from standing in front of the mirror to finding yourself now sprawled flat on your bed, pinned under an Izana staring down at you unblinkingly, violet eyes flushed wide open. “Iz-mmm!”

‎

A pair of hungry lips crashing against yours swallowed anything you had to say, the white-haired boy locked in a desperate kiss with you almost as if he was trying to eat you alive, as if he couldn’t breathe without you; sucking and nibbling and tangling hard enough to leave your soft lips bruised. And all the while, one hand fumbled the button of his pants open, the bright afternoon sunlight accompanied by passing voices flooding into your room doing nothing to discourage him from eagerly yanking the band of his own underwear down far enough to allow his rock hard dick to spring free from its tight confines.

Was it his long dry spell caused by your wretched teachers? Was it the glow of the wedding dress? Or was it the delicate white lace panties that tipped him over the edge? Whatever was the last straw, Izana couldn’t quite say, but seeing you prone beneath him only drove him wilder. He needed you now, more than ever. You would understand, like you always did.

Finally releasing you from his vicious, animalistic kiss, allowing you to gasp and heave and breathe, there was no rest for the weary, your boyfriend instantly moving to push the mass of layers that made up your wedding down up and out of the way to reveal the same lace panties he had helped you into just minutes ago. “Izzy?!”

But you were forced back down onto the bed before you could pull yourself up, Izana once more atop you. Yet even without a single word exchanged, you knew what he wanted. Cock pressed hard against the thin cloth that still clung to your privates, he let out a low groan that sent a shiver down your spine, empty eyes now filled with a rare burning lust snapping down to meet yours. As the boy leaned over you, you braced yourself, but the next kiss he pressed to your lips were nowhere like those brutal ones. They were the same ones you remember, the same ones you fell in love with - soft, gentle, fragile. Exposed.

“May I?” He breathed, hot air blowing over your skin, tanned hand slipping underneath the dress to lightly drag long, elegant fingers over your covered clit, the pressure on the thin cloth of your panties only increasing as he ground himself harder against you, the feeling of the crotch of your underwear wetting with your own fluids only sealing his own conviction. You wanted him, as much as he wanted you. You need him like he needs you.

Still, you hesitated. “Izzy, I-”

Izana cut you off. “Please baby, I’m so hard.” He whimpered, burying his face into your chest, taking a deep breath of your addictive scent. “It hurts.”

And that was all it took for you to cave- he knew you would never be able to live with the mere idea of allowing Izana to suffer. Reaching up to tangle your fingers into his silky white locks, you tugged him up for another kiss, giving him your blessing. Go ahead.

Wasting no time, his fingers swept aside the offending cloth and in one smooth motion, Izana harshly forced the tip of his dick past your tight entrance, before slamming his entire length into you, his lips instantly moving to press firmly against yours and muffle the scream that bubbled up and threatened to spill from you. Your delicate fingers curled in his hair tightened to yank at his roots - no doubt you were struggling with suddenly being stretched too big, too fast after so long, the fat, hot tears welling and falling freely from your eyes burning a shared trail down both of your skins. Your toes curling into themselves as tight as they would go, your nail digging into his skin.

Yet in the moment, all he could think was the warmth of your fluttering walls that hugged his sheath as they tried to adjust and accommodate his girth, the tightness of you around him threatening to milk him for all he’s worth. And it was spectacular - this was what he had been missing all this time?

“That hurt, Izzy!” You sobbed out when he finally let up on your lips, choking on those few simple words, one trembling hand moving to wipe at the stinging tears while the other reaching down to gingerly touch at your spread cunt. “It hurts.”

“Shhhh, I’m sorry, I'm sorry.” Peppering your forehead with light kisses, Izana held still between your plush thighs, carefully massaging your abdomen as you whimpered into his chest, his free hand lifting the swelling tears from your eyes and gently tucking stray strands of hair away behind your ears. Because he meant it - as much as you cared for him, he did truly care for you - forcing himself to stay still was hell when all he wanted to do was pound you into the bed, but it was the least he could do to allow you to adjust to him. If you asked him to stop now, Izana no doubt would comply, though it was no secret you would never. You were always so good to him.

And when the spazzing of your muscles finally subsided and you tiredly nodded, the boy made sure to adjust you into a more comfortable position, nudging pillows under your back for support and allowing you to wrap your arms around him before he started at a more reasonable pace. Pulling out halfway before guiding himself back in, the discomfort, no matter how comparatively slight, was still present, your forehead wrinkling slightly with your wince.

But with each thrust of his hips, watching your face morph from pain to pleasure was like nothing else in the world. Izana knew your body better than the back of his own hand, and with his masterful, learned precision in hitting that pleasure spot that made the stars sparkle in your eyes, teasing out that blissful expression of yours he loved so much with every slap of his skin against yours - no other experience came even close.

“I-izzy-“ It was vulgar almost, the sound of your pants and whines of his name mingling with the squelch of his dick rutting into you, your tears now nothing but a distant memory as Izana quickly picked up the pace. The sweet honey that leaked from your drenched pussy coating his dick now spluttering and dripping and staining the once pure white panties and gown you still wore along with his pants, yet the sight only made Izana go even faster.

Tugging down the top of your dress to expose your breasts, your gasp was like an angel’s breath as he took one into his mouth, that oh so sinful tongue swirling at your nipple as he sucked and nibbled. “Iz-i— too much!”

He had always wondered what your breasts would look like fully developed - would they look like those actresses in the magazines with their big heaving chest, or would they remain small and cute like yours do currently? But he didn’t care either way, Izana supposed, changing to attack your other breast, one deviant hand wandering down and under your dress to lightly rub at your clit as you whimpered and tried to break free from the excessive stimulation.

Those lacy white panties, once so carefully handled from person to person, had long been ruined, now laying torn between your spread legs, a victim of Izana’s frustration - despite him reminding himself to keep the priceless piece intact, the friction it created continuously rubbing against his length had been too much to bear. And you were too lost in your own haze of pleasure, eyes having long glazed over. Words evading your mind, you only managed to stammer out the first half of his name as your boyfriend continued to push himself again and again into you, fingers grasping at soft, plush thighs: another of his favorites. You really were perfect for him.

“F-f-fuck!” He panted over you, pressing his lips again and again to yours, the obscene of skin slapping against skin only growing louder with every thrust, the world around the two of you all but drowned out. “F-feel so good baby girl.”

‎‎You were made for him. You were all his - you had never taken another, and you never will. No one else could have you like he did, could see you like he did. Your nails raked into his back like claws, doe eyes flying open as your body shook around him. No one. “F- Iz— I-”

“Shi-it, fu- I’m I-!” One last thrust and sinking himself as deep as he could, Izana came straight into you, hot cum spilling into the deepest parts of you, right before he collapsed into your bed next to you, letting out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Fuck.

Allowing himself just a few minutes of rest, the cry of a crow from outside your window suddenly snapped the white-haired boy back into reality, and his mind went straight to a single thought - did his expected audience enjoy the show? Did he care if they did?

Forcing himself up from where he was huddled up against you, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, you didn’t even twitch when Izana pressed your folds open to watch his cum slowly drip from your gasping hole, right before he gently lifted the white liquid to force it back in with two fingers. It was the first time you hadn’t requested he wear a condom, and having felt your warmth around him, Izana couldn’t see why he would ever going forward. Maybe he would if you asked nicely, but you would look so much better round and pregnant with his child in your wedding dress. He could consider asking the tailor to make some room for a baby bump.

But that was a question for another time, Izana bundling you into his arms, a hum on his lips as he carried you towards your bathroom - this wedding dress really was worth every last cent.

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shintin · 9 months

Text

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 3 (Storm)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gun-play, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Måneskin - THE LONELIEST

Note: You can find pictures of Vash's household here.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

Nails scratched the hardwood, and a creak roused you from the deep slumber you'd been wading in for what felt like years. In a cold sweat, you startled awake, disoriented and confused. All you saw was blackness. As it was yesterday, and the days before. The only sound that could be heard belonged to the pounding of your heart and the faint whisper of your breath. With an overwhelming urge to save your sanity, you tried to scream, but the voice got trapped in your throat, and the fear gripped your limbs, making it impossible to move.

You felt like someone was watching you. Oh, Gods! They must be trying to kill you. They must be doing it on purpose. To torture you, to torment you, to keep you from sleeping ever again.

Gradually, you sat up, squinting as you struggled to make out anything in the darkness that had nested around you. The truth was, you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten here. All you remembered was fainting in the fucking dungeon of Knives and waking up in this pitch-black abyss, your hands restrained by cold, metal handcuffs.

Despite the haze of confusion and fear capturing your mind, you had managed to recall fragments of your recent past. You could still remember being tended to by a bald doctor while you were unconscious, his skilled hands repairing the wounds and bruises that marred your body. You could remember your father not discovering your whereabouts and that … you had cried a lot.

Time had lost all meaning in this black hole, leaving you feeling disoriented and alone. But despite the uncertainty, you knew you had to remain strong and find a way out of this nightmare.

The haunting melody of a piano drifted once more through the cold, unyielding walls, its mournful strains reaching you from some unknown location above. You gazed up at the ceiling, captivated by the heart-wrenching yet undeniably soothing notes that flowed from the keys. In this wretched place, you couldn't fathom how anyone could find solace in music.

Despite the bleakness of your surroundings, the music provided a small measure of comfort, a reminder that even in the depths of despair swamp, life could flourish. The pianist's nimble fingers danced across the black and white claviers, conjuring a bittersweet symphony that stirred something deep within your soul.

As you listened, you were transported to a different realm, one where the harsh realities of your current existence faded away. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to be swept up in the pure, unadulterated emotions, finding solace in your imagination.

The crack of thunder jolted you from your thoughts, reminding you that the world outside might be engulfed in a storm like yours. The bright, yellow ball of the sun might be obscured by thick, gray clouds that carried a sense of forlornness and empty promises of reliving old memories, reclaiming lost dreams, and indulging in comforting breakfasts of fluffy pancakes drenched in maple syrup. Even in a hellhole like this, you couldn't help but reminisce about the time your mother's warm smile could light up a world that seemed lost forever.

Perhaps the day was gloomy and damp, with a piercing wind that would sting the bones of the bastard twins. The temperature could drop to freezing, and hail could pelt down to a hurricane threatening to transform into a tornado just to rip those mother fuckers' bodies apart. It would be amazing if the earth could tremble and split open, creating a gateway for your escape from this oppressive reality.

Deprived of any external sensory input, you could not gauge your surroundings. With no window or view to the outside world, you were trapped in perpetual confinement. The walls seemed to close in on you, leaving you gasping for air as the weight of claustrophobia bore down on your chest. It was clear that hiding from this stifling existence was beyond your reach.

Looking around, you realized no one was in there —at least not the one you could see.

Had you taken up residence in cloud-cuckoo land? Goddammit! You cursed under your breath, frustrated at how your mind had turned into a traitor. Because your deepest fears had crawled out of you with darting eyes, sweating palms, and nervous giggles that sat in your chest, built in your chest, threatened to burst through your chest.

The pressure was mounting relentlessly, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter around you. Was it a panic attack? No, you could still breathe, and your limbs were still functioning. But you felt paralyzed, unable to find the right words to express the turmoil within you. It was as though all of your pieces had shattered irreparably. Your brain had stopped functioning properly. Nothing would ever be able to glue you back together. The notion of optimism felt like a cruel deception in the face of such overwhelming melancholy.

Slapping your forehead, you reminded yourself that you were alone, but somehow you couldn't shake the sensation of eyes boring into you, leaving your skin tingling as though a searing hot iron was burning a silky dress.

You tried to speak, shaping your lips around the familiar words that felt foreign to your mouth. "W-ho's the-re?" you whispered, struggling to get the words out. Your throat felt parched and unaccustomed to use, making it difficult to form even a simple sentence.

Silence greeted your whispered inquiry, and you turned to the door. Carefully feeling your way towards it, your fingers sought out the tally marks you had etched into the wood to keep track of the days. Twelve marks, a testament to the times they had deigned to slide a bag of cold sandwiches and water bottles through the narrow opening.

How thoughtful of them to keep you from starving to death, even as they left you with nothing more than a filthy toilet in the corner to serve as your bathroom in this unlimited void of darkness. Fuck them! The frustration and anger bubbled up inside you again, directed at the fuckers who held you in this wretched place.

You let out a resigned sigh, realizing that another day had passed. Determined not to let the dizziness overtake you as it had during countless other waking hours, you reached out and scratched a new line onto the cheap surface of the door. The soft wood yielded easily to your touch, marking the passage of time in this godforsaken place.

As if misery could have an end, your stomach started its symphony, a reminder of the hunger that plagued you constantly. Based on your endless sleeping hours, you couldn't shake the suspicion that they were drugging your food, and you knew you could refuse, but what was the point? After all, there was no way you could escape if you were weak from starvation and dehydration. Also, you'd found you didn't mind swallowing whatever poison they might be feeding you. There was no need to keep yourself awake and suffer more.

Another soft creak from the corner of the room caught your attention, and you turned your head toward the disturbance. "Who're you?" you asked, though the words didn't come out any better than the first time. Holding your breath, you strained to hear any response from the darkness.

Several stilted seconds passed before you heard another faint creak, like someone shifting their weight from one foot to another. The sound emanated from where the old and dilapidated wooden floor had been eaten away by bugs, leaving jagged edges that had sliced your bare feet open on more than one occasion.

"What do you want?" you called out, feeling a hand reaching towards your breasts. Before you could react, a jolt of electricity coursed through your body, causing you to fall backward and land painfully on your tailbone. The shock left you gasping for breath and unable to scream for help, too consumed by terror to do anything but kick your feet frantically and scramble toward the wall.

There, you pressed yourself against the rough surface, your chest rising and falling. Welcome to the freak show!

As the pounding in your ears continued, you felt your nails digging into your palms as another low creak echoed through the room. Could they see you now, tucked into the corner of the room? Sucking in a deep breath, you held it, waiting for something to happen. It felt as if your head was shoved into a guillotine, trapped in that heart-stopping moment of anticipation for the blade to drop.

Watching the planks, you waited for the sudden appearance of a frightening demon, bent on its hands and feet and crawling towards you at an unnaturally fast pace. The thought of it would have been amusing under different circumstances, but in this place, you were anything but safe.

The door opened suddenly, flooding the room with bright light and a loud crack of thunder. You flinched, expecting to see the creature staring at you, but found nothing.

A sound slipped free from your throat, a mix of a wheeze and a laugh, as you felt like you were losing your mind. You had to be going insane.

Trying to shield your eyes with your hand, you climbed to your feet, your knees nearly clacking together from your fried nerves. The pain in your body momentarily faded as you thought about how foolish you were to believe someone could be hiding in that corner. However, your smile disappeared as a sobering realization set in.

Right! You were going crazy.

Your loud creaks emphasized each step as you cautiously tiptoed around each corner of the room, the person by the door watching you with widened eyes. You needed to be sure that no one was lurking and watching you like a creep if you ever hoped to sleep again.

Apart from you and the man standing in the doorway, no one else was present. You placed a hand on your chest and let out a choppy, uneven laugh. Making your way back to the bed, you realized that the person was still there, not carrying any food and not appearing to be leaving anytime soon.

You stood frozen, staring at the man in the gray suit with silver hair tied back into a bun, his eyes burning like fiery suns. As you stepped back, even the imaginary monsters in your mind began to retreat, afraid of what might happen next. Fear licked your nerves, and you tipped your head back, taking a deep breath through your nose.

Another man, older than the previous one, suddenly appeared by the door and announced, "The boss wants to see you." His words hit you like a bullet, striking your chest and knocking the breath out of your lungs. It seemed like this was to be your final, glorious end.

The silver-haired man aimed his double Colts at your chest, leaving you petrified and forgotten to inhale. Despite feeling like you should be screaming, you remained frozen like a stone. "HANDS UP, FEET APART, MOUTH SHUT. FOLLOW THE ORDERS, AND I WON'T SHOOT YOU," he commanded.

You heard him, yet you remained still in place. You knew you should move, lift your arms, spread your feet, and remember to breathe, but you were unable to do so.

The one barking orders slammed the butt of his gun into the corner of your brow, causing your knees to buckle and hit the floor. You finally tasted oxygen, along with a metallic tang of blood. An acute agony ripped through your skull, unlike anything you had experienced before. You were utterly immobilized and unable to move.

"What part of 'follow the orders' don't you understand, you filthy Gasback spawn?" The intensity of his animosity was such that he spoke with a venomous tone, as though you were responsible for something awful, despite having no prior acquaintance with him.

You squinted to the side and saw the barrel of the gun mere inches away from your face.

"GET UP."

You were swallowing nothing but strangled gasps, which were choking your body. You were unable to cry out or make any sound.

Get up! Get up! If you don't, he'll shoot you.

You heaved yourself up onto your knees and fell back against the wall behind you, stumbling forward in an attempt to catch your balance. Your head was throbbing like a bitch, making you feel nauseous. Even lifting your hands was unbearable torture. Your body felt lifeless, your bones were cracked, and your skin was a canvas for the sharp pins and needles of pain.

Looked like the boss finally wanted to kill you. That must be why he wanted to see you. Perhaps he had made a mistake by not killing you earlier, or maybe your moment had simply passed. Your years on this earth had been too heavy for this world, and now he was going to end your life. Since the day you opened your eyes here, you had often wondered how it would happen and if it would bring happiness to your father or if your mother would be waiting for you on the other side. The thought of leaving your sister, Amelia, behind made you feel the saddest.

Someone was laughing. "Well, aren't you a little shit?"

You were unsure if they were even speaking to you as you struggled to keep your arms raised. Your mind was hazy, and you could hardly focus on anything.

"She's not even crying," the other one added. "The girls are usually begging for mercy by now."

The walls were starting to blend with the ceiling, and you wondered how much longer you could hold your hands up. You couldn't discern the words spoken or understand the sounds around you.

The blood rushed through your head, and your lips felt like blocks of concrete that you couldn't open. With a gun pressed into your back, you stumbled forward, feeling like the floor was falling upwards. Your feet dragged in a direction that you couldn't comprehend.

"Walk behind me." The other man's voice was thick and deep. Your feet moved forward on their own, and you remained silent, knowing no words could describe this moment. You blinked against the brightness of the light that you hadn't seen in so long, but it didn't matter. You were nothing but numb, a world of nothingness, and a little blinding light wouldn't kill you.

As the guard opened the door at the end of the murky corridor, a chilling draft greeted you, causing you to shiver from the freezing sweat still clinging to your skin and the cold, stale air.

The house's interior was mainly cast in shadows, with only dim light filtering through the large windows. The sunlight had faded away with the storm clouds gathering in the sky. As you looked up, you frowned at the sight of the black ribbed ceiling made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. Above you, a grand chandelier hung like a tree with multiple branches, its bronze design intricate and adorned with Rhodolite Garnet crystals that dangled from the tips. It was so stunningly beautiful that it almost made you feel sorry it had to get dusted in this slaughterhouse.

The brown walnut floors led directly to the black grand staircase, which was large enough to accommodate a royal black piano sitting sideways. The staircase flew into the living room, and your bare feet squeaked against the parquet floor as the gun barrel urged you further inside.

The open concept of the floor made the house feel like a monstrous entity that could swallow you whole. The living area was located to the left of the staircase, and as you looked around, a sense of loneliness hit you straight in the gut.

In the center of the living room, on the far left wall, was a large black stone fireplace flanked by two sizable mirrors, and leather couches were arranged around it in a square. An ornate wooden dining table sat in the middle of the room, with several unlit white candles atop its dark wooden surface.

The walls were covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy maroon curtains. The large bay window at the front of the house provided a view of the forest beyond the manor. The parquet flooring extended into the kitchen, which boasted beautiful black-stained cabinets and marble countertops, with a massive island standing in the middle. The kitchen's windows reminded you of a church with its Cathedral glass. It must be heavenly and delightful to cook and hum songs here on a sunny day.

You were walking mindlessly, not knowing where to stop, until a blow to your back crippled you. Your eyes began to tear up as you squinted against the bright lights of the abatjours, illuminating the Persian rug beneath your palms.

"Here she is," someone announced, and a heavy boot pressed into your back. Your outcry of anguish seemed to slow down the world for a moment. The sounds became muffled, the colors blurred, and the floor appeared to be tilting to its side. You thought to yourself that you were actually going to die, that you were going to drop dead then and there.

Then, you saw him, standing in the corner of the big room, watching silently as you writhed in agony while he did nothing. He just stood there and watched, pursing his lips as he ended his phone call.

The thought was so simple when it slipped into your head.

So calm.

So easy.

So, so easy.

You were going to kill him.

Once again, his was shrouded in darkness, but you knew the devil. You had met him personally before. He widened his stance as if getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his pocket and pulling out something you couldn't quite see. As he walked closer, you noticed a glint of silver in his palm as he put it around his neck. A cross? Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn't believe that he was pretending to be a man of faith after all the evil deeds he had committed.

As if he could hear your thoughts, he stopped and hid the cross beneath his shirt. Then he stared at you, and you didn't look away. Later, you would question why the gods made you the way you were, but right now, all you could do was keep your eyes fixed on his chest and allow yourself to register the defined muscles under his shirt. You knew that only a psycho would focus on that right now, and you might be one. The behemoth of a man didn't move an inch. He didn't speak, react, or do anything. He just stared at you, and it felt like a silent battle.

Your whole body began to vibrate from anger and fear, but also from something so disturbing that you refused to put a name to it. He didn't speak, but he did grin—a slow, sinful twist of his lips that sent sparks skittering down your spine. With deliberation, his tongue darted out and licked his bottom lip. Your eyes followed the movement, and the act felt primal, animalistic, and fucking terrifying.

Your heart started to claw its way up your throat, but you swallowed it back down, narrowed your eyes, and opened your mouth to yell at him. Before you could, however, he started approaching you, and you immediately lowered your head.

You were wholly immobilized beneath his stare, unable to move or even think straight. You could only imagine the look on your face when you saw him standing close to you, waiting for you. He sat down on the armchair a few feet away from you, and the boot on your back added more pressure, forcing you to lower your head even further.

Not a single word was spoken. He didn't offer any explanation or even acknowledge your presence. You were kneeling in front of the devil himself, hoping he would retreat and return to whatever portal from hell he crawled out of.

Having nowhere to look, you stared at his dark matte shoes, the dim light offering you enough chance to get a clear view of him. He was fully clothed. No boots today, yet his black pants still wrapped tightly around his broad thighs, and a dark crimson shirt that looked a size too small with the way he filled it out. You couldn't dare to see much of his face.

What the fuck was this? A fancy lamb-sacrificing ceremony?

You began to contemplate if you really had lost your mind and if you were just imagining the whole thing. Indeed, your imagination would never put you in such a scenario, trapped with a lunatic, but maybe it went out of its way and created a hunter licking his lips at you as if he was planning to feast on you.

Oh no, what if he was going to violate you? The thought made dread sink into your stomach like a stone in a lake. Your heart was back in your throat, and you pressed your lips together to hold back the fear that threatened to consume you. The situation was getting more and more terrifying by the second, and you didn't know what to do or how to escape.

His tone was collected, like a blanket thrown over a fire. "Such a delightful scenery," he said, leaning back in his armchair and rolling his neck, the muscles cracking loudly.

Your heart cracked, and your eyes flashed with anger, horror, humiliation, and raw indignation. It was like a fire was raging within you, a wildfire of decimated hopes, and you wanted to crush his spine in your hand. You wanted him to know what it was like to wound, to inflict such unbearable agony on others. You wanted him to feel your pain and understand the depth of your suffering.

"I understand you're mad at Gasback, Livio," he said. "But it wouldn't benefit you if your foot stays there!" His command was superb and strong like steel, dangerously calm and effortlessly assertive. The imprint of the boot was still carved into your back, but it was no longer pressing into your spine. The man called Livio walked a few steps back, and you dared to lift your head and look up at him.

The boss's left arm was covered in tattoos like those on his neck. With his sleeves tatted to his elbows, you could almost see lines of another tattoo on his right elbow. His eyebrows were thick and dark brown, his eyes a deep mountain lake blue. He had blond hair, a beauty mark beneath his left eye, and a lean frame. He was undeniably gorgeous, but, at the same time, dangerous, terrifying, and horrible.

Despite his beauty, his crooked smile was calculated and evil. He sat on what he imagined to be a throne, but was nothing more than an armchair, and his eyes were illuminated with a type of evilness that you would only find in Satan's Bible. It was clear that he took pleasure in your fear and suffering, and the thought made your blood run cold. You knew that you were in the presence of someone truly malevolent and needed to find an egress before it was too late. Because humans didn't need to decorate themselves in gory makeup and fake blood to be scary. It was the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, the evil that they carried within them, that was fucking terrifying.

Unlike you, he looked amused, troubled, interested, and confused all at once. He shook his head, patted his shirt, and reached for the holster around his chest, pulling out a gun with a silver hilt that glinted in the shadowed room. You took a sharp breath, fearing he would use it on you. He inspected the gun in a way you wouldn't understand, presumably to check whether or not it was ready to fire. He slipped it into his hand, his forefinger poised directly over the trigger. But instead of pointing it at you, he placed it on the side table next to the glass of water. He turned and finally read the expression on your face, almost laughing. "Don't worry. It's not for you," he said, holding himself down enough to see your face. "I'm not going to hurt you." He grinned. "Not yet."

You would never believe him, and he must have guessed it because you heard his irritated exhalation of breath. He sighed and rubbed his hand down his face, already growing frustrated. You knew that it wasn't your fault, and if the roles were reversed, he would also be freaking out and questioning his sanity.

His eyes never strayed from you, and he kept them fixed on you as you sat beneath his feet. He ran his hands through his spiked hair, and his shoulders probably started to burn from his hunched-over position. His eyes grew bleary from keeping his gaze on you, and you could see the moment's intensity taking a toll on him too.

A new headache bloomed in your temples, worsening your vision. Several seconds later, he tucked his hand into his pocket and slid out a cigarette from a pack. You saw him flick the lighter, enunciating his impossibly sharp jawline with a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He puffed on it, and then the flame went out, leaving nothing but his disgusting silhouette before you. You could tell he was a chain smoker. Gross!

He snorted as you looked away and scuttled your eyes. "Princess doesn't like smokers?" he said.

You flinched without intending to, and he looked unexpectedly entertained, which only added to your mortification. So many thoughts were tangling in your head that you couldn't untie the insanity knotting itself together. You didn't know what to do or how to react.

His eyes scanned the map of your structure, and the slow motion made your heart race even faster. You were wearing a thin, dead cotton gown on your limbs, and you caught the rose petals as they fell from your cheeks, floated around the frame of your body, and covered you with something that felt like the absence of courage. The moment's vulnerability made your skin crawl, and you wished you could just disappear.

The tilt of his head cracked gravity in half, and it felt like time was suspended. You blinked and bottled your breaths, unable to tear your eyes away from him. He shifted, and your eyes shattered into thousands of pieces that ricocheted around the room, capturing a million snapshots and moments in time. Flickering images faded with age, frozen thoughts hovering precariously in dead space, a whirlwind of agony that sliced through your soul. His body was erected 6 feet of perfect, well-shaped muscle, and his profile strong and steady. What the fuck?!

One sharp breath and you were shocked back to reality. No more daydreaming!

"Why am I here?" you asked, your gaze trying hard to avoid his perfectly crafted face. The area around you was suffocated, and your hopes were all exhausted. Your eyes were unfocused and aching, and your finger traced a lazy path across the patterned carpet that smelled like smoke, gunpowder, and blood.

He was sitting across from you, his legs folded, and the tip of his shoes was just a few inches away from your face. You could feel his presence looming over you, filling you with nothing but emotions you had never experienced.

"You're afraid of me." His voice had no shape.

Your fingers found their way into a fist, and he laughed, the sound echoing in the dead air between you. You didn't lift your head or meet his eyes; instead, the taste of smoke lingered on your tongue, wasted oxygen, and you gulped it down. Your throat burned with something familiar to you, something you had learned to swallow recently, and you didn't know how much longer you could keep it in there.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Bugger!" The words escaped your lips before you could think them through, and suddenly someone's gun slammed into your spine. You fell to the carpet with a broken whimper, wheezing into the antique carpet. The pain was excruciating, and you could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on you. You knew you had made a mistake speaking that way, but it was too late to take it back now.

"That wasn't necessary, Livio." His voice was saturated with mock disappointment. "Enough is enough!" A pause. "All. Of. You. Get. Lost. NOW!"

Without an iota of hesitation, you heard the sound of footsteps and the closing of the door. Your heart sank as you realized you were alone with him once again, left to deal with your actions' aftermath. The pain in your spine was still throbbing, and you could feel the anxiety creeping in.

You were past the sickening feeling that stirred in your gut and made you want to vomit—you were seeing red now. The red of his blood, leaking from his throat as you sliced into it. The red flowing from his mouth as he slowly suffocating. You saw so much red. "What do you want from me?" you hissed, clawing your fingers into the carpet, trying to abate the shaking. You didn't know how much more of this you could take and needed answers.

It took him a few seconds to answer you. "Can you please get up and sit on the sofa across from me?" he said, pausing for a moment, presumably to take a long drag out of his cigarette. "My spine gonna hurt from looking down at you."

Fucker cracked his neck, probably enjoying the feeling of his bones popping. Tension was released, and you could see his shoulders relax.

Without protesting or paying attention to the pain that was about to cripple your body, you slowly backed away and sat on the couch, trying to hide as much skin as you could under your loose gown. You knew that you needed to be careful and keep your guard up, but at the same time, you didn't want to provoke him any further. The ache in your spine was blossoming new buds, so you tried to calm yourself down, knowing that you needed to stay focused and alert to survive.

The house was the court of darkness, but you could see the smoke drifting in the still air. His eyes were distant and unfocused, and he seemed lost in his thoughts, a man caught in his own private hell. You remembered how his face was a mask of tragedy and sadness in the dungeon, too, as if he had seen more than his fair share of suffering. It was a sobering thought, making you wonder what had brought him to this point.

He took his final drag and gently put the cigarette in the ashtray beside him. The red embers faded and disappeared among the gray ashes. He raised his head, and his eyes locked with yours briefly. Then, an empty smile bloomed on his lips. One that made it hurt to look at him as if he was hurting and grinning just to bear it.

What the fuck was wrong with you? Why were you looking for traces of humanity in this monster?

You pressed your lips together and turned to look out from the big window. The rain outside had grown stronger, droplets slamming into the window with a ferocity rivaling your heartbeat. The cigarette was gone, yet that smile would stick around your memory forever.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, and you turned your head to see his fingers grazing the revolver on the table, the gun glinting as if to mock you. Any courage you felt dissipated like butter in a hot skillet, and instead, all the fear you'd been feeling tripled. You couldn't help but feel like you were walking on thin ice, and any wrong move could lead to a deadly outcome. But then, to your surprise, he grabbed the glass of water instead of his gun and handed it to you. "Drink slowly," he instructed.

You hesitated momentarily, unsure what to do, but slowly took the glass and sipped the water, feeling the cool liquid soothing your parched throat. Now that your brain had calmed down a little, you noticed how he could probably see the evidence of how cold it was here through your gown. You felt exposed and vulnerable and couldn't help but feel deeply ashamed for being in this situation. You tried to cover yourself up as much as possible, but it was useless.

Noticing where your eyes were trained, he spoke up. "Don't worry about your clothing. I have no interest in your perked-up nipples," he said, loud enough for you to pick up on through the near-constant fear swirling in your bones. Your heart thundered in your ears as you tentatively looked at the glass, inspecting it as if it was a Magic 8 Ball that would reveal a murder plan.

You faced the window again, the beginnings of the storm rattling against the glass. In a few minutes, it'd be a downpour. Thunder would roll and build to a crescendo before a loud crack shook this house's foundation. It would match your mood perfectly.

Suddenly, you realized he was standing before you, his strong perfume tickling your nose. You gulped and kept silent, watching him walk around you. His stare sharpened as he spotted the ugly bruises coloring your neck and collarbones. They were everywhere, and you had a sickening feeling he was going to make it his mission to find every single one. You raised your head, a sharp gasp piercing the still air when he spotted the large gash on the corner of your brow.

"Stupid boy," he muttered, and you wanted to turn your eyes down on his black shoes, but you couldn't look away from his blue eyes, swirling with anger yet an apologetic expression on his face. "Did Livio do this to you?" he asked, his voice low and controlled.

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, biting hard as another crack of thunder tore through the atmosphere. With the uncertain consequences of your answer, you chose not to respond to his question.

Two tips of gloved fingers grazed your cloth-covered shoulder for less than a second, and every muscle, every tendon in your body was fraught with tension and tied into knots that clenched your spine. You closed your eyes. You stayed very still. You didn't move. You didn't breathe. You could feel his breath on your neck, and you knew that any sudden move could prove fatal.

"Are you hungry?" His voice was lower now, a little worried.

Your lips trembled as you mistakenly opened your eyes, and you saw him staring at you, studying you. His mouth was barely parted, his hands on his waist, his lashes blinking back confusion. Something punched you in the stomach, and you couldn't help but feel like you were walking on eggshells.

God! His face was unlike anything you'd seen. That was the thing—you had seen him before, in the fucking dungeon, but you were coughing blood back then, and now that you could see his pieces as a whole, he was devastating. Despite the fear and danger you were in, you couldn't help but notice how striking he was. It was like he was carved from marble, and his features were chiseled to perfection.

His eyes. There was something about their droopy shape that was both alluring and intimidating. They were the perfect shade of cobalt, blue like your blossoming bruises, hues that could tell tales of the sky and angels hiding behind the clouds. You couldn't look away from them. You didn't want to. And then you noticed the scar starting from the middle of his chest, slashing straight down through his torso to the middle of his abs. Despite the ugly scar, it only served to heighten his utter beauty. His lips were full, and his sun-kissed blond hair was long enough to run your hands through.

WHAT?!

This was wrong. So wrong. You shouldn't find this beast attractive! But his presence was so overwhelming; it felt as if he was ten feet tall with a shadow crawling up the ceiling, slithering toward you. This giant floor felt tiny with him in it, and you couldn't help but feel small in his presence.

He stepped toward you, a smirk remaining on his face—just the slightest curl in his lips. Your shoulders sagged back. Finally, your instincts weren't completely thrown off, and you made your first smart move.

"Cat got your tongue, love?"

You felt goosebumps as his voice washed over you. The sound was as deep as his ocean eyes. Another swallow nearly caused you to choke on the very muscle. You didn't know what to do, as if your tongue had swelled to double its size.

"What do you want from me?" you choked out. He prowled towards you. Despite the gallons of fear pumping through your heart valves, your spine tightened, and you stayed still. You'd bite him if he got too close.

All thought escaped you as your eyes locked with his. As his thumb brushed your lips, he forced it into your mouth. No shame. No shyness. No, let me buy you a drink before I play with your tongue with my dirty gloved finger. Astonished by his boldness, you nearly slapped yourself.

"I see you still have a tongue, a poisonous one as well."

It took several seconds for your body to unlock. Before you could think about what you were doing, you pressed your teeth together with all your might but met no scream of pain.

Confused, you looked up only to see a satisfaction waving on his facial features. Blood pooled in your mouth, a small trail heading straight towards your chin. A gasp escaped you, your eyes widening and snapping back to his. They were devoid of any hint of pain. Not even a glimmer.

The room was quiet. The static of silence was broken only by your heavy panting. A vortex of his presence slowly drained the oxygen from the room and your brain. Maybe that's why you couldn't think straight with him so close to you. The force of the fear coiled tightly around you, turning your body stone.

You were useless.

Powerless.

The inability to fight raged in your head, your survival instincts told you to spit his finger out, but your body refused. It wasn't until he did it himself that his bloody hand wrapped around your neck and brought your head close to his. You cringed as you felt the essence of his life dripping from his hand. Blood crawled down your spine like menacing fingers, staining your skin as if to mark you. Your horror was heightened when he leaned his forehead against yours and pressed his hand around your throat.

With his bitten thumb pressing against your air hole, he forced your chin up further. Your breath stalled at the slightest curl in his lips. There was something intimidating about the act. Something condemning. "You're a savage one, aren't you?" he murmured, his sinful eyes devouring your face.

A scowl etched onto your face as you placed your hands on his chest, disregarding the unyielding steel beneath his skin, and tried to push him away. However, he defied your effort, resisting the force and curling his lip into a snarl.

Tears rimmed your lids as frustration grew. "Please, just let me go. I-I don't want to be here," you begged, your voice trembling with fear. It felt like someone was reaching into your chest, yanking out your pride, and throwing it onto the floor. But you couldn't afford to give a fuck about it in this situation. All you wanted was to be away from this man.

He leaned closer, his taunting words cutting through the air. "Are you going to cry, love?" he asked, his voice laced with malice. You could feel his heart racing beneath your palms as they remained pressed firmly against his chest, revealing his pulses. Despite his words, you couldn't help but feel that he was not as unaffected as he appeared to be.

"No," you lied, refusing to show him any more weakness. It was none of his business whether or not you were going to cry. Of course, you absolutely had no problems crying your eyes out after he left, but you wouldn't let him see you break down in front of him.

He released his hand with a feral, toothy grin, allowing you to break free. As he stepped back, you experienced a mixture of relief and coldness. However, he promptly grasped your arm and lifted you to your feet. His intense gaze held you in place while his body brushed against your arm, emitting a fragrance of leather, smoke, and something familiar that was utterly mesmerizing. Fear had a distinct flavor: an acidic, burnt metal that numbed your entire being, not just your tongue. Despite feeling extremely frightened, you were inexplicably… drawn to him, consumed by his presence.

You maintained a steady gaze, keeping him within your field of vision. He drew nearer, pressing his body against yours, but you didn't yield. Instead, you seemed to meld into him, resisting his strength and succumbing to his closeness. His warm breath caressed your skin as his lips approached the edge of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

In a hushed tone, he uttered, "I bet crying would suit you." His words caused your lip to quiver, but you quickly bit down on it, determined not to reveal any vulnerability. As you stole a glance at him, you noticed his gaze was fixated on your lips.

"Are you here to kill me?" you asked in a low voice. Despite your efforts to conceal the tremors coursing through your body, you were unsuccessful.

Slowly, he shook his head. "Why would I do that?"

You were not sure how to answer that.

"That would be a waste, love," he replied, his forefinger tracing your collarbone. "Moreover, losing such a pretty face would be a shame. I want to keep you," he added, his words dripping an unsettling possessiveness.

"What if I don't want you to?"

He smiled. "Nobody asked for your opinion."

"You're a maniac," you spat out, attempting to wrench yourself away from his grasp. However, he caught hold of your hip bone and gripped it tightly, causing you to suppress a scream.

"Don't struggle, love. You'll only make things more difficult for yourself."

Despite the anger welling up within you, your voice remained eerily mild as you spoke, "Your poor mother." your words were soaked in venom.

He almost choked, his eyes wide, alarmed. "What did you say?"

Your stomach churned with mixed emotions as you watched the man's expression shift. There was an unguarded strain, flinching terror, and sudden apprehension etched on his features. You were trying to mock him because you felt sorry for his poor mother, who had to deal with such a pathetic son.

He seized your arms roughly; his gaze locked onto yours with a sense of urgency pulsing at his temples. "What did you mean?" he demanded, his tone insistent.

Your temper had gotten the best of you, a new feeling that had arisen since your recent circumstances. Typically, you were not a reactive person, but you could not control the emotions that were now surging through you. "N-nothing," you stammered, your voice breaking in half. "I didn't mean anything by it. I didn't—it was just a—"

He released your arms abruptly, as though they had scorched him, and walked away. You took a tight breath, attempting to compose yourself, but found it difficult to even look at him. You tried to explain yourself, but the words that tumbled out made no sense in the vast room. Your fingers clenched your gown as you thought about how your time here had turned you into a person with a foul mouth and degrading behavior. It was humiliating to disappoint yourself more than anyone else.

You glanced over at him, but he had already folded his arms and turned his face towards the tall windows, to the raindrops streaking down the glass. "I know this must be difficult for you," he spoke, his voice devoid of any empathy. "But, I have no fucks to give." His callous words stung, reminding you again of your captor's cruel and indifferent nature.

You desperately took a deep breath and tried to stifle any words that threatened to escape. He turned towards you, pretending not to notice the red rims around your eyes and your nails digging into your almost bare dress. His gaze carefully avoided your face, and he cocked his head in your direction, although it seemed like he was staring at a spot behind you. "Do you know what your father has done, toy?" he asked, his lips wet as he circled your body before disappearing from view. The question hung in the air, leaving you to wonder what he was getting at and what your father's actions had to do with your current predicament.

His sudden disappearance made you even more nervous, and your mind raced as you tried to anticipate his next move. The uncertainty of the situation was torture in itself, not knowing if or when he would strike. "Don't call me a toy," you snapped, seething with anger as you sensed him standing behind you. Your body was tense, ready to react to any sudden movements.

He circled back to the front, and you felt slightly relieved as your shoulders loosened. "Then why don't you tell me your name, love?" he asked, leaning forward towards you. You froze, unsure how to respond, as the man's proximity was both welcoming and unsettling.

You thawed. "You know my name."

He raised a brow. "When I ask a question, I demand an answer, not bullshits."

You gulped down the lump in your throat and whispered your name. His lips softened into a smile that made your stomach churn. He repeated your name, savoring it as if it amused him, entertained him, and delighted him all at once. In all your years of living, none of your past lovers had ever said your name like that.

"Now answer my question, toy," he pointed out, deliberately using the name. You snarled at his defiance, but didn't reply. "Don't make me ask again," he warned, his voice lowering to convey his seriousness.

"I don't know what you want me to say!" you shouted, frustrated. "Why don't you stop being a pussy and solve your problem with him personally?" The words burst out of you in a fit of anger, fueled by the stress building up inside you.

His laughter filled the room, and you braced for what he might say next. "Bold one, huh?" he chuckled. "I can't wait to break you apart, shatter you into pieces and then arrange those pieces in the most fucked up way possible to suit my taste. And I promise, I won't care if they don't fit. I'll fucking make them. You're too feisty for your own good."

"You can't touch me," you spat through clenched teeth, your voice shaking with fear and anger.

"Wrong," he chanted, his tone mocking and cruel.

"My dad will cut your arm!" you countered, hoping to intimidate him with the threat.

"Oh, really?" he said in a conspiratorial whisper, his words cutting through your bravado. "Then why hasn't he done it? You being here is not a big secret with all the men swirling around this household."

The truth of his words hit you like a ton of bricks, and your skin turned cold with sweat. Your fingers trembled, and your lungs struggled to draw in air as you realized the reality of your situation.

"See, he has left you alone with us to skin you alive and play with your bones till you beg to die," he said calmly.

You couldn't believe that your own father had abandoned you to this fate. Honestly, you couldn't help but wonder why you had been stupid enough to expect him to act differently. The memories flooded your mind, and you closed your eyes in a subconscious effort to block them out. But the effort only backfired as the memories grew more vivid. The fights, the screams, the curses, your sister's cries, the hits, the pain, and you begging your father to stop. The vivid images of the blood. Dead, dead red, burgundy and the richest shade of your mother's favorite lipstick all smeared on the floor. You had deceived yourself into thinking that your father, a man of numbers and benefits, would have any incentive to rescue you.

You waited in silence for him to speak, your mind still reeling from the memories that flooded your consciousness. As he began to speak, you struggled to focus, his words bouncing around in the haze of your head and fogging your senses. A sense of hopelessness and helplessness pricked your thoughts. Nevertheless, you forced yourself to pay attention, knowing that any information he might provide could be crucial to your survival.

"Technical bugs don't allow me to confront your father," he said. "Also, death would be a gift for him, don't you agree?"

You looked at him, tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, and you struggled to maintain your serenity.

"I have a proposition for you."

You managed to lift your head since you weren't sure you heard correctly. "I don't understand," you told him.

He took a deep breath and began to pace the length of the room. "You are kind of a pet project of mine," he said, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. You couldn't stand the sight of his smug, arrogant demeanor, and the urge to break that grin off his face was almost overwhelming. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face you. "I want you to help me," he said, his tone insistent.

"What?" A broken whisper of surprise.

"You are in my possession," he said a little impatiently. "Maybe you can put the pieces together."

"I don't—"

"Don't pretend dumb! How about you reveal some of your dad's dirty laundry so I can force him out of his hiding hole?" The following pause was filled with a deafening silence, and you felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. "Yet, I would like to give you an option." He offered you a smile that said you should be grateful for the chance he was offering. Someone must be ripping your skin off.

"And if I don't accept?" you asked, catching your voice before it cracked in fear.

He looked genuinely disappointed, and his hands clasped together in dismay. "Did I give you any impression that you have a choice?" he asked, his tone cold and menacing. "If you stand by my side, you'll be rewarded," he continued, his words filled with a sense of threat. He pressed his lips together, and you could feel his eyes boring into you. "But if you choose to disobey? Well...I think your little sister, what was her name? A-m-e-l-i-a, hm? She looks rather lovely with all her body parts intact, right?"

You were breathing so hard that your frame was shaking. "You're threatening me with my sister? What has my father done to you?"

"You'll find out if you manage to survive." He raised a brow.

"And you want me to willingly help you take your revenge?"

His face broke into a brilliant smile. "That would be wonderful." The world was bleeding. You didn't have time to form a response before he started talking again.

"I would never be your rat!" you snapped. "Your men beat me! You keep me here like a slave! You threaten me! You give me no freedom and say you want me to help you hurt my family?" You were about to throw the glass of water at his face. "Why are—"

"Nothing your father hasn't done already to you." His voice was tight, just like his lips, and you were shocked to learn how much he knew about your relationship with your father. "You, if you are insinuating that I am an evil being, I would recommend you take a closer look at your own family," he said the last few syllables with a little too much emphasis, a little too much fire as if it was reminding him of something from his own life.

He spoke the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You knew it, but the anger you felt was like a living thing, a raging inferno that threatened to consume you. You felt it wrapping around your fingers like you could fling it at his face. You felt it coiling around your spine, planting itself in your stomach and shooting branches down your legs, arms, and neck. It was choking you, suffocating you with its intensity.

You wanted to scream and lash out at this man who seemed to enjoy opening your old wounds. The anger inside you needed release; it needed relief. "You," you told him, and you could hardly spit the words out. "You're not any better than my father! You are a monster!"

A dangerous smirk tugged at his lips when he heard his new nickname. "You do not want to upset me, love." His voice was far too calm to match the storm in his eyes. He turned away, so you were staring at his profile. He changed his mind, clasped his hands, and touched his lips. "You're so ungrateful. I was trying to make your stay pleasant."

"Liar!"

He seemed to be considering that. Nodding, he said, "Yes. Most of the time, yes."

"I don't want to be here. I don't want to be your toy. Let me go!"

He didn't answer right away. His finger played around his tattooed neck. "Don't underestimate me, love. If I wanted to have toys around this house, I would do that," he said, his tone cold and calculating. "Wait! Actually, people would volunteer for me to play with them. I'm very good at it, and certainly, I don't need someone as boring as you to entertain me. Just keep this in your mind," he continued, his words filled with arrogance and entitlement. "I need information, love, and I have my very own ways of taming pretentious brats like you."

You could see how he knew that this hard look was only your front show and that his desires were interested in what you had hidden under your brittle shell. He wanted something you didn't have, but you knew he wouldn't believe it until he broke you and found out.

Feeling sick to the stomach, the thought of being in this man's presence for another moment made you want to kill yourself. So, you started laughing, stopping the tears from falling. "You're disgusting!"

The emotions swirling inside you were like a raging storm, and you felt like you were about to break under the weight of it all. It was like you had been stuffed full of twigs, and all it would take was a single bend to snap you in half. The guilt, anger, frustration, and pent-up aggression inside you needed an outlet, and it was getting out of control.

What were you thinking?

This was all your fault. It was your fault you were here. It was your fault you were in danger. It was your fault this man-whore wanted to use you for his sick purposes, and his brother wanted to perform some new torture rituals on you. FUCK THIS SHIT! If only you had grabbed your sister's hand and walked away from your father years ago, you could have been safe and far away from these psychopaths. But you didn't, and now you were paying the price for your mistakes.

All you could do was try to keep your head above water and hope you wouldn't get drowned.

Because, after all,

It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault.

He had been standing by the window for an hour now, his gun back in the holster, looking out at the rain falling softly outside. He had said nothing; his back turned toward you all this time as if you weren't even there.

You tried to control your emotions, holding back tears even though you were overwhelmed by the sadness and grief building up inside you. It felt like you were in the presence of a predator, and the thought of being at his mercy was almost unbearable. You didn't know what he was planning but knew it couldn't be anything good.

You felt completely alone and lost in the emptiness of the giant house, and his presence only made you feel more isolated and disconnected than ever before. You could still feel eyes on you, as if someone was watching your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake.

You glanced at him. He seemed to be patiently waiting for you to gather and get your shits together, but you could tell that his patience would wear thin very soon. He would demand your response to his proposition.

You took a shaky breath and started taking inventory of your new surroundings, trying to distract yourself from the uncertainty that was choking you. The acceptance of your situation was starting to set in, and you couldn't help but feel sorry for yourself.

He walked toward you one hour and forty-five minutes later, waiting until you finally looked up at him. You could still see that lingering glint of delight as if you were a mouse trapped in a cage with a cat, and you knew that it was only a matter of time before he pounced.

He cocked his head for you to follow him.

And you did.

He was walking ahead of you, jerking his head towards the stairs, signaling for you to walk behind him like a well-trained pet. The thought made you want to cry. He was sure with your injured body, you could barely stand upright, let alone attempt a funny business. "Where are you taking me?"

He didn't respond immediately, and you fell in step behind him, feeling the urge to cry deepening as you made your way further into the belly of hell. It felt like a bungee cord was strapped around your waist, pulling you back towards the exit, and the longer you walked, the stronger it became.

He shot a look over his shoulder. "Your room."

Your mouth went dry as you realized that you were heading downward, into a basement. You guessed you shouldn't be surprised because… well, where the fuck else were you expecting him to lock you?

As you descended the stairs, the darkness seemed to swallow you whole, the air becoming musty and damp, the thud of your footsteps on the stairs echoing. You tried to keep your breathing even, but it was a struggle. The weight of the new information had suffocated you.

Through blurred eyes, you clung onto insignificant details. He was leading you to an unfamiliar location through dark, narrow corridors that seemed to grow darker and more oppressive as you walked. Eventually, you found yourself at the base of steep wooden steps that creaked ominously under your weight. Everywhere you looked, there seemed to be secrets hidden behind locked doors and shadowy corners, but no answers to be found.

"Obedience is the number one thing I ask of you. This means you'll be punished if you disobey me or fail to do as I instruct."

You averted your gaze before he could see the emotions churning within you, feeling as if they were spitting out like grease in a hot skillet. Swallowing down the rock in your throat, you choked out, "Yes, Master." You hated yourself for submitting to him in this way, but you had no fight left in you after everything you had gone through. And you knew that it was only the beginning of your ordeal.

He made a sound of aversion. "Never call me that. Reminds me of my brother," he snapped, muttering the last part.

Summoning your courage, you looked up and met his gaze once more. "How would you like me to address you?" you asked, making a conscious effort to keep any hint of anger out of your eyes. Deep down, you knew exactly what the fuck you'd like to call the evil creature, but you held your tongue for the time being.

He trained his narrowed gaze on you, seeming to contemplate something. "Just call me Vash," he responded, though his tone implied that he didn't expect you to comply. "Although judging by the hatred in your eyes, I doubt you'll call me by my name. Will ya?"

Your heart shriveled when you realized he could read you like an open book. You weren't sure why you were surprised, but the knowledge sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through your bloodstream, twisting your gut painfully. The feeling of hopelessness was deepening.

"Yes, I'll do whatever you want me to," you forced out, your body hunching forward under the weight of the intense emotions coursing through you. It felt as if they were powerful enough to disintegrate your spine and send you crumbling to the floor at his feet.

Despite the temporary nature of your compliance, the man appeared pleased with your response.

"As long as you promise to stay away from my sister," you added and stared into his eyes.

He dipped his head, staring at your sad eyes, studying you in an entirely new way. “My promises aren’t worth much, love,” he whispered. “Or have you forgotten?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m an exceptional liar.”

Realization slammed into you like pounds of common sense. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be making deals with him. Your fists were balled at your sides, and you were shaking everywhere as he led you through a series of metal doors, each guarded by his henchmen. Their eyes followed you everywhere, appraising you with fear and something else you didn't want to consider. You wanted to rip the carpets and curtains and sew them to your skin.

The men were all armed to the teeth, their guns slung around their necks, while others were strapped to their belts. You couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as you saw the weapons, knowing that any of these men could end your life with a single pull of the trigger.

Yet, they all betrayed a look of terror when they saw their boss's face — a flash of fear that was quickly replaced with a mask of obedience. You could see it in how they gripped their weapons a little tighter as he walked by — they were afraid of him and for good reason.

He was proud of himself. "Their fear will work in your favor," he muttered while walking by your side.

"Why?" You no longer had the energy to think.

He stopped abruptly, his eyes calling you an idiot. He closed the few inches between you, and your words fell on the floor. "You really are naive, aren't you?" he said, his voice harsh and low, the words a grating whisper against your skin. "If they don't fear me, they'll hunt you. Your father is not very popular around here." He backed away from you, his laughter mirthless and chilling. Then, he resumed walking down the hall, but you found yourself rooted to the spot. The realization hit you like a bucket of ice-cold water emptying down your back.

As he noticed that you weren't following him, he stopped, and a strange glimmer appeared in his light eyes. "I am not the one you should be concerned about," he said before walking back towards you until his lips scarcely brushed across your nose while hot breath fanned against your cheek. "Better hope Kni's goons don't come looking for an easy meal," he whispered, adding another fear to your collection.

A pool of emotions constricted your throat, leaving it clogged. Disgust, anger, and terror churned within you, at the thought of men taking advantage of your body while you were injured was sickening. Your stomach twisted in response, and it took all your self-control to hold back vomiting. "You would let that happen?" you whispered, your voice hoarse and strained.

He retreated an inch, observing your expression closely. You stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his soulless eyes. "Why should I stop them?" he asked, pausing for effect as a vicious grin spread across his lips. "You're just a leverage; soon enough, you'll be nothing."

You clung tightly to your composure, but your body shook with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. A tear slipped loose as his gloved hand brushed your jawline. "Stop crying," he ordered quietly. You obeyed, knowing that your survival depended on appeasing him.

"Good girl," he praised. Your rage boiled to the surface, but you bit your tongue. Fuck you.

As he brushed a finger lightly down your spine, leaving a trail of chills in his wake, you couldn't help but feel a sense of revulsion. You were trapped in his clutches.

"Don't worry, love. I'll be taking good care of you when they come sniffing," he murmured, offering a shred of hope you refused to cling to.

You snarled and glared at him through blurred vision. "And you'd be any better?" you hissed, challenging his twisted sense of morality. His values were as opaque as frosted glass.

Slowly, he straightened his spine and shot you a cryptic grin. "I guess there's only one way to find out. You want to try me?" he said before turning and walking away from you. The second the distance between you two grew, several more tears escaped, and once those were set loose, a flood followed. You couldn't bear the thought of staying in this place, of being used as a pawn or a plaything by the man and his associates. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you tried to stifle a sob, but it broke free anyway. You knew that you had to escape, that you would rather die trying than be passed from hand to hand like an object.

So you turned and started running.

You bolted down the hallway, your feet pounding against the cold, hard floor as you ran past the doors. You didn't know what you were doing or where you thought you could go, but all you knew was that you had to get away from this place, from this man and the perverts around him.

Your heart was racing, and your breath came in short gasps as you ran, fueled by adrenaline. You didn't know what lay ahead of you, but you knew it had to be better than what you left behind.

With no clear plan in mind, you pushed yourself to reach the front door, hoping it would provide an escape route. The only thing driving you forward was the hope that you could find a way out and away from the danger that lurked behind you.

His commands echoed off the walls, exploding in your eardrums with a deafening force. He didn't need to chase you. He had his men do the work for him. They were lining up before you, beside you, and behind you, forming a wall that seemed impenetrable, trapping you in this place of terror. You were surrounded, with no apparent outlet.

You couldn't breathe. You were spinning in a circle of your own stupidity, panicked, pained, petrified by the thought of what he was going to do to you against your will.

"Catch her," he said softly. "Don't you dare shoot her!" Silence had stuffed itself into every corner of this house. His voice was the only sound in the room.

One of his men stepped forward. Your eyes were flooding, and you squeezed them shut, then you pried them open and blinked back at the crowd. Every inch of your body was covered in pang. Your bones began to buckle, snapping in synchronicity with the beats of your heart. You crumbled to the floor, folding into yourself like a flimsy crepe. You felt so painfully exposed in this ragged gown.

"Don't—" you held up a tentative hand, pleading with your eyes, staring into the face of the man. "Please don't—" Your voice broke.

You were defenseless, with no protection. The man grabbed your arms, and your body tensed in response. "NO, NO, NO!" you gasped, struggling against his hold. Like a raging river, your blood surged through your veins, with waves of heat lapping against your bones.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through your veins, giving you a burst of energy and strength. Desperate to escape his grasp, you pushed yourself back and kicked his leg, hoping to create enough distance to break free. As he stumbled back, you saw an opportunity to reach for his gun.

You grabbed the weapon with a quick and decisive movement, feeling its weight in your hand. It was a risky move, but you were willing to do whatever it took to defend yourself. You held the gun at arm's length, pointing it at the man before you, hoping it would be enough to make him back off and give you a chance to escape.

Your triumph was short-lived as the man reacted quickly, moving in to tackle you. Your lungs constricted, and a wave of ice-cold cruelty washed over you.

Then everything happened so fast.

A shooting sound.

The man's weight fell on your petite frame, his body collapsing against yours. You struggled to breathe as the air was forced out of your lungs, and the gun slipped from your grasp.

Your screams echoed throughout the room as you tried to see past the sheet of tears that blurred your vision. You were hiccuping, hysterical, horrified by the frozen look on this man's face, his paralyzed lips wheezing gasps through his lungs. You broke free and stumbled backward.

The multitude of armed men behind you parted ways, their faces etched with shock and unfiltered terror.

"Somebody help him!" you screamed. "Somebody help him! He needs a doctor— he needs to be taken—he needs—he—oh—what have I done—"

You heard Vash calling your name.

"DON'T TOUCH ME—DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH ME—"

Vash was trying to comfort you, holding you together and smoothing back your hair. The tears continued to flow down your cheeks, and he was trying to wipe away your tears while you wanted nothing more than to lash out at him, to scream and murder him.

"You need to calm down—"

"HELP HIM!" you cried, falling to your knees, your eyes glued to the figure lying on the floor. The other men were creeping closer. "Please—you have to help him! Please—Vash!" His name rolled over your tongue, and for a second, you saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"Livio, Rollo—TAKE CARE OF THIS!" he shouted to his men before scooping you into his arms. Your skin was cold and clammy with sweat, your fingers trembling with disgust, your heart unable to withstand him.

Despite his strength, you felt a sense of powerlessness and vulnerability in his grasp. You wanted nothing more than to run as far away from him as possible, but your body was weak and trembling, unable to withstand the trauma and terror you had experienced.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" you cried desperately. Then the pain you had suppressed for so long finally crushed you. You broke, your body cracking from the pain you'd swallowed so many times, heaving with sobs you could no longer suppress, your dignity dissolving in your tears, the agony of the past weeks ripping your skin to shreds.

You cried out all the pain and fear you had been holding inside, the emotions ripping through you like the storm outside. You felt like you were being torn apart, piece by piece, as the memories of what had happened to you flooded back.

You couldn't even breathe. You couldn't catch the oxygen around you. You couldn't see or hear anything anymore, leaving you unable to perceive the world around you clearly. Your thoughts were scattered and jumbled, and you couldn't even be sure if you were still fully conscious. You wondered if you had finally lost your mind.

In the midst of this confusion, you found yourself lifted off the ground, feeling weightless. The world spun around you in a dizzying blur, making it difficult to keep your bearings. You were lost in a fog of uncertainty, unsure of what was happening to you or where you would end up.

You were a bag of feathers, a fragile crystal in his arms. Despite everything that had happened, his embrace felt warm and safe. You shouldn't want this so much. For now, you wanted to forget that you were supposed to hate him, that he kidnapped you, that he was here just because he wanted to use you against your father. But at the minute, you wanted nothing more than to forget all and just be held and comforted.

Your face was buried in the soft material of his shirt, and your cheek was pressed against the cross dangling on his chest. You had felt this before, but when you breathed in his scent, you smelled your mom's pancakes, joyful peals of laughter, and happy Sundays. The nostalgia of simpler times.

You tried to push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the warmth of his embrace and the sense of comfort that he provided. You didn't want him ever to let go of your body, but then the reality slapped you in the face, mortification muddled your brain, desperate humiliation clouded your judgment, red painted your face, and bled through your skin.

You clutched at his shirt, not letting go of the cross, your voice trembling as you spoke. "You can kill me," you told him, your fear and desperation evident in your words. "You have a gun!"

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he tightened his hold around your body, his face still stoic and impassive. However, you could see a sudden strain in his jaw and an unmistakable tension in his arms, indicating that your words had struck a nerve.

Despite your fear, a fiery sense of defiance rose within you. "Just kill me!" you pleaded. "My father—he—he doesn't care about me." you were numb, powerless all over again. "Please—"

The world went black before you could say anything else, and you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. The last thing you remembered was the sound of his voice, telling you something cold and emotionless.

This monster had no heart. Your father had eaten it.

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