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Virgilius readied the knife. And then, it plunged down into the heart. He wasn’t permitted the mercy of gunfire - it was too noisy, too loud, too easy. It was distant and impersonal, more than the small risk of waking anyone, and that was the true reason why he was denied it.
Hot blood splashed over his hands. By now, it didn’t faze him: everyone’s blood was the same. Everyone’s blood was equally red. And so, regardless of how little pleasure he took in it, he had become accustomed to murder. He had grown numb to the heat of someone’s life on his hands. He had adjusted to the fact that he would kill, over and over, for all eternity. Perhaps the audience would dwindle at times, but at others, he felt almost as though he could hear them cheering and screaming in his ears. They urged him to kill more messily, more violently, more bloodily - and if not, to at least cry out in pain and agony over his sorrows and regrets. They were sharks that feasted on spilled blood - but the blood needed to be flavored with such vivid emotions for them to truly savor the meal.
He withdrew the knife. More blood spurted out from the corpse. Tonight, he had been tasked to kill Eva. He didn’t question why. Everyone had been given drugs at dinner to make them sleep deeply, so that he could plunge the blade into her chest even while her husband slept in the same bed. There was some sort of theme tonight: Natsuhi and Kyrie were victims as well, as were Shannon, Genji, and Maria. He supposed it was something about loved ones dying while one slept on in blissful, damned ignorance.
Virgilius sighed. He didn’t have any particular attachment or dislike for any of his victims. At most, he found it distasteful to kill innocent children like Maria. He was annoyed by her insistence on the witch’s existence at times, but she was still a child. She hadn’t deserved this - no one had, except, perhaps, the witch who had summoned the curse upon the island.
He was always quick with his kills when allowed, but he knew the others well. They were probably still taking their time with Natsuhi and Kyrie, which was why he’d been tasked with killing the other three. With Eva finished, he had completed his tasks, and could rest for the night. He placed the bloodied knife in Hideyoshi’s hand, obeying the orders he had been given. The act didn’t merit even a grimace from him.
Virgilius washed his hands in the bathroom. As he lifted his head, he locked eyes with the person in the mirror. That person, with empty, apathetic eyes… Somehow, he thought they were pathetic. He was pathetic, dancing to the tune of a murderer, and even becoming one himself. And yet… There was nothing else he could do.
He returned to his room. He felt tired enough that he could have fallen asleep with his clothes on, and yet he decided to disrobe. Though it was chilly outside, the inside of the guest house was warm, and the blankets were thick. He had also grown to loathe the clothes lent to him by Krauss every gameboard. They were more than borrowed clothes: they were a uniform he wore as he was tormented, and tormented others in turn to avoid further suffering. They were a marker of the person he had become: someone who no longer believed in justice or ideals. The law could not touch Rokkenjima, and so it was an island without any solace for a man who had once dreamed of becoming a lawyer.
He slid the coat from his shoulders, finding it to be too heavy, and then began to unbutton the vest. He set both onto a dresser - empty, never to be properly used - and then sat down on the bed to untie and take off his shoes. They were slightly too large for him, and often led to irritating callouses, though of course they never lasted long. No injury inflicted on him ever lingered or healed. As the story of October 4th and 5th was always being retold anew, there was no need for any continuity for the bodies of its actors. Even the players only retained the memories of what had come before; there was no retention of any physical wounds.
Virgilius took off his ridiculous garters and loose leg warmers, and then his pants. The pants fit him well, but the slight tightness at the hips was uncomfortable for sleeping. He sighed before folding up the garments and walking over to the dresser, setting them alongside the rest of his clothes. Even with so much removed, however, he still had the One-Winged Eagle at his throat. He brought a hand to the offensive image. With how long he had lived here - if it could even be called ‘living’ - what difference was there between him and an Ushiromiya?
He wanted to tear the collar off. However, there was no way for him to do that. He lacked the strength. And so, he would remain within the cage: an animal taught that it was helpless would remain helpless forevermore, even when the shackles were removed. The marks still lingered, and so the animal did not dare to flee.
“...Are you watching?” he murmured. There was no response. Why would the audience reply to the words of a character on the stage? He laughed softly. He could never escape those eyes and ears.
Ever the obedient piece, he returned to the bed. With his job completed, there was nothing left for him to do but sleep and feign horror and shock in the morning. He settled his body beneath the covers. As always, the thick, heavy blankets seemed to imprison him in the bed. Rather than the weight being comforting, as it surely had once been for him, it was now a reminder of his current position and lack of power to fight it.
He let himself begin to drift into sleep, eyes closed. The dark room was empty, and yet it was full of spectators enjoying the ‘19th’ person on Rokkenjima. He was sure he would dream of past boards, muted by time and yet still vividly red. There was nothing on Rokkenjima but red and black. The ‘white’ of the human side had been blotted out long ago.
However, just as his consciousness was about to dissipate, there was a creaking sound. Heavy footsteps followed. Virgilius kept his breathing even, and his eyelids closed. Someone sat down on the bed, causing the bed to creak. A hand gently caressed his hair.
“...Beautiful,” Battler murmured.
Virgilius didn’t dare to make a single sound. He didn’t even allow his breath to hitch.
Lips pressed against his forehead: intimate, soft. “Mine. All mine,” he whispered. “My beloved.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he was already dreaming. In that case, he wanted to wake up. When Battler was gentle - the Battler who slaughtered his own family while laughing and cracking jokes, taking inordinate pleasure in every tormented sound - it was paradoxical. The Battler he knew was a cruel man, one who had forced Virgilius into absolute submission when they had first met, and even now used Virgilius’ body for his own whims and pleasure without any regard for Virgilius as anything remotely close to an ‘equal’. Virgilius was furniture for the sole use of the master of the island. There were no personal feelings, no declarations of love that were sincere and holy, no professions of adoration except for those directed at his physicality.
A sigh left Battler’s lips: something regretful, bitter. He settled himself into the bed, arms wrapping around Virgilius as if he was a lover and not a toy. “I still need to break you more,” he muttered. “So you won’t leave.” His grip tightened. “So you’ll be happy here.”
Virgilius couldn’t fathom leaving. He had met BATTLER once - the sorcerer who had saved the Golden Witch - and he had been uncomfortable in his presence. There was a Furudo Virgilius by that man’s side; he was also furniture, he was the property of a true witch, and yet he was treated so tenderly by his master that he had forgotten the bite of the whip. It was sickening; Virgilius had long ago forgotten how much he had longed for tenderness, and how he had deluded himself into thinking that the cuts littering his skin were love bites instead of knife wounds.
In a sense, he and Battler wanted the same thing: for Virgilius to become so entrenched in fantasy that he could be happy even in hell. However, for someone like Virgilius, whose nature was rooted in finding the truth, the magic of a witch was beyond him. Rather than using it himself, it was like a poison that needed to be administered by another - one that would destroy his very being, but that would allow a pale shadow of himself to live on.
Hot breath landed against Virgilius' cheek. “Riyu-chan,” Battler whispered. There was a moment of silence, and then he chuckled. “...If you're going to sleep so deeply…”
Battler pressed his lips to Virgilius', and when his tongue pressed against his lips, Virgilius opened them unthinkingly. His instinct was to be pliant, obedient, easy to take and use and plunder. He only realized when he swallowed that Battler had passed a pill from his own mouth to the other man's. The pill was small, but he had swallowed it dry, and it seemed to sit uncomfortably in his esophagus for a moment before sliding down.
Virgilius didn't need to use his rusty deduction skills to realize that it was the drug they had used on the Ushiromiya family at dinner. It was slow acting when crushed and mixed into food, but when directly given, the results were far more acute. Though it didn't work quite that fast, he still felt his eyelids becoming heavier, and his mind becoming foggier.
Battler laughed quietly to himself. “You get what you deserve. Looking so beautiful while you sleep,” he tugged on a lock of blue hair, eliciting nothing more than a soft exhale, “and making me get attached. You're supposed to just be a toy. My convenient accomplice.”
Battler palmed Virgilius’ cock through his boxers. He could feel the sensation, he could feel the desire to make sounds, to open his eyes, to ask Battler what the hell he was doing - but he couldn't even open his lips. He felt as though he was barely clinging to consciousness, teetering on the edge of the slumber he had previously merely pretended at.
“You’re so helpless that this doesn't change anything, does it?” Battler asked mockingly. “Riyu-chan… You're just a set of holes I use. The words and sounds that come out of you are just a pleasant addition.”
He slid his hand lower, squeezing the man's ass. Virgilius let out a pathetic sigh, hole clenching at the touch. He was never given the opportunity to consent, so he couldn't disagree with Battler's words. Whether he was asleep or awake, drugged or sober, chained or unfettered - he was there for his master's use. Any resistance was futile, and he was nothing more than a helpless, defanged animal with no recourse except submission. And… as much as Battler tormented him, as much as he was rough and violent with him - he had grown to love it. He loved the roughness, the humiliation, the carnal desire directed at him. It was simply that Battler lacked the sweet, tender intimacy needed to soothe him afterwards, the promises of love that Virgilius could hardly believe in but longed for regardless.
“You want it even now,” Battler taunted. “So perfectly trained for me…” He slid his hand beneath Virgilius’ boxers, a finger settling against his asshole. “I made you into such a slut, didn't I?”
He had. Virgilius had had a libido before, he'd had certain interests before, but Battler had made him into someone who could take pleasure in all sorts of filthy activities. He had made him into someone ready at a moment's notice to fuck in a room full of bloody corpses that had been living, screaming, desperate people mere minutes before. The Furudo Virgilius that had existed prior to Rokkenjima had been replaced with a depraved doppelganger, devoid of morals.
Battler pressed his finger further against the hole, so much so that a millimeter was within. “This is all you are now…” He withdrew his finger.
Virgilius could faintly hear Battler rummaging through his pockets, and something being uncapped. He cautiously tried to move his hand slightly. It responded to his orders, but sluggishly. He was sure that anything more than such slight movements would be impossible. There was an artificial exhaustion that he couldn't shake.
Battler's finger returned to Virgilius' asshole, though this time it was slick and cool to the touch. Virgilius shuddered as it slowly entered him. It was both a physical and mental reaction: he couldn't comprehend the care of it, the gentleness of it. Battler was never a considerate lover: his lube was blood, and his preparation was cruel words alone. And yet, even as he violated Virgilius in his ‘sleep’, he was exhibiting an uncharacteristic kindness. It was such a great disparity that he wondered if the culprit was incorrectly written. However, that wasn't possible. Battler would always test to ensure he was correctly written before beginning the night's play: whether it was a creature of fantasy or a human accomplice, he would use them as a test of his own ruthless cruelty.
This was the Battler that Virgilius knew, and yet…
“So good for me,” Battler murmured. He added another lube-drenched finger; Virgilius moaned, body responding with him helpless to stop it. His heart pounded in his chest, a siren warning him that he would be caught. “So eager for my cock.”
Battler's other hand brushed against Virgilius' cock. It twitched in response, blood rushing there to facilitate a growing erection. His body was reacting as it always did, but now he had no control over it - not that he'd had more than shreds of willpower and the illusion of control before.
Battler's breath hitched. “So eager,” he repeated, and then chuckled as he stroked his lover's length through the fabric. “Even when I'm so rough with you. Enough to make you break.”
He knew that. He knew that no matter what Battler did to him, he would end up enjoying it - except, perhaps, the debilitating agony of torturous, slow death. Virgilius could tolerate and even anticipate a swift death, a momentary release from the hell he inhabited, but there were a few things even he could not bear. However, the amount of things he tolerated or enjoyed were so many and so extreme that he wondered if he could even count as human. If he truly was nothing more than furniture that had been shown its place.
He loved Battler, and wished for that love to be requited. That was his tragedy.
Battler's fingers shifted slowly inside of him, a complete contradiction to the reckless and selfish fucking he usually received. Like this, he could almost complete the illusion of two lovers. Like this, he could almost imagine that Battler loved him back.
“You're clenching my fingers so tightly…” Battler remarked. He tapped the tip of Virgilius' cock with one finger. “Loosen up so I can fuck you already…”
Virgilius couldn't influence his body much, but he could still force his lungs to inhale and exhale deeply and slowly. Rather than obeying Battler because of the threat of imminent violence or punishment, he was choosing to do so due to his own desires. It was a strange phenomenon, one that only added to the unsettling atmosphere. Battler wasn't like this, and yet here he was, like this. It was as though an actor had stepped off the stage, and the cruel, arrogant villain had become a kind, considerate partner.
“Good boy,” Battler whispered - his voice remained low, soft, regardless of how sweet or how sharp his words were. It was as though the curtains had been drawn closed, and he was whispering to a fellow actor behind the stage in the darkness between scenes. “Just like that, Riyu-chan, so good for me -” He ran his fingers up and down Virgilius’ shaft, sending sparks of pleasure through his body.
Virgilius… wasn’t used to this sort of touch. It was overwhelming in a way that Battler’s rougher inclinations weren’t - or at least, no longer were to a toy who had become accustomed to them. Pain and pleasure had become entwined for him, so he could no longer easily accept pure pleasure. Even so, though Virgilius’ soul had been transformed, its vessel was the same. It responded to its master’s touch with muted, drowsy eagerness: quiet, halting moans and tiny twitches of his cock, hips moving forward to press himself closer to the bringer of such pleasant sensations. There was no room for resistance, even as his mind rebelled against the unfamiliarity of it all. His body still remembered the simple lovemaking he had long forgotten and wanted to reject.
He desperately wanted to beg for Battler to stop this. His gentleness was the most intense violence he had ever experienced; it did not afford him the numb, sweet dissociation of submission, of a non-human state, of being a piece of furniture, a toy, an object, a thing and not a person with his own will. He was forced to reckon with everything he wanted being provided, and knowing that it was no longer something he could accept but instead something that set him on edge and terrified him and made him want to run away.
However, his tongue was clumsy in his mouth, and his thoughts were half-formed, more a whirl of emotions than anything coherent enough to speak aloud. No matter how much Virgilius desired it, he could not raise a single objection. He lacked the ability to speak, let alone the power to push Battler away. Even if he could, however, what would it change? Battler had never respected Virgilius’ consent - or, far more often, the lack of it. He seemed to enjoy Virgilius’ protestations and insistence that he didn’t want it, didn’t enjoy it.
Battler moved his fingers around inside Virgilius’ hole one last time before slowly extricating them. “You don’t resist at all while you’re sleeping,” he marveled. He reached out with filthy, lube-coated fingers to cup Virgilius’ cheek. His thumb pressed against softly exhaling lips, which parted at the touch. “Haha. I wonder if this is the sort of crap you dream about?” His mocking words held no forceful bite. “So me actually fucking you isn’t so different from just dreaming about me doing it, is it?”
Virgilius didn’t respond, just as he had not responded to any of Battler’s other questions or remarks. However, it didn’t faze Battler. He wasn’t talking because he wanted Virgilius to answer. It was to satisfy his own selfishness. And so, another person wasn’t required. All Virgilius was required to do was to lie still, the immobile doll, and let himself be violated without complaint.
His master sighed; he’d been doing that far too much tonight. It could almost delude Virgilius into believing that he had some sort of regret. “You’re too different from Sayo,” he muttered. His hand trailed lower, fingers pressing against the One-Winged Eagle that Virgilius bore on his neck like a brand of ownership. “I made you into furniture, but whether you’ll truly be able to relish that fact…” He squeezed the fabric tightly. “...You will,” he promised. He let go of the Eagle that could not be tarnished. “You’re close enough to it, Riyu-chan.”
Another sigh escaped Battler’s lips. Virgilius couldn’t comprehend his words. Battler didn’t care for Virgilius’ happiness or suffering beyond how much it could entertain him. He cared for whatever powerful emotion he could draw out of Virgilius, whatever emotion would cause the man to cry out the most. And, ordinarily, that was Virgilius’ suffering, pain, and sorrow. It was reducing him to a mewling pulp that could only beg for its master’s mercy and obey every word with stupid, clumsy incompetence.
Slick, wet sounds, alongside a soft groan, replaced the sighs. “Haah… So handsome,” he praised. He moved Virgilius further back onto the pillows and spread his legs open. Compared to Battler’s strong yet gentle grip, Virgilius’ unresponsive, slumber-paralyzed limbs were like a posable doll’s. He tugged Virgilius’ boxers down to mid-thigh.
He had no choice in this, except perhaps that if he wanted to, he could stop clinging to his last vestiges of consciousness and let Battler have what he wanted: a sleeping, unknowing object for him to fuck and play out whatever sick fantasy he desired tonight. However, Virgilius didn’t desire to do that. As unsettling as this was, to further give up control would be even worse. And, besides that… He did want to indulge in a fantasy of his own. If Battler’s actions, at least at the moment, allowed him to pretend that the other man loved him… It would be a painful dream to wake from. But it was one he stupidly sought out nevertheless.
“I really won’t ever tire of taking you,” Battler’s hands pressed down against his chest, “I’m sure you despise me for that.”
The head of his cock, slathered with lube, slipped inside of Virgilius easily. Battler groaned as Virgilius’ ass clenched down around even just the cockhead, hungry for more of the sensual, sweet pleasure. It had received just a small taste of it tonight, but now it was desperate for more. Battler slid into Virgilius fully, cock entering him centimeter by centimeter with a slowness that in its gentleness was agonizingly pleasurable. Virgilius’ body shuddered, brought to completion by that alone. He was needy and sensitive and overwrought with desires that had been held back and suppressed for so long that to fulfill them was no little death, but a grand one, one that had him melting completely into the warm rush of it.
Battler was still, though his fingers gripped the thin fabric of Virgilius’ shirt. “You…” He was at a loss for words. Virgilius’ come was on the bed, the boxers, Virgilius himself. His eyes could not open, but his traitorously loose mouth let out low, pathetic moans. “So beautiful,” he murmured, and pressed his lips to Virgilius’ with the desperation of a man on the verge of death. “My beloved, my dearest, all mine,” he insisted, voice turning from a lover’s softness to a monster’s growl. “How am I supposed to resist you?”
A shuddering breath left Battler’s lips, the heat pressing against Virgilius’ mouth. He gently rocked back and forth inside Virgilius as his arms moved from pressing him down to wrapping around him, holding the other man tight like a treasure that needed protection. “With a slutty body like that,” Battler whispered into his ear, “How didn’t you expect what I would do with you?”
A whine, pleading and desperate, crawled out of Virgilius’ throat. His spent cock was beginning to harden once more, but his body was sensitive in spite of its greedy wish for more. He wanted Battler to embrace him like this, spoil him like this, and call out such saccharine endearments that he would choke to death on them. He thought he might die from the shock of it all, from the wrongness of it all: he had been fed coppery, bitter blood for so long that the sweetness of wine was indigestible for his transformed body. Battler was bringing the cup to his lips again and again, asking him to swallow where before he had poured gallons of blood down his throat, and what could Virgilius do but say yes?
Battler’s steady, gentle rockings slowly picked up the pace, turning from tender lovemaking to an act of restrained lust. “Fuck, it's too good,” he muttered, syllables drawn out by heavy, panting breaths. “You're perfect for me, Riyu-chan,” he thrust into him, pressing him against the pillows, body unable to brace itself. “My beloved furniture that fits me perfectly. So beautiful and broken for me,” he thrust into him again, even as it made Virgilius whimper in his ‘sleep’, body overwhelmed as the nerves buzzed with far too much sensation.
He knew he had been broken down to fit Battler's needs perfectly. From the very start, Battler had seen every aspect of him that was filthy and wretched, and had drawn it out of him until it was all he could be. He had been molded perfectly not only to his master's cock, but to his preferences. He obeyed his master's expectations, accepted his barbed praise, and nodded his head when he was called a whore, a slut, a piece of useless furniture only good for being fucked in every hole. However, the praise he was receiving now held no double edge, no shame, no desire to take control. Rather than the Battler who dominated with his every move, this dream-like, gentler Battler was settled in his position.
Battler thrust into him again and again, holding him tightly as he rutted into him, hot groans landing against his cheek and ear. Even with the lube, it was still rough enough that he was sure he'd be sore later. His body thrummed with pleasure as he was taken over and over: not in an act of dominance, but one of a lover's desire for him. Virgilius hadn't felt as though he was truly desirable, truly attractive, in a long time. He was fuckable, but that was different: he was a convenient body, called epithets like ‘pretty’ not to compliment his appearance but to demean him and reward his submissive obedience. But right now, just in this moment with this Battler who was and was not his, he was handsome, beautiful, desired, beloved. He wasn't human, he could never be human again, but he was as close as furniture could come to it.
It was a soul-deep ecstasy, addicting in spite of how fleeting the indulgence was. Virgilius’ mind could barely form thoughts, even as his body was flooded with pleasure it was helpless to resist. He moaned and shuddered, soft and slight as his sleep-subdued reactions were, and it still seemed to urge Battler on. His cock twitched as his pleasure peaked again, body trembling and inhuman whimpers escaping, as though his intellect was dribbling out of his mouth. He didn't need anything but this. And yet, he knew that he would vomit the forbidden fruit back out soon enough, no matter how delicious it was.
Battler's thrusts had become more desperate, more wild. He was seeking his own release, drunk with lust that had overtaken whatever strange, gentle mood he'd been possessed with. The fact that Virgilius had come again didn't escape him.
“So, so beautiful,” Battler's words were almost lost amidst rough pants, “Virgilius, my partner in hell, I love you, ahaha, ahahahaaaa…”
He laughed, and then that laughter turned into a moan as he came, hands squeezing his lover as he pressed his lips to his, silencing the shameful moan. Virgilius felt Battler's seed inside of him, hot and thick, and was weighed down by it, marked by it. He was a receptacle for his master's whims, be they cruel or kind. He had almost forgotten that, and yet -
“Haha…” Battler chuckled as he caught his breath. “I got carried away.” He sighed and pressed tender kisses along the neck he so often choked the breath out of. “You liked it anyway, though… Of course you do, whore.” The insult was delivered so softly, so regretfully, so weakly, that it felt like a pale imitation of the usual humiliating fare.
“When you wake up…” Battler's hand stroked Virgilius’ thigh. “You'll be so angry with me, and I'll punish you for it…” Without emotion, he presented the next day as a script to be played out. “I'll summon a few demons to toy with you, and at midnight, you'll beg for me to use you. I'll deny you. And in the next forgery, I'll…” He sighed, hand slipping away.
Battler was silent. Virgilius couldn't ask him about the next part of the story, though he desperately wanted to know. He wanted to know what would be done to him. However, the drug was too powerful for that. He could barely cling to consciousness, and even that was starting to fade.
Battler kissed Virgilius softly. “I'll do this again sometime,” he promised, voice quiet. A promise to a person who was not meant to hear it. A promise to himself.
Battler's cock slipped out of him, and with that, Virgilius finally began to fall into sleep. No matter how he struggled to stay awake, the pull was too strong for him. He wasn't allowed to linger for even one moment longer.
He wasn't allowed to enjoy the illusion as the clock struck midnight.
Virgilius woke up slowly in the morning, memories seeping into his awareness like hazy dreams. He carefully checked his body: his soreness, the dried fluids, the stains on his underwear and on the sheets. He covered his face with his hands. He didn't want to remember this. He didn't want to be aware of this.
If, behind the curtain, the Battler who was so cruel to him was hoping that he would finally completely break, completely surrender, and be able to find happiness in his current state… How could Virgilius go on, knowing that there was such a venomous ‘kindness’ behind those dismissive eyes? He shuddered, tears wetting his hands. He couldn't bear it. He had tasted the forbidden fruit of knowledge, and it was too heavy to bear.
Virgilius got out of bed, shambling over to the dresser. He opened the top drawer. Rather than clothes, a blade was within. He took it out, looking at his reflection in the mirror. It was a small rebellion: a ruin of the precious first twilight, and a violation of the script that the audience was anticipating. He smiled at his reflection with teary, red eyes.
“...Are you watching?” he hissed.
Whether they were or weren't didn't matter. The knife slid into his neck. And the story -
Was discarded along with the memories he could not accept.