𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒐𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒈𝒖𝒏
pairings ; lohen x reader synopsis ; As an Executive within the Fatui, you've been tasked with infiltrating an illegal auction in Nod-Krai and retrieving its token sale of the night as per your Second Harbinger's orders. How odd that you've now awoken to a dark room, with your limbs tied, pride dismantled, and an unnerving, mint-haired boy pointing a gun to your head. notes ; i'm late i'm late !!! i know i'm sorry. i've not stopped thinking about this trailer since it dropped and had to delay my other works to get this one out. no regrets though, i hope everybody's lohen pulls went well and that you enjoy more endearingly creepy lohen <3 he turns into a bit of a sicko (more than normal) at the end of this one, and also part 2 is on the way c: tags + warnings ; dub con | AFAB reader | violence | explicit | gun play | teasing | russian roulette | dumbification in a way?? | power imbalance | pet names | no explicit smut until chap 2 (yes it's confirmed :>) word count ; 6.5k
You weren't sure how long you'd been out.
Several hours? A day? More? You hoped it'd only been minutes—prayed, because if it had been any longer, you'd be in serious trouble.
Which was beyond irritating, because the escapade you'd been promised would be short and tooth-rottingly sweet, had ended up anything but.
When you'd joined the Fatui seven years ago under the pretence of a talented warrior with a determination for vengeance (despite actually only being a bored teen searching for enough Mora to keep you breathing), you hadn't expected to have been roped into such an esteemed rank of the institution in so little time. With no previous, up-front knowledge of violence bar what you'd become accustomed to within monstrous tales growing up, you'd been appointed Vice Executive overlooking the Department of Combat within the Fatui.
Maybe it had been because of your unusual demeanour. For a fifteen year old, you were particularly headstrong. Though you'd been young and orphaned, pathetic and emotional when you'd enrolled, many had mistaken you for naive as well—a weighted mistake, indeed. To call you naive, in your mind, was like them begging directly for death; hands clasped tightly together, kneeling at your feet beneath your brutal, murderous stare as if you're the Reaper who could grant them their demise, because—even if you were only fifteen—how dare they assume you clueless?
Every belittling comment infuriated you, and your anger was best taken out on the first of many battlefields.
You, thankfully, were a natural. You possessed an innate affinity for conflict; one which proved, despite your age, amazingly useful in the Fatui's missions. Your fellow subordinates grew to rely on your wit alone; awaited your orders patiently because you always knew exactly where to lay that snare, which paths to avoid, when to rally the troops, and when to discharge them.
In the span of five months, you'd gone from answering to your superior without unnecessary complaint, to working alongside them with equal brutality and will—perhaps, scarily, even more. The subordinates who had once taunted and prodded at you for your age, would now polish the dirt from your boots, silent with regret. Of course, you grew to adore it; adapted over the years to suit the description of the Fatui's ideal soldier; allowed your youthful innocence to be stripped bare and fed to the wolves, whom you so delighted in pleasing.
Yes, you'd been somewhat of a child prodigy in the Fatui, which now, seven years later, saw you dispatched on countless of grim missions that, really, you thrived in—like this one.
It was a simple heist: infiltrate one of Nod-Krai's illegal underground auctions and rob them of their token sale of the night (and their pride in the meantime, as an added bonus). Your target was a Fontainian slaughter machine, said to eliminate foes with beastly precision and leave no trace of mercy in its wake—Archons knew what the Second Harbinger wanted with that.
(On second thought, you could hazard a guess.)
It hadn't been until you arrived and caught wind of the identities of the attendees and hosts who were so infamous in the underground scene, even you had heard of them before, that you realised your mission wasn't simple at all. These were criminals at the top of the food chain you were dealing with! Perhaps, when your leading Officer had explained your task, he meant it as easy for you, and you alone.
This only worked to frustrate you more, with your assignment hijacked, limbs restrained and eyesight stolen because, fuck, if it weren't for whoever this loser is who'd kidnapped you, it would've actually been a breeze!
You don't hear much. A black fabric, itchy and thick, is tied in a skilful knot behind your skull, concealing your whereabouts from view and forcing you to rely on your secondary senses instead. Your head spins like you've been tossed side to side vigorously, most likely a lingering effect of whatever your kidnapper had drugged you with, but at least the darkness offers some semblance of mercy in allowing you to balance yourself and control the urge to vomit.
So far, you've kicked and punched, squirmed and tugged at whatever your hands and feet could find purchase on, sadly to no avail. There's little to do in this position—a position you aren't so accustomed to at all. You'd always been the one standing at the foot of the chair, wielding a bloodied knife as whoever your unlucky victim is squirms like a fish in exactly the way you are doing so now. (The image makes you cringe and you immediately stop moving.)
Frankly, you're worried your boredom alone might send you into psychosis, though on the bright side, it does make you realise first-hand how effective of a tactic it would be to leave your future victims like this just to get them to talk.
Huh. Very useful.
In the silence that wraps its claws around your throat, all you can do is think, though you're not sure if that actually worsens the situation. How in Teyvat had someone managed to catch you off guard? They must be highly trained—perhaps an assassin of sorts, though if that were so, why were you still living with your flesh unharmed and heart intact?
Maybe one of the auction's guards? No, no way would one of their lackeys ever get the better of you. You'd studied their mannerisms prior to invasion on their base and knew every little detail; from the training they'd followed for years up until now, to where their armour and weaponry had been originally sourced. Besides, kidnapping and drugs? That wasn't their style—they much preferred brute force if they were to ever catch an intruder.
Irked, you rack your thoughts and mind for any minute hint available. Before it'd happened, you'd first laid eyes on your target; approached the contained box with expert stealth, until a rough toss and tumble by the unexpected perpetrator had the consciousness then robbed from your system, sooty ashes clouding the depths of your vision until you'd awoken somewhere cold and lonely.
So... someone else more cunning? Is it a challenge from your leading Officer? Or another heist which had interrupted yours on accident? A total, embarrassing shut-down by the Curatorium of Secrets? Nod-Krai's police force? A Knight?
For a long, annoying while, you're stuck, with ideas buzzing round your mind like a bothersome gnat too fast to squish—until finally, finally, you hear movement. A lock is switched open, clicking deafeningly through the quiet of the room. In trods a pair of footsteps, slow and methodical, like whoever it is is assessing the space before anything else. Hm, so you're dealing with someone sentient. How annoying. They're likely to remain quiet and give little away to your strained ears.
Then, it's like your assumptions are dismissed with a simple flick of the hand, clearing the foggy smoke of your thoughts as the individual begins to hum. The melody is cheerful and delicate, one you'd mistake for a ballad you'd hear in childhood—mistake because there's something uncanny about it. A chord progression in minor key. Something uncomfortable, that collars you with a chain and tugs until you're hooked at the edge of your seat even as anticipation grows and you feel danger near. It keeps you rooted in place, vulnerable to stop it closing in until you're crushed between Death's jaws.
Either that, or your kidnapper was incredibly horrible at maintaining the correct notes. You hope for your sake the latter is truer.
You hear shuffling; piled papers, the uncontrolled rolling of metallic objects across wood, the clinking of crystal glass, the tell-tale unsheathing of a blade. You don't flinch, no matter how loud your body screams at you to. You were trained for this; it's fine.
You won't die.
Maybe only bleed.
Somehow (in your mild panic), the darkness seems to expand, like an oil cloud over your senses. You think if it grows any thicker, your trachea will be breached, ghostly gloom would swell inside, and you'd choke. Maybe it's a warning from some divine intervention, to be a little more wary of this man since he'd already proven himself different to the rest? Funny—it feels more akin to a taunt, because what in Teyvat could you possibly do now?
Then, just as you believe the darkness may swallow you whole, there's an effulgent light, like an angel offering you their hand of mercy.
If said angel had fallen and bore the title Lucifer, who would grip your hand tight as they drag you to the rotten pits of Hell with them.
The man is careless in the way he removes your blindfold. He begins slow, a sharp tip akin to a needle pressed to the space between your eyebrows. You would've winced as the moonlight's lustre seeps into your vision and has you wanting to cringe away to adjust, had your breath not threatened to remain wedged in your throat due to worries of higher concern. You're eye to eye with his sterling blade, a mere millimetre away from piercing the irises you most certainly need.
The weapon's curved tip hooks to the fabric; roughly peels the blindfold from your eyes to hang loosely around your neck like a bandana (or a noose), and you want to complain that he could've nicked your skin with that daft thing, though you're not sure he appeared the type to care.
You don't recognise the man; not even when the flat edge of the knife is tapped lightly against the supple flesh of your cheek twice—solely for your attention—and he pulls back into the ardent beams of the moon, allowing for a clearer image of his face.
Well, you'd been right about one thing. Without a doubt in your mind, this man has to be a Knight of sorts. If you were to guess, you would bet on Favonius. He's all royal indigos and oceanic teals; with leather boots adorned in burnished gems and a crisp ivory dress shirt tucked into the hem of his trousers. He's less groomed compared to what you've heard about the Knights of Favonius—younger, too, with mint, windswept bangs that frame the face of unusually delicate porcelain.
You're aware Mondstadt's factions had stationed themselves in the chilly lands of Nod-Krai for almost a year now, marshalled boldly by the fierce Grandmaster you'd only ever heard tales about. It came as no surprise that they must've also caught wind of the illegal auction under the very roots they patrolled, and sent some of their best knights to disband it.
That much made sense, of course. What leaves you a little more perplexed is that you'd worked so hard to conceal your true identity; it was a top priority in every mission you undertook, to remain obscure in the shadows and never let slip what organisation commanded you like a puppet. There is absolutely no way your kidnapper has a clue who you are.
It begs the question—what did he want with you?
You're dragged away from your thoughts as he spins the weapon between deft fingers and grins, wide and maniacal, with a derisive chuckle.
"Oh! You're actually conscious! Impressive." His stare is brutally analytical—up, then down, then up again, criticising your whole body. It gives you the impression he'd fancy drugging you further to investigate just how much more you can take.
You're not a fan of the idea.
He doesn't regard you directly for long, already distracted by several of the trinkets scattered across the dented oak workbench stained in all sorts of matter your stomach churns to think about. You can't place what room you're in, despite having studied the auction's layout prior. With the space's minimal light, you don't have much to work off of either.
You think it may be a storage room. Along the slate walls lavished in cracks and peeling paint, there are lines of shelves, piled high with chests and boxes and technological compartments you don't even recognise. Tables are dotted sporadically around the room, an assortment of trash and discarded tidbits sprawled across them in a manner of chaos. There's only one door ahead of where your captor stands; a single escape route. Oh well. You suppose a little challenge never thwarted your fun before.
He's probably noticed your critical evaluation of the room, because he makes a show of drawing your attention away from your formulating escape plan to the pistol now clutched between his fingertips. With a flick of the wrist, the gun is twirled around his index finger, eyes locked onto yours with frightening intensity—before his shoulders vibrate with the force of his child-like giggle, and his form is lost to the shadows of the deeper part of the room where moonlight dare not touch.
Your eyes squint, only slightly unnerved because you won't allow yourself to feel any more than that.
Which is odd because, when he speaks again, you flinch like prey backed into a corner.
"The dosage I gave you is a combination of Sombus Resin, Chloroform and grounded Sumerian Padisarah. Mixing their contents produces a desired sedative effect strong enough to knock out, hell, a Saurian!" Even with his back turned and concealed by the darkness, you know he's smiling sickly. "Pretty sweet, right? My own design—though somehow, it doesn't apply to you."
He pauses, and you know there are eyes on you. Perceptive, calculating; a glance over his shoulder to study your form, like you're a butterfly pinned to his board, scrutinised beneath a glass prison.
He hums once, and you despise how the first thing you note within the dimness of the space is the wicked grin he fixes you—fascinated, but cold like Snezhnayan ice. "Guess you're one tough cookie to crack, huh? I don't mind. It's a lot more satisfying this way."
"Who are you?" Beneath the restraints, your limbs twitch, aching for freedom. Your words taste slightly sour on your tongue, as if you already knew they'd be pointless, and he tuts sympathetically.
The magazine on his gun suddenly releases across the table, sending ammunition scattering loudly across the surface. You recognise the glint of one of the bullets he grabs, tossed carelessly in the air, before it's caught and housed cosily back into the pistol's magazine, a familiar click! as it's closed into place.
A click representing your most likely fate, even if there is only one bullet. You swallow as he laughs.
"Oh, no, no, sweet thing! That isn't how this is gonna go. Surely you're clever enough to know the reason you're here, right, lovely?" His footsteps are heavy as he stalks the room, but his voice is light and airy before he sighs. "Well, if not—as adorable as it is when you act all naive—I suppose I'll indulge you. You're here to answer me. The little auction you're guarding is my duty to shut down, and if I'm to make it back before sunrise, I'll need a fewww little boosters to get me going."
Outside, a crow screams and takes flight as if someone has aimed a bullet its way. So you are likely on the East border of the facility, adjacent to the forested area of Dreadshade Mire. It doesn't help much in putting your whereabouts entirely into perspective, especially when your mind is more focused on relating to the bird, the only difference being you are tethered to the branch.
"So, I ask and you talk, capiche? Unless you want your pretty brains splattered all across this room." You think he might've laughed after that, though it comes out more akin to a pleased hum. It's probable the sick bastard is taking perverse pleasure in the image (you ignore how well you're accustomed to the feeling too, when you aren't the victim in the firing line).
There's a bitter taste on the tip of your tongue; it lingers like spoiled milk, clings to your taste buds like the leaves in Erinnyes Forest to a branch during a merciless Winter storm. It's something you can't quite place your thoughts on, like you'd met this boy before, though that is impossible.
Ah. Of course.
You knew of a man like this already. Battle-hungry, deadly, an insatiable lust for fresh blood splatter, to rip the flesh right from their opponent's neck themselves and bathe in the crimson streams it produced.
Yes, this man was much alike to your notorious Eleventh Fatui Harbinger.
Notorious in such ways for developing a reputation that warned others to maintain a clear distance, lest they want to lose their lives.
Huh. It was likely the same could be said for the individual who currently had you tied to a chair and a gun twirling around a lithe finger as if it were nothing more than a toy. Perhaps you are more screwed than you initially thought.
You swallow, throat dry.
Then finally, his form prowls towards you. You don't understand how, but his eyes appear to glow, even when concealed by the shadows. They're irises of iridescent crimson, that remind you of the Devil that creeps among the citizens of Teyvat and drags its claws along vulnerable napes like your own right now. The man is so uncanny in this view, so alien, you briefly wonder if he's human at all.
"I suppose the only question now is—" Moonlight seeps across his face again as he steps into view, brandishing a rusted, traditional stopwatch in his left hand, and the pistol, loaded with a single bullet, in his right. "—are you going to cooperate?"
What is he playing at?
When you furrow your eyebrows, his finger slips, starting the timer that only leaks dread like a vapour into your lungs. For him, it is probably a countdown of how long you have left to breathe. For you, it is a countdown of how long you have left to escape.
You most certainly won't go down without a fight.
You huff as he tosses the stopwatch to the table, unflinching now that magenta eyes, glued to your body like a magnet to steel, had your hackles raised and shields braced. Your laughter that follows is amused, but your expression is one of fatal deadpan.
"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not the guard you're looking for." The man only cocks his head, eyes narrowed in an effort to search you for a crack in the truth.
"Hmm? No?"
"No. I'm here to infiltrate, much like you!" Your tone is unnaturally jolly compared to the horrific tension of the situation, akin to somebody who'd tell a joke at a funeral. "Until somebody drugged me unconscious and dragged me away from my mission. Oh well! Mistakes happen, don't they? I'd be willing to forgive and forget if you could loosen the restraints and let me get on with it."
To emphasise your discomfort, you tug against the rope ensnaring your wrist to the chair, beaming with so much faux enthusiasm, you think it may drain your energy to uphold it for any longer. The man snickers like a petulant child, and your smile almost does drop.
"How do I know you aren't lying to me, huh?" You expect his cadence to be suspicious and concerned because, wow, how you must've sent his plans spiralling! Instead, he is frustratingly, and confusingly, calm, with a simple smile on his pale, scarred lips. You almost wonder if smacking him would be enough to rid him of the expression, or if it'll remain afterwards to taunt you.
"Isn't it obvious?" You bite back, with a little less of the feigned eagerness you had previously. "You tackled me as I was approaching my own target. I was doing anything but guarding."
"Funny. It looked like you were patrolling to me." The simple smile has morphed into a shit-eating grin, that tells you everything you need to know—he's lying, and using it to mock you. Bastard knight.
You're about to spit a curse when he takes a step towards you, reminding you of the weapon still gripped carelessly in his fingers and forcing you to hold your tongue for a moment. The second he realises it's caught your attention again, his index finger curls around the trigger in silent warning.
Did he want you to yield? For what reason? It still made no sense to you why he'd want to hold you captive; if he was clever, he would've released you the moment you informed him of his fault, in order to give himself as much time as possible to find somebody else to interrogate. You despise how cryptic he is more than anything.
You're talented when it comes to reading others, but you were truly struggling with this one, and you hate it.
So, you propose a deal, because bargaining is your next best asset.
"You're a Knight of Favonius, aren't you? You want the auction disbanded and the big sale of the night impounded." He raises an eyebrow, as if amused you're still trying.
"Clever girl. What gave it away?" Truthfully, if it hadn't been for the uniform, you wouldn't have a clue who this man works for. It's strange and unnerving, and if you think about it for a little too long, your skin would start to prickle and your thoughts would spiral into panic.
For a Knight, he's incredibly utilitarian. He hadn't sugarcoated your situation; instead, he appears fond of unorthodox means to obtain necessary information, at the expense of traumatising the citizens you know that silly Favonius oath had him promising to protect.
You'd never been fond of the Knights and their snobbish chivalry, even if this one has the chivalry of a whore house regular. It's especially obvious in the way he stalks you now; each passing second of your silence an opportunity for him to close in on you with calculated footsteps.
Yes, if not for the uniform, you wouldn't pin him to be a Knight at all. He's more of a Harbinger, if anything. You could make that comparison well.
"Intuition." You lie, avoiding his eyes. He grins. "With my help, you can clear the facility in half the time. There's details I know which will speed things along for you massively. Let me go and arrest as many guards as your heart desires, and I'll deal with the cargo."
There—the bait had been casted. There's no reason for him to refuse when your offer reaps more benefits than drawbacks; you'd even gone to the effort of presenting it to him on a polished silver platter, served alongside treats and delicacies of whatever the fuck he wanted. All there is to do now is wait for him to bite.
"Are you striking a deal with me?" The way he tilts his head reminds you of a puppy, but the expression of sheer sympathy as he regards you from above feels much more similar to a starved wolf.
You're hyperaware of how close your captor draws. Every centimetre; every step; every breath taken is noted, until he stands within an arms-length of distance from you. This close, your eyes can trace each scar drawn across the expanse of his wrists not concealed by his gloves; how they dip and dive between mauve veins and pattern all the way up to his neck, peeking from behind the smooth, leather choker.
You're also painfully aware of how the pistol is raised above his hip, aimed at your skull, and how your heart pounds beneath your ribcage like a beast demanding freedom.
"Yes." The word is short, but it feels like it's lasted a lifetime before the man utters a response.
"Cute, but no, thank you. I have my own plans for the selling device." Something sinister shifts in both the way he looks at you, and the tone he speaks in. "And you."
As if to clarify his point, the barrel of the gun is pushed firmly to your temple. The metal is cool, though you still feel like it may scald you with its promise; a permanent brand fixing your fate in place, and all of a sudden, your situation feels far too real.
Your ankles twitch against the rope restricting them; your body's instinctive plea to run, but, of course, you can't. Poker face, [name]. It would be disastrous to let slip he is succeeding in worming his way beneath your skin.
"Besides, it seems I've hit the jackpot!" He exclaims with eyes that twinkle like the embers of a forest fire. Eyes that delight in the carnage, and bore through your skull because he wants to see you on fire next. "By the sounds of it, you know far more than any of the regular guards of the auction. You're a lot more prepared than me in that respect. It makes me wonder who you answer to."
There's a frigid breeze from the open window, which bites at your cheeks and nestles beneath your hair. You find it as comforting as it is jarring, since the cold is far more welcoming than where you are sat now. Your captor cocks his head above you, ever so keen on analysing you. His mien is fox-like and devilish, like he's discovered a missing puzzle piece that fits what once was foggy and ambiguous together flawlessly.
Like he already knows the answer to his query.
"My father is a merchant—"
"Don't lie to me." You're silent instantly—stunned by his speed and tone, void of his previous humour. For the first time in your life, you tremble, electricity weaving up your spine like a python. It settles at your nape, curls itself around your throat and constricts your airway until you're paralysed enough for it to strike.
How could he tell you weren't telling the truth? It isn't possible—you'd mastered the art of deception; knew of every little trick that had never failed you until now. Something was undeniably, horrifically wrong.
"Well? If I wanted you silent, I'd gag you." That monstrous gleam in his eye tells you he still plans on it eventually, anyway, but you'd sooner bite off each of his fingers before you allow him the opportunity. He sighs and presses the metal a little more harshly to your head. "No? Nothing? Don't tell me I've broken your pretty mind already."
He whines obnoxiously, shoulders slumping in an effort to exaggerate the pathetic pout on his lips. You think you may develop whiplash at how fast he seems to switch attitudes—from sullen, aggravating child to demented, terrifying murderer, and then back again. Perhaps it's a tactic, because it certainly makes your head spin with nausea, and distracts you momentarily from his figure slipping past you.
He circles your chair like a predator; a wolf enclosing a lamb. The gun remains lodged to your temple, until he's positioned directly behind you, and only then does he tauntingly drag the barrel through the strands of your hair, aim orbiting your skull like a thorned crown.
"Hm. Well, I guess I'll start off by crossing out the obvious. You're no Knight, are you?" He trails the metal mouth behind your ear, its coolness kissing your lobe with contrasting gentleness. "You have the insightfulness of an assassin, but your aim is the machine for sale tonight rather than a human target. A treasure hoarder, maybe?"
You flinch with the addition of pressure to your shoulder; slender fingers clawing their way into your flesh like a vice. He taps your collarbone once, before he snorts rudely. "Nah, you aren't sloppy enough. You've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you, dovey? You're clever."
Your chest tightens with each boastful murmur, and you're worried that it may reduce the space for your lungs to expand adequately. Each syllable penetrates your skin like a gunshot already, there's no need for the very real pistol to be used as well.
As if you'd spoken your thoughts aloud, the barrel is pulled away to prod at your thin scarf; worn, ragged and as scarlet red as the eyes glowing down at you, and the blood they wish to harvest from your veins. "You don't wear a uniform, and because you're a smart girl, that means you have one, but choose not to wear it. How am I doing?"
Your shoulder is released, and by the time he rounds to your front again, he's sporting the most conceited grin you've ever laid eyes upon.
You bite your tongue and fix him with a furious scowl instead of offering him the courtesy of a worded response.
"I'd pin you for one of Miss Nefer's girls, but that's not right either, is it?" Just when you think he's about to continue his pursuit around the room, his form pauses, steady and domineering in front of you. Your scowl doesn't hold out for as long as you hoped it to, his own expression so perverse, basking in your discomfort as he unravels your identity like a threaded stitch, you have to look down. "No. There's something else there."
His weapon traces your jawline like a lover's caress, and tilts your chin upwards to lock your gaze in place. "Darkness. Just like mine, hm?"
He coos, leaning over to inch his face closer to yours, pupils dilated into lifeless onyx pearls—black holes that absorb your dismay hungrily—before his smile turns wicked again, his eyes widen and he clicks his tongue like he's ready to reveal something he's known all along.
"Oh! I think I've got it!"
Steel braces against your pulse point.
"The Fatui?" And your heart stops (at least you hope it has).
He purrs like a cat, delight trickling down his chin in the manner of insatiable wine, and his eyes narrow, crimson illuminating like rubies despite the shadows casting overhead. His smirk is lazy and deceptive. "How immoral."
For a short moment, you're convinced he winces, eyes narrowed into slits as a faraway thought consumes him—one you hope doesn't involve you and death. It vanishes as soon as you notice it, and you don't waste energy on decrypting its meaning; not when his index finger twitches against the trigger because of the memory, and your pulse spikes like a parasite beneath your flesh. Not a fan of the Fatui then, huh? You don't necessarily blame him—not many are.
It is exactly why your enemies aren't supposed to know who you are.
You think he may answer your wishes and pull the trigger, but surprisingly, he's shrugging and pulling both the pistol, and himself, away. He saunters towards the table as if he has all the time in the world, gloved fingers sliding across the chipped oak while he taps the muzzle against his chin in exaggerated thought. "Well, you Fatui are an open-minded bunch, right? How do you feel about a little game?"
You've misheard him. Surely.
"A game?" Your response is resentful; barely comprehensible behind your gritted teeth. "Why would I ever want to play a game with you?"
"Ah—sorry." He grins impishly. "That was rhetorical. You don't actually have a choice."
You lunge instinctively, tired of being the ant who's poked at and taunted with a stick, only to instantly recoil against your seat, skin stinging where the rope's teeth bite at your flesh. He laughs, wild and unashamed, because he most certainly had been waiting for a reaction, and now you'd just given it to him without challenge and informed him of how well his dickhead moves are working.
You curse under your breath.
"What game?"
Even with your highly refined skills, you can't keep up with the speed he exhibits in such a short time.
Before your eyes, he rips the gun from where he'd momentarily rested it against his chin, and greets the barrel with his own skull, in exactly the way he'd done to you. There's no hesitation when the trigger is pulled, and no hesitation when bile threatens to accumulate in your throat. You think that may be it; it's over, and the daft idiot has killed himself for nothing, and you have to stomach sitting in a brain-painted room until you find a way to worm out of your restraints.
You would've even, maybe, screamed, if the shot had fired and the bang you knew well had cracked across the space like a whip.
Instead, there's wretched silence. Your kidnapper stays standing; gun still levelled in his grip and the gleeful smile of a psychopath etched proudly onto his lips, very much alive. When you take a deep breath and relax your squared shoulders, you come to the certain realisation—you are dealing with an absolute nut-job!
With your attention diverted to a variety of things, you'd forgotten he'd opted to load his pistol with one bullet. Typically, pistols of his design could house up to ten rounds per chamber, and even though you couldn't determine the exact number for sure, to wager your life on a one in ten chance of failure seems to be the epitome of insanity!
Just when you believed yourself at the edge of uncovering the man's intentions, he somehow always succeeded in surprising you further. You've never been so cautious in your life, and it battles tooth and nail to emphasise the nerves fluttering within your stomach.
To your left, a device rings—the stopwatch he'd started earlier. He hums—that same, jubilant melody—as he silences it and brandishes it towards you.
"Perfect timing for my little demonstration! You—" In his other hand, he aims the gun in your direction again. "—have until the timer runs out to answer my questions. When it does, I pull the trigger."
His boots thud against solid timber flooring, a distinct reminder that all you can do is sit and wait as he approaches your front again. He hovers above you, and is rough in the way he forces your back against the seat with the barrel of his pistol shoved to your chest. You wince, but only slightly, to avoid gifting him the satisfaction.
"Six chambers, one bullet, beautiful." Your vision seems to blur the closer he is to you—something bitter breaching your nostrils and the cavity of your mouth. It's stuck between your teeth like gum, as if his presence alone is enough to drug you senseless.
Or perhaps, what's more distracting, is the fact he calls you beautiful.
Sick, perverted bastard.
The muzzle traces your collarbone; kisses the skeleton like a thorn on a rose would a delicate, vulnerable finger. It travels across the expanse of your sternum, and dips boldly between the valley of your breasts. You're sure he traces your nipple on purpose; adores the way your breath hitches even when you strive not to, before finally settling a little to the left—above your unguarded heart. "Your odds are down to one in five."
The silence in the room feels more deafening than the rifles belonging to the Fatui Skirmishers, or the roar of your Second Harbinger's machinery as he conducts his experiments. You recognise quickly that you aren't used to it; that the quiet ties you to a Wheel of Death and spins you round until you're nauseous, while it shoots knives of mockery your way. It doesn't miss for very long—a blade, embedded in your stomach, putting you out of your misery when the man resets the stopwatch and your ears soak in the consistent ticking.
"How good's your luck?" Shielded by dark, gorgeous eyelashes, you're regarded with those mulberry irises. When you refuse to answer, he sneers. "Shall we start?"
"You're a fool to think I'd tell you anything."
"You're a fool to think I won't pull this trigger right now. I wonder if your heart beating looks as pretty as it sounds." He flashes you a glimpse of his fangs, as if threatening to tear your chest open and satisfy his queries with his teeth.
"And learn nothing?" You press, despite fear shrieking and yelling and screaming at you not to.
"You're so much prettier when you're being mouthy." You know it's bait—an attempt to coax you into argument. For you to waste time and skip to the exciting part, where either bullet or mercy would be lodged into your chest, and indulge his disturbed fantasies at the same time.
You feel the metal run back up your chest, to where it had lingered on the column of your throat. It doesn't stop there, however. He continues, tracing the tender skin beneath your jaw; the point of your chin; the supple flesh of your lips. You kiss the muzzle unwillingly, and it flashes like headlights in your brain that maybe, just maybe, your captor wants more than only answers.
It's especially obvious when he presses firmly, and your lips part to accommodate the intrusion of the barrel, cold against your tongue. It tastes of metal and grime and pleas for pity, and while you would've ideally spat it out in complaint, you know better than to test the patience of an insane man with your life in his palms.
He hovers closer, bracing his free hand against the back frame of your chair, with breath hot against your cheek. You haven't even realised your denial to inhale until your lungs begin to ache, though it's far more comfortable to appreciate the burn for the moment. When he's this close, he's all you can smell, and you want to keep as much of him out of your system as possible.
Which is contradictory, with his gun wedged between your lips like a mutt slobbering over a toy.
"It's a shame your chatter is so useless. I said I'd gag you, didn't I? I don't want you silent, but I'm just trying to help." Help? He has a hilarious way of showing it.
And when he pulls back an inch or two, sliding the barrel from between your lips to press its saliva-coated muzzle to your cheek, you know for sure he's lying through his teeth about helping. The expression he adorns is one of utter disdain, as if you'd been the one to beckon the gun to your mouth, begging for it.
You blink, twice, because you're sure his constant switch in attitudes will be enough to send you reeling. Had you been begging for it?
You don't have time to dwell on it, because the pressure on your cheek increases; firm enough you know it'll leave a mark, though it's nothing compared to the hole it'll leave if the next round contains a bullet.
"First topic: venue security. Go on, sweet girl." He coaxes you so gently, it's almost enough to soothe the ache in your cheek and indoctrinate your brain into complacency. You aren't surprised the Knights had administered him for a job most likely involving interrogation.
Even if his interrogation methods involve unusual means of fear mixed with hints of arousal. You're worried it'll prove effective the longer he carries on—especially with the way he leans in, mouth settled against your ear and lips stretched into a monstrous smirk that'll drag you under, cadence low with sultry promise.
"Tell me everything, and I swear I'll have you craving my gun like a bitch in heat. And I'll give it to you, baby. Whatever you want." He mouths at your lobe and tugs it between sharp canines.
Perhaps, at this rate, you may let slip a little more than you initially planned.
∧ ,,, ∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) . ݁₊ ⊹ . thank you for reading ! ᝰ.ᐟ / づ♡
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