Mammon hated his ears just as much as she loved his flames. “Make them brighter,” she ordered. “Bigger, hotter; show me more!” He, with two ‘x’s to his name and a scar on his chest that proclaims he is:
Precious. Someone, not just who she says he is.
He was not trash like that bitch of a whore who claims him as hers. He would show her just who the hell he is.
The men laugh when they see him. Pussy-cat, they say, pretending to be the Ninth’s son. He is up to his knees in their bodies by the time his vision clears.
His ears and tail are the only parts of him not covered in blood.
The Varia are different. The Varia know him as King (even if that fucking faggot keeps trying to touch his ears). It does not matter how he looks, but how strong he is.
Xanxus has found his home.
He did not expect the girl.
“Xanxus-sama,” she says. “Master,” she calls him, ears perked and tail wagging, claiming a Name matching his.
He is Precious; who the hell was she?
Their bond lies tangled between them, spooled in brambles, loneliness, and scorn. He curses her and she smiles, so happily that red fields his vision and he decides: “Worthless trash.” Grab her by the hair, throw her down, cover her in blood, and the smile never wavers.
Not so worthless after all.
He can see it, standing over her: the thread that joins them, thin as string but strong as steel.
Xanxus sees her true happiness when he claims her as his.
He likes the shape of his name scrawled over her pale skin; he has seen his own through a mirror, upside-down and backwards all his life. Hers he can trace, hers he can touch. Hers, he knows, entitles his claim.
To own another person completely without killing them, their life handed to you willingly: this sense of power is like no other.
---
Mammon hated his ears just as much as she loved his flames. “Make them brighter,” she ordered. “Bigger, hotter; show me more!” He, with two ‘x’s to his name and a scar on his chest that proclaims he is:
Precious. Someone, not just who she says he is.
He was not trash like that bitch of a whore who claims him as hers. He would show her just who the hell he is.
The men laugh when they see him. Pussy-cat, they say, pretending to be the Ninth’s son. He is up to his knees in their bodies by the time his vision clears.
His ears and tail are the only parts of him not covered in blood.
The Varia are different. The Varia know him as King (even if that fucking faggot keeps trying to touch his ears). It does not matter how he looks, but how strong he is.
Xanxus has found his home.
He did not expect the girl.
“Xanxus-sama,” she says. “Master,” she calls him, ears perked and tail wagging, claiming a Name matching his.
He is Precious; who the hell was she?
Their bond lies tangled between them, spooled in brambles, loneliness, and scorn. He curses her and she smiles, so happily that red fields his vision and he decides: “Worthless trash.” Grab her by the hair, throw her down, cover her in blood, and the smile never wavers.
Not so worthless after all.
He can see it, standing over her: the thread that joins them, thin as string but strong as steel.
Xanxus sees her true happiness when he claims her as his.
He likes the shape of his name scrawled over her pale skin; he has seen his own through a mirror, upside-down and backwards all his life. Hers he can trace, hers he can touch. Hers, he knows, entitles his claim.
To own another person completely without killing them, their life handed to you willingly: this sense of power is like no other.
And Kasumi never stops smiling.
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......
I am so so so glad I requested this omg-
I love it.
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