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Ange didn’t cry. Her mother and father sat with their guts torn out and tied together with rotten candy, but the girl had no tears left to shed. The farce played out in front of her was no different than tabloid newspapers articles, and after twelve years spent morning her family, Ange had grown calloused. Lies didn’t upset her, they only made her angry .
Beatrice sat behind her and authored her fourth game.
Ange listened to the scratch of the witch’s quill audible above the rain pattering against the smoking room windows. The rose garden was obscured by a game board projection, but Ange could see blurry roses swaying in the wind through her fingers. Her hand was splayed on the glass as she watched and rewound each chapter of the twisted tales wrought by the witch.
“Did he send you here for reconnaissance?” Beatrice asked, her tone acrid. “You're clever, but you don't have an understanding of mystery, do you?”
“Battler wouldn't send me to spy on you.” Ange glowered at the witch over her shoulder
. “I don't have any interest in you or your puzzles.”
Beatrice sighed, and the sound was inflected with her usual dramatics. “You’re so frosty…”
“Because we're enemies.”
With her head bowed, Beatrice chuckled. She took a break from writing and set her pen aside before addressing Ange with a sly smile. “We have a lot in common, Ange. Although you may deny it, we are more alike than unalike. For instance, you agree that Battler is a thick-headed moron, riiiiight?”
Ange gave a short, hot laugh. “If you think we're alike, you’re crazy.”
“Ohhh, make no mistake. I am madder than a hatter,” Beatrice replied. She giggled to herself, quietly, and Ange couldn’t help but find the sound pathetic. With a shake of her head, Ange ignored her and forced her attention onto the game board.
Behind her, Ange heard the crackle and pop of a deep stretch. Beatrice yawned loudly as she wrung out her stiff back, and Ange felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as the witch slowly approached her. Heels clicked on the floor in her steady procession, and Ange tried not to look at Beatrice when she came to stand at her side.
“Isn't it marvelous?” Beatrice asked. There was no pride in her words. Rather, she seemed tired. Bored, almost. Ange didn’t think her question deserved an answer, so she bit her lip and glared out the window.
“Ooo.” Beatrice made a little sound.“Does it really make you so angry?”
Ange was sure Beatrice could hear her jaw grinding as she grit her teeth. Unable to speak because of the rage that coursed through her veins, she grasped the window sill until her fists were white knuckled and dug her fingernails into the wood. When Beatrice laughed, she almost lost her composure.
“I wonder,” the witch mused. “I've figured out who you are. I wonder if you can figure out who I am.”
“I know who you are,” Ange said.
The words hissed through her clenched mouth surprised the witch. Ange could barely see her reflection in the glass, but she noticed Beatrice’s composure became softer, more docile.
“Ange…”
“You're some fucked up, twisted illusion!” Ange threw her body into a vicious swipe.
Beatrice caught her by the wrist-- but she was too late. Ange scraped ugly red lines across the witch’s cheek, maring her skin so that it erupted in welts, but she didn't appear or melt into golden dust. Beatrice stood there, swaying on her heels with watery eyes, and it was then Ange realized this husk had a human inside; the Witch’s skin was warm where Mammon’s had always been cold, transparent, and illusory.
Beatrice’s grip tightened on Ange’s wrist, and the girl could feel the bite of fingernails into her skin. Ange’s arm was yanked, and she stumbled closer to Beatrice, falling short of planting her face within the witch’s bosom. Her only free hand found the other girl’s forearm, and she clung to Beatrice to steady herself, glaring at her all the while. Beatrice took no pleasure in her duress. Rather, she studied Ange’s face with a tired, blue stare.
“Do I seem real now?” Beatrice asked. She fought Ange’s hand for control and planted it on her cheek, so Ange could feel warmth beneath her imaginary skin.
It was the first time they had been separated by only an arm’s length, and they responded to the unfamiliar situation by staring at each other. Beatrice's eyes ran down Ange's face. Her expression was one of curiosity, but when she saw the blush creep across Ange’s cheeks, it erupted into a vicious grin. A little laugh came out of her lips, and Ange watched her mouth move as if bewitched.
Ange grimaced, baring her teeth. “You’re a costume.”
Fitting themselves together was an awkward contest of who was the more courageous girl. Beatrice easily won, but even she had reason to be cautious. She hesitated every step of the way, purposefully deliberating, waiting for Ange to reject her, and Ange stood there, frozen, watching as the witch’s parted lips drew closer. When they kissed, the gesture was soft, but there was nothing loving about the way they moved against each other. Their movements grew coarser as they kissed slowly, harshly. Clumsy, uncomfortable. Beatrice came away from her, only to have Ange pull her back by the sleeves of her dress.
“Finish what you started,” Ange hissed, and Beatrice cackled.
Beatrice took the lead-- she had to take the lead, didn’t she? The player who moved first had the upper hand, so Ange wasn’t surprised when Beatrice shoved her without warning, pushing her against the window until she was pinned. Her mouth came away to lick a line up Ange’s face and the girl shuddered. Disgusting.
“It’s better than practicing with your pillow, hmmm?” Beatrice cupped Ange’s face and pressed her nose to her temple so she could speak into her ear. “You’re not a bad kisser for a virgin.”
This time, Ange’s palm caught Beatrice in the temple. The witch had to wrestle her for control, and Ange found Beatrice was much stronger than she let on. A hand found her hip and another found her forearm, and Ange’s face was pushed against the glass.
“I-is this against the rules?” Ange gasped. She was struggling against the window, with her arms locked behind her back.
“ This isn’t against the rules ,” Beatrice quipped. “If you're upset, you can petition Lady Lambda to rewrite the game board conditions, eliminating all possibilities of liaison.” Beatrice cackled. “I'll sign off with my great golden name!”
“After we’re finished, I’ll take you up on that offer.” Ange wrenched a hand free from Beatrice's grip and pressed it to the window. She braced herself and found an arm pushing its way into the crook of her elbow. “This is all very unsportsmanlike.
“All is fair in love and war. As long as you don’t bend me over the chess board, the play is considered legal.” A cold hand darted underneath Ange’s shirt and traced up her abdomen, sending a shivering down her spine. She twisted under Beatrice's fingers and hiccupped when the witch groped her bra.
“Whaaaat!?” Beatrice’s gasp stung Ange's ear, and she winced from the sound. The witch squeezed her breast and felt around, searching for something until she let out a vicious cackle. “A push-up bra!?”
“Sh-shut up. At least I don't have fat cow tits like you.” Ange's face burned. “Have fun with the back pain.”
Ange was swiftly disciplined when Beatrice squeezed her nipple. Her back arched, and she felt Beatrice's breasts press into her back. Hot and heavy, the witch pinned her to the wall and played with her.
Ange writhed under Beatrice’s hands, her mouth, her teeth. Her fingernails were merciless and she pulled and twisted Ange's nipples until they were raw and so sensitive that when Beatrice left them alone, the cotton of Ange’s blouse was enough to stimulate them. A knee came to press into the cleft of her thighs, and Ange leaned into it, her composure unraveling fast. She gasped when Beatrice scratched her and moaned when Beatrice bit her hard enough for the pain to shame her. A bruise would surely welt where the witch planted her teeth, but the knowledge excited Ange more than it frightened her. She shivered when Beatrice ran her tongue over the leftover mark and whined when she nipped at the tender skin.
“Ohhh, so you're one of those, eh?” Beatrice muttered against her ear. She tangled her fingers in Ange's underwear, pulling and twisting the crotch of it without touching her. She only wanted to feel the moisture, not to satisfy. “Is this really turning you on?”
“Nnng.” Ange cracked open her eye and was greeted by two corpses, but her eyes were easily averted. She had no feelings towards Kumasawa or Genji anyway, so she thought of them as mere pieces. “It's not real. None of this is real.”
A hand crept up her throat, nails biting into her jugular. Ange could hear Beatrice breathing against her ear. “Even me…? Am I real?”
Ange could feel a fingertip working its way into her labia, running over her folds as she let out a guttural moan. Beatrice took that as an invitation to ease it slowly inside, her long fingernails taking care not to knick Ange's delicate skin. Ange took a shaking breath.
The teeth which met her collar were more vampirous than witch-like. Ange arched her back underneath Beatrice. Her face was pressed into the glass and her hot breath fogged it up. The finger inside of her felt lonely, and Ange pathetically wished for another to accompany it. It rubbed against her leisurely, and Ange’s reaction to the effortless act of stimulation brought the witch pleasure.
“You're sticking out that cute little tush of yours.” Beatrice cooed. Her finger pulled out of Ange, and ran over her rump. With her skirt pulled up, she felt her own wetness against her bare skin. It was cold and slimy and Beatrice scratched her in its wake. Her procession was slow, and that drove Ange right up the wall. When Beatrice squeezed her, she dug her claws in, and Ange gave a shameful whine. Her utterance was rewarded by a lewd slap. “Ohhh. Adorable, adorable! You grew into quite the woman, Ange-chan.”
“I-If you want someone to thank, thank yourself. It's because of the trauma. Some psychosexual bullshit,” Ange said.
“Eh!? I don't know anything about that, but I do know you're pretty freaky.” Beatrice circled her hole with her finger, and Ange once again presented herself to the witch only to have her entrance ignored. “I love weirdos, though, and if this is a product of my magic, I can only say, ' you’re welcomeeee ’!”
Ange was frustrated now. The fingers in her folds also moved, and Ange was glad for it because Beatrice's palm easily found her groin. She didn't want to grind, but as Beatrice groped her greedily, she could think of nothing else. The best way to deal with the fickle witch was surely to end this as quickly as possible.
Her eyes were pressed shut and forced against the smoking room windows and only the purple glow of the game board light reminded her what they had been watching. As Beatrice swept her tongue over the crest of her ear, Ange gave into curiosity and cracked open an eye.
She was greeted by the curvature of Beatrice’s generous posterior. Worse yet, her prone and naked brother crawled underneath her with… wait, what was that? N-no way--
“Ough, you’re so disgusting!” Ange threw herself back against Beatrice, and her elbow caught the witch squarely in the jaw. While Beatrice sputtered, Ange twisted around to grip her by the shoulder. “A dog chain? You damn pervert, don't get any ideas.”
The sweaty witch cackled, her cherubic face red and gleaming. It was stifling underneath her heavy gown, and she took a moment to rest and fan herself. Beatrice swallowed against her dry throat and let out another hoarse chuckle.
“Kyukyukuku! Is that really so displeasing to you, Angeeee?” She slurred. When Ange swiped at her face, Beatrice caught her fist. “You're a hopeless masochist! It's written plainly on your face and on your body~” Beatrice’s claws darted to Ange's groin, but her dress constricted her movement and she instead found herself stumbling to the floor within Ange’s embrace.
Whether it was a failing of Ange's arms or a product of Beatrice's weight, they ended up in a pile on the floor, gasping at each other. Ange ached where her ass hit the tiles, and her body did not thank her when Beatrice rose to straddle her lap. Ange was close enough to smell Beatrice’s breath when she cackled, and her nose wrinkled from the stench of smoke.
“You like it rough, I seeee,” Beatrice said. “How cute. I could just eat you uuuuup~”
“H-honestly? Bite me. You’re more tolerable with your mouth occupied.” The thought of it made Ange tremble and she was grateful they were not still standing because-- surely-- her legs would have given out when Beatrice hiked up her skirt and smoothed a hand down her panties. Stiletto fingernails scratched her thighs when they pulled aside her underwear to feel her wetness, and the girl gasped and twitched and turned her head so she didn't have to see Beatrice’s expression when she sucked Ange off of her fingers and let them go with a wet pop .
“You don’t have a very good diet,” she said, drily. Beatrice angled her hand and parted her folds to slip inside of Ange with one finger.
Ange could feel the bite of Beatrice’s nails when she curled against her walls, but the pain was tolerable and the sting a welcome sensation. Her face fell to press into Beatrice’s shoulder, but the girl wrenched her back by the hair. Beatrice ran her tongue along her inhumanly sharp teeth and gave Ange predatory grin.
“As if I’d let you hide,” she said. “I want to see your face contorted in pleasure underneath the witch’s hands.”
Ange hissed when another finger pressed inside of her and threw her head to the side so Beatrice couldn’t kiss her lips. The other girl settled for her cheek and kissed a line down her chin and neck.
“Try to deny me, I dare you,” she hissed. “I’ll break you into splendid furniture~”
When Beatrice thrusted her fingers, her body betrayed her. Her jaw was set so she wouldn’t make a sound, but Beatrice saw through her facade. A warm, wet mouth ghost across her face, and she went to kiss Beatrice-- obediently-- making indecent noises as the witch sucked on her tongue and lips. When Ange pulled away, Beatrice dug her claws into the soft skin of her chin, wet with makeup and spit, and angled her head so that she could nip at Ange’s throat.
Beatrice rutted against her leg. Her hips jerked in a rhythm more pointed than the thrusting of her fingers which grew more erratic as the moments passed. Ange could hear the witch pant against her ear.
“Isn't this better than humping fuuuuuuurniture, Ange?” Beatrice slurred into her ear. “Isn't magic w-won-- hah-- hahaha.” Her hips gave a violent jerk. “Believe, believe, believe!”
Ange opened her mouth to speak, but only a lusty moan came forward. The witch knew where to curl her fingers, and she teased Ange -- the damn bitch . Her fingers came to press inside of her and rested there, pressed there without moving despite Ange's pleas.
“N-no, nooo, ah-ahahhh.” Her hips moved of their own accord and bucked into the heel of her palm. She was burning up. Just burning up… The hand she had on Beatrice's breast must have clamped down because the witch almost lost her composure, and she rewarded Ange with a rough shove.
The girl saw stars when her head hit the floor, and she gasped from the pain and from the violent chill that went down her body. Beatrice towered above her, and although the witch looked a wreck with her bonnet out of place and her face a mess of makeup and hair which plastered to her skin with sweat, her grin was sharp with sadistic glory befitting a woman who called herself the golden witch.
The witch only had to whisper, “Praise my name.”
And Ange did. Shamefully, gracelessly. She moaned around the woman's name and thrashed on the floor and writhed under her hands. She climax with a girlish squeak, and Beatrice cooed at the adorable sound.
The witch wiped her fingers on Ange’s coat.
“Ohoh-- look at the perverted look on your face,” she said. Her tone was chiding. “You're an awfully cute plaaaaaything and an excellent piece. I’ll thank Lady Bernkastel for arranging this meeting, Ushiromiya Aaaaaaaaangeeeee.”
The witch crawled out of her dress like she was shedding skin. Ange could feel the heat and humidity of Beatrice's body as she ambled on top of her. A clawed hand went to her stomach, her breast, and then to her collar as the witch crawled to straddle her ribs.
Oh no. Ange had a vague idea of where this was going, and she didn't like this one bit-- not one bit at all. Ange stared at the golden fuzz on Beatrice's mound and wetted her lips. Yeah, she hated this. She really, truly, haaated this.
“Won't you look at the time? At this rate, you’ll late to dinner.” The expression on Beatrice's face was one of twisted gloating. “Poor thing, you look soooo tired. As the magnanimous woman I am, I'll treat you to a private feast with the hostess.”
“Nnn-- ahhh.”
“If you’re truly hungry, I could always treat you to a second, third, or fourth or fifth meal! I have the stamina befitting of one who calls herself an Endless Witch! Endless sex. Endless pain. Endless torture~ I'll keep you locked away in a pleasure cage for one thousand years! Ahkyaykakakahhh!”
“Wh-who-- who even says that...?”
Beatrice’s face fell into a steep frown. “I-it's just dirty talk…”
“You're so fucking weird.” Ange's head fell against the tiles. She was spread eagle on the smoking room floor, looking half dead, with Beatrice on top of her, staining her clothing with juices . She just wished the damn witch would shut up and sit on her face.
“Mnnn--” Beatrice pouted above her. From this angle, her breasts obscured most of her face, and Ange was glad-- because she found her face stupid , anyway. Ange's hand smoothed over Beatrice's thigh and groped her ass.
Someone knocked on the door .
And Beatrice did not so much as glance at Ange before she burst into golden butterflies and sank into the floor.
Ange lay there, prone, bewildered, staring at the peaked ceiling of the smoking room in dumb shock. The only remnants of the golden witch were her discarded gown and the mess she had left on Ange's chest. Ange pressed a hand to her breast and took it away with a shudder.
Disgusting...
Ronove allowed himself in, but at the sight of her he retreated. He left the door ajar with one foot, and spoke into the smoking room without looking. “I apologize if I was interrupting something,” he said. The demon butler’s voice was collected, and his composure was so sobering that Ange felt like a cold bucket of water had drenched her body. With a miserable lurch, she steadied herself on the wall and tried to fix her skirt.
Ronove continued. “I don't suppose you know the whereabouts of Milady,” he said. There was now an edge of humor in his voice and it stung what little was left of Ange's pride. “I was supposed to fetch her for supper. I imagine she was taken by a whim and was distracted. “
“I-I think--” Ange's voice crackled from her dry throat. “I-I-I don't think Beatrice is coming to dinner tonight.”
“Pyukuku, you would be surprised by the vigor
which Lady Beatrice applies to her expedient activities,” Ronove replied. “She finishes very quickly.”
Ange let out a strangled laugh and doubled over on to the floor.