V🦇

The evening unfurls through the open window, mingling the scents of rain and asphalt with the stale air of your home. Inside, the television casts shadows against the walls, painting the walls in oscillating shades of blue and grey. You sit beside your father on the couch that reeks of spilled beer and cigarettes; the leather sticking to your skin every time you shift.

He clutches a bottle of liquor, swigging from it with eager, sloppy gulps. His eyes glint with a dark thrill as he watches the boxers on the screen, circling each other like wolves, muscles tense and eyes locked.

Strade leans forward, the bottle momentarily forgotten as his eyes fixate on the fight unfolding before him. “Sieh dir das an, princess,” he slurs, nodding toward the television as one fighter lands a vicious uppercut. A sickening thud resonates through the speaker as the opponent stumbles. The crowd roars, a sound like thunder, while the man regains his footing and strikes back, a spray of blood arching beautifully in the harsh light.

“Da! Did you see that hit?!” Your father chuckles, his voice electric with excitement.

The fight escalates and the men are reduced to beasts in a pit, their bodies and wills colliding in raw, brutal displays. The violence on screen seems to feed something in your father, a nasty delight that oozes out of him like sweat.

As one boxer lands a particularly savage punch, Strade lets out a howl of approval, slamming his fist into the couch in rhythm with the impact. His breath comes faster now, his eyes glazed over with a mix of lust and aggression.

“Beautiful isn't it?” he muses as he eagerly reaches for a fresh bottle. He pops it open and shoves it toward you. “Come on, drink up. It's better when you feel it all the way down.”

Reluctantly, you accept the bottle and clink it against his, the hollow sound mingling with the roar of the crowd from the television.

As you continue to drink, a fleet of empty bottles accumulates on the floor beside the sofa. With each new bottle, the world around you begins to sway slightly as if carried by an unseen current. Your father, ever the pillar in this tempest, seems unfazed, his laughter more boisterous, his comments sharper as the alcohol flows freely.

“Papa... I don't feel so good,” you manage, the words thick and clumsy on your tongue.

Your father turns to you, his gaze narrowing. “Just the booze hitting, princess. You're fine.”

But there’s something sinister in how he watches you— like a predator observing its prey as it stumbles and falters. The numbness starts creeping through your limbs, a leaden weight that pulls at the edges of your consciousness. The sounds around you— the harsh thuds of the fighters, the distant cheers of the crowd— begin to blur into a chaotic symphony, one that spins around you as if you're caught in a whirlpool. The room tilts a bit, and your head lolls to the side, heavy like it's filled with wet sand.

"I'm dizzy... Feels like spinning," You mumble, your voice is weak, slurred, and desperate.

Strade glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. "Oh, princess," he drawls, his voice dripping with a twisted admiration. "So süß, wenn du völlig beschissen bist." Setting his bottle down, he shifts closer, his arm circling your shoulders in a tight embrace.

"You're such a delicate thing, aren't you? Can hardly handle your poison." He coos as he gently strokes your hair, his fingers raking through the familiar locks.

As your head continues to spin, his hand shifts slowly from your hair to your shoulder, then down to your chest, pushing gently yet firmly. The motion nudges you back until you are laid out against the couch, your body aligning with its contours. The room tilts further, each sensation magnified by your blurred state.

"Wh- What're you doing—" you murmur, your voice weak, tinged with confusion and fear.

Feeling your resistance wane, Strade's presence looms larger. He maneuvers himself over you, his figure casting a daunting shadow. He pins you down with his weight; an oppressive force that feels both suffocating and grounding in the dizzying whirl of your surroundings.

His face inches closer, narrowing the space between you. His breath, tainted with liquor and tobacco, envelops you as his lips find yours, pushing roughly past your numb resistance. He bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and you taste the metallic tang on your tongue as he continues, his tongue forcefully intertwining with yours.

The leather of the couch groans under you both, each movement exaggerated in the dense, sluggish air. You try to shift, to push him away, but your movements are lethargic as if through molasses. Panic begins to claw at the edges of your clouded mind, each heartbeat pounding loudly in your ears.

You wrestle with your sluggish body, trying in vain to fend him off as the kiss deepens into something more savage. He shifts his assault downwards, his teeth finding the tender flesh of your neck. Each bite is deliberate, sharper than the last, leaving a trail of painful, throbbing marks. As the bites intensify, his touch transforms; the hands that once clung to your shoulders now travel upwards, their presence chilling as they snake their way to your neck.

His fingers encircle your throat, pressing in slowly but inexorably. The pressure is subtle at first, then grows insistently as your airway begins to constrict under his firm grip. Panic ignites within you as you thrash beneath him, your heart hammering wildly against your chest.

"Can't take the heat, princess?" Strade's voice slurs slightly, thick with mockery and the haze of alcohol. "It's just getting good."

Your vision blurs further, eyes watering not just from the alcohol but from sheer terror. You gaze up at him, your hands weakly reaching up to claw at his wrists, feebly attempting to pry his grip loose.

He watches, his face alarmingly close to yours, his eyes gleaming with delight. There's a dark thrill in his gaze, some kind of perverse satisfaction as he observes the fear and desperation playing out over your features. He grounds his hips against yours and you feel his erection pressing hard against your stomach. The sensation is alarming, terrifying, as you struggle to breathe under the weight of his body.

As the edges of your vision start to darken, your world narrowing into a closing tunnel of dimming lights, he observes your struggle with an unnerving detachment. Just when your lungs burn with the need for air, when spots of light burst across your closing field of view, he releases you abruptly. Air rushes back into your lungs in harsh, ragged gasps, each breath a painful struggle against the lingering tightness of your throat.

The room spins wildly now, no longer just from the alcohol but also from the shock and the sudden influx of oxygen. You roll soppily off the couch and grip your chest, tears blurring your vision. You're left coughing, gasping for air, the fear and relief mingling in a bitter cocktail that leaves you shuddering under his looming presence.

He leans back slightly, his expression unreadable in the dim, flickering light from the television. "Es ist besser, wenn du es fühlst," he mutters darkly, a twisted smirk forming on his lips as he observes the effect of his actions, the control he wields as effortlessly as breathing.

You lie there, struggling to stabilize your breathing, to push back the curtain of fear and disorientation. The television's glow casts ghostly shadows across his face, making him seem even more like a figure from a nightmare. As the final moments of the match unfold, the climax of violence reaches its peak: one fighter, fueled by desperation and sheer force of will, lands a series of rapid, precise blows. His opponent, overwhelmed and battered, staggers back—one last punch, devastatingly accurate, sends him crashing to the mat.

The victor stands over his fallen adversary, chest heaving, then suddenly roars in triumph, pounding his chest with clenched fists as the arena erupts around him. The sound of the crowd is a tidal wave of noise, a cacophony that fills the room and mingles with the ringing in your ears.

This, you realize, is what captivates your father— this unadulterated display of power and pain. This ability to dominate, to control, to decisively end the dance of violence with a single, defining act.

German Translations (in order of appearance)

“Sieh dir das an, princess,” = “Look at that, princess,”

“Da! (…)” = "There!"

"So süß, wenn du völlig beschissen bist." = "So cute when you're all fucked up."

"Es ist besser, wenn du es fühlst," = "It's better if you feel it,"