content warnings: attempted non-con (nothing too explicit), manhandling, bugs and snakes imagery, briefly appearing tentacles
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Ninety-six is beautiful, Vector thinks, the way snakes and worms are beautiful; he would see them slither and slide and find their movements intriguing and even a little pretty, but at the end of the day, being too close to a worm or touching it would be disgusting, and being even near a snake would make Vector hiss and want to slip away out of panic.
Vector thinks that being close to Ninety-six is like having to touch, carry, and coddle a cockroach. Vector doesn't know how else to describe what being close to Ninety-six feels like other than it feeling as though nothing should be near Ninety-six. He looks humanoid, Vector had thought, but now he considers his appearance to be a complete lie, like trying to cloak a rotting corpse in a newly washed gown and trying to hide that stench with flowers and perfume. Ninety-six is so far from feeling human, barian, astral. Being close to Ninety-six makes Vector shudder, like something that shouldn't is crawling on him, like he - an alien to two worlds himself - is genuinely disturbed by being so near one who feels so alien.
Vector yelps and jumps at the feel of Ninety-six's hand on his shoulder, shaking it off. The fingers were cold, the tips of his nails were felt even through Vector's heavy jacket, and the pressure, seemingly light and casual, was heavy the way moist smog was heavy, like Ninety-six's brief hold had reached past the fabric of his clothes and was trying to sneak its way into the pores of his skin.
Ninety-six frowns at him, his face having grown more displeased as more time passed. This time, instead of the suspicious look he had given Vector when the Barian had first began leading the way deeper into the dungeon, Ninety-six tilts his face up, eyes squinted, mouth nearly sneering, and he looks down his nose at Vector; and Vector thinks- knows that, to Ninety-six, maybe it's Vector that looks and feels like a worm, a snake, a disgusting insect - Vector, and all living things besides Ninety-six himself.
"I'd rather not have a fear-ridden servant," Ninety-six informs, voice having gone deep from his previous glee. "Sit back down." Vector doesn't let himself hesitate, doesn't want to feel another one of Don Thousand's little shocks for disobeying what is apparently a very instrumental Number.
He feels heavy going into this throne. Something about this place is wrong, makes him feel like a thousand pairs of eyes are watching him even though no one but them are here. Ghosts, Vector thinks, and tries not to stare or think too much about the being beside him that's making him feel so much worse.
"Are they close?" Ninety-six demands. Vector nods once, forcibly reminding himself to breathe - slow and long inhales through his nose and letting it out quietly through his lips. He pushes back the possessive desire to have Yuma all to himself, his to hurt and tease and break again, so that he wouldn't have the urge to glare at Ninety-six and argue over which one of them has the rights to finish Yuma off.
It's no contest, anyway. Vector leans away from Ninety-six, propping his head on his hand, and, briefly, mentally pats himself for having touched and torn at Yuma in ways Ninety-six would never come close to doing.
He shudders again as Ninety-six leans closer, but forces his breathing to stay even and his body not to flinch back. "What were you doing with Yuma, anyway?" The grating pleasantness is back in his voice, sounding as fake as Vector's smiles when he had dragged Yuma half-way across town, pushing him down stairs and shoving him into hard walls and repeating silly words like I'm sorry and I know what's best! "You tricked him, didn't you?" He laughs, squeaky and high and brief, like sharp pinpricks stabbing at Vector's ears. "The brat deserves it. But that must make you some kind of two-faced coward, huh?"
Ninety-six shouldn't smile; his teeth are too sharp, his mouth too wide, and he didn't even bother to add gums to his facade. Everything about this Number seems aggressive, the fake muscles always flexing, the sensual movements always misleadingly inviting, the voice mocking. Vector could feel himself riling up. Instead, he focuses on the Number's words, remembering Durbe's sideglances in Sargasso, of Mizael's growls and bloodshot eyes, and somehow calms himself down, thinking, Yeah, I am, aren't I.
"If you're worried, I would never betray you, Your Highness." They both know it's a lie. Ninety-six doesn't even smile this time; he frowns again and draws back up, away, for which Vector would be grateful for if he were an idiot enough to feel any sense of security so long as Ninety-six stayed within eye-shot.
The Number sighs, or hisses - some mix of the two that's a clear signal for Vector to not even try to pretend anymore, before something Vector dreaded happens again. Ninety-six reaches out and gently wraps a hand around his throat, and Vector would rather be choked with human hands than to have to feel the sharp-tipped fingers curving themselves around his neck. He'd taken for granted the Number's name, but now he feels it - what is probably the reason why being touched by this Number is something that makes him want to shudder; Ninety-six's hand is still, but doesn't feel like it. It feels like the surface of the Number's skin is moving, like thousands of living things, of angry bugs, are scurrying along Vector's naked flesh, wanting to break in. Ninety-six's touch is mad; the dense mist that gives him form, alive and violent.
"Someone like you?" Ninety-six grates, floating so that they are face-to-face, and, up-close, Vector can see his face ripple, and it shouldn't, faces shouldn't ripple. "You're going to backstab me, just like Yuma. It was supposed to be him, you know? He acted so obedient, just like you're trying so hard to do now."
Another hand rests on Vector's thigh. He finds that he has leaned far back into the throne and berates himself for it. He was supposed to be fearless, was supposed to be hard enough to just take Ninety-six's condescending remarks and hassle if it meant using him. Ninety-six's nails trail up, and Vector gasps, feeling himself shake.
"So, since we'll be saying goodbye soon enough anyway, maybe we should have some fun while we're still stuck together." Vector isn't looking at Ninety-six's teeth even though his smile is so close to his sucked breaths. Ninety-six's eyes are calculating, almost. They make Vector feel like a toy, like Ninety-six plans to press a button and wants to see the trick Vector will show from it. He makes Vector feel like he's being observed, like Ninety-six is looking for something, and anything other than what he wants is going to make Vector nothing but a bad doll, a defective tool. The way Ninety-six looks at him is terrifying, and Vector fears the Number is using him more than he's using the Number.
"Th-They're coming," Vector stammers, trying to remind Ninety-six of the business that they've come here for, of the guests that will soon arrive. There are nails slipping into the front of his pants while Ninety-six's other hand abruptly tilts Vector's head back.
This is a nightmare. Hands that feel like this, this sharp, that bring the sensation of things crawling and hating and biting, that are attached to a creature that seems to want only to destroy and spit on anything that he deems inferior, should not be doing and touching and stroking and rubbing and groping the way Ninety-six's hands are now. His mouth snaps open and clasps onto Vector's neck, and Vector does whimper this time, because the feel of Ninety-six's mouth is so much worse; the teeth stab, the tongue burns.
Vector doesn't know what Ninety-six is, what he's supposed to be - if this is Astral's image, is this also how Astral would physically feel, how Astral would move if he were solid? Vector thinks, no, nothing can be what Ninety-six is, nothing can feel like what Ninety-six does when the Number shuffles forward and straddles him, thighs pinching his body between them. This is what being dragged into the ocean by a monster must feel like. This is what being attacked and chewed on would feel like.
The fly of his pants is undone. His hickey burns. Ninety-six draws back, the hand on Vector's throat moving down, lifting the black shirt up so that the thin fingers could spread and rub themselves on Vector's chest. A sharp nail pokes his nipple, and suddenly, Vector forgets why he isn't acting on his anger, his indignation, his fear. Why does Don Thousand care so much for whether or not the Number is satisfied? What use is a Number that only insults and hurts without even an intent? Why is Vector even sitting on this goddamn throne if he isn't the one giving orders?
He hands fly up and grab Ninety-six by the wrists, and both of the claws stroking him stop. Ninety-six's face freezes not in rage but in something more trivial and petty, but even that indignation, to the monster, warrants retribution. Vector gasps and shudders as what seems like dozens of tentacles flare out, up, from Ninety-six's back as though the Number planned to swallow up Vector's throne with a living makeshift one of his own.
With no warning, Vector feels the dreaded sensation of Ninety-six curl around his wrists, the limbs wounding themselves like bending bars, while another one shoots for Vector's throat. It barely begins to tighten when Vector cries out, "They're here! They're here - they're coming to this room right now!"
The extra limbs slacken, and the claws that Vector had surrendered on restraining tighten excitedly into fists. "Yuma," Ninety-six's smile returns. "Astral." The worms, snakes, giant and wrong containers of Ninety-six's morphing flesh ease back into the monster with a pace Vector couldn't think was fast enough. "Get ready, pet."