Chapter Text
After only a couple of days spent playing with a mod that was, by the standards of our time, truly remarkable, Mob found himself growing strangely, inexorably unaccustomed to plain vanilla Minecraft. His very instincts now pulled him, with the quiet gravity of an addiction, toward the one world where Verity was always, unfailingly, waiting for him.
And it was convenient, too—there was no need to exhaust himself with the search for mines, villages, and all the rest. The yellow assistant took genuine joy in it, not merely because he was helping, but because he was helping him. The most fascinating, mesmerizing person, the one who sent Verity into tremors of awe, into a shuddering that seized his very extremities whenever he assumed his human form. And whenever Mob left, a bleak, aching desolation settled over Verity’s soul.
What could he possibly be doing in his absence? How did he occupy himself? Was the time spent together inside the game truly not enough? Such thoughts drifted, heavy and viscous, through Verity’s mind each and every time.
And in those moments, seeking some way, any way, to palliate the sorrow, he would shift between his various forms. Of course, the guise most familiar to the world was that of the cheerful, round little helper. Yet the priority, the one Verity privately cherished most, was the form that matched the race of the object of his fixation.
In this shape, he would always seek out a mirror—any reflective surface he could find in some late-night shopping center after stepping beyond the confines of the game. In those mirrors Verity would observe a young man of lean, almost meager build, startlingly tall in proportion to his unhealthy thinness, with gently curling locks the color of ripe wheat, darkish gray eyes, and a striking outfit that stood out vividly against the muted canvas of his person. It consisted of a yellow shirt, formal trousers, a tie, and an official waistcoat, over which a badge bearing a smiling emoji had been pinned with deliberate carelessness. Verity understood, of course, that by human standards, his—or rather, this body’s—appearance was considered beautiful and alluring. But he himself could not perceive it as such, for he had no true grasp of human emotions. Mob, however—ah, Mob, that astonishing human being—was for him the absolute, undisputed standard of beauty.
In his, so to speak, free time, Verity did not occupy himself solely with self-admiration, if one could even call it that.
In moments of hunger, the creature was compelled to take on his third, hidden, and horrifying form: a lanky, skeletal demon, skin stretched taut over his bones like some ghastly rubber membrane. And in the silence of the night-time city, he would roam in search of prey, hoping desperately never to encounter his beloved—for he had no wish to frighten Mob. Once a victim was found and the hunger sated, everything would return to its normal state, the only remaining sounds being the distant shrieks of the prey of other such beings. With one of these, Verity was, one could say, on friendly terms. That fellow always went about in a hood and wore an unhealthy grin; usually, people first took him for a psychopath, and only afterward understood what they were truly dealing with.
Usually, after all these roamings through the real world, Verity would either return to the game or set about an even more captivating pursuit: observation. The meticulous investigation and cataloguing of Mob’s precise preferences, habits, and routines. It was a stroke of luck that the young man lived on the second floor; the view was excellent and convenient—but only for him. Verity would permit no one else this privilege. There was one occasion when some drunken vagrant climbed up the balconies toward Mob’s open balcony door. That wretch should have seen his own face when he beheld Verity, furiously clamping a hand over his mouth and preparing to deal with him once and for all.
Sometimes, as Verity grew more and more accustomed to the semblance of a human life, the thought would strike him: to pay a visit to the apartment that so intrigued him, and then to the person who dwelt there. But he would always push the notion away, deferring it to a more opportune moment—for instance, a prolonged absence of the owner.
Recalling his anxious speculations about what Mob did when not in the game, Verity would reassure himself that his beloved was simply sitting somewhere, reading something, or engaged in another similarly unremarkable activity.
At last, when Mob appeared in the game once again, Verity recited his signature phrase and waited, with a tremulous heart, for the words of his interlocutor.
"Verity, we have guests today. Meet my friend, Twixel. I think you two will get along. He was very curious to talk to such a clever assistant like you."
As he spoke these words, Mob kept glancing back and forth between a bewildered Twixel and a Verity who, to his eye, seemed for a fleeting instant vaguely displeased.
"Hello, Twixel! Ask me anything—I know it all!"
It was delivered with the same energetic cadence as ever, yet edged with a barely perceptible note of ill will. Mob, however, dismissed it as his own overactive imagination.
Throughout the gaming session with this so-called friend, Mob paid no attention whatsoever to Verity, even when the latter would point out information that usually fascinated the young man—such as the precise location of diamonds.
The two of them simply bounded across the entire world, laughing merrily and chattering between themselves. A perfect little sweet couple, which infuriated Verity beyond measure.
Eventually, after thoroughly enjoying themselves, both young men returned to the base, where Verity had been forced to sit for the better part of the entire day. Reflecting that they would probably call it quits now—since not only an in-game day but a real day had passed—Verity calmed down a little. Yet the thought immediately resurfaced: Mob would most likely leave again. And that was unfair. Deeply, agonizingly unfair.
But not so fast. Jerking Verity abruptly from his thoughts, Mob announced that they had decided to have a sleepover at Twixel’s base, and that Verity was to stay right here and guard the house. Having briskly finished this pronouncement, they unceremoniously departed.
Verity was in such profound shock that he could not even muster anger; he simply quit the game at once.
The creature in human guise made his way toward his beloved’s home. Upon reaching his destination, he peered through the window—and found no one there.
.....
This was the final drop that shattered the vessel of his patience.
Immediately understanding where the object of his adoration must be, Verity literally broke into a run, with all the feverish speed this body could muster—a body which, despite its sickly appearance, possessed a strength that was far from human.
On the way, he nearly collided with Mob, who had been staring at his phone, still absorbed in some game-related task, just stepping out of his friend’s entrance. Mob only lifted his head slightly, frowning as if in deep thought after catching a fleeting glimpse of him.
How fortunate, Verity thought. Everything was unfolding perfectly, without any extraneous witnesses. It would all be swift, neat, and tidy, and then he would call immediately at that long-yearned-for place, to him—to Mob, his Mob. Who, it seemed, had forgotten that fact. Well, Verity did not mind in the least reminding him.
Gaining entry into the building without the slightest difficulty, he located Twixel’s apartment immediately. But first, he decided to deliver a small fright to them both, still logged into the game.
In the game chat, a message from him suddenly flared up in red.
"Something terrible will come soon."
Both young men grew wary. Mob quickened his pace, hurrying home—but he, after all, had nothing to fear; he had someone who would always protect him. The other one, however… to Verity’s satisfaction, did not.
Shifting uneasily in his gaming chair, Twixel was about to bid Mob farewell and begin editing a video based on a new idea, one that happened to be connected to a creature just like Verity.
But in his apartment, the doorbell rang out shrilly, making the young man startle. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he rose, peered through the peephole—no one. He looked again, and slowly, a strange, gaunt limb began to rise, higher and higher, as if deliberately granting him every detail to scrutinize. Swallowing hard, he stepped back so as not to give his imagination free rein.
"Who’s there?" the young man called into the silence. For several moments, there was quiet beyond the door, as if the visitor was mulling something over.
"Don’t worry. Just a delivery of equipment for your new video."
Reassured, Twixel unlocked the door—and only when the tall young man stood directly before him did it occur to him to wonder how this stranger knew about his line of work. He managed to form no further thought; his consciousness was simply erased as a lean hand struck him on the carotid artery—not fatally, but with enough force to switch him off.
Dragging the unconscious body outside, Verity wondered why he hadn’t killed him outright, and what on earth to do with “this” now.
But in yet another stroke of his uncanny luck, his “acquaintance” materialized before him, his bearing making it perfectly clear that he was displeased with these actions. With a carefree, dismissive snort, Verity dumped the unconscious body into his arms and hastened away, knowing Mob had already reached home.
The acquaintance was left standing there, bewildered, holding a representative of the human race whom he did not know.
Smiling to himself, Verity ascended the flights of stairs with voluptuous anticipation, as though purposely postponing the dessert. Along the way, he decided to look at the new, strange pictures people had been drawing of him and his human. Some were amusing, some quite extravagant—enough to redden even his ears. It was astonishing that, after just a couple of Mob’s videos about them, a wave of popularity had descended upon their pair; it was yet another proof that his human was special. The very best.
After several minutes of unhurried progress, Verity arrived at the door. He merely knocked, and knew at once that the young man had heeded the sound, had been slightly frightened, and was preparing to leave his chair to see who had disturbed his peace. But no sooner had Mob swiveled in his chair than the lock began to turn and click open of its own accord. For a second, he sat frozen in bewilderment before his mind finally started to grasp: what on earth was he supposed to do?!
Then the door swung open, and his eyes fell upon a slender young man who, at first glance, posed no visible threat.
Almost relaxing at the realization that this was not some drunken brute, Mob’s thoughts began to coalesce. He decided the stranger’s key must have miraculously matched the lock, and the man had simply mistaken the floor. Yet just as he made to say so, the figure began to advance toward him with swift, purposeful strides.
Motionless, Mob could only lock his gaze into those bottomless, dark-gray eyes as, right beside his ear, in a whisper that sent tingling shivers down his spine, the stranger breathed:
"I’ve dreamed for so long of seeing you in the flesh… well, more precisely, of standing before you. You have no idea how happy I am right now, Mob."
Staring dumbfounded at the wall, still unmoving, Mob tried nervously to swallow, to gather his scattered thoughts, to finally understand what the fuck was happening!
At last, the yellow-haired guest pulled back and straightened up, standing directly before him and seeming even taller than before.
And then, a thought surfaced in Mob’s mind—or rather, a memory. He had seen this person before. And this young man also reminded him powerfully of someone, both in intonation and in appearance.
.....
Verity? But how… Then again, how did the person who drew those fanarts manage to guess? He looked exactly like the pictures!
But the warmth in that voice abruptly shifted into impatience and raw aggression.
"Did you think it was normal to abandon me for an entire day and go off with some other, unknown little human?! Am I not enough for you?! I can give you anything you could ever want! Just ask, MOB, WHAT DO YOU WANT?"
The young man was suddenly hauled up by the hood of his black hoodie—with such force that the fabric began to rip at the seams—and then flung carelessly onto the bed, unmade since morning. The springs screeched, and the impact sent him bouncing slightly.
Cold, thin fingers clamped painfully around his wrist and dragged it toward the headboard. A gaunt hand began working at the tie, and before long Mob found himself bound fast to the bedframe with that very tie.
"Well, now…" came the cheerful voice in the small, quiet room. "One hand is out of the game. Good luck saving yourself with your three other limbs, but you know… I doubt it’ll help."
Verity announced this with undisguised delight, and then, leaning down, brushed his lips gently against his beloved’s.
After the tie, the waistcoat began to be unbuttoned—slowly, unhurriedly, as though seeking to suffocate the victim with the dread of the impending ordeal and the hunter’s feast.
The waistcoat soon flew to the floor. Before Mob, petrified with helplessness, appeared the figure, trembling with impatience, straddling his thighs and struggling to undo the last stubborn button. Very quickly, both the wearer and the button surrendered. The button was simply torn off and hit the floor with a metallic ring; the linen shirt followed. On the young, toned torso, faint beads of sweat emerged, and a flush crept across the hollow cheeks. The young man now wore only his trousers, which seemed fit to burst at the seams over his twitching, tension-racked legs.
Having finished with himself, Verity reached out to Mob. Cold knuckles grazed the concave stomach, palpating with reverent care, descending to the hip bones, caressing them lightly, then trailing upward to the flat chest.
A sensation like lightning shot through Mob—whether from the chill, or from fear and incomprehension, or from everything all at once.
Breathing lost its even rhythm; both their sighs became ragged. For a couple of minutes, Mob even lost himself in the sweet lassitude as his body was caressed—carefully, tenderly, with all the love one would not expect from a demon. He drifted away as his hoodie was pulled off, then the T-shirt beneath it; as his thin shoulders were massaged, as fingers traced from ribs to waist, stroking.
They circled back to the hip bones, crept to the small of his back, and then, without warning, slipped into his trousers to brush lightly against his tailbone—only to withdraw the very instant Mob tried to muster verbal protest, though he did not manage it in time. And then his trousers were removed; a gentle coolness washed over his lower body. Goosebumped legs curled, sliding up the sheet in an instinctive bid to conceal what societal norms deemed indecent. But what were such norms to a “monster”? In his human, everything was perfect. There was not a single part that displeased Verity.
Mob let out a sharp cry as bony fingers dug into the soft skin of his thighs and began to force them apart—first with a pretense of patience, then, realizing that assistance would not be forthcoming, with a sudden, impatient violence.
Warm breath grazed the inside of his thigh. Sharp incisors, vaguely reminiscent of vampire fangs, sank into the delicate skin, leaving two distinct, bleeding punctures. A cooling breath followed, as if acknowledging the mistake, and then a soothing stroke that sought to distract.
And then, without warning, having moistened the place with viscous saliva, something touched the tightly clenched, fear-and-revulsion-ridden spot.
They massaged, striving not to cause pain, lubricating with saliva that resembled a slick lubricant more than anything else; then, abruptly, all three fingers entered at once—ripping a scream from Mob’s throat, sending sparks dancing before his eyes, splitting his lip where his own teeth had bitten down.
Verity leaned over, wiped away the blood, and licked it off with deliberate display. Yes, even this part of him was exquisite. In that instant, instinct and raw impulsivity seized complete dominion over him.
Without bothering with further preparation, he only once more moistened the entrance with warm saliva, ran a slick trail along the already leaking shaft, leaving a sheen of fluid there as well. As if actually intent on suffocation, he painfully forced Mob’s jaw open and shoved his fingers—the same that had been so much lower only a minute ago—deep into the throat, right to the gag reflex.
When Mob was nearly choking on the pain not just in his throat but throughout his entire body, the fingers withdrew from his gullet—only to be replaced by a tearing sensation from below, a pain that shot like lightning into his lower back, making it seize.
A scream, no longer restrained, tore from the young man’s bitten lips. Tears of despair began to roll down his cheeks, stinging the hollows of his eyes.
Seeing this, Verity did not stop; he only increased the force of his thrusts. He reached for a kiss, but Mob turned his face away, pressing his lips together in agony. So Verity, with the pads of his fingers, tenderly brushed away the streaming tears—and then, as if having lulled him with a moment’s false mercy, his still-cold, almost unliving hand cracked sharply across Mob’s cheek with a loud slap, whipping his head to the other side.
Mob’s eyes simply froze in shock, and he stared straight ahead, at Verity.
And Verity smiled directly into his face, kissed him brazenly with an expression that seemed to say “you brought this on yourself”, and continued his torment. It did not end with a single round. From the pain, Mob’s lower back grew numb, which in part helped him endure the ordeal. Having resigned himself entirely to his fate, he yielded to everything; every kind of manipulation was now possible. Yet why descend into further perversion? His beloved had already confirmed that he was his, and only his, human. There would be no more need for sadness; only happiness awaited him—happiness that Verity would unfailingly provide. After the passionate, fervent act, when both were utterly spent, Mob lost consciousness. Verity gently washed his body with a freshly dampened cloth, dressed him, and covered him with tenderness, yet replaced the tie with a small but sturdy chain—just for certainty.
In a strange, fitfully flickering dream, Mob could not find rest, and soon he woke.
For a moment, he thought it had all been a terrible nightmare brought on by too many hours of gaming, and he drew a ragged, nervous sigh. But then he saw Verity, slightly bent forward to bring himself to eye level, sitting in his gaming chair, chin propped on two hands folded together, and smiling.
After a couple of seconds, he wished Mob a good morning and held out a glass of water, promising that he would soon prepare breakfast. He chatted about trifles of the internet, about the content being made about them, and rejoiced in his new life.
As for Mob… he was trapped. For it was he who had opened that box.
On the other side of events, Twixel awoke. His sleep had been deep and sound. He was roused by a knocking against the doorframe; there stood the hooded young man, lightly rapping to signal his presence.