warning: sadistic Caitlin

xoxo gold strings xoxo

yeah, her lips tasted like sugar and poison
yeah, she was my bad girl
'cause we were a toxic fucking couple
and maybe I liked it that way

bishop

"Thunderbolt!" she commands. Her Gothitelle's entire frame alights in a spectacular shower of yellow and blue, and with a flick of its hand it sends a spiraling lance of radiant electricity at his Liepard. The bolt strikes the feline in a burst of sparks and his final Pokemon is lying on the floor of their war-ravaged battlefield, an ugly scorch mark marring its burgundy fur. It gives a plaintive mew as it lies lifelessly on the ground, staring up at him as if in search for further direction.

The battle is over in a mere ten rounds. Despite his team's type advantage, she defeats him for the hundredth time, smiling her winning smile and waving at the crowd. He has only managed to take out two of her Pokemon this match.

There is a reason Caitlin is not the Champion already. Because the prospect bores her.

He recalls Liepard without a word and she dashes over to him, bubbly and far too bouncy. Her hair smells cloyingly of flowers, and her silken shawl rubs annoyingly against his bare skin as she wraps her arms around his neck. It feels not like an embrace, but the garroting hold of an Arbok. He resists the urge to push away from her, from that bitch, but he cannot.

"That was so fun, Grimsley! Shall we play again sometime soon?" she asks, grinning up at him.

He responds with an emotionless smile and gently extricates her from his chest. As he walks away, he feels her eyes on him. Gothitelle is staring, too.

knight

She lifts a dainty finger and beckons him forward, cheeks flushed and glossy pink lips wet. Her tongue swirls enticingly around the head of a cherry red lollipop. He stares at that finger and the lollipop and he imagines himself ripping the candy from her mouth and crushing it underfoot, then doing the same thing with her head.

"Come here, darling," she cooes. "I've got a lovely treat planned for you."

Unwillingly, he finds himself pulled forward. His feet move of their own accord without any guidance from him, and soon he is standing in front of her. Though he towers over her by at least a foot, she makes him feel small. Smaller than he has ever been.

"Marshal, dear," she simpers, running her eyes appreciatively over his body and the thick swell of muscles that shape it, like a piece of armor. "I've waited so long for you. For this. For us."

And then, his shirt is off and she is lying on top of him, her shawl and hat cast aside so her thick blond curls cascade around her head and envelop them, cocooning them in a sea of golden tangles. She nips his cheek, his nipple, her tongue trailing over every inch of him, and he wants to say, Stop it, you crazy psycho bitch, I'm not some kind of pawn, get your filthy lips off of me-

"Do you like it, Marshal?" asks the demoness, eyes twinkling. Her fingers roam over his abdominals and lower, lower, until they reach into his pants and clasp, and he groans weakly and struggles to free himself.

"Why?" he chokes out. "Why are you doing this to me? Don't have anyone else to control?"

"Oh, you silly man," she laughs. "I'm doing it because it's fun, of course."

pawn

She nibbles delicately on her buttery scone, gazing at him across the table. They are at her villa in Undella Town, and it is summer and they are eating outside. She is, anyway. He is staring stoically ahead, a towel draped over an arm, refusing to make eye contact.

He adjusts his glasses and the sun's rays bounce off the ocean and hit him. He winces.

"Darach?"

He hears her calling his name. "More tea, please."

Wordlessly, he walks over to her table, grips the handle of the teapot, and pours her another scalding cup of the raspberry-tasting brew.

Inside, he thinks, I hope it burns your throat on the way down.

He tries to take a step back, but her hands are wrapped around his wrists in a split second. They materialize so quickly, so suddenly, that it scares him (just a little).

"Madam?"

"Now, now, Darach," Caitlin purs, voice as smooth as water. The hand wrapped around his arm feels like a vise choking the life out of him. "Play nice." She tilts her head quizzically to one side. "Wouldn't want to be thinking naughty things, would we?"

She rolls the naughty on her tongue and makes it sound erotic and threatening at the same time. She flashes a glint of pearlescent teeth at him and flicks a hand at his glasses. They are yanked off and fall onto the table.

"Pick them up, Darach."

It's her powers. If she didn't have them, if she was just a normal human being, maybe she wouldn't have become so twisted. So horrible. He bites his cheek until it bleeds.

"Pick them up."

You fucking psycho girl.

She slaps him hard across the face, leaving a bright palm-shaped imprint. The force of the blow makes him stagger back. She giggles.

"Naughty, naughty, naughty."

The glasses are dangling in front of his face. He reaches for them and she is in his face, lips pursed and eyes wide open. Ferociously, she mashes her lips against his, the contact so harsh that he feels like his mouth will be bruised. Her slender fingers are entangled in his hair, and he brings his arms around her back and squeezes.

"Darach, you naughty devil!"

She squeals. It is high-pitched, excruciating, and reminiscent of screws being driven into his eardrums. He grits his teeth.

He squeezes harder, foregoing the facade of obedience. He doesn't care if someone sees them. He just wants to squeeze harder and harder, squeeze the life out of his mistress, squeeze and choke this horrid, horrid she-demon and watch as all the years of manipulation come crashing down on her frail, powerful little head-

She shrieks with laughter. "Darach, yes, yes, yes! Kill me! Wring my neck, you bastard!"

He wishes he could.

"Be a man, Darach!"

Her hands slip under his shirt, caressing his chest, and her flesh is as cold as stone.

He shivers involuntarily.

Her eyes narrow, lashes fluttering rapidly like Butterfree. "Darach..."

Without warning, she lashes out and sends him flying at the balcony railguards. His back is pressed against the steel bars, he feels himself slipping, and then-

-her hand reaches out and grasps his collar, pulling him back and twirling him around like a deadly piroutte.

She giggles again, that tinkling, silvery laugh he has come to love and hate. "Let's dance, Darach."

QUEEN

She is the master of her kingdom. She is the sovereign ruler of her subjects, an entity not to be challenged. At all.

Games are her favorite things she plays to occupy her time. Games of the mind, especially, are her favorite. She loves fiddling with her toys, watching them squirm and then watching them hate and then watching them in the throes of artificial ecstasy.

She loves making her toys, too. Taking an unsuspecting, innocuous set of materials, she constructs them with absolute precision, turning something dull into something extravagant. She likes extravagance. Her toys are a reflection of her, after all. Grimsley, Marshal, even Darach have all been built by her into the people (the entities) they are today. And she makes sure they know it.

She has had many toys. Most of them are broken, and those are the ugly ones, the ones she does not care for. The strong ones, however, are the ones she favors above the rest. Toys like charming, affluent Grimsley, whom has been attempting to slip lethal doses of cyanide into her meals for weeks now. Or handsome, rugged Marshal, her precious fighter boy. He harbors a rather twisted fantasy of tearing her into bits with his hands.

And then, there is Darach. Her favorite by far, her constant companion and sole accomplice in every one of her ventures. Darach, the loyal butler. Darach, the refined, calm one whom she has entrusted with several rare Pokemon and the management of her estate. Darach, who has tried to ruin her finances subtly, strike her with any number of chemically concocted maladies, and even murder her outright.

Darling, darling Darach. Her most expensive toy, and one she will never be willing to part with.

Darach is the quiet knife, the one who is the most like her out of the three. Though she would prefer to think otherwise, Darach does build her up just as she brings him down, undoing him brick by brick. She breaks, he fixes. She fixes, and he breaks. Just like that. Their relationship is really a very simple one, actually.

At times, she finds herself staring into Darach's hate-filled eyes and wondering, What if? What if she could just be content? What if she could find another way to alleviate her boredom?

What if, what if?

What if she hadn't always been the Queen piece, the ultimate destroyer?

Yes, she does wonder about these things. If there had never been a game in the first place, maybe she wouldn't still be compelled to keep playing.

There was a game, though. And so, it is inevitable that she will be the one to keep it flowing, to keep the gears in perpetual motion. There is never an end to the games she plays.

If her parents were here, they could all play again. Her against them. Her greatest opponents. It would be fun!

She will time each move carefully and send her toys out to battle, each one tethered to her by golden leashes.

checkmate

She is the Queen. She moves everywhere and is everywhere at once. She kills and she revives. No good toy should ever go to waste, right?

She rips off an arm and sews it back on. She severs a leg and reattaches it. A head falls to a blow from her axe and she picks it up and returns it to its rightful owner.

She tugs on the fraying piece of string, unwinding it, only to knit it all back together.

Her toys will keep her amused until she replaces them with new ones.

She is the Queen. She is entitled to such luxuries.

Checkmate, Grimsley. Checkmate, Marshal.

Checkmate, darling Darach.

Shall we play again?

a/n: erm, this was new. the story was inspired by aestheticisms' /leitmotif/. you should all check it out. it's awesome. also, the building-up/toxic relationship was influenced by gillian flynn's /gone girl/.

read and review! :)