Chapter Text
Flame hated this.
It's unusual for him to say that; he loved fighting, it was what he was good at. The adrenaline, the rush, the way it's practically muscle memory to adopt to different styles of fighting, to switch between his gapples, shield, totems, and whatever else he needed.
He loved fighting.
And yet this fight was everything he hated.
He doesn't understand how Wemmbu was doing any of this. The tnt from nowhere? How he even knew where Flame was going to be? How he kept cutting off his chance to heal by an almost too well timed mace hit.
It was awful.
He couldn't wipe the sneer—the disbelief, the shock, the pure confusion that he hated to have during fights—off his face. Just like how he couldn't wipe off Wemmbu's smug, too-focused look on his face off.
"Sit down," he commands, for he may not be a Dom like Wemmbu is, he knows how to mimic them, how they like to jokingly use commands on each other despite knowing they won't listen. He has no idea why Doms do that, but he's not about to argue when he knows it can get under their skin well.
"Sit down, Flame," the other mocks him, just like he knew he would, and yet- yet Flame feels the buckling of his own knees, hopes that Wemmbu didn't see it even with the way his next hit stutters. "You can't be serious- joking right now? C'mon bro."
Flame swings again, and it connects. A long, bloody cut on Wemmbu's arm that makes Flame want to laugh at the hiss he lets out. But he refrains. It's not good to get distracted, not with how many totems have already been popped between the two of them, and certaintly not when Flame knows he needs to get a gapple in him as soon as physically possible.
Commands couldn't even be used on him. Yes, he's a Sub, by nature he's supposed to contort his body to listen to any command given, but that isn't him. He's Flame, The Immortal Demon, and that means no one knows what his dynamic is. The way he likes it, really.
Either way, he's trained himself. It means he can't be controlled. Not easily, at least. It's his choice to listen, to falter and sit pretty for someone, not some asshole Dom's choice. He's trained himself better, has always been better, and he refuses to give into any command.
Much less Wemmbu's.
The mace connects with his shield, something he didn't even realize was happening until Wemmbu was landing next to him and throwing another hit towards his face. He doesn't know how he blocked it with his sword in time, but with how low he was-
He needs to breathe. He needs a place to hide, if only for a moment.
Flame throws a pearl. He wasn't paying attention to where he threw it, too focused on blocking yet another hit, but he trusts his body. Wherever he threw it, he knew it will provide just enough breathing room to eat, to heal, to throw another taunt towards Wemmbu-
"Bro, really? Pearling into a wall? How flustered are you?"
He doesn't dare answer that, the wind rushing in his ears as he frantically—and isn't that a first? Maybe he is flustered—pulls out his bucket. The pearl had hit the edge of one of the massive holes in the ground, which wouldn't have mattered if didn't shove him right before it landed. It was… unfortunate that he didn't have the time to right himself, was forced to continue his backwards motion right into the hole his pearl hit.
Even with his tail—unwrapped as it always is during fights—there was no chance to save himself.
It's a great thing that he can always land on his feet. Even if Lomedy continuously compared him to a cat because of it, he won't lie and say his friend wasn't right. But yet there he was, falling, trying to manuver himself to find a place to land, more tnt following him along with Wemmbu's stupidly annoying laugh.
It wasn't a miracle that he landed safely. It was skill that he prides himself on, because he's Flame, and a fall isn't enough to take him out of the game.
"Flame, I- I don't know how you keep living, but you should stay down for a little bit, give us both a break, yeah?" He couldn't have been close, but the command feels as if it was given right in his ears. Nonetheless, his arm freezes, his knees buckle again, and he blames it more on the fall than believing that a command would actually work on him.
"Already tired, bro? C'mon, I could do this all day. Are you scared? Tired? A- a Dom like you, tired? Bro, it's pathetic. I thought you were better than this." Flame curls his fingers around his sword, taking several deep breaths before he chomps down on a gapple, practically sighing in relief when some of his cuts heal up.
Despite his words, he's… tired. He's running low on supplies. His own body is betraying him and he-
It's easy to pull out his pickaxe and dig himself into a wall. He crouches down, makes himself as small as he possibly can—something he hates—and takes inventory.
Two totems, half a stack of gapples, only a few bottles o' enchanting left, and his armor is on low durability. He can't risk pulling out a shulker, not with tnt that could go off at any second and blow it up, but…
Maybe he should pull out of the fight.
He growls. His tail flicks angrily before it wraps around his leg to act as a temporary bandage for one of his worse wounds.
"Where'd you go? Come out, our fight isn't done yet! Or is the Immortal Demon-" there's a mocking tone to that title, one that Flame can't focus on due to him reaching for his pickaxe to do exactly that before he freezes. "-too scared? Can't believe I'd see the day where he would hide. Like bro, what?"
Flame stays silent. He can't give himself away, not now, not ever.
Not when his body is actively betraying him.
He promised himself that he'd never give into commands if the person issuing them didn't deserve it. They'd have to beat him, have to earn it; he has a very, very long list of requirements for someone to deserve it. And Wemmbu doesn't. He- he's not-
"Does this count as a win, then, Flame?" It doesn't.
But he can't say anything, or he'll give up his hiding spot.
Because if this is a win, then his list of requirements narrows down. "Beating me," is at the top, the hardest of them all, it should be impossible even, and that's why his list is so long. He was good, he guesses, for giving his… non-existent suitors a way in despite being weaker than him.
With that… happening—disgusting, the thought of it makes him want to gag—the list becomes two things.
He swallows thickly.
"Nah bro," he equips his pickaxe and starts digging upwards, laughing a little to hide his growing panic. "Not a win until you pin me."