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apollo-likes-writing · 6 months ago

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June of Doom Day Two - Double-crossed/Forced to Watch

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Characters: Veritas Ratio, Aventurine, Sunday

Ship: Golden Ratio (Aventurine/Dr. Ratio)

Summary: An AU where Sunday knows about the three Cornerstones during the confrontation between himself, Aventurine, and Dr. Ratio. Chaos, whump, and angst ensue.

Word count: 3,364

Tags: Whump, angst, graphic depictions of violence, torture, mind control, mind manipulation, illusions of pain but it isn't technically real, manipulation.

Author's Note: I don't know how I vomited up over 3000 words for this, but here I am. I hope you enjoy! As always, please comment and reblog as it helps me out a bunch (and gives me a much needed serotonin boost). This is not beta-read so please let me know if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes/goofy pacing.

@juneofdoom

Masterlist | Day One | Day Three

Two men stand side by side in front of huge oak double-doors, both in elaborate clothing; one in green, black, and white, and the other in blue, white, and gold. They are presumed to hate each other. They do not. Far from it, actually. They have found a special kind of companionship during their short period of knowing each other. Who would’ve thought a Stoneheart of the Interastral Peace Corporation and a professor of the Intelligentsia Guild could get along? Especially with temperaments as different as theirs. Aventurine: a “crazed gambler” as the other likes to put it. A man of extraordinary levels of luck and the tendency to value petty bets over his own life. Veritas Ratio: a “stuffy doctor” as the other likes to playfully tease, much to his dismay. A professor of profound intelligence, continually disappointed by the divine entity that refuses to cast THEIR gaze in his direction standing next to the man cursed to withstand the favour of another. Both are pitied. Both are revered. Both are about to stab the head of the Oak Family in the back.

“Sunday is just beyond this door. Are you ready?” the doctor asks, his head turned towards the shorter man beside him.

Aventurine’s eyes remain trained on the door in front of him. “Yep. You?”

“Tell me your plan.”

“I’ll play it by ear.”

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“It was a rhetorical question, Doctor.”

“Mine was nothing of the sort, Gambler. Are you telling me you do not have a plan for facing Sunday?”

“Three chips will do.”

After that short bicker, Aventurine winks at the man and steps forward to push open the door. It takes everything in Ratio to not sigh and roll his eyes. Doing so would only encourage the man in front of him further, so he instead schools his expression to one of his usual neutrality and calmly strolls into the room behind his companion. Inside sits Sunday, who raises from his seat on the opposite side of the huge circular table and welcomes the two men with a gesture of his hand.

“It seems my puzzles are too effortless for you, IPC ambassador,” he begins.

“I see you put a lot of effort into welcoming me, Mr. Sunday. However, this is no way to greet a guest,” Aventurine replies coolly, crossing his arms.

Sunday smiles, teeth glinting in the light above him. “Well, this isn’t an invitation, but a summoning. Before we speak, I need to test your character. You understand, yes?” He gestures to Ratio, whose expression remains unmoving. “I imagine this knowledgeable doctor friend of yours has been of great help, hm?”

Aventurine’s faux smile matches the man in front of him. “Certainly. You ought to know this better than I do – he has already faithfully fulfilled his duties, hasn’t he?”

“Yes. The doctor has assured me of your noble character. He considers you, like himself, a virtuous person who can be trusted by The Family.” Ratio is getting a little sick of being talked about as if he wasn’t in the room. He doesn’t let that show on his face, of course, but he can’t help but feel a little irked.

“You don’t look too well,” the ambassador suddenly states bluntly. “Am I making you anxious? If not, then it means I’m on your side.”

“You’re a wise man, Aventurine.” The Halovian places his hands behind his back – the image of grace. “My only concern is that you’ve used your wisdom at the wrong time to meet the wrong person and put yourself in a situation where you shouldn’t be.” His sister’s death. “If I wasn’t mistaken, you have just made a serious accusation against The Family.”

“You are not mistaken. Depravity is creeping in around you, Mr. Sunday.” This is certainly not how Ratio would go about this. This is creeping into increasingly dangerous territory. “There’s no need to be evasive. Let’s talk about your sister, shall we? Many suspect her death to be the work of outsiders, but I know you are of a different opinion.”

Ratio can’t tell for sure at this distance, but he could have sworn that Sunday’s posture tenses.

“Now, your noble status has become a shackle, preventing you from apprehending the murderer and avenging your sister’s death. You’re feeling anxious because you’re out on a limb. But don’t worry. I am on your side.”

Despite the tightness of his shoulders, Sunday’s voice betrays no such tenseness. “I’m immensely honoured by your concern for me, Mr. Aventurine – since you’re so selfless and generous, I believe you wouldn’t ask for anything in return, would you?”

“Naturally, you wouldn’t incur any loss from this. I simply want to reclaim what is mine: my liberty, and my personal items under the Family’s custody – the bag of gift money, and-”

“The Cornerstone and the box that it inhabits.”

“That’s right.”

“A treasured asset of the Strategic Investment Department, a sacred stone that seals the Emanator of Preservation, granting significant power to each of the Ten Stoneheart's, yes?”

“You would be correct.” Where is this going? This is like an elaborate chess game, two players taking the other’s pieces for their own gain. For all his intelligence, Ratio can’t figure out who has the most pawns at their disposal. He knows he is one of them, but his move has already been made.

“For an object so precious, it probably comes at an even higher price than other forms of recompense.”

Aventurine frowns – a performed frown – but a frown nonetheless. “I’m sure you’re aware of the high level of risk I’ll be undertaking to bring the truth to light-”

“Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday starts, raising a hand to silence him. “When you’re out and about, do you always make adjustments to your appearance? Your tie should be on the centre line, your shirt must not protrude from your vest, your trouser creases should be perfectly straight, and always aligned with the tips of your shoes.”

The blonde nods. “Of course.”

“I don’t, because it is not appropriate to do so in the company of others – you should make sure you are presentable and in order before leaving the house. Unlike you, I’m not the kind that takes risks. The Cornerstone must remain in the custody of The Family.”

Looks like the first piece has been taken. Aventurine sighs. “...No room for negotiation?” At this, Ratio moves from where he stands next to the IPC ambassador to the bookshelf closer to Sunday. Ratio must admit that he is a pawn to both players. He doesn’t like it, but it’s a necessary evil. This room is a giant chess board, and he just took his turn.

Sunday shakes his head. “Please don’t let me turn you down twice.”

“...Fine. The gift money is fine. I suppose you wouldn’t mind that, yes? After all, a businessman can’t function without a bargaining chip.” To that, Sunday lets himself raise an eyebrow.

“You compromised quicker than I thought you would,” he notes. “Unfortunately for you, it is a gambler that needs a bargaining chip, not a businessman. I have no qualms in giving you your gift money, but before that, I need you to tell me-”

Suddenly, Aventurine gasps and takes a step back. His eyes glaze over, and he looks at the Halovian in confusion. It’s a look that appears real. Sunday’s halo glows a myriad of psychedelic pinks and blues and yellows and greens. Ratio must turn away to prevent his distaste from becoming apparent. Sunday is using the power of the Harmony.

“What exactly is in the box that you have decidedly forsaken?”

Sunday raises his arms reverently and looks to the ceiling. “Oh Triple-Faced Soul, please sear his tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that he will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

“...What is this?” Aventurine shoots a glance towards Ratio, but sees his head turned.

“Under the light of the Harmony, all wickedness is revealed. I implore THEM to shed THEIR light, and I’ll ask you questions on THEIR behalf. You have two minutes to prove your innocence and gain my trust.”

“...And if I refuse to answer?”

“You can certainly try – at your own risk, of course.” Sunday grins. “We’ll see if the Harmony rejects you.” At Aventurine’s decided silence, the sky-haired man begins his interrogation. Ratio turns his head back to the two men. Despite his disgust, he cannot help but be a curious man, so he watches.

“Question: Do you own a Cornerstone?” he asks.

“Yes.” The answer is immediate, almost as if it escaped Aventurine’s mouth before he had the chance to think about it. Not good.

“What a simple answer,” Sunday states, nodding in faux approval. “You, too, understand that nonsense leads only to your expense. Let us continue.”

“Did you hand over the Cornerstone to The Family when you entered Penacony?”

“Yes.”

“Does the Cornerstone you handed over to The Family belong to you?”

“Yes.”

“Is your Cornerstone in this room right now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an Avgin from Sigonia?”

What has that got to do with the current circumstances?

Aventurine falters slightly at the question, clearly taken off guard. “Yes. Why do you know that?”

Sunday ignores his question. “Do the Avgins have any ability to read, tamper with, or manipulate one’s own or another’s mind?”

“What?” he barks out a laugh at the apparently ludicrous question. The action makes Sunday’s halo brighten and Aventurine winces before answering properly. “No. Does it matter?”

“Do you love your family more than yourself?” Sunday asks, tilting his head to the side. These questions are getting weirdly personal. Ratio crosses his arms.

“Yes.” An immediate answer.

“All of the Avgins were killed in a massacre. Am I correct?”

“No.”

“Are you your clan’s sole survivor?”

Aventurine hesitates. “...Probably.”

“Do you hate and wish to destroy this world with your own hands?”

A second hesitation. “No.”

“Alright. Final question: Can you swear at this very moment, the Aventurine Cornerstone is safe and sound in this box?”

A third. “Obviously.”

Sunday nods. “Very well. I have no further questions.”

Ratio gives out a silent sigh of relief. Sunday moves around the table and strolls towards Aventurine, his halo is so bright that even Ratio can feel it. The atmosphere of the room is suffocating in the will of the Harmony. The high-inducing rainbow of colours escaping from behind the head of Sunday is becoming overbearing for the doctor, let alone for Aventurine. He can’t help but feel pity for the Sigonian.

Sunday halts a few steps away from the Stoneheart. He taps his finger against his chin as if pondering something. “You know, if there could only be one thing I detest in this vast Universe: it would be dishonesty, Mr. Aventurine.”

Wait, what? That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. Ratio can’t stop himself from shooting a glance towards Sunday from where he stands behind him.

“I- I beg your pardon?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You have been lying through your teeth ever since you stepped onto this planet.”

“Well- yeah. I haven’t exactly tried to hide that. Isn’t that what your mind-fuckery is all about? To get me to tell the truth? Or are you just trying to show off?” he asks, subtly glancing at Ratio. “Or does your ‘power of the Harmony’ not work?”

“I can assure you, the Harmony influences all. However, I will admit that I have hidden something from you, Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday replies, his wings pitching downwards a little.

“Well, isn’t that a surprise,” the gambler retorts, evidently filling his words with as much sarcasm as he can muster. His knees buckle slightly, clearly struggling under the weight of the Emanator’s gaze. Ratio can’t look away.

“While my powers of persuasion have every capability of forcing the truth out of your lips, I decided to do a little experiment to see if you’re capable of honesty of your own volition,” the angelic man says. “You apparently are not. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Aventurine stays silent.

“I’m saying that I know that you’re lying to me.”

Throughout this entire negotiation, this is the first time Veritas has felt fearful. The room becomes even more suffocating, if that’s even possible. He forces his own face to remain neutral. He plays the role of traitor in this grand play, after all. He must see it through for his companion’s sake.

From where he stands, he can see Sunday’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. He’s enjoying this.

“I know about the Topaz Cornerstone. I know about the Aventurine Cornerstone. And, as similar as it is to your own, I know about Jade Cornerstone.”

Oh. Shit.

“How you managed to sway not one- but two individuals from a group as discordant as the Ten Stoneheart's to go along with your terrible plan is beyond me.” Sunday barks a loud laugh. “Truly, you are too much of a risk-taker, Mr. Aventurine. Now-” the man lifts an arm out in front of him, as if reaching for Aventurine from a distance. Ratio can’t stop himself from taking a step forward. He can’t let the man he cares for break in front of him.

“Kneel.”

His knees hit the floor, the full force of the Harmony crashing down on him. The scolding feeling of something forcing itself into his brain causes him to squeeze his eyes shut. He opens his mouth to scream, but it’s as if his throat has closed. Useless and silent.

“What on earth are you doing?” The other man looks on, frozen.

“You are not the only liar in this room, Aventurine.” He turns. “Come here.”

He leans forward from where he kneels and falls onto his hands and knees. He crawls over to the Halovian, stopping only when his head almost hits Sunday’s thigh. He falls back onto his calves, looking up at him in pure disgust.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His face is forced into neutrality against his will. “Let’s play a game, Aventurine. Tell me what your plan is and what Ratio has to do with it, and I’ll let him live.”

From where he kneels, Ratio turns his head to gaze at Aventurine, unable to look at him in any way except for indifference. He’s fucking terrified, but he can’t make that obvious no matter how much he wants to.

“Can’t you just force the truth out of me? Why not do that instead?” he asks, looking at his companion on the floor with an expression Ratio wishes he could mirror – fear.

“That’s boring,” Sunday replies simply. His calm demeanour is steadfast but with a smile that is growing wider with every passing second. “I find this maintains much more efficiency.”

Aventurine scoffs, still attempting to keep his act. “What does killing an Intelligentsia Guild member do for you that maintains efficiency? You’re mad.”

“It maintains efficiency because you care about him, Mr. Aventurine. I see all in the Dreamscape. I see the looks shared between the two of you. The companionship you fostered in the short time of knowing each other. You may think you’re able to disguise your relationship with insults and petty arguments, but you cannot. It is frightfully obvious. Besides, you’re more likely to answer truthfully if the life of someone you care about is at stake.”

“This is pathetic! He has done nothing to you.” It’s obvious that Aventurine is grasping at straws here.

“You’re right. He has done nothing to me. He has lied and told falsehoods but only because you told him to. I have no reason to do this,” Sunday shrugs, his grin becoming a little too wide.

There is an oppressive silence that follows. One that draws the line between predator and prey; master and slave; the controller and the controlled.

“I’m doing this because I hate you, Mr. Aventurine. And you love him.”

With that, an excruciating pain sets Ratio’s nerves alight. It rips through his mind and tears into his heart and lungs and stomach and extremities. His back hits the floor and he spasms where he lies, agony devouring his senses.

Veritas Ratio screams.

He is not a man that screams. Not usually. At pain he normally gives a small grunt and gives a debilitating glare to whomever or whatever caused him harm. Anything more would infer a weakness he doesn’t have. Not here. Here, his voice is guttural and raw and pitched and agonising. It echoes around the room and rises above the Choir of the Harmony that deafens everything else. His eyes snap shut so tightly that he sees stars dotting around in the darkness of the underside of his eyelids.

“Open your eyes,” several cacophonous voices demand.

He does, his eyelids shooting open through a compulsion that makes him sick. The psychedelic neon colours of the Harmony streak across his vision and blind him. He continues to convulse on the floor. The pain causes him to double over as stinging tears rip themselves from his eyes and smudge the red under his eyes.

“Look at him.”

His head snaps up and his eyes meet Aventurine’s. He’s frozen in place and looking at him in pure horror. Undoubtedly, he has been compelled to stay where he is, made obvious by how much his legs shake and his fingers twitch in futile attempts to reach Ratio. The doctor’s breaths come out in short wheezes, his chest rising and falling in quick succession as panic sets in his bones. While he is not a man to scream, he is also not a man to panic – it is a brief episode of intense anxiety that the brain concocts and transforms into a physical response. Ratio is a man of knowledge and has ways of stopping panic in its tracks before it takes root. In this case, however, knowledge is stripped of him and thrown out of the window. In a small corner of his mind, Ratio knows that this onset of fear and panic is caused by the effects of the Harmony. It is superficial. It is not real.

But Aeons above – it fucking feels real.

It carries on for what feels like hours. For all Ratio knows it could have been. If he was more cognizant, he would wonder what Sunday’s goal in this endeavour is. Is it to drive Aventurine into telling the truth? To prove a point? The answer to that is between Sunday and his Aeon.

He’s sure he blacks out every now and again, the pain writhing across his spine easily becoming too much for his body. He faintly hears the calm voice of the Halovian above him standing resolute as he speaks to Aventurine. He can’t make out coherent words, but by what he can tell from the Stoneheart’s expressions it’s nothing good. He should have been sent to the waking world by now, right? That’s what everyone in The Family says happens. If you want to leave the Dreamscape, you can. You can wake up in your designated Dreampool whenever you want without hindrance. Or is Sunday stopping that as well? He doesn’t know if that’s even possible.

It’s only when he is once again on the edge of falling out of consciousness that the power of the Harmony lifts from his trembling and fragile body. It isn’t slow like he expected it to be – but rapid. It is immediate and the loss of such a suffocating presence is almost as painful as it was before. He quickly feels arms wrap around him from where he lies limp on the floor, the familiar fluff of the collar of Aventurine’s coat warming his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Veritas,” he whispers in his ear. “I should never have let this happen to you.”

Faintly, the doctor hears the wooden door of Sunday’s office click shut. It’s then when he realises, he has been picked up and brought out of his room. Through pained eyes, he gazes at Aventurine. He then lifts a heavy arm to cup the man’s cheek, before slipping into unconsciousness for the final time.

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miraclemaya · 10 months ago

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art is only art through suffering. (tw torture)

the gallery makes you sign a consent form before you enter the exhibit. inside is a white room with a single chair. you sit down. a few moments later a man enters with a hammer. he gives a polite nod and smashes your left knee cap in. you feel it shatter into pieces, bone shard getting embedded in your flesh. he exits the room as you scream in pain. a different person, a woman this time, enters the room and throws a bucket of acid at you. you only barely manage to shield your eyes. the rest of you is not so lucky and you burn without fire.

the next person comes in with a saw and gets started on your left hand. they are wearing earbuds and gardening gloves.

they give you five mins to rest. you can't rest as you are bleeding out.

small cuts and salty water on your back.

hot pokers pressed into your left stump.

you don't pass out.

someone just stabs you with a long sword.

waterboarded.

rip out your teeth.

someone comes in with a canvas and shows it to you. it's a fairly amateurish oil painting of a tree. the tree is unremarkable, and really that is the only way to describe the painting. you barely manage the words but you ask who painted it. the person says a name you've never heard before. they ask you if the suffering made the piece better and you say it didn't.

they help you out of the room and suddenly you are fine. one of the curators is standing by you and they ask you if the suffering being fake was what made the painting boring.

you think for a minute and answer probably.

#tw torture #cw torture #written depictions of torture using second person pronouns #i don't think it's that bad but it probably is worse than i think it is #honestly if i had more time i would probably try to make it more graphic lol #i feel like that would probably helo the piece feel more in line with my idea for it #not that im unhappy with it but it doesn't feel as good as id have liked it to be #oh well i have class soon #yellowed pages

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adrift-in-thyme · 1 year ago

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Whumptober Day 3: "Make it stop"

Read it on Ao3

- Wild & the Chain

- Summary: When Wild is captured by the Yiga Clan, Master Kohga decides to get his revenge

CW for graphic depictions of violence, torture, blood and injury, vomiting, and a character briefly wishing for death

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“Get up!”

Wild pries open his eyes just as a boot connects with his side. He jerks away with a hiss of pain.

Of all the horrible ways to wake up…

The face of a Yiga assassin comes into view as his vision clears and he groans.

Even better.

“I said, get up!”

Another kick that takes Wild’s breath away.

“Yeah that’s not the best way to get me off the floor,” he remarks, dragging himself into a seated position.

That earns him a sharp smack across the face. Wincing, he watches as the assassin bends down, unlocking his chains. They fall to the floor with a clatter. But Wild hardly has time to breathe a sigh of relief, or rub his wrists, or even to plan a quick escape. Almost immediately, the Yiga yanks his hands behind his back, then ties them tightly with a thick rope.

The coarse material rubs at his already raw wrists. It only adds to the cacophony of aches that have begun to arise now that he’s conscious. Wild blows out an annoyed sigh. As if he could forget how sorely he had lost his last fight.

Rough hands haul him to his feet and he stumbles. His surroundings go fuzzy and dim and for a moment he is certain he’s going to faint. But then it passes. And not a moment too soon. The Yiga shoves him forward and wrenches open the cell door.

The same one they’d thrown Barta into, Wild realizes dazedly. The thought doesn’t make him feel any more comfortable.

“Walk,” comes the sharp order, accompanied by another, hearty push. Stumbling on achingly numb legs, Wild starts forward.

He falls more than walks down the stairs. Between the Yiga’s forceful movements and the haze he has yet to pull himself out of, he can hardly keep himself upright. Even the journey across the main room is difficult.

Especially once he realizes where they’re headed.

“Master Kohga will be so pleased to see you,” his captor hisses, no doubt noticing the sudden increased tension in Wild’s shoulders.

“Didn’t I kill him?” Wild asks, with a forced chuckle. Maybe if he feigns nonchalance it will mask the thundering of his heart. He sends a furtive glance around the space, looking for anything that could possibly allow for a quick escape. But there is nothing.

…and no one. Save for the few assassins who leer at him from beneath their masks.

He swallows, hard. “I think I remember dropping his own weapon onto his head.”

That garners him a swift kick to the shins. He trips, only saved from face planting by the Yiga’s tight grip.

“You are a fool to think our master is so easily defeated. You on the other hand…”

The hallway narrows, then widens into a familiar room. He forces himself to take a deep breath.

“…you will meet your end today.”

Wild lifts his head as he walks through the doorway, heart situated painfully in his throat. Master Kohga sits before him, looking very much alive.

“You,” he snarls as soon as he lays eyes on the champion. “You cocky, undying little punk! You thought you had seen the end of the Great Master Kohga, didn’t you?”

Wild shrugs, a slight smirk on his lips. “I did drop a boulder on your head.”

The Yiga restraining him kicks his legs out from under him. He hits the ground with an “oof.”

“That-that is inconsequential!” Kohga replies, huffily. “I am more powerful than death! But for the pain you caused my beloved, loyal followers” – He rises now, stomping his foot along with every word– “You. Are. Going. To. Die!”

His captor’s grip tightens and he yanks on Wild’s hands. Wild falls back, head bumping against the assassin's hip.

“Shall I take him outside, Master Kohga?” A sadistic sort of excitement colors his voice. It makes Wild’s blood run cold.

Kohga nods. “Yes, take him. I do not wish to ruin my furniture with his blood.”

Again, Wild is hauled upward, though this time a vicious sickle finds its way into his back. It bites into his flesh and he fights not to let out a hiss of pain.

“Move,” the Yiga snaps and Wild stumbles out into the sun.

Kohga sits cross-legged over the crater Wild had been so certain he had plummeted into, hovering serenely just above it.

“Come forward, hero,” he sneers as Wild is shoved toward the gaping hole. “You will be pleased to find that I have perfected my art more than ever!”

With a snap of his fingers, a massive boulder appears above his head. Dozens of tiny spikes protrude from its smooth surface. Wild’s blood runs cold. Abandoning his more measured, methodical tugs of before, he begins yanking ferociously at his bonds.

But then, the Yiga drives his sickle into the back of his leg and all thoughts of an escape vanish. He chokes on a cry. His vision bleeds white. It’s all he can do not to pass out.

One, swift movement and the weapon is out of him, tearing through his flesh as easily as fingers through tissue paper. This time he screams.

He hardly registers it when the Yiga backs away, barely realizes that a large, stone door is sliding over the opening behind him, blocking any exit.

But Kohga’s shrill laughter pierces his ears like knives and he drags his head up to look at him.

“If I were you I would run,” he says, voice nearly brimming with excitement. “Because the time for vengeance has come!”

He begins to swing the boulder over his head. With each trip around it gains momentum, growing closer and closer to the moment when it will break free and careen straight at Wild.

Come on, get up. You’ve got to move.

Gritting his teeth, Wild forces himself to his feet. Pain shoots through his leg anew, like a thousand tiny shards of glass have entered his wound. A scream breaks through his parched lips. His lungs burn, breath coming too fast, heart beating erratically. Stars explode before his eyes.

And still the boulder spins. The motion makes him dizzy.

On trembling limbs he stumbles forward, bile rising in his throat. But each step is sheer agony and he’s slow.

…much too slow.

When the boulder flies free, he can’t evade it. It collides with his body and he goes flying. Pain erupts within him. It steals his breath, propels forth a shout of shock and agony, makes his extremities go numb. He can hear his bones cracking even over the rushing in his ears. His vision goes blindingly white, then spotty, then dangerously dark.

He hits the ground, crying out at the agony of the impact. And the boulder comes down with him, crushing his prone body.

Somewhere, Kohga is laughing. The boulder disappears, retreating back to its owner to prepare for another round. Wild knows he should get up, knows he should at least attempt to run. But all he can do is lie there, trying to breathe. Trying to stay awake.

Blood gurgles in his throat and he pitches sideways, gagging on it. Against the blurred sand, the liquid looks far darker than usual. Almost black.

Like the blood of the Shadow, he thinks dazedly.

He doesn’t get much farther than that thought. Because once more the boulder shoots forward. This time it rolls into him more than flies, shoving him against the far wall and pinning him there.

He doesn’t have the strength to scream, even as the spikes tear out chunks of his flesh and his shattered bones protest this newest assault. He yearns for oblivion that refuses to come.

“So, hero, how do you like it?”

It hits him again, smashing him against the cool stone. He gags on blood once more. It drips into his eyes, runs in rivulets down his face, pools in the gashes that run along his body.

“Painful, isn’t it? Well, that is what you did to me!”

Wild teeters on the edge. Of death or unconsciousness, though, he isn’t sure. Death, he hopes.

(Though at the same time, he doesn’t, because that means he has lost the battle again, failed everyone again, but sweet Hylia he just wants this to stop. Please make this stop.)

And it’s clear now that there will be no other escape.

Your brothers aren’t coming for you. Even if they are, they’ll be too late.

It’s already too late.

“But the mighty Master Kogha prevails over pain and death! You, however, are weak! Weak, weak, weak!”

The boulder retracts and Wild watches it dimly. One more hit is all it will take. He is certain.

So much for coming back to life.

He can see bone, he realizes, shining gorily from his left arm. It is at a strange angle too.

Must be broken.

It certainly isn’t the only thing. But somehow, that hardly seems important at the moment.

His eyes slip closed. Everything hurts. The only other time he felt like this was when he collapsed on Blatchery Plain.

I’m sorry, Zelda, for putting you through this again.

I’m sorry…

“Champion!”

A shout rings out across the space, protectively furious and wonderfully familiar. There’s a scream and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. But the blow he expects doesn’t fall on him.

Instead, gentle hands lift his head, cradling it. He blinks open swollen eyes to see the blurred face of Twilight hovering just above him. Legend and Sky appear over his shoulder, seconds later.

“Twi.”

Clumsily, he tries to reach out with his less injured arm, eager to touch him, to prove that he is real. But his body refuses to follow his commands. He doesn’t have to worry, though. The rancher’s hand easily finds its way into his.

“I’ve got you, Wild,” he says, and there is pure fire in his tone. “You’re safe now.”

A head of familiar pink hair leans over him. Gentle, trembling hands nudge his chin upward.

“Here, you’ve gotta drink this.”

Potion is poured down his throat, lukewarm and burning. But the magic of it begins its work immediately, zipping purposefully toward the worst of his wounds.

Wild swallows it with an effort. Then, he drags his eyes back up to meet Twilight’s. “Kohga?”

It is hardly a whisper, yet they hear it anyway.

“Dead.” He thinks it’s Sky who answers, though his voice doesn’t quite have its usual tone. It is a brittle thing. Dangerous. “For good this time.”

Wild tries to grin, but finds he isn’t quite up to it. “Good,” he mumbles instead. “Tired of his dumb belly.”

Twilight’s lips quirk the slightest bit. Gently, he brushes aside Wild’s bangs, wet with blood and sweat.

“Well, he’s never gonna touch you again.”

“Now, rest up,” Legend says, shakily. “We’ve got this handled. You focus on not dying.”

Any other time Wild would laugh and tease the vet about his blatant caring. But all he can focus on is the pleasantly numb feeling that has begun to spread throughout his body, and how warm Twilight’s embrace is as he scoops him carefully off of the ground. His eyes slip closed of their own accord. Before he even realizes what is happening, the darkness swallows him and he is gone.

116 notes · View notes

iamnotthere-idonotdie · 9 months ago

Text

dream of me

part four

…………………………………………………………………………………….

synopsis: reader and bruce have moved in together and their relationship is going well. but a new gotham criminal kidnaps reader and they face sudden death, as well as a secret bruce has been keeping.

content: batman/bruce wayne x reader, cursing, no smut, violence, torture, death, blood, breaking/broken bones, kidnapping, brutality, guns, knives, vomit, graphic descriptions of violence and injuries

a/n: okay so this one took a dark turn, and i’m very surprised i was able to finish it so fast. i knew how i wanted this to play out but i wasn’t expecting it to get as graphic as it did so i do apologize for that honestly. i think what im learning is that as i write, i sort of envision it as a movie playing out in my head so sometimes it can feel more like a script than a story. also sorry if there are some wrong medical terminology and stuff in here, and sorry for any typos as well!

edit: also— i think i was kind of envisioning the joker here as seen in something like the killing joke (movie). honestly i just kind of read this joker with mark hamill’s voice altogether.

……………………………………………………………………………………

“good morning, sleep well, i hope?”

“good morning, alfred. yes i did, thank you.”

you pour yourself a cup of coffee in the kitchen as alfred makes breakfast. you grab a mug for bruce and pour his as well.

“bruce still out?”

“yes, he called and informed me that he’ll be back soon from his workout.” alfred says as he flips the omelette in the pan.

“these workouts have been getting longer and longer.”

“he does like to keep active.”

“right, he just seems to get up so early for them. the other day i woke up in the middle of the night and he was gone, it wasn’t even 4am yet.”

“he finds the 24-hour gym is less crowded in the early hours.”

alfred slides the omelette onto a plate and sets it on the small table for you.

“thank you alfred. i just worry he’s not getting enough sleep.”

“oh, i’ve been worrying about his sleep for years.”

“i sleep plenty.” bruce enters the kitchen. “morning alfred.”

“good morning, sir.”

bruce walks over to the table and kisses you.

“good morning.” you say as you hand him his coffee.

bruce sits and alfred sets a plate of breakfast in front of him too.

“thanks alfred.”

“i just hope you’re sleeping enough is all. it seems like lately it’s been less and less.” you take a sip of your coffee and look at bruce. you don’t want to be a nag, but you do worry.

he takes a sip too and looks back at you.

“i’m fine, really.”

you smile unconvincingly at him and continue eating.

the rest of breakfast is quiet, but you don’t mind the still silence. this morning routine has brought you comfort over the last few months since you moved in. alfred set up your own room when you first came, but you and bruce quickly realized you both prefer sleeping in the same bed. that is, when he’s actually sleeping in it.

you finish breakfast and bruce takes your plates and puts them in the sink, alfred already turning on the tap.

you and bruce go back upstairs and you start getting dressed for work. he doesn’t always go in, but even on days like today when his work is to be completed at home, he still drives you. he told you early on that you could work hybrid as well, that you two could work together at home on his off days. but you enjoy working at the desk. and with this new outreach project you’ve been working on, you prefer having the team in person to collaborate.

as you button your top, bruce comes up behind and wraps his arms around you, stopping you from finishing.

“bruce…” he cuts you off by kissing your neck. you leave your shirt half open as you turn around and put your arms around his neck. you kiss, letting yourself forget about work. he slides his hands down your back and pulls you in tighter. you won’t ever get enough of this.

your phone’s alarm sings to tell you it’s time to leave. bruce pulls it out of your pocket and silences it, tossing it on the bed with a smile.

“i really should go today.”

“i think you should stay.”

“i don’t know…”

“it’s not like you’ll get fired, i’m your boss.”

you laugh lightly.

“maybe i should fire you, would mean you’d get to stay home all the time.”

you laugh again and kiss him.

“well maybe i could take a sick day today.”

“don’t worry, i wont tell anyone.”

he smiles and kisses you again. all that time getting dressed was for nothing as bruce unbuttons the rest of your shirt and you slide your pants off. while this isn’t a usual part of the morning routine you’ve established, you welcome the variation.

you run your hands through bruce’s hair and watch his chest rhythmically rise and fall as he sleeps. you let him sleep as long as he seems to need to, which is much longer than you thought it’d be. you eventually drift off too, the sound of his quiet snoring lulling your eyes closed.

it’s not until late afternoon when you both wake up again, the thick curtains unable to hide the sliver of sunlight peering in.

“you let me sleep so late.” bruce sits up in bed.

“you seemed like you needed it.”

he leans down and kisses you then gets up and starts getting dressed.

“the weather is supposed to be nice today.” you sit up. “maybe we could go to the park.”

he looks at you and smiles.

“that would be nice.”

you get up and get dressed too.

“i’ll go ask alfred to pack us some lunch.”

“okay, sounds great.”

he gives you one more kiss before heading downstairs. you finish getting ready and grab your phone off the floor. a text from tim, your former coworker in california, sits in your notifications. he and his husband have adopted a young girl. you smile at the family photo he sent and reply with your congratulations. as you look at the message, you let your mind wander and start to think about the prospect. of course you know bruce would be an amazing parent. but you’re not sure if you’d be. or if that’s even what you want. your life is so perfect now and you don’t think you want any of it to change. at least not for a while.

you go downstairs and find bruce packing some sandwiches into a bag. he zips it up and looks at you.

“ready?” he asks.

“ready.”

you decide to walk to the park since it’s only a few blocks away. the sun sits on your skin like a warm blanket as you and bruce walk. the two of you sit by the pond under an oak and eat your late lunch. the sound of birds and ducks paired with the cool breeze rushing through the tree leaves make for a perfect spot. you and bruce lay down in the grass and kiss, your picnic site offering enough privacy that you don’t have to worry about people seeing you. it’s not as if either of you care anyway, really. you’re not trying to hide your relationship, and with bruce’s status it’d be nearly impossible to try. but you still try to avoid paparazzi when you can. you and bruce lie there in the park together until the sun sets slowly behind the hill.

“we should get going before it gets too dark.” bruce sits up.

“i suppose we should.”

bruce grabs the bag and holds your hand as you make your way back home. night falls quickly as you walk. with only a couple blocks to go, you hear a commotion up ahead in an alleyway. sounds of a fight echo down the street. bruce stops walking and lets go of your hand.

“stay here a second.” he hands the bag to you and starts walking toward the source of the sounds.

“wait, shouldn’t we call the police or something first? or maybe we just wait for the batman to come and take care of it. you shouldn’t go down there by yourself.”

“you can call the police.” he continues.

you let out an exasperated sigh and watch bruce turn the corner. you press the numbers 911 into your phone. you finger is just about to click the green button when a strong hand covers your mouth and drags you backwards. you scream into the glove as loud as you can but the fight drowns out your attempts at getting bruce’s attention. all you can do is move around as much as possible to try and shake this person off you but they tighten their grip and then you’re being pushed into the back of a van.

three other people are inside and they grab you. you feel the rope burn your wrists as they tie your hands together behind your back. your throat already feels like it’s being torn apart from screaming. one person spreads a strip of duct tape over your open mouth but you still try to scream for bruce. suddenly a sharp pain strikes the back of your head. the tears have been blurring your vision but now everything is even fuzzier. you let out one more sob before the pipe hits you again and everything goes black.

pain.

that’s the first thing you feel when you finally come to. that’s the only thing you feel. a throbbing, deep pain throughout your entire body like you were just spit out of a cement mixer. you’re hands are still tied behind you and your ankles are stuck to the legs of a metal chair.

you force your eyes open, but everything is still dark. have you gone blind? is your sight gone? where are you? who took you? why can’t you move? you cant see you can’t move you can’t breathe you can’t hear you’re hurting you’re crying you’re screaming you’re shaking you—

the sound of a heavy door swinging open makes you freeze. strong footsteps slowly get louder and louder, closer and closer. the footsteps stop behind you and then you’re assaulted by a harsh bright light. it was a hood over your head, and the figure has now taken it off. the footsteps make their way around you and he stops in front of the chair you’re tied to, his back toward you. your breath shakes as he just stands there, staring straight ahead.

then he starts… crying? his shoulders shake and he gets louder. no… he’s laughing. he slowly turns around to face you, his red painted on smile sending a chill down your spine.

he bends down so his face is level with yours, your noses so close they nearly touch.

“good morning sweetheart.”

the tears continue streaming down your face as he straitens back up and turns, walking toward a table against the wall in front of you. he stops at it and slowly picks up an almost comically large knife.

you sob at the sight of the weapon, knowing it’s intended for you.

“i have a problem.”

he sets the knife back on the table and turns, walking towards you. the door opens again and you see a man in a clown mask rush by and place a camera on a tripod in front of you. he presses a button and a red light comes on and flashes at you.

“a problem that can only be solved by you.”

you somehow find the strength to open your mouth and speak, the words coming out hoarse and quiet.

“…m—me?”

“yes. i am in need of some… capital. some dineros, some cold. hard. cash. now i know you’re dating ol’ brucie and i know he has some access to just a bit of money.” he walks around you and stands behind the chair. “so, brucie boy, from your friendly neighborhood joker, deposit some dolores for me in a safe and lock it up real tight. bring it to the chaplain bridge, in person, at midnight tonight along with the key and you’ll get to see your precious little babe once again.” he grabs your face and squishes your cheeks together.

“oh, silly me, i forgot to tell you how much! let’s see, oh, how about, $50 million. that seems fair enough, don’t ya think?!”

he bends down so his face is next to yours.

“isn’t 50 million enough to save the life of your dearly beloved?”

he pulls something out of his pocket. you feel the cold barrel of a gun press against your temple and let out a sob.

he pulls the gun off your head, still pointing it at you.

*click*

you scream and jolt away. terror runs through your body like electricity.

you look over and he’s still staring at you with the gun pointed in your direction. out of the barrel popped out a banner, with the word BANG! on it. he turns back to the camera and waves.

“see ya tonight.” his tone is sinister and he laughs again.

the man in the mask flips the camera off. he tosses the gun behind his back and it clacks as it hits the concrete. he claps his hands together.

“so! now’s all that’s left to do is sit by, hang tight, let loose, and wait for midnight!” he laughs again and he and the other man leave the room with the camera. the clang of the door closing echoes throughout the room as you sit there alone.

you let out an ear-piercing, guttural scream and continue sobbing. all you want is bruce. you call for him, over and over, hoping by some miracle he’ll hear you through the thick concrete walls. you keep screaming, so hard and so loud that you vomit. now bile covers the front of your shirt and tears cover your face.

the echo of the door rings through the room again and fast footsteps approach. another man in a clown mask with a syringe in his hand unties your arms. before you let him stab the needle in, you punch him in the throat as hard as you can muster. he gags at the blow at stumbles backwards, dropping the syringe. you lean to try and grab it and the chair you’re tied to tips over onto the floor. your face slams into the concrete and you hear a crunch in your nose. you cry out and now all you see is red. you fight through the pain and reach for the syringe. it’s right there, just centimeters away, when a large boot stomps on your hand, surely breaking multiple bones. you scream in pain as the chair is reset upright. you scream and sob as the men grab your arm and stab the now-dirty needle in your vein. you keep crying, but as the seconds go by, you hear yourself getting quieter. the room around you spins in slow motion as your eyelids get heavy. the last thing you see is the joker’s white face and red smile.

your eyes slowly flutter open again. you didn’t know this was even possible, but somehow you wake up in even more pain than before. the joker is still standing there in front of you. smiling. laughing.

“you’re spunky. i like you.”

you all but growl at him as he walks toward that table in the corner, picking the knife up again.

“i thought you’d be asleep until our appointment with good ol’ bruce but the tranq must have been watered down!” he turns to you and laughs.

he carries the knife as he walks toward you.

“at least now we can have a little fun!” he takes the knife and you close your eyes, preparing yourself for the pain. but instead you feel the rope around your wrists and ankles fall.

“what’s say we play a game, hmm? i’m gonna bring in three of my best boys. and the longer you can stay upright and fighting, the more likely i’ll be to not kill you and your dear dear bruce tonight.”

the door opens again and three sets of footsteps walk in behind you.

you just stay sitting in the chair. how are you supposed to fight these huge men?

the joker sighs.

“if you’re gonna be a party pooper, then i guess we’ll have to find another game to play. maybe… target practice?” he throws the knife above your head and it hits one of the three men square in the chest. he falls backwards. dead.

you gasp and try to hold back tears as the joker just laughs.

“guess i do need some practice… i was aiming for his head! haha!” he buckles over in laughter again as you try to catch your breath.

“well good news now is you only have to outlast two goons!”

you slowly stand up, not wanting the next knife to land in your sternum. one of the men walk over to you. the joker takes the gun from before out of his pocket and holds it up above his head.

“ready? fight!” he pulls the trigger with a click.

a huge fist comes flying at your face and makes contact with your cheek. you fall to the ground in pain. he kicks you in the stomach and you just stay there, laying on the ground. he stomps on your chest, your stomach, your head. all you feel is blow after blow. the joker is just laughing at your misery.

you feel a rush of adrenaline run through you and you growl in anger. when the next stomp comes toward you, you grab the booted foot and yank as hard as you can, bringing the man to the ground. you’re surprised you had the strength to do that. you quickly stand back up and kick him in the face, breaking his nose too. you kick him in the crotch and he screams. you sit on top of his chest and punch him with your unbroken hand. over and over and over. all you hear is the sound of the joker’s maniacal laugh and your own grunts as you beat the guy’s face in until he no longer resembles even a man. finally you stop, feeling proud of your strength but guilty for your brutality.

before you can get up from sitting on him, the other man is picking you up and slamming you into the concrete. your shoulder hits the ground hard and you scream. he picks you up again and throws you back first, your head colliding with the concrete so hard you’re sure they’ve both cracked. he grabs the front of your shirt and lifts you up. your body goes limp from exhaustion and he forcefully sits you back on the chair. he punches your face. one. two. three. four. five. six. times then he finally walks away. your vision is blurred and you’re seeing colorful stars flash all around you. you look down and see blood dripping down from your face and onto your lap. the joker just laughs again.

“well, you fought off one! bravo! of course that means only one of you will die tonight. shame. lovers dying together is the sweetest ending of all. romeo and juliet… swan lake… the notebook...” he pretends to wipe a tear. “but oh well. at least now you get to pick who dies! haha!”

“me.” you immediately answer. “kill me. not him.”

“awww how noble! sacrificing yourself for the love of your life, it’s a beautiful thing! very well. you’ll be the one to die.” he takes out a pocket watch. “my oh my look at that! it’s showtime, baby!”

you get tied up again and dragged out of the room. the hood is placed back on your head before exiting, and you’re thrown back into a van. the drive is longer than you expected. how far out of town were you?

the van stops after what you guess was about a half hour long drive.

you’re dragged back out of the van and onto the street. the hood is removed and the joker is gripping your neck and leading you onto the bridge.

you make it to the middle and he shoves you to the ground. you only now notice the gun in his hand.

“oh bru-uce! show me the money, baby!”

his voice echos across the water under the bridge and you wait. you hope he doesn’t come. you hope he’s decided to let the police handle it. you hope he didn’t choose to risk his life for you. because although the joker assured you that you’d be the one to die, you obviously can’t trust that he won’t pull the trigger on bruce too.

“come out come out, wherever you are!” the joker yells in a singsongy voice. “well isn’t this a disappointment! at least it was gonna be fun to kill you. now i almost can’t even enjoy it.” he points the gun in the center of your forehead. you close your eyes and let yourself cry.

you picture bruce’s face. flashbacks of when you first met him come to mind and you go through it all. you think of his smile, how it was crooked and always made you smile back. you think of his hair, how it was always just a little tussled and never quite laid flat. you think of his skin, how it was warm and how it felt against yours. you think of his laugh, how it can at times feel rare but when you hear it, it’s like the world stops. you think of his eyes, how they’d glow like warm honey when the sunlight hit them just right. tears stream as you think of every part of him. how you wish you’d spent more time memorizing him.

you hear the cocking of the gun and you gasp. you only now realize how afraid you are to die.

suddenly a loud clang behind you startles your eyes open and the joker stumbles backward. a large, dark figure comes swooping in and tackles the joker to the ground. the gun is kicked away and you watch as the batman punches the joker in the face, repeatedly. the men from the van come rushing in and the batman takes each one down with little effort.

soon, he’s standing in the lowlight of the bridge, looming over the bodies of his victims of vengeance. he walks back over to the joker and picks him up by his collar and holds him over the bridge above the water. the joker laughs.

“well then what’s it gonna be batty-boy?! you gonna kill me?! do it!”

the batman hesitates to drop him into the rough rushing river water below.

“do it!” the joker laughs in his face again.

you see the shine of red and blue lights flashing behind you and hear sirens. the sound of many footsteps come rushing onto the bridge as officers take the bodies off the ground and into custody. a few more train their guns at the batman and instruct him to let the joker go. after some time, he flings the joker back over the railing and slams him onto the ground. the officers rush to handcuff the joker and the batman walks away, back toward you.

“this isn’t over, batman! it’ll never be over!” the joker laughs again as he’s dragged away by the officers.

the batman bends down behind you and unties the ropes around your wrists.

“are you okay?” he asks, quietly. his low, gravely voice tinges with familiarity.

you just nod and he scoops you up and carries you to the ambulance. he gently sits you on the gurney and the paramedics begin treating your wounds and setting up an iv. the batman just stands there and watches, as if to make sure you’ll really be okay. you stare back at him, trying to place this strange gut feeling. the medics walk away for a moment to grab something else, leaving you and the batman there, just looking at each other.

the medics come back and start to bring you into the ambulance. up until the moment the doors close, you and the batman just continue staring. the medicine you’ve been given starts to work as you feel your eyelids get heavy. your last thought before passing out is of bruce.

the tubes in your nose and the cast on your arm are the first things you notice when you awake. your eyes adjust to the light of the hospital room and you look around, your eyes landing on an unexpected face.

tim is there, sitting by the window sleeping. alfred is in a chair next to him. he notices you’re awake and presses the alert for the nurse.

“hello, dear.”

“alfred…”

“i’ve called for the nurse. just relax.”

“…where’s bruce.”

“he… had to go to the police station. to finish up the case.”

“but he’s okay?”

“physically, yes. but i don’t think i’ve ever seen him so distraught. i’ll call him now and tell him you’re awake. he’ll want to see you.” alfred leaves the room and you see him dial his phone.

the nurse comes in and checks your vitals, making sure you’re getting enough medicine. you have a concussion, a broken hand, your shoulder was out of socket, and your nose had to be realigned. apparently it’s been days since the incident.

the joker is in custody at arkham, but that’s doesn’t give you much reassurance since he apparently has broken out of there before.

tim wakes up and walks over to you with tears streaming down his face.

“are you okay?” he asks.

“just peachy.”

he laughs lightly and wipes a tear away.

“i was so scared.”

“me too.”

“but you’re gonna be okay now. you’re okay now.” he reassures himself. you didn’t know you meant so much to him.

“thank you tim.”

he smiles softly.

“i should go call chris and let him know you’re okay.��

“okay.”

tim walks out of the room as alfred comes back in.

“bruce will be here soon.”

“thank you. i’m glad you’re here alfred.”

“of course, love.”

tim comes back in and says that chris sends his regards.

“he’s been worried sick, watching the news while also taking care of the baby.”

“if you need to go tim, go. i understand.”

“im sorry i can’t stay.”

“really tim, it’s okay. thank you for being here.”

tim smiles and holds your good hand.

“i’m just so glad you’re okay.”

“thank you.” you smile back at him and he leaves.

alfred moves the chair to be closer to your bed and he holds your hand as you wait in silence for bruce.

bruce comes rushing in wet from the rain with tears in his eyes. alfred gets up from the chair and gives it to bruce. bruce sits in the chair, holding your hand, and the two of you just sit there together.

you’ve never felt fear like that before. of course you were afraid when your mother died, but you were so young. and your father was sick for a long time before he passed, so this crippling feeling of terror was something you’ve never had to experience before and something you hope you’ll never experience again.

“i’m so sorry.” bruce fights back tears. “i should’ve never left you alone. i should’ve known better. i thought i was protecting you but really i just put you in danger. this is all my fault.”

“no it’s not.”

“it is.”

“no, bruce. it’s not.”

“i was just so… angry. at him. i still am. i really thought i was going to kill him.”

you furrow your brows in confusion.

“you mean… like… if you’d have been there? at the bridge?”

you notice alfred looks up at bruce with a curious look on his face. bruce turns his head to look back at him. alfred just nods.

you look at both of them, perplexed by this silent agreement between them.

“what’s going on?”

“there’s something you need to know… about me.”

“okay…?”

“i… i’ll show you when we get back home.”

“alright.”

bruce and alfred clear you with the doctor and confirm that you’re ready to leave so you get in the car to go home. you just lay in the backseat with your head on bruce’s lap. he runs his hand through your hair as alfred drives you all home.

the press is already there, ready to get a statement from you and bruce about the whole ordeal. of course you and bruce don’t say a word as he carries you inside.

he sets you down on the couch and lights a fire. alfred goes to the kitchen to make you something to eat. you lay on bruce’s chest on the sofa, watching the flames rise and fall. the heat of the fire brings you comfort, but bruce’s warm touch makes you feel at peace for the first time since that day at the park.

hours go by, the fire has become just a few orange embers, and you and bruce have eaten dinner. you suddenly remember what bruce said back at the hospital.

“what is it you wanted to tell me?”

bruce sighs and helps you up off the couch.

“i need to show you something.”

you slowly walk hand in hand to the library down the hall. you don’t come in here much but you know bruce and alfred do.

bruce goes to a wall in the back and pulls a book off the shelf. you hear a click and he pulls the wall out, revealing it’s a door to an elevator.

“what the fuck…”

bruce opens the elevator door and leads you inside.

“what is this?”

“something you need to see.”

the elevator slowly brings you down to a lower level you didn’t even know existed. bruce opens the door and leads you out of the elevator and into a basement. or at least what you think is a basement. inside, you see computers, televisions, and other tech items around. a motorcycle sits there too… along with a familiar-looking car. bruce lets you wander through the area. you try to absorb what this all is.

“what exactly am i looking at here, bruce?”

he walks over to a door and opens it to a closet. what’s inside, sitting on the shelf, makes you gasp. you slowly pick up the mask.

“i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.”

“why… how…”

“i’ve been doing this for years now. i just… this is how im able to try and help. only alfred knows.”

“and you couldn’t tell me? why?”

“everyone who knows about this is in danger. i couldn’t knowingly do that to you. but you deserve to know.”

“i… don’t even know what to say.”

bruce closes the closet door.

“i come down here every night. that’s why i’ve been gone so early in the morning. i’ve known about joker for a while and have been trying to track his whereabouts.”

“but now, he’s locked up. he’s gone.”

“as long as he’s alive, he’s a danger. and it’s not just him. you’ve lived here your whole life. you know what these streets are like.”

you just nod.

“so… this is what you do every night. you go out, after i fall asleep then return before i wake up.”

“i try. but some nights are longer than others.” bruce walks up to you and holds your hand. “but now you know.”

you just nod again, not quite knowing what to say.

“i will never forgive myself for leaving you alone that night, and i will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it.”

you look up at him. a tear rolls down his cheek and you wipe it away, leaving your hand on his face.

“i was so afraid of losing you.” he speaks barely above a whisper.

“you’re not gonna lose me. i’m here. i’ll always be here.”

he kisses you. in this room, this room that’s been kept a secret from you. this other side of bruce that’s been kept a secret from you. you want to be angry, but all you feel now is peace as he holds you in his arms.

whatever future may come, whatever troubles you will inevitably be forced to face, you know that you’ll now be able to do it together.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

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useless-moss · 2 months ago

Text

Getting back into my shenanigans and a 'Dagur working through prison trauma w/ Hiccup' fic reminded me of an old angsty idea @reallyprofoundkryptonite and I had for the Kin All the Same AU. Also nutmeg idea inspired by that one @evilwriter37 Heather fic. (I'm almost certain it was one of their fics at least-)

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TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Referenced Kidnapping, Implied/Referenced Rape, Rape Aftermath, Implied Pregnancy and Abortion

Characters: Original Trans Male Character (Magnus), Viggo, Krogan, Dagur. Other characters mentioned.

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The last few weeks have been... Hell, to put it lightly. The panic of Magnus' initial disappearance, followed by the anger and fear of learning he'd been taken by Grimmel, and then the fight to get him back. A fight that was doomed to be a bloodbath from the second the hunter dared lay his hands on Magnus. For rather obvious reasons, in retrospect. No sane person, or person even vaguely aware of the consequences, would reasonably try. And for good reason.

Viggo, Dagur, and Krogan saw Magnus as their own. They'd worked together to raise the boy, and they didn't tolerate their son so much as being insulted. Dagur has thrown men overboard for challenging what Magnus says in regards to the dragons he handled. He's struck a few idiots with an axe for suggesting the boy be used as 'stress relief' during some particularly rough weeks at sea. Krogan has outright killed a few men, his own flyers and Viggo's hunters alike, for similar reasons. One poor bastard thought it would be funny to grab the boys chest once. There wasn't enough left of him to even throw to the fishes, and Krogan's clothes were soaked in so much blood you'd believe they had always been that red. Viggo, ever the voice of reason (about 90% of the time at least), was less violent. But he's still fired men on the spot for making the wrong comment, even jokingly, about Magnus.

The battle, the raid of Grimmel's camp, had been a gory mess. A vague plan of action, but endless violence otherwise. Men had been ripped apart like paper or gutted like fish. Broken bones, charred bodies. Even Hiccup refused to hold back, letting the dragons fight however they thought best. Letting the dragons, for a few moments at least, sink back into their wild nature. Some men had bites taken out of them, courtesy of Krogan and Hookfang. Grimmel himself had barely escaped, and even when he had he'd been one arm and almost an entire camp short. Those that survived the attack would be permanently scarred. Permanently mutilated, and carrying the memory of violence they've probably never even imagined before.

Magnus wasn't in good condition, physically or mentally. He was blind in one eye now, a fact that made both Viggo and Krogan's hearts ache. They both knew what that was like, of course. The scales around his left eye that created a birthmark-like appearance, that marked Magnus as having Lycanwing blood like Krogan did, had also been flayed off. Cut and pulled. Separated from skin and muscle in a manner that was grotesque, yet neat. Showing Grimmel had drawn out the process. Broken bones that had begun healing wrong and needed to be painfully readjusted. Dehydration. The list seemed extensive, yet far too short, considering this was Grimmel who did it.

"Do you need anything else?" The voice is soft and smooth. Very characteristic of Viggo, but lacking the usual edge it carried. There's a pause. A moment of silent consideration, then a shuddering breath.

"Nutmeg. A large dose." The answer is straightforward, like Magnus has been thinking about it for a while now. Which, in retrospect, he probably has. He'd picked up a fair bit of Viggo's planning ahead habit over the years. And, of course, being the resident healer of the hunter's gave him plenty of knowledge.

The younger ones in the room, helping monitor and tend to Magnus's injuries and mental state, don't understand the implications. But Viggo does. It makes him feel nauseous and enraged all at once. It makes him feel guilty as well.

"... Grimmel..?" The question is asked by Krogan this time, in a clipped manner. Like the dark skinned man is just barely holding himself back from screaming and punching a wall in a mix of grief and rage. A simple nod is the answer, and then Krogan is storming out. Ryker follows. Viggo swallows the lump forming in his throat, and nods to Hiccup and Fishlegs. A silent gesture for them to go get what Magnus requested. Dagur and Viggo stick with the boy. Until Krogan's yelling grows audible, at least, and then Viggo leaves to try and help his brother calm the man.

Dagur refuses to leave the boys' side. He sticks by Magnus like a tick to a dog, fingers carding through reddish brown hair. They sit mostly in silence. There isn't much to say. No amount of comforting words or promises seemed to be enough. No vows for revenge felt right. The thought of telling the boy about his time in prison doesn't seem right at the moment either, and Dagur highly doubts Magnus wants to hear how his adoptive father had gone through a similar thing in the first place. It would likely hurt the boy more than anything else.

Krogan and Viggo returned at some point. Ryker left to go make some food and to give the immediate family some time. It's been weeks since they've all been together, after all. So they're given time to just be there for each other. Krogan, the man was surprisingly cuddly when he trusted someone, kept Magnus up against his side in a protective embrace. Dagur crowded the boys' other side, resting his head on Magnus's shoulder. Viggo sits next to Krogan, fingers lightly interlocked with the boys own as a reminder that he's here as well.

And when the bleeding starts, when it's clear Magnus needs his dad's more than anything else right now, they stay. They wouldn't dare leave, no matter how much the evidence of the horror their son experienced hurt. Their pain is miniscule in comparison.

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chill-vibes-but-rainbow-panic · 4 months ago

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Finally posted another Fanfiction, lads o7 Cult of the Lamb, my beloved <3

This one has been in the works for A While -_-'

(Lots of the violence is only talked about in the fic, but as always, do read the tags)

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maybe-im-dark · 2 years ago

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Lullaby

It was one of those nights that Rocket knew would result in a nightmare. The Guardian tossed and turned uneasily. He had already tried everything to stay awake. He'd had five cups of coffee, disassembled and cleaned his entire arsenal of weapons, and even taken an ice-cold shower. The result: headaches, paws smelling of detergent and wet fur. But he was still dead tired.

Think of something nice! Think of something nice! His claws dug into his palms as he struggled to recall positive memories. A self-painted picture of Groot, when Peter gave him the Zune player, the raccoon babies. Yes, the raccoons! The feeling when their little snouts pressed against him. Lots of little feet on him as they walked over him and sniffed at him curiously. But none of that helped. Fight as hard as he could, Rocket felt his eyelids grow heavy. Until they closed and his mind slipped down into the darkness of the dream world.

Bright light blinded him. A huge sun hovered over him, but it was a wrong sun. Its light was not warm and golden, but cold and white. He wanted to put his arm protectively over his eyes, but something held him. A look down revealed large metallic rings encircling his wrists and ankles. On a slab beside him lay a stick with a twisted tip. A red crust stuck to the tip and a smell of iron filled his nostrils. He knew that smell. Blood. old blood. foreign blood. Who had been here before him?

"Paralyze it."

"But sire, doesn't it need an anesthetic too?"

"Just make it not move! It's an animal, it won't remember anything!"

Something appeared in his field of vision. Huge birds bending over him. They lacked feathers and their beaks were too short. Something stabbed his neck. Cold spread inside him and his body went numb.

There was a screeching sound and something entered his chest violently. Indescribable pain shot through him and he screamed. But the scream was only in his head because his mouth didn't move. He wanted to bite and thrash, but he couldn't feel his snout or paws. The scream grew louder, bouncing off the walls of his mind and reverberating in a never-ending echo.

HURTS! HURTS! HURTS! HURTS! HURTS!

Some time had passed. He couldn't say how much. The world had alternately consisted of light and dark. Now he was crouched in a room. One of the birds stood a little apart from him. His dark gaze was as piercing as a thousand needles.

"Up!"

He didn't want to get up. moving hurt.

"Up!"

When he didn't respond, the bird grabbed him brusquely and hauled him to his feet. He squeaked in protest. Standing up was unfamiliar and his muscles burned. He immediately got down on all fours again.

"Stand up! You’re supposed to stand up, 89P13!”

He tried to stir, but couldn't manage more than a tremor. A whoosh cut through the air and something heavy hit his calves hard. Fearfully he curled up, steeling himself for the next blow.

"Urgh, it just doesn't listen! Either it can't stand or it's too stupid! We'll probably have to do more surgery."

No! No, he didn't want the knives and saws again! He didn't want it to hurt again!

Rocket jerked into a sitting position. A scream reached his ears and it took him a moment to realize it was his own. Someone shook his shoulder.

"Hey, hey! Rocket, you had a nightmare!"

He spun around and stared at Drax. His small beady eyes were wide open, revealing the auburn irises.

"Drax? What are you doing here?” he finally choked out.

"I heard you screaming from outside and I went to see if you were alright," the Kylosian replied.

"I am alright! Now get lost!” Rocket hissed, teeth bared.

He didn't need pity or talks about not being alone.

Drax appeared unimpressed. "You dreamed about your past, didn't you?"

"Beat it, man!"

"How about you talk about it?"

Rocket let out a low growl. "How about you piss off?"

"Shall I sing you a lullaby?"

Rocket buried his face in his paws. "If you finally leave after that."

Drax was silent for a moment. "I used to sing this song to my daughter when she had a bad dream. She felt better immediately afterwards. Maybe it will help you too.”

Now the raccoon felt guilty. Drax was the only one who had never shared his story at length. Rocket may have lost his friends, but the own child and wife? That had to be rough.

He leaned back and sighed. "You can try."

Drax began to sing. His voice was low and raspy, but he wasn't as bad a singer as Rocket had feared. It was a language he couldn't understand even with his translator chip. Maybe a Kylosian dialect? The words, however, sounded beautifully melodious and soothing. With a yawn he drew his knees up to his chest and draped his tail around himself. Maybe he could actually get some restful sleep. The world grew calm and warm and the only sound was this beautiful song.

Drax smiled as he heard soft snores. He gently tucked Rocket in.

"Sleep well my friend."

#fanfiction #guardians of the galaxy #gotg #guardians of the galaxy 3 #rocket raccoon #gotg 3 #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #drax the destroyer #drax the dad #tw medical torture #tw graphic #tw graphic depictions of violence #tw animal abuse #read at your own risk #viewer discretion is advised

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fromthemouthofzabe · 1 year ago

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New chapters are up! More info below the cut!

Chapter Summary: Maul turns his attention towards taunting Ahsoka, forcing Obi-Wan to take yet another step down the road to the Dark Side. Prompt: Made to watch (6)

Chapters: 5/18 Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, Darth Maul, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious, CC-2224 | Cody, Satine Kryze, Korkie Kryze Additional Tags: Obi-Wan Kenobi Whump, Whump, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Sith Obi-Wan Kenobi, well sorta, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ahsoka Tano Whump, Protective Anakin Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker Whump, there's a lot of violence but none of it is particularly graphic, Imprisonment, Torture, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Will add more as the work progresses, Electrocution, Beating, Burns, Fix It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi Summary:

After Satine's death on Mandalore, no one comes for Obi-Wan Kenobi. At least, not immediately.

Desperate to save Anakin and Ahsoka after a botched rescue attempt, Obi-Wan is forced to make a deal.

[Or: Obi-wan's fall to the Dark Side saves the universe]

#my writing #fanfiction #ao3 #whumptober 2023 #whump #angst #obi wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #anakin skywalker #darth maul #korkie kryze #tw: torture #tw: graphic depictions of violence

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birdwatching-goesbothways · 2 years ago

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The Tower

Summary:

Oswald does some No-No stuff, Jim catches him doing it.

(the title is based on the tarot card, not on an actual tower)

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence and torture, minor character death, gore. Dead Dove: do not eat. Established relationship, hurt no comfort. wordcount: 3,5k

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45932407

Brian Asher is not a lucky man.

Despite that, he still might have had a long, happy life of average success, had he taken just a few different turns, made a few different choices.

…had he not been overly ambitious in all the wrong areas.

So perhaps he is not unlucky per se - perhaps he is simply not very smart. Not very fit for survival in a city as cruel and unforgiving of mistakes as Gotham city.

Perhaps that is the reason he is now lying on a cold metal slab in the Penguin’s secret cellar, meticulously tied down, unable to do anything but trash in his confines as the short crimelord steps closer.

“Brian Brian, I admit it, I always knew you were stupid. Even so, you truly surprised me today.”

Gagged as he is, Brian does not answer.

For a brief moment, Penguin considers removing the gag to see what the man has to say for himself.

The pure terror in Asher’s swimming eyes suggest the result would likely be shrill screams or incoherent babbling, pleas for mercy. Neither of which he is in the mood for right now.

Better for the gag to stay in then.

“Trying to overthrow me was an astonishingly new level of stupid, even for you.”

Brians eyes follow him anxiously, widening in fear as he takes his pick from the impressive collection of shiny sharp metal devices on the table.

He chooses a scalpel, valuing precision over aesthetics for now. Enjoying the cold of the metal against his skin, the familiar weight.

“At least you were smart enough not to do it yourself. Instead, you sent that moron, Garret Neil wasn’t it, to do your bidding. Just as I would have done.”

“Congratulations!” He adds with a little flourish, “didn’t think you had it in you!”

Delighting in the way Brians eyes widen, he lowers the scalpel onto vulnerable skin, pressing down until he feels something give, until the first scarlet drops well up.

“Too bad none of that can help you now.”

Following a spontaneous urge, he digs his finger into the wound, presses down into the warm wetness. How deep would his cuts have to be if he wanted to bypass layers of skin and body fat? If he wanted to lay bare what lies beneath?

If he wanted to dig his hands into the man’s guts, feel them writhe on their own, like snakes.

The look on the man’s face would certainly be a sight to behold.

Or perhaps he could choose a different part of his body, perhaps an arm, and cut and slice and peel all the layers away, skin, fat, tendons and flesh, until he reached the bone.

Of course, he would have to apply a tourniquet before doing that, or else his victim might bleed out. Which would mean they sadly wouldn’t be able to feel it. But at least they would see, oh yes, they would.

But no, another, time. Today he has different plans.

He pulls his finger out of the wound, and unsurprisingly, it comes out red. That he licks it is mostly for show, although he does truly enjoy the pang of metal on his tongue.

The man lying in front of him looks truly pathetic. Neither his generic good looks, nor his broad shoulders can distract from the fact that he is currently crying, shaking his head in denial, and whimpering incoherently through his gag, almost choking on it in the process.

“Hush. I’d say ‘It’ll be over soon’, but it wouldn’t be polite to lie, would it?”

As expected, that makes Brian’s shaking worse. Oswald soaks up every whimper like a sponge, delights in the tears, in the fear in his victims eyes.

His lips twist into a smile as he carves a message into the living, breathing man’s chest.

The thrill, the feeling of power it gives him – he can’t help it. It’s sweet, so sweet.

Unlike his first one, these new cuts are shallow. Carefully placed like an artist might – or a surgeon.

He wouldn’t want his victim to lose too much blood too early.

When the message is done, he lowers the scalpel (now covered in warm, rich red, just like his hands) and admires his work.

Brian has gone still, eyes half closed. Secure in his knowledge that his misery must surely come to an end soon. Long past caring how exactly that ‘end’ might look.

This thought makes the Penguin giggle.

“Aw, Brian. Do try to stay awake. It would be terribly rude to fall asleep now.”

All of the saccharine sweetness leaves his voice at once, leaving only ice.

“You don’t want to be rude, do you?”

No reaction. Frowning slightly, the Penguin continues.

“Because if you were, I’d have to find someone else to deliver the message in your stead. By the way, how’s your lovely wife?”

That certainly manages to get Brians attention.

From one second to the next, the man seems wide awake.

Oswald mockingly pats him on the cheek.

“There you are! Such a gentleman! Although maybe you should have thought about her before you attempted to take me down. ”

Silent tears in pain-filled eyes. A plea for mercy. Just this once, please, please-

Too bad he couldn’t care less.

“I’m sure others will learn from your mistake. Consider this a civil service if you will.”

Then, the fun part commences.

Carefully planned out, methodical cruelty.

Although there is certain satisfaction in letting spontaneous bursts of murderous rage take over, taking one’s time to slowly disassemble someone in the most disturbing way possible, careful to keep them alive to witness it – that is a different thrill altogether.

For the Penguin, on this occasion, it means making a surgical incision in his would-be usurpers throat, carefully avoiding mayor arteries, and inserting a breathing tube.

The next step is quite similar to what he had done to Galavan’s corpse that fateful evening.

Except this time, he has made sure neither he nor his beloved Jim can be connected with the deed. There are plenty of pre-cautions in place.

Besides, the people who will be unlucky enough to receive this message know exactly that they would do best to make sure the corpse is never found, lest they wish to join it.

There’s another thing that differs from the Galavan incident.

This time, the subject of his wrath is alive to witness his frustration, no merciful, kind Jim to end their misery with a shot of his gun.

Only Brian, Penguin, this cellar, and the tube that forces him to keep breathing as an umbrella is shoved down his throat not too kindly, possibly dislocating his jaw, making him gag and writhe in pain.

Denying him the small mercy of choking on his own blood.

“That should make the message sufficiently clear, don’t you think?” Sadistic glee drips from his voice like acid, although the man in question is likely too far gone to notice by now.

His ongoing little monologue is interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

An intruder?

Jim isn’t going to be home until late evening, and he isn’t expecting anyone else either.

No matter who it is, they should not be able to find him here. Only he knows of this hidden room in his mansion, and he alone is aware of the complex mechanism needed to open it.

However, as the footsteps don’t recede when they should, the little twinge of nervousness he had been feeling turns to acute alarm.

No one would be able to open the secret passageway that led to this room, that is certain. But in the unlikely case that he had been careless? That he had forgotten to close it all the way?

Taking great care to move quietly, he picks up the scalpel once again, silently cursing the fact that the bloody smears on it would make it more likely to slip from his grasp during a potential fight.

…surely he had closed the pathway though. Surely. He would not have been so careless, so stupidly reckless.

Except, he really can’t remember doing so. He only remembers the strong sense of satisfaction from having Brian Asher, who had plotted against him for a while now, finally at his mercy.

Alas, the footsteps come closer still. Closer than they ought to be able to, had he really shut the pathway.

An uncertain voice, cutting through the near silence.

“Os? You in here somewhere? What even is this place?”

Pure terror crashes down around Oswald, drowning him like a tidal wave.

That is Jim’s voice.

Jim can not, under any circumstances enter this room right now. Barely managing to keep the shrill note of panic from his voice, he yells back.

“Jim, darling, don’t come any closer! Wait upstairs, can you do that for me please?”

please please please plea-

“Why, what’s in there?” Comes the reply, sounding closer still.

Oswald wants to smash his head against the wall in frustration.

There has never been a worse moment for his beloved cop to let his accursed curiosity roam free.

“Jim, listen to me. This is very important, I need you to-“ But it’s too late.

Jim has already stepped across the threshold, and Oswald get’s to watch in real time how the genuine, warm joy of seeing him turns to confusion and sheer disbelief as the cop takes in the situation.

The man lying on the metal slab, twisted and still, barely resembling a man any longer. The table, filled with a sizable collection of torture devices.

Horror and disgust follow, as he noticeably pales.

Finally, the pieces seem to fall into place, leading to Jim doubling over right where he stands to empty the various contents of his stomach onto the floor.

Watching the events unfold numbly, all Oswald can think about is how Jim seems to have skipped lunch today. Again. It’s not healthy.

He feels like an animal that’s been caught in a trap. He, too, would chew off his own leg if it helped him get out of it.

Sure, Jim had known about the existence of his dark side, had even pretended to be okay with it, for the sake of their relationship.

But to witness it, witness this firsthand? That is something very different.

Perhaps if he had only cut the man’s throat, they could talk it out. He could make an empty promise that he wouldn’t do it again, Jim could make an empty promise that he understood, that he loved Oswald anyway.

As things are though, that possibility seems entirely off the table.

Jim had never been meant to see the monster.

The side of the Penguin he hadn’t even got to see when he had technically been in his bad books. Because even back then, there had been good books and bad books, but no matter where Jim was, there was a chapter just for him.

“Please Jim, I can explain. Let me explain?”

Jim is shaking, his entire body trembling like a leaf in a storm. He won’t stop staring at he disturbing scene of carnage, all the while refusing to look at Oswald.

Brian Asher apparently thinks this the perfect moment to return to his senses, gargling.

The noise is quiet. Not quiet enough.

Oswald wants to torture him all over again.

Because Jim’s eyes go wide like a child’s, finally settling on him instead, and what he sees there is pure horror.

“Oh my god Oswald, please don’t tell me he’s still alive?”

Oswald stays silent, but Jim would not have heard his answer anyway, because he is once again retching, dry-heaving despite his by now empty stomach.

Oswald wants nothing more than to get to wrap his arms around him and shield him from the world, from this sight that was never meant for him. To take him upstairs, away from this carnage, wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow and take him to bed, so he might tell him in the morning that it had all been nothing but a bad dream.

Because of course his sweet, gentle lover wouldn’t do something so horrifying and perverted. It would not be too big of a lie, because as long as he is with Jim, he can almost convince himself that he doesn’t need this.

Foolishly letting his instinct win over, he takes a step towards Jim.

Perhaps in an attempt to console, perhaps simply because he yearns to be close.

But for the first time since Oswald knows him, Jim, the unshakable James Gordon, flinches.

Scrambles back in fear at the sight of him.

Looking down at himself, he realises that perhaps he does look more a vision from a nightmare than he thought. Bloody apron, hands slick with blood, still clutching the scalpel, as if to stab, slice, cut.

He is crying though. Real tears at the life he feels slipping through his hands like fine sand.

He drops the knife in horror, immediately attempting to wipe his hands clean on the apron.

He only succeeds in spreading the stain, leaving red smears on the stark white, yet his fingers come away sticky still.

He abandons his attempts, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Wishing that Jim would stop looking at him like that. He knows Jim has taken lives. Is no stranger to anger and violence. But right now he looks terrifyingly small and innocent. Having obvious problems coming to terms with this disturbing situation he has stumbled into without warning.

“Listen Jim, darling,” He says, trying to make his voice sound soft, reassuring. Going for the gentle lilt Jim has admitted liking so much, yet ending up sounding just slightly off. Which is, perhaps, worse.

“this isn’-, wasn’t, a good or innocent person by far. He tried to kill me. It was necessary, can’t you see that?”

He is openly pleading now, yet can’t bring himself to care about dignity.

Jim does not seem to understand.

If only Jim were angry. Would take out his gun, threaten him, anything other than this terrible silence.

“Please, I’m begging you, tell me how I can fix this?”

How Jim is looking at him right now is probably the most horrible thing Oswald has ever witnessed.

If a fairy appeared to him right now, asking if he would like to trade places with the latest victim of his assault, he would have gladly agreed. Would have taken Brians place and cried out in thanks, if only it could help him escape Jim’s blue eyes, filled so deeply with disgust, fear and betrayal. Pain.

Filled with the broken pieces of what could have been.

“Just- just stay away from me. God, I- I can’t-“ With that Jim doubles over again, retching, before scrambling up and rushing out of the room.

Oswald lets him.

Waits until he can hear the familiar sound of his car, disappearing along the driveway.

Only then does Oswald grab the knife he dropped, driving it straight through Brian’s eye with an enraged scream, successfully cutting off a noise he is pretty sure had been a gargly, choked laughter.

His fingers are numb as he cleans up, being less thorough than he ought to, considering the circumstances.

There is ash in his mouth though, and he feels too hollow to do anything he ’ought to’.

Like leaving this house, and hiding in a safe place Jim knows nothing about, until it becomes clear what his lover (most likely ex-lover, he reminds himself) is planning to do.

He does none of these things.

He simply sits on a chair in their-, his living room, and waits.

He stares at Jim’s favourite mug, filled with half drunk, cold coffee. Sitting on the little table as if to taunt him.

He needs to leave.

He can’t leave.

Because what if Jim decides to come home?

That desperate hope, made bitter by the knowledge that it will not happen, nails him to his seat, where he stays, silent and unmoving as the room turns dark around him.

He keeps expecting to hear police sirens at some point, to see those flashing blue lights getting closer.

Nothing breaks the oppressive silence, no lights cut the darkness.

Jim hasn’t talked. Yet.

He had always known it would come to this.

From the very first moment Jim had reached out to touch, soft expression of wonder and adoration on his face, he had known he was doomed.

That it would end in tears and destruction, quite possibly his downfall.

Yet he had welcomed it. Because some things are sweet enough to be worth any price at all.

He had only wished the beautiful dream might last a bit longer.

He laughs then, bitter and desperate, like coughing up shards of glass.

Jim is gone. And he isn’t ever coming back.

That is a fact he will learn to accept. Respect. No matter if it cuts him open the most painful way. If keeping away is all Jim asks of him, then he will honour his love’s wish.

He does wonder though, with detached curiosity, where the cops are. Surely they must come swarming soon, to search for all the skeletons in his closet and lock him away.

Is Jim keeping quiet because he still cares for him, on some level? Is it a last gift for a lover ultimately given up on?

Or is Jim afraid.

The last possibility takes shape in his head, and it’s an ugly, wretched shape.

Could Jim truly fear him, after all they had been through? Not just flinch back in a moment of shock, but really, truly believe him capable and willing of inflicting hurt on him, should he talk.

Surely that can not be the case. Surely not.

Except Oswald has done what he can, during their relationship and before, to keep Jim blissfully unaware of that side of him. Has mimed wide-eyed innocence more often than he can count.

Having witnessed what he did, those moments, as well as the real moments of vulnerability, of shared softness, must seem a cruel joke to Jim now. Another mask, another lie.

Perhaps Jim truly has no idea.

That the twisted, sick side loves him just as desperately.

No idea that Oswald would willingly cut his own arm off with a dull, rusted butter knife to please him, would drink poison and smile if only Jim gave him a kiss goodbye.

If Jim wants him in prison, he will go.

Although perhaps he would not stay there for too long. Because there is a selfish part, a wild animal inside of him, that just cannot handle being caged for too long.

Nonetheless, the truth remains this: Jim, his everything, his one true love, would never have to fear him. Ever.

The cop has always enjoyed a bit of extra leeway with the criminal, a thing Ed had loved to mock him for.

Having held Jim in his arms, having witnessed him shiver and moan under his touch, having tasted and pretended to like his horrible, lovingly prepared breakfast for months now: Oswald is not sure there is anything Jim Gordon could do to him that could make him refrain from protecting him with everything he has to offer, all he is.

Because Oswald Cobblepot may be a monster, but once he truly loves, it is fiercely.

Always and forever, no matter if the sky falls, No matter if Jim Gordon should ever decide the Penguin belongs in prison. Or shot in the head.

He loves Jim, loves him with every fibre of his being. So much that it hurts to breathe.

But there is one thing that love hadn’t been able to do. Keeping him on a straight path.

Oswald’s love is powerful, overwhelming. But so is his anger, his hate. All-consuming and poisonous, coiling inside of him like a snake, desperately seeking an outlet.

Jim had pretended to be okay with his less pleasant side. Had maybe even really believed it.

Oswald had known that he just didn’t truly understand just who, what exactly he thought he loved.

Nothing but a depraved, sadistic, power-hungry freak.

That’s why he had tried to ignore those parts of himself, chain them up and shut them away, praying they’d starve, so he could keep his sweet lover.

The last good man in Gotham.

It hadn’t been enough. Ultimately, Jim hadn’t been enough.

It, the part of him that enjoys darkness, inflicting pain, spilling blood… it had broken free.

He had tried to keep that a secret too.

Jim never did ask, when he came home wearing a different suit than he had left in. Never mentioned the smell of blood, although he had surely recognised it.

And if he had held Oswald a bit tighter those nights, whispered ‘I love you’ a bit more fiercely, as if to convince them both, then that was okay too.

But now, there is no Jim clutching him close, crushing his ribcage in a desperate hug. No ‘I love you’, no horrible cooking, no smile for him.

No Jim.

He is alone in this old dark house, with nothing but the beast inside to keep him company, scratching at the walls and wailing to be set free. Nothing but memories of what he has lost to keep him warm.

#gobblepot #gotham #oswald cobblepot #jim gordon #gobblepot fanfic #graphic depictions of violence #torture tw #gore tw #minor character death #dead dove: do not eat #my writing

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thatgayunoriginalbastard · 1 year ago

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Whumptober 2023 Day 4-Cattle Prod

My Life In Your Chokehold:

AO3 Link

Words: 2855

Summary: Number Two sat in her cell, a scowl on her face as she braced for the inevitable torture. She could take it, so it wouldn’t bother her. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Or that it didn’t affect her in other ways.

CLINK CLINK CLINK

Number Two could hear the sound of that awful machine tapping against the floor.

CLINK CLINK CLINK

The scout that held it was a high ranking one. It's how they were allowed to know about the basilisks.

CLINK CLINK CLICK

It’s how they were allowed to see the basilisks.

CLINK CLINK CLICK

It’s how they were allowed to take part in their torture.

CLINK CLINK CLICK

BANG

The scout violently grabbed onto the bars of the cell. Number Two looked up at them and sat up from where they were laying on the ground. They couldn’t see the scout’s face, but they knew they were wearing a sadistic expression.

“Morning Ty. How are you doing?” Number Two asked, their voice dripping with sweetness and sarcasm.

Number Two had no idea what the scout’s name was, so they made one up. Ty. Because every time they came along, it would end with the basilisk they visited screaming to the Titan for mercy. Or death. And Ty didn’t seem to mind the nickname, so she just kept with it. She wondered if they even liked it.

“Aw, and how do you know it’s morning?” Ty asked, talking to Number Two like they were a pet.

“I suppose I don’t, but time is relative and words have the meanings we choose. So to me, it is morning because it’s when I’m waking up.”

“Who would think that someone who has never gotten an education would know philosophy?”

“Well you're not the only one who visits us. And they sometimes tell us about their lives and kids. While they torture and experiment on us, that is.”

CLANK

CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

Ty pulled open the cell door and Two got closer to them. She crossed her arms and looked at him semi-patiently. Ty tossed the wriggling bag he held on the ground and it opened up, releasing a weird, tentacled creature. Two picked it up curiously and examined it. Even if she didn’t know what it was, food was food.

And she was so hungry.

“Not a rat? Ooo, fancy. What even is this?”

“Baby puppeteer. Nearly extinct. They’re able to create illusions with a strange smoke once they mature. We only caught a few, so only you basilisks early in the number line are getting them. These things have more magic than the rats, so they might give us a better idea of how you freaks do what you do.”

Two examined the wriggling creature in her hands, squeezing it a few times. It was almost stress relieving. Then she carefully leaned to it and bit it right between the eyes. She could feel the muscle protecting its brain break. The small demon went limp in her hands. Satisfied, Two drained any magic left in it, causing the creature to shrivel up and shrink in her hands as she grew slightly.

Her change in size was thanks to the genetic defect in her creation that made it so whenever she drained magic she grew.

Once Two removed all the magic from the creature, she tossed it into the air and caught it in her mouth, swallowing it whole.

“Man if these things weren’t endangered I’d ask if we could only get these instead of rats.” Two chuckled, “These things are chock full of magic which is great for you guys to observe and they’re also really tasty which beats the scraps we get now. When you remember to feed us, that is.”

CRACK

A violent jolt coursed through Two’s head as she was whacked with the shock baton Ty wielded. She fell to the ground and could almost feel the black eye forming. Or maybe that was just the electricity in her brain.

“You know damn well that you aren’t supposed to kill the creatures before you drain them. That makes the magic less potent. Makes the data worthless. Like you.” Ty jeered, standing over Two.

CRACK

The baton hit her shoulder, sending pain shooting through the joints of that arm and the side of her neck, even making her twitch slightly.

“What can I say? This is worth it for a good meal.” Two groaned.

CRACK

Two curled inward slightly from the shock in her abdomen making her torso muscles tense up. She coughed out the magic she had gotten from the young puppeteer and shrank back to her normal size.

CRACK

Her back arched and she turned back out as the muscles tensing up were now in her back. She felt like one of these days her spinal joints would break under the pressure. Maybe she could be lucky like One and have a vessel pop, putting her out of her misery in an instant.

Ty dropped to his knees stradling Two’s chest. She could hear their heavy breathing through their bird mask. They were enjoying this, clearly.

“You know, some basilisks crack under the pressure and drop dead. I wonder if I can make you crack another way.”

Two let out an agonizing scream as the tip of the shock baton was placed on the center of her neck. It became more and more strangled sounding as Ty pressed down. Her head was repeatedly seizing and banging itself against the floor as the rest of her body spasmed. Even her tail was thrashing against the chain connected to her tail fin as the electricity coursed through her body.

“You know exactly what I want to hear you say. And I’ll stop.”

Two’s saliva began to foam in her mouth and come out from the corners. Ty only laughed.

“Come on, it’s just one little word. How hard can it be?”

The baton was pressed down harder, making Two start to go into a coughing fit. She swore she could hear something break or snap.

“Say it. Or maybe I’ll move from your neck to your head. I didn’t want to break you like the others, but if that’s the way it has to be, then so be it. There are eight more of you creatures in case you drop dead.”

The electricity was suddenly so much higher than it had been before.

And Two’s screams were so much louder than they had ever been before. A broken, pained, desperate scream.

“TITAN PLEASE MAKE IT STOP, I BEG OF YOU PLEASE JUST STOP!”

Ty laughed and, after pressing down even harder for a few more moments, he released her and got off of her. Two immediately grabbed at her throat and could feel a dent in the front from where he had pressed down. Her breaths were raspy and her eyes still watered as she tried to breathe normally again, but the damage was so bad that she could feel not just her windpipe but her vocal cords themselves had been damaged.

“Now was that really so hard? But you see, this is what happens when you don’t do as you’re told. I hope you liked that snack, because for your non-compliance you won’t be eating for a while.”

Ty turned around and began to leave Two’s cell, the shock baton tapping against the stone floor like it had been when he arrived again.

CLINK CLINK CLINK

Two moved her tail from side to side as she pushed herself up, feeling the weight of the heavy chain is her tail fin being dragged around.

CLINK CLINK CLINK

Curiously, she flicked her tail up a few times, feeling the chain pull against the thin cartilage that made up her tail fin.

CLINK CLINK CLINK

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Ty, the world almost moving in slow motion as they reached out towards the door in front of them. Filled with pure rage blocking out all other thoughts or senses, Two lunged at Ty.

They didn’t even notice her until it was too late.

SLAM

Two knocked Ty into the ground, their head crashing against the floor. Two was so focused on that, she didn’t even notice that she had ripped out her tail ring, a tear now in her tail fin as part of her tail stayed connected to the chain on the floor behind her. She grabbed Ty’s head through their cape and began to repeatedly slam it into the ground.

She was seeing red. Nothing else mattered but making her most sadistic torturer pay for what they did to her, to all the other basilisks.

SNAP

Two could hear the sound of something breaking. What it was, she didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

What did matter was the approaching sounds of footsteps.

Two knew that she wouldn’t get this chance for revenge for long so she had to make it count.

SLASH

Two used her claws to tear through the fabric of the cape Ty wore and the material that made up their now caved-in mask. She flipped them over and finally got to see their face. But she didn’t care about any of the identifying details or whatever look they had in their eyes. The only thing that mattered at that moment was seeing them bleeding.

Two chuckled at the sight and began to drain them of their magic.

It tasted delicious.

She had been missing out, only tasting magic from small demons. Witches had the most amazing magic she had ever drained. And it made her grow more than any magic she had ever tasted before had.

She wanted more.

She needed more.

But she wouldn’t get more.

SLAM

Before she could even fully drain Ty, other scouts who were in the hidden prison arrived and one of them blasted her off of Ty and slammed her against the back wall of her cell with magic. Her head hurt from the impact and, after curiously touching the back of her head, she saw that it was hard enough of an impact that the bricks of the cell broke her scales and the back of her head was bleeding.

When she looked up from her hand, she saw three scouts, one of which being the captain, standing outside the cell. With a simple tilt of the head, the captain was able to command the two scouts to pick up Ty and drag him away.

“Hello there, captain.” Two chuckled, not even caring how awful her voice sounded, “My oh my do you smell delicious. I’ve gotten a taste for your people’s magic now. And let me just say, I’ve been missing-”

Two couldn’t even finish her sentence as she was punched across the face. The captain then grabbed her by the throat with one hand and slammed her against the wall, holding her there by her throat. With their free hand, they pulled out their shock baton.

CRACK

Two just giggled as the electricity shot through her skull.

CRACK

She wasn’t feeling pain anymore.

CRACK

She was just laughing.

CRACK

And starving.

CRACK

The shock baton was jabbed into the side of her head and just held there. But Two didn’t scream. Frankly she thought she had lost the ability to feel pain. She just smiled, trying to stare through the eye holes of the mask into the empty abyss where the captain used to house their soul before giving it away to be in the coven.

At some point she began to cough, not from the electricity but just because of the way she was being held, and coughed out the magic she had drained. But that didn’t stop the captain from pressing the baton harder into her skull.

FLOP

Two collapsed onto the ground as the hand around her neck finally let go. The captain put away their shock baton, but they weren’t done with her.

Over and over, Two was kicked in the stomach, unable to do anything to stop it.

But she didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She didn’t plead.

That’s what they wanted, after all. They wanted to think that she feared them.

But she was over that.

Eventually, the captain stopped and just walked away backwards, clearly having learned from Ty that turning your back on a basilisk was just asking for trouble. As they stood in the open door of the cell, Two sat back up and felt her torso. When she poked a broken rib, she just scoffed with a smirk.

“Got one hell of a kick. Or do scouts have metal tipped boots? Either way, let me just say, ten out of ten on the brutality. Highly recommend to an inmate near me. Well, not near me actually. I’d rather this happen to witches than to my kin, thank you very much.”

“Did all that electrocution give you brain damage or something?” the captain grumbled.

“Probably!” Two said chipperly, beaming.

The captain just scoffed. A few moments later, two scouts, Two didn’t know if they were the same from before, brought in heavy looking gold chains with large manacles. The scouts entered the cell, Two could tell from their body language that they were terrified, and bolted each of the two chains to the wall. They then cuffed the manacles on Two’s arms.

She didn’t try to stop them, frankly she was curious.

She got even more curious when, once both manacles were secured, the chains gained a slight blue glow. Not only that, but they shortened so that Two’s arms were raised up. Two moved around some to test them and found that the chains never allowed her arms to hang below shoulder height. They also prevented her from getting too close to the cell door.

The scouts were quick to leave the cell, but after the first one left the second one was blocked by the captain standing in the way.

“Captain? Are you giving me a lil’ treat for being so good while you put me in these new duds?”

“That depends on you. Go ahead, I bet you’re absolutely ravenous now that you’ve had a taste for witch magic.”

“C-captain, are you sure about this?” the scout in the cell stammered.

Neither the captain nor Two answered the question.

Two could feel their stomach grumble and she licked her lips. However, when she attempted to drain the scout, nothing happened. Again and again they tried, but nothing. Two just got more angry and desperate.

More hungry.

The captain just chuckled and finally got out of the way, allowing the scout to swiftly leave the cell.

CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

CLANK

The cell door slammed shut and locked as Two just glared at the captain and scouts, absolutely seething.

“Let the emperor know that the experiment worked. We now have control over the draining capabilities of the specimens.”

Two wasn’t angry about being called a specimen, no, it was the knowledge that she had just lost one more thing that she used to have control over. First she was locked in a cell that prevented her from shapeshifting, and now she was in chains that regulated her ability to drain.

“You…can’t…DO THIS TO ME!!!” Two screamed.

“But we did. The chains were still a work in progress, but thanks to you we had a reason to test them. And since they’re a success, they will be given to all your little test buddies ahead of schedule. So know that you’re the reason all of them will be going through what you are. Except they’ll be chained to the floor, not walls like you.”

“None of them are going through what I am! They haven’t tasted magic like I have. They don’t know what they’re losing.”

“I bet you think you’re so superior don’t you.”

“You can’t do this to me! I know so much. One of these days I’m going to escape here. I know you have kids, captain.” Two laughed, rage palpable in her broken voice, “I know half the scouts here have kids! Kids, siblings, family. And you know what I’m going to do when I get out? I’m going to shapeshift to look just like you and your buddies. And I’m going to go one by one to every school and feed on all of the people there.”

“And then what? What will you do when you drain that much? Go into a food coma?” the first scout, the one who hadn’t been stuck momentarily with her, asked.

“I’ll never be full.” Two growled, “I’m going to use all the magic I got and go after your precious emperor. And I’ll be so big even he won’t be able to stop me. Only then will my hunger be satiated! I can only be full when Belos lays in front of me as a limp, pale husk.”

“Well then I guess you’re going to be starving for a while.” The captain shrugged before turning around and looking at the scouts, “You are not to give her anything until I say so. We have plenty of other basilisks. We’ll be taking notes from them until further notice.”

The scouts nodded and they and the captain walked away. All Two could do was scream. Not out of pain, but out of anger.

She needed magic.

She needed to feed.

She was so hungry.

So hungry.

#whumptober2023 #no.4 #cattle prod #the owl house #fic #graphic depictions of violence tw #torture tw #pre canon #revenge #insanity #electrocution

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deadstarsrisingsblog · 1 year ago

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Hi hello yes everyone should read Shoulder The Sky. It's on my rec list and I have every installment downloaded for offline reading ngl so if you like excellent, descriptive writing, clone trooper antics, and the 212th I highly recommend this one.

Also I would absolutely fucking die for Stitch, Helix, and Needle thanks. 🥰

A scene that will only be referenced in the next chapter, but I was overcome with the urge to write it out anyway:

Boil catches Stitch's entry onto the bridge out of the corner of his eye.

He elbows Waxer, grinning. The kid's got a pair of crutches under one arm, and they'd both noticed the way the Commander had been leaning on the holotable, stubbornly ignoring the General's not-so-subtle disapproving look and the chair Waxer had fruitlessly nudged into place behind him.

This is going to be a show.

Stitch scans the bridge, eyes narrowed, until he catches sight of the Commander. He walks forward, stopping a few respectful feet behind him, and--

waits.

Thirty seconds pass.

Then a minute.

More and more eyes are landing on him. Poorly-muffled giggling blooms across the bridge.

"Hi, Stitch," Waxer says cheerfully.

"Hi, sir," Stitch says politely, his gaze flickering sideways in acknowledgement before returning to Cody's back.

Cody's shoulders slump.

Eventually, the holocall ends. General Kenobi is the first to turn around.

"Hello, Stitch," he says, smiling faintly. "Can I help you?"

"No thank you, sir. I'm waiting for the Commander, sir."

There's only so long Cody can avoid turning around, and he knows it. With a long, deep sigh, he turns.

"Hi, sir," Stitch says brightly, and thrusts the crutches forward. "You forgot these."

"Those aren't mine," Cody says immediately. "I left mine in my office. I'll grab them after."

"These are yours," Stitch says patiently. "I put a sticker on them when Helix first gave them to you. See?"

He points. Cody leans forward, searching despite himself--

His expression flattens out.

"It's a lightsaber," Stitch says helpfully. "Needle made it. He said you'd forgotten your crutches before, and I thought a sticker would be helpful for you to remember which are yours. Helix says taking initiative is a good thing."

"I... see."

He still doesn't take them.

Stitch sighs. "Is this because Helix yelled at you for kicking droids again, and you don't want to prove him right?"

"No," Cody grinds out, and Waxer muffles a wheezing laugh in Boil's shoulder. General Kenobi's expression is carefully blank.

"Is it because--"

"They're uncomfortable," Cody sighs. He lowers his voice, conscious of their delighted audience, and there's a ripple of coughing and clearing of throats as people turn back to their assigned tasks. "They-- my shoulders keep cramping. I need to be able to fire a blaster, Stitch. I'm minimizing my movement as much as possible, I promise."

"Uncomfortable," Stitch echos, looking baffled. "Why didn't you say so, sir? Give me-- ten minutes, please. I can fix that. I'll be back soon. Can you sit down in the meantime, please?"

"I'll make sure he does, Stitch," the General interjects, and Stitch nods seriously.

"Thank you, sir," he says, and nods at them both before vanishing out the door.

"You're enjoying this far too much, sir," Cody hisses, as Kenobi carefully helps him settle into the long-ignored chair.

"My dear Commander," Kenobi says, laughing, "I'm simply glad it's not me this time."

Cody's glare could incinerate a Hutt. The General remains cheerfully unaffected.

When Stitch returns, he brings with him a painstakingly adjusted pair of crutches. Layers of cotton batting is tied carefully to the pads, and the grips have been adjusted a few levels upwards.

"Try these, please," he says, handing them over.

Cody reluctantly accepts them. "All right. Later, when I--"

Stitch is looking at him very expectantly.

He sighs. "Yes, Stitch."

He levers himself to his feet and takes a few halting steps. Boil watches, fascinated, as astonishment flickers across his expression before it settles into a quiet resignation.

"This-- is better," he mutters. "Very much so."

Stitch beams. "Thank you, sir! And you'll make sure to use them until you're cleared?"

"Yes, Stitch."

"And you won't forget about your follow-up tomorrow? You can have a juice box. Or a pudding cup. You can choose. Needle got some."

Waxer coos. Cody glares at him.

("That's KP duty for you," Boil whispers. "Just you wait.")

"I won't, Stitch."

"Good. Thank you, sir. And- Helix told me to tell you that you- that you're lucky you got me and not him, sir, because he'd be, um- a damn sight louder, sir, because he's got no patience for- for idiots, sir."

A beat.

"That's from him, sir," Stitch repeats anxiously.

Cody sighs. "That's all right, Stitch. Well done."

Stitch brightens immediately, rocking back on his heels. "I'll save you a chocolate pudding cup, sir, if you like. Those ones are the best, so they tend to go fast."

A smile flickers across Cody's face. "Thank you. I'd appreciate it. You're dismissed."

Stitch salutes-- shiny little tubie, small gods-- and vanishes out the door.

Kenobi has given up the game entirely, now, and is grinning broadly. Cody turns on him immediately.

"Stop that."

"Stop what, my dear?"

"The thing you're doing with your face."

"Smiling?"

"Smugly. Yes."

"I'm just pleased with our medics' professionalism, Commander."

"I've got two dozen witnesses to that for the next time you try to dodge them."

"Noted. Can I have your pudding cup?"

"No."

#shoulder the sky #stitch the medic #codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #fic rec #stars' recs #other people's writing #star wars fic rec #one of my all time favorites #i love and adore this series jfc #tw for mentions of capture and torture tho #semi-graphic depictions of injuries related thereof #but the writing is excellent #and the vibes are immaculate #i sincerely enjoy it with every re-read #stars' star wars fic recs

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hyperfixiation-station · 1 year ago

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Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Information

A Study in Torture

TW: Blood, Gore, Torture, graphic depiction's of violence Summary: Reader was caught on a mission and has been in the clutches of the enemy for over a month...

Apprehension, Rescue, Rehabilitation

You wake up sputtering, freezing cold, and drenched in water.

“Good morning little bird. Thought you would like a bath.” Your captor stands above you, rolling you onto your back with his foot, “You are pretty filthy.” You squirm slightly, and he steps on your arm to pin you in place. He crouches over you, gripping your face with his hands.

“You know how I feel about you sleeping without permission, little bird. Why’d you have to go and break that rule? Now I have to punish you.” He says sadly. He gets off of you, only to yank you up by the collar wrapped around your throat and let go. You teeter, vision swimming as your broken body tries to compensate for the change in position.

The room you are led to is mostly bare, with just a tub of water in the center. Your heart sinks, fear pooling your belly. You’ve been here long enough to know that water is your least favorite method of punishment. When you first were brought here, the goal was to extract information from you, but now it seems more like your captor gets off on you being in pain.

“You know how much I love water Little Bird.” He laughs, dragging you forward.

“Kneel.” He murmurs, standing you in front of the tub.

You drop to your knees without hesitation.

“Aw you can learn something. I’m so proud.” The man says happily, petting your hair. Despite yourself, you preen under the praise.

“Unfortunately, you did break rules this morning, soooo.” He grabs your hair, twisting so it's balled up in his hand, “Deep breath little bird.” He shoves your head under, digging his knee into your back to hold you in place.

For the first minute you sit still, waiting, but as the seconds tick by with you not being allowed up, as your lungs begin to burn and scream for air, panic sets in and you try to fight your way up.

He lets go, allowing you up. You sucks in ragged breaths, coughing and vomiting up water as your body shakes. He gives you another second before grabbing your shoulders and forcing you back down. He does this again and again and again, until you are a shivering, pathetic mess.

He cups your cheek, running a hand through your hair. “It doesn't have to be like this little bird. All you have to do is listen to me. It’s really not that hard.”

You shiver violently, staring at the ground, still kneeling in front of the basin. The man frowns, yanking your head up.

“Look at me when I am talking to you.” He snarls, “God, why are you so stubborn? I don’t want to do this, but you just. Won’t. Listen.” He wraps the chain attached to the collar on your neck around his hand and pulls, yanking you up.

You let out a startled yelp, vision going black as your body screams for you to rest.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. The man growls, yanking you toward him and slamming your face into the wall. “You will address me by Sir.” He screams at you, “Is that really so hard? It's three little letters you stupid, worthless slut.”

You sink to the floor, sobbing. Blood runs down your face, getting in your eyes, in your nose, in your mouth. Your head throbs, your lungs burn, and your ears ring, but you can still hear him screaming at you over the sound. “Say it.” He screams, each word sending spikes of pain through your skull, “Say you are a stupid, worthless slut.” You won’t. You may have lost every scrap of dignity, may kneel at his feet like a dog, but he had not broken you so completely that you would desecrate herself like that.

“You. Fucking. Worthless. Whore.” He snarls, foot connecting with your body with each word, “It's no wonder no one has come to save you. No one wants a disobedient bitch. You won’t tell me what I want to know, and now you won’t even listen to me. I saved you from death and this is how you repay me?” You shriek in pain as he brings his heel down on your wrist, shattering it. He kicks you again and again and again, bones crunching, skin breaking, the sheer agony of it dragging you into the blessed depths of unconsciousness.

The video ends there, your body so bloody and broken it's almost unrecognizable. The conference room is completely silent, save for the dry heaves coming from Gaz’s direction.

“We have their location Captain.”

LMK what you think and if you want a part 2

#cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #angst #ghost fanfiction #call of duty x reader #dead dove do not eat #i love torturing my OCs #enjoy the writings of a deranged lunatic #cliffhanger #whump

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pin-k-ink · 6 months ago

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hollow // chrollo lucilfer

tw ⇢ graphic descriptions of physical violence, torture and mutilation, psychological abuse/mind-break, implied sexual content, obsessive/delusional behavior, reader is catatonic, depictions of bodily deterioration/decay

wc ⇢ 4.9k

The rhythmic dripping of water echoed hollowly down the dimly lit hallway, each drop hitting the stained floor with a soft plop. Chrollo's footsteps were cautious, familiar with every creak of the warped wooden boards beneath his feet. His gaze traced the peeling jungle green wallpaper, faded and curling away from the walls in long strips. Small holes pitted the popcorn ceiling above, remnants of who knew what past damage.

It was an all too familiar sight - this decaying hallway that he had walked thousands of times before. The musty, dank odor of rot and mold hung thick in the air, assaulting his senses in a way he had long since grown accustomed to. Chrollo could have mapped every discolored water stain, every flake of crumbling plaster from memory alone. His eyes lingered on the dark, rust-colored splatters streaking the wallpaper - unmistakable bloodstains that raised no alarm.

His hand trailed along the flaking paint as he approached the last door on the left, the bedroom. The door stuck briefly when he tried the tarnished knob, requiring Chrollo to lean his weight into it before it gave way with a groan of protesting hinges. As it slowly swung inward, his lips curled into a small, practiced smile.

"Good evening, my darling."

Chrollo's smooth voice seemed to caress the stagnant air as he stepped over the threshold. In the shadows of the dimly lit room, your silhouette was motionless, a solitary figure framed by the broken panes of the drafty window. You didn't so much as twitch at the sound of his voice, your distant gaze fixed through the grime-streaked glass.

Closing the door behind him with a soft click, Chrollo followed your line of sight beyond the confines of the cracked, spider-webbed window panes. The same stark view opened up before him - a dead tree, its twisted, gnarled branches reached up in blackened claws towards the perpetually overcast sky. The rusting black metal fence lined the property, separating the derelict house from the decaying remains of its abandoned neighbor.

Your eyes seemed almost unseeing, pupils trained on some invisible point far beyond the gloomy view. As if you could pierce past the decrepit scenery to something only you could perceive. The distant, glazed look was one Chrollo recognized.

With a soft huff of amusement, he stepped up behind you, his hands sliding along your upper arms before gently grasping your biceps. His fingers caressed your cool skin as he pulled you back, away from the broken window and the dead world beyond its panes.

With a tender grip, Chrollo eased you backwards, guiding your motionless form away from the shattered window. You offered no resistance, your limbs pliant, feet dragging slightly as he maneuvered you across the stripped bare floor.

The weathered bedframe groaned when he nudged you down to sit on the sagging mattress. Dust motes swirled lazily in the pale slivers of light slicing through the gaps in the curtains. Chrollo knelt before you, his movements slow and practiced as his eyes raked over your features.

Your face was a porcelain mask, devoid of any emotion or flicker of awareness. Eyes dull and unfocused, the usual warm depth you once regarded him with had long since turned glassy and distant. It was as if you had retreated so deeply inwards, tucking that spark of life away where he could no longer reach you.

A melancholic fondness played across Chrollo's expression. With deft fingers, he reached up to tuck a stray lock of lank hair behind your ear. The strands felt coarse, dirty - a reflection of your deteriorating state that he chose to ignore. His palm cupped your cheek, calloused thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye.

You didn't lean into his touch or blink at the contact. No minute reactions registered on your vacant features. But still, Chrollo leaned in close, lips brushing feather-light against the throb of your pulse point. He lingered there, feeling the faint flutter of your heartbeat against his mouth before peppering a trail of whisper-soft kisses along the elegant column of your throat.

Each press of his lips was unbearably tender, an intimacy he reserved only for you. But you remained unmoving, unseeing, disassociated from the present as a thousand-yard stare bored through him. With a resigned sigh, Chrollo rested his forehead against your bony shoulder, curling himself around your petrified form like a wilted plant seeking warmth from the sun.

Chrollo's lips brushed reverently over the pale skin of your knuckles, tracing the delicate bones of your motionless hand. Each gossamer kiss was featherlight, almost worshipful in its tenderness. He found himself sinking into the memories evoked by your touch, letting the present recede.

His mind drifted back years, to the first time he had laid eyes on you. That crisp autumn day when you had quite literally fallen into his world...

The towering shelves of ancient tomes seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction of the library's echoing halls. A reverent hush blanketed the cavernous space as Chrollo trailed his fingers along the gilded spines, searching...

There. His hand stilled on the tooled leather binding, the familiar title raising a faint smile. As he slid the thick volume free, a voice suddenly piped up from his elbow.

"Ah, one of the great paradoxes. Interesting choice."

Chrollo went still, sidelong gaze catching on the petite figure who had materialized beside him without a sound. You didn't so much as glance up from examining the book's cover with an appraising look.

"Though I always found his theories on the duality of truth to be rather paradoxical in themselves." You tsked softly, plucking the book from his grip to flip it open. "Take this passage for instance..."

Slender fingers skimmed down the aged pages to tap at a paragraph of dense text. Looking up at him through the fan of your lashes, your lips quirked in a half-smile. "He spends multiple chapters expounding on the inherent contradiction of subjective experience muddling objective reality. But then doesn't he fall into that same trap himself by attempting to define an absolute truth?"

Chrollo found himself caught in the spark of wry intelligence glinting in your stare. You presented the mild critique with such matter-of-fact certainty, unburdened by pretense. It was...refreshing. And more than a little intriguing.

"An insightful observation." His voice was neutral, but something about your easy confidence piqued his interest. "You're well-versed on the subject matter."

"Oh, I've practically lived in the philosophy section since I was a kid." You waved your free hand in a careless gesture, as if dismissing the notion of erudition as commonplace. "My coping mechanism for insufferable questions has always been to counter with even more insufferable questions."

There was a teasing lilt to your smile then, homr truths offered with a self-effacing humor. Chrollo couldn't resist the curve tugging at his own mouth in response. You hadn't cowered from his scrutiny or blustered with feigned modesty. Instead, you simply met his gaze with composure and clever irreverence.

Yes...you were shaping up to be a captivating anomaly in Chrollo's experience. One he found himself abruptly keen to unravel.

Extending his hand in an unhurried motion, he re-claimed the book from your grasp - though made no move to extricate himself from your proximity.

"I'm Chrollo Lucilfer."

The memory dissolved like smoke on the wind, and Chrollo found himself abruptly drawn back to the present. His mouth was still brushing over the bony ridge of your knuckles, lips whispering across your motionless hand.

He pulled back slightly, dark eyes roving over your vacant features. The life and clever spark that had so captivated him that very first day was utterly extinguished. Your gaze remained glassy and distant, as if staring inward at some unreachable abyss that had swallowed your brilliant essence.

For a long moment, Chrollo simply studied your hollowed visage, taking in the sallow tinge to your skin and the sharp jut of cheekbones. Your wrists protruded like delicate bird bones from where they lolled in his grasp - a cruel facsimile of the vibrancy you had once exuded. And yet...not a flicker of remorse or guilt flickered across his expression.

If anything, there was a strange tenderness limning his stare, suffusing the pad of his thumb as he stroked along the raised veins of your forearm. His other hand smoothed stray strands of lank hair away from your brow in an almost doting caress before he leaned in closer.

"Do you remember, my love?" His voice was low, hushed with the weight of recollection. "The day we first met in that musty library, surrounded by the books you adored with so much passion?"

Chrollo's lips brushed your temple, callused fingers curling around your nape as though to tether you to his words. To draw you out from the depths you had retreated within.

"You were a paradox unto yourself then - keen and irreverent, brilliant yet disarmingly self-effacing. A rare mind unbound by the pretenses I had grown accustomed to." His mouth trailed lower, warm exhale ghosting your cool cheek. "You captivated me from that very first quip."

His nose nuzzled along the sharp line of your jaw before he nestled into the crook of your neck. Tension coiled in the lean muscles of his shoulders and back, yet Chrollo did not loosen his embrace. Instead, he coiled himself more tightly around your unresponsive form, clinging to the impassive shell of what had once been his greatest obsession.

"I knew then that I had to unravel the enigma you presented. To unlock those complexities lacing your mind and make you wholly, utterly mine..." A tremor rippled through his voice, baring the faintest hint of strain beneath its veneer of devotion. "And so I did, didn't I? Through my own particular...persuasions."

Chrollo fell silent then, simply breathing you in - the lingering hint of your natural scent still clinging to your pallid skin despite the omnipresent reek of decay and mold shrouding this place. His haven, his sanctum where he could revel in the spoils of his conquest. No matter that the light had long since dimmed behind your eyes.

For though your corporeal form had withered, the essence of who you were remained eternally preserved - a prized butterfly trapped in amber, yours to study and revel in at his leisure. You may have drifted irrevocably out of reach, but at least here in this sanctum, your brilliant mind would never escape his grasp.

The silence stretched, weighted with half-remembered moments replaying in the recesses of Chrollo's mind. His cheek nestled into the curve of your neck and shoulder as snapshots of your earlier encounters together began flickering through his thoughts.

One particular scene coalesced, vibrant and stark…

The bustling cafe was alive with the rich aromas of espresso and freshly baked pastries mingling in the air. Chrollo's gaze cut briefly over the clusters of students and professionals huddled around the tiny tables before settling again on you.

Even seated across from him amidst the crowded atmosphere, you seemed completely at ease - blissfully unbothered by the cacophony of clinking dishes and murmured conversations surrounding you on all sides. With one leg crossed over the other, you lounged back in your chair, slender fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug cradled before you.

The soft furrow of concentration furrowing your brow was the only indication of your focus as you pored over the battered paperback novel propped open before you. Sunlight gilded the flyaway wisps of hair framing your face, casting deep crevices in the hollows beneath your high cheekbones. For a suspended moment, you looked almost ethereal - the embodiment of a tragic gothic heroine plucked from the very pages before you.

Chrollo found his stare snagging on the elegant drape of your throat, tracing the faint throb of your pulse fluttering beneath the surface before dropping to follow the enticing vee of cleavage peeking from your blouse...

You must have sensed his heated regard. Without even glancing up, your lips twitched in a knowing smirk as you reached for your mug. Bringing it to your lips, you took an unhurried sip - holding the scalding liquid on your tongue for a calculated beat before swallowing with a soft hum of contentment.

Only then did you finally lift your eyes to meet Chrollo's hooded gaze from beneath the fan of sooty lashes. "Something on your mind?" The deceptively innocent query was undercut by the simmering spark of challenge glinting in your stare. "Or are you just enjoying the view?"

The shameless quip and utter lack of self-consciousness should not have been so utterly enthralling. And yet...Chrollo could practically taste the thrill sparking down his spine at the bold implications lacing your tone. You somehow managed to come across as both deliciously inappropriate yet well-bred in the very same breath.

Unable to resist leaning into the tease, Chrollo allowed the barest of smiles to ghost over his lips as he mirrored your casual pose - elbows braced on the table's surface, chin resting atop steepled fingertips.

"Perhaps a bit of both," he mused in that low, dangerously warm timbre. "I do so enjoy seeing that wit of yours in action..."

His gaze was all too knowing as it dropped momentarily to your mouth. "Among other things."

The words hung in the air, rife with unspoken suggestion and subtle challenge. You regarded him evenly, holding his stare without a hint of the flustered demurring he typically encountered. For a protracted beat, the charged silence stretched taut between you as the clamor of the cafe faded to mere white noise.

Then, eyes glinting with newfound determination, you slowly reached for the bundle of pages resting abandoned on the tabletop beside Chrollo's arm. Never breaking that heated eye contact, you brushed your knuckles deliberately, intentionally, along the taut cords of his wrist before claiming the sheaf of looseleaf papers.

Lips still curved in that private, enigmatic smile, you reopened your novel - effectively ignoring or accepting his suggestive flirtation in one fell swoop as the embodiment of effortless poise.

It was subtle, masterful even in its nonchalance. And abruptly, Chrollo found himself well and truly enraptured by the delicious paradox of barbed wit and refined composure that you presented...

The memory ebbed away, siphoning back into the recesses of Chrollo's consciousness until all that remained was your pliant form coiled against him on the sagging mattress. He nuzzled deeper into the juncture of your throat and shoulder, chasing the lingering remnants of your essence still clinging to your pallid skin.

"Do you recall that afternoon, my love?" His words were a rumbling murmur against your nape. "How you matched me tease for tease without ever losing that practiced decorum society expected of you?"

A wistful sort of yearning bled into his tone, tempering the ravenous edge. "You were diabolical - all coy propriety deftly wielded to entice with just the faintest indecencies lurking beneath. Like some Wildean libertine in another skin..."

Chrollo's free hand curled into a fist where it rested on the mattress beside your hip, as if to anchor himself. There was a fevered sort of hunger simmering in his voice now, trembling with the weight of rapturous recollection.

"I knew then that I could never be content until I'd unraveled those contradicting layers shrouding your core - no matter how far into the abyss I had to descend in pursuit."

The arm bracketed around your waist cinched tighter, knotting you flush against his chest. It should have been suffocating, possessive...Yet Chrollo somehow imbued the crushing embrace with an unsettling sort of devotion. He was fastening you to him with that same ravenous ardor as one might clutch a cherished, half-coveted treasure.

His thumb traced the sharp ridge of your collarbone over...and over...and over again. "And you let me plunge into those depths so willingly - your brilliant mind falling open around me until I could see...everything."

A shudder rippled through his lean frame, momentary loss of control swiftly reined in. When his sable gaze finally lifted, there was a peculiar desperation simmering behind the usual impassivity.

"Don't you see, my love? This..." One calloused hand slid up to frame your face with infinite care, thumb caressing your lax cheek. "This hollowed essence is what you were truly meant for. An exquisite lapse of mortal confines into something sublime..."

Chrollo leaned in then, parted lips a scant breath from yours as he searched your vacant stare for any resurgence of vibrant awareness.

"You are perfection..."

The scenes continued unspooling through Chrollo's mind, each recollection seeming to unfurl within the dimness of the bedroom. Another fragment soon took shape...

Amber liquor sloshed over the rim of the heavy glass tumbler as you tipped it back, downing the harsh burn in one defiant swallow. A harsh grimace twisted your features before smoothing into a morose blankness once more.

It was well past midnight, but the dimly lit bar showed no signs of thinning out. If anything, the press of bodies seemed thicker - a sea of desperation and vice-fueled oblivion swelling with each passing hour. Chrollo slipped through the throngs like a wraith, his sable gaze cutting through the smoky haze as it snagged on your lone, hunched figure at the far end of the polished oak counter.

Even amidst the drunken revelry, you seemed utterly cocooned in your own world of misery. One dainty hand painted crimson nails over smeared trails of mascara streaking your cheeks like inky rivulets. Yet you were oblivious to the ruined cosmetics - focus zeroed inward as you gestured blindly for another refill with your other hand.

Something very much like concern flickered through Chrollo's expression as he watched the bartender dutifully splash more amber poison into your upturned glass. Before he could reconsider, his strides had already eaten up the distance between you.

Distractedly, you swiped the fresh drink towards you - only to freeze when his fingertips materialized around your wrist, stilling its trajectory. Your bewildered gaze snapped up, all blurred crimson rims and swollen lids as you blinked at him in open confusion.

"Chrollo...?" His name slipped out garbled, thick, like you couldn't quite recognize him through the alcohol-soaked haze fogging your brain. Still, there was a reluctant ember of lucidity flickering in those depths. "Wha...?"

"Easy there." His tone was infused with a carefully modulated gentleness as he extricated the tumbler from your tenuous grasp. "I think you've had more than enough for one night."

For a suspended beat, you could only gape at him in wordless bewilderment - as if you couldn't quite comprehend that he was even real. Then all at once, your fragile composure simply...crumbled. A strangled sound, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, gurgled up from your chest to clog your throat.

You were crying in earnest, shoulders quaking with the force of your abject despair before Chrollo could even parse your reaction. Instinct overrode reason as he sank into the stool beside you, one hand settling over the sharp jut of your shoulderblade while the other curled soothingly around the nape of your neck.

"Shh...just breathe, darling." His words were hushed, lulling as he pulled you against the solid line of his side. "Whatever has you in this state, tell me. Let me help."

Babbled, hiccuping gasps tumbled from your parted lips as you curled into the hollow of his shoulder and throat. You reeked of sour booze and salt, yet Chrollo did not recoil from your distress. Instead, he stroked the sensitive hairs at your nape in an anchoring rhythm, waiting patiently for the torrent of misery to ebb enough for intelligible speech to win out.

"He...he was with her! With that vapid little t-tart from his office!" The confession emerged in a wretched outburst, fraught with venom and betrayal. "After everything, he still...he was sleeping with her behind my back!"

Ah. So that was the root of this maudlin display - infidelity. Chrollo's lips pressed into a grim line as the pieces slotted into place. Of course some base, undeserving wretch would be foolish enough to wrong you so egregiously. To discard a brilliant mind like a banal plaything when they could scarcely begin to comprehend the depths of your worth...

His palm trailed in soothing strokes down the tense ridge of your spine as you heaved another juddering sob against the lapel of his coat. "Shhh...we'll make him regret the day he took you for granted, darling. We'll make this all go away, for tonight at least."

The rumbling murmur was laced with a conviction bordering on zealotry. Chrollo was utterly undone by your naked anguish - mired in both protective tenderness and dark contemplation over just how he might erase this slight. For you were meant for so much more than these kind of vulgar pains, this reductive mortal torment...

You reeled back slightly, eyes glassy and rimmed with clumped mascara as your brow knitted in confusion. But then Chrollo brushed the pad of his thumb along the swell of your lower lip - just a whisper of contact yet somehow searing with intensity. The hitch of your breath and instinctive part of your mouth was all the answer he needed.

Neither of you could rightly say who instigated the first crush of lips in that moment. It was needy and desperate, a frantic meshing of mouths tinged with the bitter fuel of anguish and something darker still. Chrollo's hand cradled the back of your skull as he angled closer, tongue lancing past your parted lips to taste the remnants of liquor and salt on your own.

There would be no gentle coaxing on this night. Only a frenzied tearing away of hurt and betrayal before the wounds could fester into something more insidious. A shedding of mortal flesh to reveal the brilliant essence burning beneath as you yielded into his possessive embrace...

The fragment drew to a hazy close, the visceral urgency of that encounter still pounding in Chrollo's veins. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly where his hands cradled your face and waist. Remembering the pure desperation fueling your surrender that night - how you had clung to him as the only tether left in the maelstrom. How he had claimed you wholly unto himself in the throes of solace and unraveling...

"Mine," he rasped against the seam of your lips, savoring the phantom memory of how pliant and undone you had been for him in that moment. If only for a handful of searing hours before the mortal coils began reweaving around your brilliant spirit once more.

But he would eternally relish that glimpse behind the veil, where your unbound essence had shone through unto him alone. The start of his fervent devotion to keep that flame tended, no matter how deeply he had to delve to stoke its radiant spark.

The memories began to scatter like ashes on the wind as Chrollo pulled back just enough to drink in the devastation he had wrought. His thumbs traced the sharp blades of your cheekbones, reverent despite the mottled bruises and lacerations maring your once unblemished skin.

Chrollo's grip tightened possessively as he vividly recalled that fateful night when he had first tasted the intoxicating depths of your psyche. Even as you had fallen apart in anguish over your unfaithful lover, there was an incandescent fire that drew Chrollo to you like a moth to the flame.

He had meant to simply provide a brief respite - a single night of forgetting your mortal turmoils as he indulged in the radiant essence you unconsciously exuded. But from the first crush of your pliant lips against his own, Chrollo found himself utterly enraptured. Each desperate roll of your hips and keening cry spilling from your throat only stoked his covetous obsession.

You had been so gloriously undone in those feverish hours - defenses obliterated, self discarded like a shed skin as you surrendered your entire being to the oblivion he offered. And in doing so, you had revealed the scintillating truth burning at your core. An existential fire, brilliant and rapturous...yet simultaneously fragile within its corporeal confines.

Chrollo's body was rigid now as he curled around your vacant form, conscious mind awash in the recollected sensations. The salty musk of your spent passions...the litany of ethereal sounds he had drawn from your kiss-bruised lips...the exquisite rapture of joining his essences with yours in those scorching instants of coalescence.

It should have been enough. One soul-searing glimpse into the untrammeled truth of your existence before allowing you to resettle behind your mortal veneers as societal dictates demanded. But even as he held your utterly spent form in the aftermath, body humming with satiated contentment, Chrollo recognized the obsession had taken insidious root.

He could never be complete until he had experienced the full unbridled depths of that prismatic flame he had witnessed refracting through your fragmented psyche. No matter how far he was required to descend in stripping away the superfluous layers masking your truest self from view.

Which was why, in the end, such...radical measures had been required to liberate you.

Chrollo's stare bored into your vacant eyes as if seeking any residual spark still banked behind that thousand-yard emptiness. His mouth brushed your cooling temple with something akin to devotion as the memories of your systematic unraveling played out in his mind's eye.

The isolation...the escalating torments he had ceremonially unleashed to flay both psyche and flesh from your core essence...the rapturous fervour of witnessing your final fracture into this transcendent, pristine stillness.

"You are the ultimate absolution," he murmured, clutching your husk closer. "My luminous ossuary - shedding at last your ill-fitting bodily accessories to reveal the immaculate truth shining beneath."

His lips brushed your slack, parted mouth, savoring the liberation of having reduced you at last to this perfect, unbound state. Preserved forever as the concentrated epiphany he had coveted from that first, searing taste of you drowned in mortal anguish so long ago.

"Mine," Chrollo rasped with heated finality. "You are mine, now and for all eternity to come..."

Chrollo cradled your deteriorated form against him, that flickering obsession still burning bright in his breast even as he drank in the full extent of devastation he had wrought upon you. For a fleeting moment, something almost like guilt sparked behind his impassive mask.

The once vibrant, brilliant essence he had fallen rapture to now lay utterly unmade. Your eyes stared back at him, unblinking and devoid of the soulful spark that had first ensnared him so completely. Just...empty. A hollowed vessel in the wake of shattering your very spirit to reach that primal truth buried beneath.

Chrollo's thumb traced the sharp jut of your cheekbone, calloused pad catching on the ridges of mottled bruises and lacerations peppering your ashen flesh. He had been the architect of this ruination - methodically flaying away every layer of identity and reservation until only the naked essence remained. A scorched earth approach in pursuit of cradling that luminous fire unbridled at last from the confines of your corporeal self.

But surely even this devastation was a brutal form of preservation? Eliminating every potential tether that might restrain you from the transcendental state of pure, unfettered being he had laid bare...

His grasp convulsed minutely, fingertips pressing almost bruisingly into the fragile dips of your body. Perfection, he tried to reaffirm. This was the apotheosis of preserving your immaculate truth in stasis. The self-aware cosmos distilled to its most sublime....

And yet...

The briefest flicker of uncertainty lanced through Chrollo's stare as he studied the desolation reflecting back at him. For the span of a solitary indrawn breath, his convictions seemed to teeter on the precipice of horrified doubt. The full magnitude of what he had unmade you into crashing against the uncompromising fervor of his beliefs like a sanity-shattering wave.

Then your lips parted with the barest sigh, the slightest tongue movement giving audible shape to a single rasping exhalation. A phantom whisper seeming to give voice to the oblivion reflecting from the depths of your vacant stare.

"Chrollo..."

The tenuous moment fractured. Whatever fissure of trepidation that had pried open an instant before was abruptly extinguished by the guttering embers of Chrollo's dedication. His palm cupped the sharp hinge of your jaw as his brow creased in a minute frown of reproach.

"Shh...no more," he soothed in a hushed murmur. "Your essence has transcended such temporal limits at last."

With agonizing tenderness, Chrollo brushed the faintest whisper of a kiss across your placid lips. There was no response from your end - no flutter of lashes or instinctive reaction. Just the weighty stillness of a mind and spirit severed completely from any lingering mortal confines.

Chrollo pulled back a bare fraction, his sable stare glittering with something like reverence as he studied the husk before him. The fate he had meticulously crafted for you in pursuit of undoing every superficial strand barring his unfettered view of the unfurling truth laid bare at last.

And in that moment, a twisted sort of absolution seemed to settle over his expression. This bleak squalor was both sanctum and crematorium - the smoldering aftermath in which your indelible imprint had been forged into existence eternal. No matter the state of the vessel's decay, your essence would endure, preserved forever in the chilling serenity Chrollo's morbid dedication had produced.

As for the systematic dismantling and agonies required to unmake you to this degree...? All such atrocious steps were hallowed by the certainty still burning in Chrollo's conviction as he cradled your emptied husk with the covetous desperation of an obsessive widower. The indelible truth of your being had ultimately been preserved in a state of perfect, pristine deliverance.

And whether that ultimately amounted to an abhorrent defilement or the most sacred of consecrations....Only Chrollo could rightly bear witness to the full breadth of that existential paradox now.

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