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astolfofo · 11 months

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(i wrote this back when the first trailer for the harbingers came out, but it’s never gonna be finished because I got lazy and no one wanted to read it)

so yeah anyways here’s this thing.

i got sorta impaitent and i didn’t want to write another 5 parts before this (i did and i had ideas but um they were scrapped)

read the prologue here and read the backstory here

summary: The basic idea because it’s not really communicated properly, is that you’re Fountaine’s artificial god, the chief of justice, and you met scaramouche one day. From thereonforth, the two of you were practically inseperable because the two of you are two sides of the same coin. You’re a succesful Gnosis holder, and essentially a creation made of pure hydro element, from the first hydro archon, while Scaramouche is a “failed creation” of the Raiden Shogun. You two are inseperable no matter how far you guys are apart.

TW: there’s implied disssction of the reader in here, to extract the gnosis of the reader, Also harsh interrogation, threats (if you squint but not really), also pantalone and dottotere being pantalone and dottotere. They’re just trigger warnings in themselves.

Dottotere and Pantalone towered over you. Even though you had long learned not to fear the Fatui Harbingers, their height still intimidated you. You often found yourself wanting to back up a few steps when tall people hovered over you like this.

You cursed your creator for making you so short. It wouldn’t have killed her to make you a few inches taller. But then again, you were quite sure that she intended to make you look like a child.

Even so, that wouldn’t help you since you were tied to a chair. The sadistic look on Pantalone’s face didn’t help either. You were half-convinced that the man was going to murder you in cold blood. Meanwhile, Dottotere had plenty of different scapels, knives, and sisscors on a table nearby, which was unsettling, to say the least. You tried your best to ignore that all the objects were extremely sharp, or they were serrated and stained with blood.

Dottotere lightly taps on his clipboard then, his pencil scratches the paper. He promtly nods at Pantalone. A message to go ahead with what he has planned.

“Do you know why you’re here today?”

Pantalone’s voice echoes through the dark labratory. His tone lost its usually pleasent and eloquent demeaner. Now, it was hallow and flat which unsettled you greatly.

Deciding your best chance lies within answering his questions, you shake your head.

“I want a yes. Or a no. Answer my question.”

A small spark of annoyance bubbles up inside you. On occasions like these, it seemed if Pantalone was trying to enrage you... on purpose. Maybe it was to see if you were going to unleash your powers on them, so they can take it away later. You certainly wouldn’t know.

You take a deep breath in. “No.”

“I see. In that case, I shall offer you an explanation.”

You embraced yourself for the explanation that Pantalone would provide. His explanations often did not clear anything out.

“You see... me and my friend Dottotere here, are awfully found of those visions people like you get to bear. The commoners always say they are like, ‘A blessing from Celestia’. Or a gift from the gods, or something similar to that.”

“You, are one that clearly holds one of those so called, visions.”

Pantalone hands slide down from your shoulders to your waist, where your vision lay. He holds it with his two fingers, as if observing a rare treasure.

“Clearly, you have been born more privilleged than the rest of us.”

Dottotere grunted, “Get to the point, Regragator.”

“Why are you in such a hurry, Doctor? I thought you said I could take my time. Are you THAT excited to dissect a human being?”

Dottotere glared at Pantalone.

Fear, panic, and dread all spread throughout your brain. You couldn’t escape. They would find out... they would find out that you were the Hydro Archon’s backup prototype, and that you were Scaramouche’s parallel. Maybe after that... they would steal your gnosis... and you’d lose a large fraction of your power. No.... you’d die. The gnosis was the center of your body... your heart. The very purpose you were even needed. It would make the Tartasia’s mission practically complete.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Pantalone seemed to see you tense up. “Don’t worry. You’ll be put under asphordiacs for the proceedure, although I’m not sure if you’ll die at the end.”

You took a deep breath trying to control your fear. There had to be a way out of this. There always did.

All problems had a solution even if they were imginary. And if they were imginary, you would have to make them real.

“As I was saying... it is clear you hold an immense power from your vision, that is untouchable by the rest of us. You did defeat Tartaglia in minutes, right? Even the so-called Traveller known across all lands did not do that.”

“Tell me, how do you become so powerful?”

“You get a vision from strong desire,” you mutter under your breath. “Or perhaps, you can reawaken one. However, if you can be as determined to dedicate your life for a single reason... you will be given a god’s blessing.”

You paused for a second. “A vision does not simply come from fighting to your death, nor does it come from half-assed will. It is clear that you do not have a strong purpose to fulfill in your life.” You paused again hoping to add as much venom to your words as possible, “You only posses greed, and the desire for validation from the divine.”

The room was slient enough you could hear a pin drop.

“So go on. Cut me in half. Take out my heart if you want,” You looked at the Regretor, “You’ll never be able to fulfill your beloved Tartasia’s dream, and you will certainly never recieve a blessing from any god.”

“That’s enough.” Dottotere snapped. “Answer his questions, and shut your mouth. You are simply a lab rat that’s crucial for this experiment.”

“I will not shut my mouth,” you retorted. “You have no right to tell me what, and what not to do. Because unlike the Balladeer, I know what you people are.”

You could feel your hand forming a dagger out of hydro, much to your dismay. It seemed like you still struggled to control elemental powers under strong stress of emotion. However, this time you had to stay calm. You wince as the water almost instantly freezes in the Sheezenayan cold. If you pretended to pass out during their diessction proceedure, and manage to distract them (and launch a shock attack) by pretending to “wake up” confused, disoriented, and disturbed, you would be able to succesfully kill the most difficult Fatui Harbingers, and succesfully escape.

Dottotere stared at you with great amusement, observing the knife that was intentionally forming from your hand. “As ever the interesting subject to study.” He smirked. “What makes you think you can defeat us, the Fatui Harbingers who have control over nations?”

“You’re just a simple engineer from Fountaine.”

The white rage rushed over your body again. You remebered why you hated the Fatui so much now. After Shezenaya, Fountaine was the second most technologically advanced nation. But merely the second. And Falcors, your creator, had always berated you over your inefficiency and inferiority towards the superior nation. Dottotere knew nothing. He had no fucking idea how hard you worked, how much work you did to compete against a nation more powerful than your own. A nation that stood up by violence and injustice.

“And you, of all people should know, how pale an engineer is in comparision to a scientist.”

Dottotere walks towards you. You recoil back into what little space you had remaining on the chair. “So you should understand the difference between you and me.”

Pantalone scoffed.

You felt backed into a corner.

#yandere scaramouche x reader #yandere dottotere x reader #yandere pantalone x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere dottotere #yandere pantalone #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere wanderer x reader #yandere wanderer #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #dottotere x reader #pantalone x reader #fountaine

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sleepyboywrites · 1 year

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Starving - Eyeless Jack x GN! Reader

Tw: Kidnapping, almost cannibalism, surprise kindey donation, slight possessiveness, homoerotic tension cut with a scapel.

Jack had never felt more hungry. It's been weeks since his last feast and he was starting to lose control unfortunately for you, you were walking home late, probably too late at night.

It was honestly a matter of the wrong place at the wrong time as you made your way down the familiar path. You felt eyes lingering on your skin and desperately watching your movements.

He heard your heartbeat as it fluctuated from slow to fast. From calm to unease. Waiting to see if that switch would flip, if you'd run and give him the thrill of the hunt, and poor you, you did. This made Jack feral as he lunged after you. "They're mine, they're mine, they're mine." Jack growled as he ran after and eventually tackled you to the ground.

"Mine." He growled possessively as he inhaled your scent. Fresh with sweat and fear. He inhaled again and dug his talons into your sides causing you to cry out.

In a moment you looked up to the starving beast and barely whispered for it not to hurt you and that it was okay. This appeared to wake something in the beast as he blinked hard a couple of times and then you were knocked out cold.

You awoke in a bath of icewater next to a much quieter, calmer version of the beast. The cold tip of a scale placed firmly on your abdomen, you let out a sharp hiss as the beast lightly shushed you.

"Shhh, I promise to make this as painless as possible." Eyeless Jack assured you as you whimpered under his touch tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Are you going to kill me?" You whispered as you stared up as best as your concussed state could at this monster.

He merely hummed in response, "try not to," he placed one hand over your eyes and the other made the first incision as you passed out again.

#eyeless jack #eyeless jack x reader #x gender neutral reader #creepypasta x gn!reader #cannonly portrayed eyeless jack #or at least attempt to

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the-last-f2p · 7 months

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can I request 68 and 69 with yosano

Yeah :D

68: “maybe after this, you’ll go back to being my sweet and obedient darling” and 69: “you’re not you without me. we’re meant to be together for eternity”

Featuring: Akiko Yosano

TW: User does have a healing ability but it's like only able to heal scratches and breaks, double suicide mention, implied violence?, blades, more specifically scalpels.

Akiko Yosano does not take kindly to any type of bullshit when it comes to you. You're supposed to be cute and helpful Y/N not another nuisance like somebody who actually SHALL be mentioned:

Fucking Osamu Dazai!

You first "joined" the detective agency after the port mafia injured a cute little bystander who was very near to death, Yosano of course had to help the bystander who got just a little bit of head trauma so sadly doesn't remember this.

The bystander awoke in the A.D.A medbay a couple hours later where Yosano was sharpening her knifes. (Like a serial killer, cool!) Of course a little freaked out they kindly asked where the hell they were. after Yosano responded "A building", which was just so useful, introduced themselves as Y/N.

You two hit it off and after Yosano found out about their new bestie's healing ablity she suggested (read as forced) them to work in the Armed detective agency as an apprentice of sorts.

Healing minor injuries as most people didn't want Yosano to chop off all of their limbs to heal a broken arm. And at the end of the day you two would clean up, talk for a while and go around Yokohoma together 'til you decide to leave.

Now thinking of it you are REALLY nice. Kind, sweet, attractive? Very protectable. And you're hanging out with Dazai great..

Fast forward back to present day and boom here you are with Dazai all handsy and flirty with him since he's your best friend! Yosano remembers when she was your best friend.. Pranking Kunikida and laughing at his reaction! Yosano could've pranked him with you.. And Dazai asking you to double suici-OKAY YOUR GIRL AKIKO HAS HAD ENOUGH.

She storms off into the medbay while tugging you by the collar. She has fire in her eyes and an intense need for blood. More specifcly, the blood of Dazai.

"Yosano what're you doing..?" You ask edging nearer to Yosano in order to either get a closer look at the blade she's holding or take it off her completely.

"Nothing really. You're not you without me, we're meant to be together for eternity," Yosano lets out an unsettling laugh "Maybe after this you'll go back to being my sweet and obedient darling." Oh she's holding a scapel.. Freshly sharpened as well.

But remember what they say: It's always the first insicion that hurts the most. But so does the second. And the third. And the fiftieth but by that time you should've learnt your lesson!

#Decided to start some form of rotation for fanfic fandoms it should be bsd genshin then hsr #yandere yosano #yandere yosano akiko #yandere akiko yosano #yandere bsd #yandere bungou stray dogs #yandere #yandere girl #yandex

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chaotic-enby-selfships · 1 year

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RANDALS FRIENDS HEADCANONS

kay fuckers so thanks to @rebornheart this weird comic is my newest hyperfixation so you all get this (also TW, mentions of ki//ing animals, snakes eating people, mutilation, medical things and possibly body horror. also spoilers for Randals Friends)

-NO ONE IN THAT HOUSE IS NEUROTYPICAL. Luther+the two catmen are Autistic, Randal has ADHD, and Sebastian has ✨anxiety✨

-Randal is clingy as hell. he will not let go once he has attatched himself to you

-Also do you guys know the stereotype of that one kid who cant eat sugared cereal and/or drink soda bc otherwise they go ballistic? Yeah, Randal is that kid.

-He's also kiiiind of a sadist. Not towards his family (Luther, the catmen, etc.) but he often does go out into the woods and kill small animals for fun. probably eats them raw too

-Randal is also hella destructive. This motherfucker needs fucking chew toys to keep from tearing up the house

-Whenever Luther has to bathe the catmen it's always a fucking nightmare. They hiss, scratch, meow, claw, etc. And couple that with the fact that they're the size of full-grown humans...... yeah it's not easy getting them into the tub.

-Nanas belly acts as Luthers Safe Space whenever he needs to get away from everything.

-Speaking of Luther, he's the type to wiggle his fingers at donuts and say "Don't mind if I do"

-Randal and Luther also aren't human. I mean, in the comic, randal got his fingers chopped off and even fucking grew his legs longer sooooooo yeah. Also the catmen aren't just humans dressed up like cats. Catmen are just grown up catboys. -Randal is 10000000% a roblox kid. You cannot tell me otherwise. He's also a keyboard warrior, and it gets even worse when he's tired. -If Sebastian were to escape, Luther would chop off his legs so that it would be harder for him to escape in the future.

-Randal is CONSTANTLY eating things that he isn't supposed to. flowers, dirt, wood, you name it. Sebastian still wonders how he's alive.

-If Randal saw a christmas tree, he would absolutely try to climb it. -Luther has a whole-ass medical office off of his room. Like we're talking scapel, anesthesia, an operating table, syringes, everything. He has this because of all the shit that happens to Randal and No One is allowed in that room without his permission

-Randal has also snuck into said medical room and ate all kinds of medicine he wasn't supposed to.

-Luther spends at least 2 hours in the bathroom doing his hair and makeup -Randal has a freakishy high pain tolerance. This fucker could fall 200 stories and be 100% fine

-Speaking of Randal, he also snorts bath salts. Luther constantly has to get new ones because of it

-Luther is Gay and Trans, Nyen is Gay, Nyon is Nonbinary (or Nyonbinary), Randal is Bi and uses he/they/it, and Sebastiant is Cishet

-Also Sebastians anxiety isn't just from being Randals pet. That definitely did make it worse for him, but he's always had it. He was on medication for it before he got caught and mistaken for a pet. Okay that's all the Headcanons I have for now soooo bye

#ranfren #randals friends #randal ivory #luther von ivory #nyen ranfren #nyon ranfren #nyen catman #nyon catman #sebastian ranfren #medical tw #mutilation tw #animal harm //#long post sorry #okay thats it i'll shut up now

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companionwolf · 5 months

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BTHB cradling someone in their arms

Bad Things Happen Bingo Fill #1

Fandom: technically the Delta Green TTRPG; it's a scene from my DG-esque solo game Operation Summer Afternoon which has run away from the DG canon as fast & far as possible. 😔

Prompt: cradling someone in their arms

TWs/CWs: gore(?), a reanimated corpse, violence, the death of a parent

Context for this piece -- the brainless bloodless corpse of Davis Archer, one of the numerous missing people of the town who managed to be found, has reanimated and attacked Jasper and Elias Lake, who operate the morgue.

The corpse, the corpse that should not be moving, what was Davis Archer, what was your friend-- it looms over the body of your father, whose windpipe it has just crushed with one flex of a hand.

You huddle in a corner of the freezing room, wheezing as you press at your shoulder; when it attacked, the corpse threw you against the autopsy table, and you heard a audible cracking. You aren't sure if it's broken but it hurts.

A large gash runs from your father's shoulder across his chest to the other side, you can see through the torn fabric and flesh the glistening forms of internal organs which bulge outward just over the edges of the wound. There's blood coating the floor of cold storage, his clothes, his skin. The scent of it makes you feel queasy.

Your knuckles are turning white from gripping the handle of the scapel you have still; brandishing it like a weapon, you yell at Archer -- no, at the corpse. It's not your friend anymore.

The corpse looks over at you, cocks its head, and then smiles at you. It's not a kind gesture-- it's more of how animals pull back their lips and snarl. You press further back into the cold walls of the corner, scapel up like it'll protect you at all.

Distantly, you hear thundering footsteps in the front of the morgue.

The weird FBI agents are back, thank God. From what you can tell, they're making their way toward the back now, through the autopsy room.

The corpse turns toward the noise, soundlessly exits, and leaves you alone. You look at the body of your father.

The world blurs--

A gunshot in the room snaps you back to reality. You're cradling your father's body in your arms, frantically trying to press the organs falling out of his stomach back in, despite vaugely understanding that won't do anything for him.

The corpse is on the cremation chamber, and just inside the threshold stand two of the FBI agents-- Kara and Koda, if you remember right.

(You're not sure. Nothing makes sense now to you, the world is wrong and broken, because corpses are walking and your father is dead.)

Koda, who fired at the corpse as he came in, missed; the corpse has its eyes on you, and before you can move, react, understand, it leaps--

Somehow, you manage to respond, dropping your father and fending the corpse off just enough to put some space between it and you as it tries to bite. You shove the sharp end of the scapel into one of its eyes. There is no blood, no resistance, it just goes right clean through.

You pull the scapel back out, Kara trying to help by stabbing it in the back with a improvised weapon of another sharp from autopsy one, missing barely. Meanwhile, Koda is reloading.

The corpse tries to bite again; you strain to get out of the way, managing just so that it gets a mouthful of wall instead of your face, before going to drive the scapel into its other eye.

Koda shoots again, from a angle at the side, where the shot goes through the corpse's head. Of course there isn't a spray of blood bone and brain, you knew that when you preformed the autopsy, but the lack registers still as its head explodes, the body collapsing on top of you.

"Christ," says Koda.

The agents are panting; you stare at them, feeling your eyes are as wide as possible. Kara comes over to you, your father's body, and the corpse, hauls the latter off of you and drags it over to the cremation chamber.

The other agent, Koda, crouches next to you. "Hey, you okay?" You stare blankly at him.

The world twists--

Someone's touching your shoulder.

You hiss, turn your head to look. Kara is kneeled beside you, gingerly inspecting the wound. She's got a professional first aid kit open, and with difficulty you wonder where she got it from.

Koda's still talking to you, but you can't hear-- all you've got is your heartbeat racing and blood rushing and the ringing scream of your father in your ears from when Archer ripped him open.

Kara's finished her patching up, frowns at you. You think she's explaining about it being broken. Funny, you can't feel it much at all anymore.

She mentions the hospital, you shake your head. She purses her lips, tells Koda to do something; he heads out of the cold storage into the back halls toward the back exit of the building.

"Jasper," says Kara.

You're looking at your father again. What was him. Kara's voice, faintly, again: "Jasper, I need you to help me operate this, please. We need to get rid of the corpses."

She's holding the body of Davis Archer, who was your friend and wasn't whatever was in that corpse.

Somehow, you stand, numbly allowing your father's body to slump to the blood streaked floor. Somehow, with a free hand (the other still death grips the scapel), you walk Kara through the mechanisms, as if it's just a regular day.

One body burns.

Kara's looking at you now, then at your father. The pair of you wordlessly gather him up and lug him over to a cold storage unit, and once he's in, you gently close his eyes. It's the least you can do for him, now. Fresh tears warp your vision.

"Can you lock this place up?" says Kara.

You nod. Together you and the agent go to the front reception area, where you go through the motions of closing up, and then back through to the secondary exit, locking that door as well. Outside, Koda is waiting in a car you recognize as the same one the team arrived in earlier.

(Was that really earlier? Your head spins.)

Kara herds you into the backseat. You're aware of them talking as the car pulls away from the morgue, something about where to go now-- should we get the others? You speak up: they could go to your house. It's less a suggestion made of reason than it is a plea, of wanting to go home and...

Your father is dead. Your mother is long gone. What on Earth do you do now? You can't run the morgue by yourself.

Everything breaks.

#wolf barking #barking asks #wolfs solo games: ultra green #tailstrokes #'wolf thats not how morgues work' ssssh .#i didnt follow this prompt very much goddamn it #'wolf thats not how the FBI work' SSSSSSSSH x2

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pullakori · 11 months

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Febuwhump 2023

Day 7. Made to watch

TW: Torture, violence towards a minor, mentions of death

Charles was becoming numb. In the beginning he had tried to talk to his captors, to bargain with them, even begging for them to stop, but all in vain. One after the other, mutant prisoners were brought to the cell next to Charles' to be tortured and finally killed.

And Charles was made to see and feel all of it. Something about the walls intensified his powers when it came to hearing other people's thoughts, yet they managed to weaken other usages of them. He couldn't reach out to call for help or make his captors to release him and the others, but he also couldn't escape into his own mind when there was someone else in the other side of the glass wall, seperating the two cells. He couldn't make the tortured lose consciousness, he couldn' make their pain go away.

They had not told him what they wanted from him. They hadn't told who they worked for, but their mannerisms made Charles think of the military. He only hoped that this wasn't doings of the goverment... His faith in humanity was too frail to withstand that.

He didn't know how long he had been there. But he remembered every prisoner they had killed. It felt like the right thing to do. With the first ones he tried to comfort them, to ease their pain, but eventually it had become too much. No matter what he did, it wasn't enough to save any of them. Some of them begged him to help them, some of them were scared of him and some were angry, blaming him for their faith.

And maybe that was the truth. Maybe they had to endure all this pain because their captors were trying to break Charles. And if that was the case, Charles could never forgive himself.

With the last few prisoners, Charles had tried to keep his distance. He felt their pain and desperate thoughts, but he did his best to not react, turning his back to the other cell and staring at the wall of his own. And after 17 people, he was starting to get used to the second hand pain. His captors had noticed this too, bringing other prisoners less frequently to the other cell.

In hindsight, Charles should have known that something terrible was about to happen.

When he heard the door of the other cell open, he braced himself, keeping his eyes locked on the opposite wall. The panic hit him immediately, like a bird that was trapped in a room, flying erratically, desperate to escape. Nothing Charles hadn't felt before, but the thoughts that accompanied the panic made him feel like someone had dropped him in ice cold water.

He rolled over on his mattress, praying that he was wrong, but then he saw the mutant that they were strapping on to the table. He had purple skin, webbing between his fingers and big dark eyes that were full of fear. But most importantly, he was too small to be an adult, barely even a teenager and his mind was screaming, while aloud he was begging for their captors to let him go home.

Charles pushed himself up with his arms.

"Let him go, he's just a child!" He shouted at the masked men on the other side of the glass, but only one of them glanced at him briefly, before turning back to the boy. Jonathan. His family and friends called him Nate. He was 15 years old and his mutation had manifested a month ago. He had been terrified as well as his parents had beem, but they had tried to find answers and help him.

Unfortunately, that path had led Jonathan in here.

Charles pushed himself off the mattress, crawling to the glass wall.

"Just let him go!" Charles screamed and punched the glass, Jonathan's panic filling his own mind as one of the captors took a scapel from a side table. "Whatever you want from me, leave him out of it!" Charles begged, he had to, even when it had never worked before, maybe it would this time. Please let it work this time...

But the first cut to Jonathan's webbed hand proved that he was completely powerless once again. Jonathan screamed and so did Charles, taking a hold of his own hand because of the phantom pain. It would only be getting worse from here...

Jonathan was crying and screaming, unable to talk properly anymore and amongst feeling his pain and fear, Charles could feel his own heart breaking. He couldn't save the boy, but maybe he could make his pain more bareable.

He reached out with his mind, making his presence known.

'I'm so sorry...' He whispered to Jonathan's mind, who's confusion barely made it through his pain and panic.

'Please help me!' He begged, new flash of pain making him cry out.

'I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't' And Charles truly was, his regret seeping throug the frail link that they shared, even though he tried to stop it.

And from Jonathan, he could feel deep sorrow and a loss of hope. But soon, those were followed by something that hurt Charles even more. Forgivness.

'It's okay. I understand, they took you too.' And he meant it, he didn't hold it against Charles that he couldn't help him. Distantly, Charles could feel how his own cheeks became wet with tears.

The next cut was especially painful. Charles quessed they had severed a nerve.

'Hurts!' Jonathan's mind screamed.

'I know.' Charles tried to comfort the boy, tried to wrap his power around him like a protective blanket. 'You're not alone, I won't leave you.' He promised him, ready to stay with the boy through it all.

'I wan't my mom. I wan't to go home.' Jonathan cried and Charles held him tighter with his powers. He might not be able to save him, but he would not let him suffer alone.

#this got dark #so beware #charles whump #febuwhump 2023 #charles xavier

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artistic-writer · 6 years

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Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) - CS Werewolf AU - Ch 14 (NSFW)

Title: Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) by @artistic-writer artwork by @cocohook38 & @artistic-writer

Rating: E (overall rating) for explicit sexual content, language, and themes throughout. Trigger warnings will follow and be added as they are needed to avoid spoilers.

Art by @cocohook38 - Poster - Emma - David - Killian - James - Walsh - Graham - Liam

Chapter Art by @cocohook38 - Ch1 - Ch2 - Ch3 - Ch4 (NSFW)

Art by @artistic-writer - 1 - 2 - 3 -

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: TRIGGER WARNINGS: Torture, Killian!Whump, chained to a tree, bound, forced change, electrocuted, cock and ball torture, scalpel, medieval device, blood, bruised, bloodied, broken bones, cries of agony, captor taunting, delirious dreaming, awoke with cold water

If you are, in any way worried about what this chapter may entail, please send me a message and we can chat about what worries you. Alternatively, you may skip this chapter altogether, head straight to ch 15 when it is posted and you won’t miss any information.

Massive thanks to my wonderful betas, @hookedonapirate who is one of the best beta’s this fandom has to offer - I seriously love her guys, and she deserves all the good things <3 <3 and @kmomof4 to whom this fic is also gifted for her upcoming birthday, and creating the @cssns Thank you to my crew, @hollyethecurious @resident-of-storybrooke @courtorderedcake @doodlelolly0910 and special thanks to @killian-whump @killianmesmalls and @sherlockianwhovian for how they helped later on this fic. And to @flipperbrain who drew THIS piece of art for this fic in December, before it was even written!

Taglist: @cssns @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight@ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr@blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom @thejollyroger-writer @rachie1940 @unworried-corsair

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Killian wasn’t sure if it was the flow of Emma’s dress that made it look like she was moving in slow motion, or if she actually was. She wore a full length ballroom gown, the skirt held outwards by a stiff petticoat and a silken ribbon around her wrist to hold the trailing train aloft. It was the most brilliant white, covered in iridescent pearl beads that caught the lights as she descended the stairs.

Her hair was plaited into a circle that laid over the back of her head like a tiara, a slither of wire adorned with silver leaf shaped beads woven into the golden blonde locks. They were sparkling in the light, twinkling like the stars, and a similar pattern of beads was incorporated into the bouquet she was carrying. Blood red roses mixed with white, the human symbols for romance and a new beginning, were carried at her chest, a delicate charm bracelet fitting loosely around her wrist with opposing half moon shaped charms dangling from it.

When Emma reached the last step, Killian stepped forward and extended out his hand to her, which she took and finally stepped off the staircase. The heels of her shoes fell silently on the ultra plush cream coloured carpet which was laid out like a runner, the edges held to the floor by bright, shiny silver metal fixings. It was just one thing about the day Killian knew he would never forget, even if it distracted him from the beautiful creature in front of him.

Emma fit into her dress perfectly, almost as if she was sewn in. It rustled as she moved into his space, the scent of the roses between them invading his senses and making him smile. It was a joyful smile, almost one hundred percent happy, but as his eyes roamed up and down her glitzy figure, he couldn’t help but let a few sideways smirks slide over his lips as he imagined how Emma’s skin felt underneath the skirt.

“Down boy,” Emma warned him with a coy smile.

“Emma, you look…” he began, his cheeks flushed and his smile unwaning. Her beauty had stolen the air right out of his lungs and despite his wolf stamina, he couldn’t recover.

“I know.” She smiled at him, clutching his hand a little tighter.

“I never thought this day would come,” Killian admitted shyly, a hint of sadness tainting his words. Emma let her bare shoulders drop a little and Killian couldn’t help but reach out and trail his thumb over the jut of her collarbone.

“Didn’t I tell you it would be okay?” Emma smiled warmly. She reached up, her free hand cupping his cheek and she traced the outline of his scar with her soft, silky thumbpad.

“We’ve just been through so much,” Killian told her, turning his face so that he could kiss her palm. Her skin smelled sweet, more so than normal, and Killian couldn’t stop himself from inhaling the scent that wafted from her wrist.

“And we’ll go through so much more,” Emma told him with a nod. “But whatever happens, we will always have each other.” Emma smiled at him again, the skin around her eyes crinkling and her lightly blushed cheeks pushing her eyes closed a little.

“I promised you forever,” Killian reminded himself out loud. “Come what may.”

“You did,” Emma beamed.

“Will you still love me when we are old and grey?” Killian teased. He took her hand in his, running his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles and looking down, watching his fidgeting hand nervously.

“Killian Jones, are you nervous?” Emma teased back. “Stalling, maybe?”

“Stalling?” Killian laughed, aghast. “Never.”

“Good,” Emma told him as she slipped her hand from his and lifted it behind his head, lacing her fingers through the soft, downy hair at the back of his neck. It was a little bit prickly from his recent haircut for the day, already growing back at the edges of his collar. She pulled his face to hers, planting her brilliantly red lipstick coated lips to his tenderly for a quick kiss. “Because I really want to marry you.”

“Hmm,” Killian hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning into her. “Conveniently, you are in a gown. And I’m in a tux. And look, you even have some flowers,” he smiled, nodding to the bouquet in her hand that was becoming increasingly squashed between them.

“Whilst I would love to do this right now,” Emma smirked, running a single finger down the side of his face and over the point of his elvish ear seductively. “I need you to do something for me first.”

“Anything,” Killian said earnestly, leaning forward and nipping at her exposed collarbone.

“You have to wake up,” Emma said softly.

“What?” Killian frowned, pulling back when Emma stepped out of his embrace. She walked backward a little, clutching the flowers with both hands and staring at him with pleading eyes. Killian’s heart took off in his chest, the scene behind Emma fading away and leaving her standing in the darkness, her dress the brightest beacon.

“Killian, you have to wake up,” she whispered again, her voice fading away as tiny fragments of her figure began to blow away as if they were dust. Panic washed over Killian and he reached out, clutching onto particles of his love that simply slipped through his fingers like dust in a beam of sunlight.

“You have to wake up!” A harsh voice invaded his ears, a sudden weight pressing down on his entire body as Killian’s entire vision faded to black and he felt the pull of reality once more. He hadn’t even opened his eyes when a sharp, stabbing sensation signalled the cold water hitting his entire body, his lungs gasping for much needed air and his eyes flying open. He shook his head a few times, flicking away the water as it dripped down his face and from the end of his nose, mixing with dried blood as it did and turning the droplets pink.

Killian’s delirium cleared and his vision eventually focused on Walsh standing in front of him, a now empty bucket swinging from one hand. He could barely lift his head, the shivering from the ice cold water setting into his bones and rendering his neck muscles useless with spasms. The tiny, now melting, cubes of ice littered the forest floor at Killian’s feet and he was completely naked, the rough bark of a huge oak tree digging into his bare back and his shoulders wrenched painfully backward because his arms were chained around the trunk.

“There you are,” Walsh spat, leaning forward, his face inches from Killian’s. Killian averted his gaze to watch the water running down through the hair on his legs, his jaw clenched tightly and the wounds on his face reopening from the force of the water hitting him. “I thought I’d killed you,” Walsh laughed. “We don’t want that just yet.”

“What...What do you want?” Killian stuttered, his skin rubbing the bark as he shivered. He gulped, the distaste for his captor evident in his words and leaving a disgusting taste in the back of his throat.

Walsh laughed a sadistic chuckle that left a crawling sensation over Killian’s skin. “Now isn’t that the million dollar question?” He snapped, moving around the tree a little and checking the chains. They were secure, padlocked together tightly at the back of the old tree, Killian’s hands wrapped up in them midway and holding his arms backward.

Killian shuddered when a new wave of shivering passed over him, tiny ice cold droplets of water dripping onto his body and making him twitch involuntarily. He pulled against the chains but they were not moving, not even an inch, and he casually tried to cast a look at his surroundings.

There was no noise of anything nearby. No road, not even the barest rustle of leaves from any wildlife and Killian knew Walsh had them somewhere secluded. There was a crude looking wooden table set up behind Walsh, a rickety chair barely big enough for an adult next to it and an assortment of what Killian could only describe as tools on its seat. Walsh began moving them, one by one, deliberately so Killian could see, and resting them on the table top. They seemed to be alone, the wolves from earlier nowhere to be seen or smelled, and Killian briefly wondered how he had come to be naked and chained to a tree.

“Trying to remember?” Walsh taunted, reading his mind. “Let me fill in some gaps for you. With a story.” He grabbed the chair and spun it in his hand, turning it backward and setting it down in front of Killian. He sat on it astride, leaning forward and resting his forearms over the aged wooden back. “Once upon a time, there were two wolves,” he began in a sing song voice.

Killian felt his anger rising, the tensed muscles in his jaw clenching his teeth together so tightly he thought he might crack a tooth. He flexed his fingers, balling his hands into fists on either side of the tree as Walsh continued.

“Brothers,” he clarified. “And when their father died, there was an epic battle for dominance.” He shifted his weight on the chair and it groaned a little, the wood creaking and wobbling to one side. Walsh sucked in a breath and rubbed a hand over his smooth chin. “When it was all done, and one son had come out superior, there was a quiet period. The other son didn’t mind because the new alpha had chosen a barren mate, so one day, his time to rule would arrive.”

“Just get to the point,” Killian spat, blood infused spittle dripping from his lip and falling to the leaves at his feet.

Walsh jumped to his feet and was on Killian in a flash, grabbing his hair and wrenching his head back painfully until he cracked his skull on the bark of the tree trunk. Killian cried out, pinching his eyes closed and holding his breath until Walsh released his hold and sighed. “Don’t interrupt me,” he said calmly, smoothing Killian’s hair flat and returning to his chair.

Killian’s head began to pound, his temples throbbing and the pain from the smack covering his scalp. He tried to shake it off again, but it just made his eyeballs hurt and his vision cloud at the edges of his periphery. He didn’t look up when he heard the creak of the chair once more, instead focusing all of his pain into staring at the ground.

“Now, where was I. Oh yes!” Walsh declared triumphantly, leaning back in the chair and waving a finger in Killian’s direction. “The brother knew his time would come, and if he wanted to rule sooner, all he had to do was kill his brother and make it look like an accident. Easy, right?” Walsh shrugged but Killian did not answer. “Wrong,” Walsh said darkly, pushing himself to his feet once more.

Killian lifted his head a little, ignoring the lights pulsing behind his eyes as he struggled to adjust to the new level of vision. More light invaded his pupils and made his head ache even more, but he watched with a furious fascination as Walsh made his way to the table nearby. “The one brother, let’s call him David, went and had a child,” he laughed to himself, running a finger over the sharp edge of a blade. “And now, with her unscheduled birth, the other brother, we’ll call him James, would never be king.” Walsh lifted up the implement he had been touching and held it in front of his face, the blade glinting in the sunlight that poked through the trees. “That is,” he began, his voice trailing off as he bit his bottom lip in anticipation of using the tool. “Unless she died.”

Killian eyed him suspiciously as he continued to inspect his table of torture tools. “Or was exiled,” Walsh shrugged, a sly smile spreading over his lips as he stroked over another of the tools. “Imagine if she got pregnant. David would have no choice but to exile her, right? Leaving him without an heir and, hopefully, distracted enough that James could overthrow him easily.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Killian growled, his limbs beginning to tingle from the lack of sensation.

Walsh turned to look at him, pressing his finger to the point of the blade. “I’m so glad you asked.” He sucked in a breath as he stalked towards the tree again and Killian tensed, flinching away a little. He turned his head to one side, involuntarily submitting in hopes he would be spared any more torment.

“I’ve tracked her, to here,” Walsh told him, waving the blade around in front of his face and motioning to the forest around them. “Divine taste she has, almost like the finest dining you have ever encountered. But she has this scent, like a blemish on her otherwise beautiful smell,” Walsh said with a smack of his lips, imagining Emma’s scent the first day he had smelled her at Misthaven, but then his face turned up with a grimace. “Tainting her. Ruining the way she smelled for me,” he growled angrily. He stepped impossibly closer to Killian, almost pressing his body against his and pinning him into the tree even harder.

“It’s you,” he spat, eyes flicking over the profile features of Killian’s face, his hot breath condensing against his cheek. Walsh’s eyes lingered on the scar in Killian’s face and he curled his lips, disgusted. “You reek of human, a half breed mongrel who isn’t worthy to walk the earth, let alone touch her, and yet you are all over her, because wouldn’t you know it? You’re the mongrel she has been fucking!”

Walsh’s evil cackle filled the forest as realisation dawned on Killian. The story sounded familiar, it was something Liam had told him about once, but at the time he had neglected to see the relevance. Werewolf culture wasn’t something he had taken the time to follow as intimately as Liam had, only stopping to briefly learn a few of the rules required of all werewolves. Don’t tell humans. That was about all Killian knew, but Walsh’s tale had triggered his memory of past bedtime stories and he audibly sighed.

“Now he gets it,” Walsh crouched over, levelling his gaze with Killian’s. He tapped the point of the blade against Killian’s unscarred cheek and ran his tongue over his teeth as he twisted it and watched the blade cut into his flesh. “You’ve been fucking Emma Nolan. The heir of Misthaven.”

Killian wrenched his head sideways again and Walsh’s fiendish laugh rang out in his ears. The mere mention of Emma made his blood boil, Killian’s rage building up beyond his control and before he had time to reason with himself, he tried to lunge forward and grab at Walsh, but his arms remained pinned to the huge trunk of the tree. He yelped in pain, relaxing back into his helpless position whilst Walsh laughed at him.

“What? You don’t want a scar to match on this side?” He tapped the blade against Killian’s cheek again and Killian flinched away with a growl. “No? Pity. Chicks dig scars,” Walsh laughed, the maniacal sound disappearing as he looked down Killian’s body. “See, the problem is,” Walsh began, sliding the back of the blade deliberately down Killian’s chest until it caught on the curled hair over his pubic bone. “I don’t think you should be. Fucking her, I mean.”

Killian kicked out his leg, trying to bat Walsh’s away with a knee, but Walsh simply grinned at him and replaced the blade to Killian’s groin. The cold steel pressed against the underside of his flaccid penis, the skin of his scrotum shrinking a little more from the contact with the cold and Killian visibly gulped. Walsh’s face lit up a little, his grip on the scalpel blade tightening. “I don’t think you should be fucking anyone, mongrel,” Walsh spat with revulsion. “Maybe we can change a few things, here and there, you know, to reduce the risk of you siring any filthy half breed progeny.”

Walsh slid the blade sideways, slicing through the skin on Killian’s sack. Killian ground his jaw tighter, the sound of squeaking teeth filling his ears. There was a cool sensation between his legs that was quickly replaced by a sting and then hotness, the stream of blood that spurted out of a nicked vein spraying onto his inner thigh. Killian hissed through his teeth, pressing his thighs together and flopping his head back against the tree trunk as Walsh laughed harder.

“Maybe the boys and I can show Emma what she is missing and then who knows, she might get the taste for pureblood,” Walsh threatened, running his tongue over his teeth, pausing to tap the tip against the point of his canine.

“She’s not a piece of meat,” Killian growled through clenched teeth, turning his head to face Walsh in a challenge of dominance he could never win in his current predicament.

“Funny, isn’t it? Her an heiress and you a mongrel. A real Lady and the Tramp situation,” he taunted once more, returning to the table and discarding the used blade back with the other implements. “I’m bored of this one now,” Walsh said idly. The scalpel hit the table with a clatter and another grabbed Walsh’s attention, his eyes lighting up when he spied the two-pronged tips of his heretic’s fork. He picked it up, turning to face Killian once more, tapping his fingertip against the spiked tip to test its sharpness. “Now this is more like it.”

“Please…” Killian implored with a fresh wave of unbearable pain shooting through his scrotum. Letting his head hang limp once more, the sting in his shoulders turning to a numbness that was just as painful, he tried to push through the throbbing in his groin.

“Oh, don’t beg,” Walsh told him firmly, stabbing the harsh points into the soft flesh under Killian’s jaw. It forced him to lift his head and it was then that he realised he was fitted with a thin strap of a collar. Walsh passed it through the middle of the device and refastened it, settling the other pointed end of the four-pronged device onto the skin covering Killian’s sternum. Killian winced at the new sensation, the prongs digging into his skin and causing a burning sensation each time he moved his head or lowered it too much through fatigue. The prongs were so sharp that Killian feared if he fell unconscious again he would surely pierce his chin, and as he was chained to the tree he had no way of shifting to wolf form to heal faster.

“What do you want?” Killian gulped, his words changed by the angle of his neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple passing painfully over the prongs of the fork.

“I want Emma!” Walsh shouted out, his voice echoing through the trees. He was panting hard, his eyes wide with a crazed stare that had Killian a little bit apprehensive. Walsh was unhinged, clearly obsessed with Emma too, and when he grabbed Killian’s face between his long, dirty fingers, the fork dug into his neck a little more. “But you are the wolf she wants, and it’s vile!”

Killian stared into the void of Walsh’s eyes for a second, the soulless windows reflecting nothing back but hate. He kept his breathing calm, the muscles in his jaw ticking evidently as he rearranged his head so that the heretic’s fork spikes were as comfortable as they possibly could be. “Why don’t you unchain me so we can settle this like real wolves?” Killian tried but Walsh snorted.

“What, so you can give me another scar?” he mocked.

“Death doesn’t leave a scar,” Killian said darkly.

“You know what was wrong with you?” Walsh smirked boyishly, continuing when Killian didn’t respond with anything but an angry stare. “You were nothing. You had no ambition, Killian, and a man who wants nothing has no price.”

“I’m a wolf,” Killian snapped, his words almost a gruff bark.

“Of course you are,” Walsh said sarcastically, tracing the outline of the scar on his neck again. “And luckily for me,” Walsh pointed to his own chest and began to grin. “But not so much for you,” he pointed to Killian, eyes lighting up again with a crazy look. “I’ve found something that you want more than life itself,” Walsh sneered. “Maybe hurting Emma will inspire you.”

“Don’t you hurt her,” Killian growled.

“Maybe I’ll let you watch,” Walsh mused, ignoring Killian’s pleas. “Emma will come for you, because she loves you, for whatever reason, and she will find your crossbred mongrel carcass instead. Then, when she is crying over your corpse, I can really have some fun.”

Killian pulled against his chains, ignoring the jab of the heretic's fork as he clenched his jaw. “I swear,” Killian threatened, his voice low and dark. “If you touch one hair on her pelt…”

“You think I care about your idle threats?” Walsh ran his tongue over his bottom lip with a smirk, wagging a finger accusingly at Killian as he returned to the table. “I knew you would be a fighter,” Walsh told him over his shoulder, his voice changed to a more normal tone and the rage in his eyes barely there. Walsh was a psychotic, there was no doubt about it, and the calmness in his tone made Killian a little fearful. When he turned around again and Killian spied the cattle prod in his hands, his fear turn to sheer terror as he pulled against the restraint of the chain once more. “Let’s see how long you can fight off your change.”

The crackle of electricity and blue spark between the tip of the prod made Killian panic. He wasn’t scared of the shock, he could handle that part of torture, but if his body succumbed to his change, his bones would be ripped from their sockets and he would be stuck in his wolf form until he healed. All werewolves had the ability to heal faster when in their canine state, but if the body was shocked into a change, it would enter a sort of safe mode where it wouldn’t change back to human until it felt the danger had passed.

Luckily for Killian, unless Walsh decided to end his torture and kill him, he would heal. Unluckily for him, he would shift whilst chained to a tree and it would all but kill him anyway.

“Please, you don’t…” Killian tried to reason but his words were halted by the spasming clench of his jaw when Walsh jabbed the tip of the cattle prod into his ribcage. His ribs were still broken from the alleyway assault and they crunched in his torso as he twisted away from the source of his pain. Killian’s entire body went stiff, the current passing through every ion in his muscles and tensing them all at the same time. Killian’s head snapped back, his skull hitting the tree again with a painful grunt and his words disappeared, turning into a long, monotonous cry as he shook and fought off the inner wolf.

“Now what did I tell you about begging,” Walsh said with mock sweetness, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he shut off the device and Killian’s body went limp.

Killian sucked in a breath, gulping in air hurriedly and ignoring the sting of the heretic’s fork against the fleshy underside of his chin and the sharp stabbing in his balls. His body ached, the tingle of electricity still thrumming through his arms and legs, his lungs burning as they desperately tried to fill with oxygen. Being electrocuted didn’t just send Killian’s lungs into a spasm, reducing their efficiency, but it also sent a jolt of excruciating pain through his nervous system and every hair molecule that covered his skin shrunk and pulled tight over his bones.

“Is..that…” Killian panted quietly through gritted teeth, eyes fluttering closed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Walsh mocked, stepping closer to Killian and cupping a hand around his ear. “What did the mongrel say?”

A new rage fuelled Killian’s hatred for the wolf in front of him and he wished his could end his life right then and there, if not to protect himself from the inevitable torture that was about to come, but to protect Emma. If Walsh managed to get him to change, Emma wouldn’t be safe, but despite Killian’s fears for the she-wolf he loved, he wouldn’t give in without a fight. Even if it was verbal.

“I said,” Killian panted a little louder, peeling his eyes open to catch Walsh’s gaze once more. “Is that all you got?” he spat, dark eyes boring into Walsh with a challenge the Neverland beta was shocked to see.

Walsh was taken aback for a second before his lips spread into another evil smile. “I know what you are doing,” he told Killian firmly, teasing the end of the electrical stick over his flesh without turning it on. Killian flinched away instinctively and Walsh stifled a laugh. “And know this, half breed,” he spat out the term against Killian’s face, the spray of his spittle landing on Killian’s cheek. “I’m in charge here!” He roared, igniting the electrical spark at the end of the pole once more and stabbing it into Killian’s pectoral muscles.

Killian began to cry out once more, but the current tore through his muscles and made every fibre contract again. Killian’s back arched off the tree trunk and he shook, the chain holding him still rattling when it slackened behind the tree. Walsh didn’t let up for a while longer this time, making sure Killian was almost out of breath, red faced and the smallest dribble of foaming spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth before he pulled the pole from his body again. Killian went limp again and the heretic's fork stabbed through his chin, the taste of blood invading his mouth mixed with the copper tang of rust that coated the medieval tool.

“Make no mistake,” Walsh threatened, turning on the current again and stabbing the cattle prod into Killian’s thigh. “I’m in control of you and your change,” he snarled, his face lighting up when Killian’s eyes rolled back in his head and it shook violently from side to side, his lips turning blue from lack of oxygen and the heretic's fork tearing even further into the flesh of his sternum.

Killian couldn’t hear Walsh’s voice, only the high pitched buzz of tinnitus that rang out in his ears and accompanied the crackle of electricity that surged through his body. Every muscle burned, stretched to their absolute limit, and the vicious movement of Killian’s body against the tree tore chunks of flesh from his back and shoulders. He pulled against his restraints, sure his shoulders were going to pop from their sockets and feared the huge, cast iron links that bound him would tear off his hands.

Finally he felt relief when Walsh stopped electrocuting him, the tingle in his limbs turning into a dead weight and his body sagging. The wetness of blood coated Killian’s back and ran down over his legs, pooling slowly at his feet. Bruises appeared at the sight of every electrical intrusion and his chest heaved, breath catching dryly in his throat, lips cracked and head lolling forward only to spring back when the heretic's fork stabbed further into the flesh of his jaw.

“You are resilient,” Walsh observed, almost impressed. “I’ve known purebred werewolves to have changed by now.”

“Must be my human side,” Killian snapped, his muscles twitching with aftershocks and thick, dark red blood dripping from his chin as he spat out a mouthful of the copper tainted liquid.

Walsh made a noise in his throat and then his gaze flicked down to the black, plastic coated pole his hand. Killian followed his eyes as best he could and noticed that the cattle prod came with a current setting and that it was currently on the lowest it could be. With a devilish grin, Walsh cranked it up to the maximum setting, a low buzz from the charge of electricity filling Killian’s ears.

“Let’s get rid of that then, shall we?” Walsh grinned. He flicked the switch and the lightning shaped blue light jumped between the two contacts at the end of the stick, the charge sizzling audibly. Before he had time to jab him again, Killian called out, the scent of Graham and Emma invading his nostrils from over Walsh’s shoulder. He peered into the thick forest behind Walsh and noticed the huge man beside his love, downwind and hidden from his attacker, a long finger pressed to pursed lips as they stalked their prey.

“Wait!” Killian stalled and Walsh froze. “You’re right,” he said flatly. “I don’t deserve Emma. If you let me go, you win. She’s yours.” The words felt foreign on his tongue, dirty, almost like he was giving up and Walsh cocked his head to the side as he regarded Killian’s sudden change of heart. Killian tried to ignore the sting of pain in his chest, the burn site of the previous electrocution having left its mark like a brand against his skin, hoping that Walsh wouldn’t turn around and smell his saviors.

“Just like that?” Walsh narrowed his eyes.

“Just like that,” Killian agreed. “I’ll leave town and never return.”

Walsh dropped his arm by his side, the sizzle of the cattle prod fading away as he turned it off. He rubbed his chin, the daily sprout of his stubble like velcro under his fingertips. “See, here is my problem,” Walsh told Killian honestly, stepping closer and reigniting the cattle prod. It was inches from Killian’s face, the blue spark lighting up his eyes. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore his body’s inner wolf fighting with him to come out and tear Walsh’s throat out. “You’re lying,” Walsh told him darkly. “I know you’re lying because your lips are moving.”

“I’m not,” Killian blurted, making his voice sound more desperate as he caught sight of Graham circling around behind Walsh.

“You must think I have a terrible memory,” Walsh said slowly, inspecting the tip of the cattle prod and watching the spark jump between the contacts with a morbid fascination. Killian looked confused and his expression just made Walsh revel in his power, even more, tilting his head sideways and running his fingers over the fleshy bump of his neck scar. Killian’s face paled. “I knew you’d remember too,” Walsh spat. “This is about you, and what you did to me. I don’t want Emma, although a taste wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Stay away from her,” Killian warned helplessly.

“Or what?” Walsh ground out. “You are hardly in a position to stop me.”

“Maybe not,” Killian growled. “But she has people. You’ll be sorry.”

Walsh took a small step back and inhaled deeply. “No, Killian, I think you’re the one who will be sorry.”

There was a split second before the charged rod hit his skin that Killian remembered seeing Graham emerge from the leafy shadows but after he was electrocuted at maximum voltage, he could no longer contain the wolf inside of him. Every nerve ending was stuck between pain and never ending tension, the blue spark of electricity licking at the skin covering his ribs just long enough before Graham reached Walsh that his body responded in the worst possible way. Killian’s cries mixed with a harrowing howl as he shifted, joints popping from their sockets and unable to fully find their place in his canine form because of the chain holding his arms apart.

He grew into his wolf form quickly and the heretics fork strap snapped almost instantly, falling to the forest floor, silently forgotten. The jut of Killian’s barrelled ribs made his back arch and his hind legs kicked out into the space in front of him as he struggled against the chain. His cries were pure anguish, his jaws snapping at nothing, desperately gnawing at his own fur as he fought to be free.

“Killian!” Emma screamed, rushing between Graham and Walsh as they fought over the cattle prod, both careful to avoid touching the live end. She raced over to the tree, horrified by what she saw, a huge black mess of fur and twisted limbs yowling in pain, begging her with his eyes for some sort of help. Emma searched around the tree, finding the padlock behind the huge trunk and pulling at it helplessly.

“Here!” Ruby called, rushing over as best she could with a pair of bolt cutters she had sourced from Walsh’s torture table. “Use these!”

Emma grabbed the long handled tools from her human companion and went to work on the chain, cutting through all three layers that wrapped themselves around Killian’s previously human wrists. Seeing him in such an unnatural state was scary, the adrenaline rushing through her body as he finally fell into a heap at the base of the tree and silence filled the clearing. Emma threw the bolt cutters aside and ran around the tree, ignoring the fleeing Walsh as he tore past her in wolf form and scurried from the woods.

“That bastard,” Graham ground out, turning off the cattle prod and then snapping the device over his knee. “He changed to get away faster. That coward!”

“Is he okay?” Ruby worried, throwing the bag off her shoulder and sinking down onto her knees next to Emma. Graham noticed the two women and joined them, helping to free Killian from the chain. “Why would he do this?”

“Killian?” Emma soothed, ignoring both of them. Killian cast her a sideways glance, his eyes watery and pupils blown. In a more natural position he tucked his legs under himself, trying to make himself smaller, and his tail tucked itself between his legs as he whimpered like a puppy. “It’s me,” Emma told him softly, reaching out and stroking her hand through the fur on the back of his neck. He flinched, kicking out some leaves and tensing which made him yelp out in pain.

“Easy, Killian,” Ruby added softly, pulling the plunger on a syringe. The needle end was stuck into a small vial of clear liquid and she was focused on the amount filling the syringe.

“What’s that?” Emma whispered.

“Ketamine,” Ruby told her in a business like voice. “For his pain.”

Emma watched Ruby lift Killian’s foreleg gently, the movement making him howl in pain. “I’m sorry,” Ruby soothed in a shaking voice, her own emotion getting the better of her. Her hands were steady as she found Killian’s vein, pressing her thumb into his leg to make it bulge through his fur. Once she was content she had found it, she slipped the needle through the coarse, black fur and into the skin, pulling the plunger until she could see blood in the drug, swirling through the clear, thick liquid like smoke. “This will make you feel better, I promise.” Ruby injected the entire syringe into Killian’s leg and he let out a groan.

“How long before it works?” Emma asked her quickly, eager to get Killian out of the forest. Emma rested her hand to Killian’s ribcage, feeling the beat of his heart under her fingertips slow to a steady, more normal rhythm. If only they had arrived earlier. If only they could have stopped this whole situation from happening.

“A few minutes,” Ruby told her honestly. She lifted Killian’s eyelids and watched his pupils grow even bigger as the drug took effect. “Where are you going to take him? Walsh already knows where Killian lives. You can’t go back there.”

“Ruby’s right,” Graham said sadly. “How about Liam’s place? He’s out of town anyway.”

“That’s right!” Ruby agreed excitedly. “His brother’s loft is empty.”

Killian exhaled hard and one leg twitched, almost as if he was asleep and Emma lifted a leg to test his pain threshold. He didn’t cry out this time, so she got to her feet and with the help of Graham, lifted him into her arms.

“Take me there,” Emma demanded quickly, striding past them with Killian in her arms and fury for Walsh in her soul.

#cssns #cs fic #cs au #cs werewolf au #cssns fanfic #Alii dimidium Lunam #the other half of the moon #killian jones #emma swan #wolves of misthaven #artistic-writer #whump #tw: torture #tw: scapels #tw: bound with rope #tw: electrocution

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rosesjustdie · 4 years

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🥂 yo doc, anything you can think of we haven't done?

NSFW TW, Gore TW

🥂 for NEVER HAVE I EVER.

It really is a childish game, Never Have I Ever, and yet when it comes to some of her coworkers one that Ivy actually really enjoyed to play. It was far too easy to stitch some of them up and others that she knew far too well. Smirking at Fletcher she leaned back in her chair as though it were nothing. “Okay. Never Have I Ever gone down on a woman after she held a scapel to my body and threatened to cut out my liver and feed it to me for annoying her.”

#&& drunk on something stronger than the drinks in the bar (ivy answers)

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scarletgardensrpg · 4 years

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LIVING ♦ THIRTY-FIVE ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

KAZIMIR WOJCZIK is the Prime Minister’s current Senior Advisor, referred to by most as simply “Doctor” for his rehabilitation practices, which have raised the House of Eden a formidable army of Undead soldiers, many of whom he personally recruits and trains. As a high-ranking member of the House, Kazimir holds the rare privilege of traveling in and out of Amsterdam on recruitment missions, accompanied by House Resurrectors Julian and Neeve.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: corpses, scapels/needles, implied child abuse, implied suicide

Come here, Lady Wojczikowa said, and waited until her apprentice finally crept closer to her. She put her hand to the small of the young boy's back, perhaps so Kazimir would not move away again. Look, mój drogi, do you see? Unwillingly, Kazimir slid his gaze to the table before them, to what—who—lay upon it. Today, it was a girl, no older than Kazimir himself. Earlier, he'd heard snippets of conversation upstairs, exchanged in murmurs between Lady Wojczikowa and the girl's family. Wolves. Torn to pieces. Nothing salvageable. In the dim, sickly glow of the basement lights, Kazimir had to agree. Lady Wojczikowa, who often studied him while he studied the corpses, made a sound of disapproval. Nie bądź niegrzeczny, she snapped, and Kazimir flinched, half-ashamed and half-afraid. The dead were once just like us. And in time, we all become just like the dead. Now hand me the scapel.

- ❀ -

His keeper, the Lady Wojczikowa, was a skilled mortician and known wariatka; the sort of pale-faced, cadaverous creature one might find dancing barefoot by the Solokiya, or singing nonsensically to the dead, or robbing cradles like a mad witch of night. It was said that Kazimir, her apprentice-son, was one such case—though from which cradle he was taken, not one person in their village could say. He resembled nothing and no one, all milky white skin and almond eyes, but looked as all children of winter did in other ways: too thin, too rough, bearing the sharp, beady features of someone perpetually braced against impact. His keep—two meals a day, a bed in the attic, and one hundred złotys a week—was earned by working with his mother. Sometimes the bodies they carried in were elderly; those who had passed on in their sleep, or found their bodies succumbing at last to a lifetime of cigarettes and bone-aching cold. Other times, it was the battered bodies of wives and daughters, every bruise a violent, haunting sorrow. Worst of all was when it was children: stillborns, urchins who never stood a chance, orphans left to fend again disease and starvation in a village rife with both. Kazimir, under his mother's careful instruction, had become adept in all arts of embalment by sixteen, but could not often separate himself from the very bodies he cut and cleaned, drained and painted with cosmetics. When Lady Wojczikowa showed him how to push a needle in, Kazimir felt the bite of metal under his own skin. Carotid, axillary, brachial, he rehearsed, though he already knew anatomy like intimate clockwork. Femoral, ulnar, radial, tibial.

In youth, Kazimir had been ugly and strange—a knobby, underfed thing with a crow's scavenger gaze and the unsettingly tendency to linger in doorways like a child phantom. But in burgeoning adulthood, he grew into a strong jaw, ebony hair, deep red lips: and in possessing such a harrowing, odd strain of beauty, instilled more fear than love in those who found him desireable. Eventually, Lady Wojczikowa, who so adored the dead it bordered on lunacy, died herself: her waifish body carried down by the icy currents of the Solokiya, a pair of wooden shoes left by the riverbank. No note, no will, no body. It was as if she'd never existed at all. When Kazimir left for school, it was with the intention of never returning. And yet, at Oxford, he had stuck out like a smudge of dark in a kingdom of light: for whatever life it was that so afflicted his university classmates, in all their expensive suits and watches, their ten-year plans and generational wealth and material fantasies, it could not have possibly afflicted Kazimir. He, who shared his house with the dead, who knew exactly what it felt like to cut a human open at his navel, who could think of nothing else when it got late enough: no, he suffered a different sickness. So when the rotbeesten arrived, legions of them cutting a scarlet path westward, and the world descended into madness, Kazimir felt nothing more than a sense of quiet wash over him. A sense that, madness be damned, something made sense at last. The dead, who seemed to terrify all, felt like kin to him instead. Were they so different from the hundreds of bodies he'd bathed and cared for? Had he not brushed their hair, arranged blooms in their caskets, studied them for stretches of hours in a basement in southern Poland? Were they not, in fact, old friends come to say hello once more?

Eventually, though he would not have preferred it, they found him in Warsaw. Agostina, tight-lipped and wan, asking in broken Polish: Thalia mówi że możesz je wyleczyć? Kazimir shrugging: Thalia says a lot of bullshit. Oni mnie lubią. And Nikolaas, handing him the vial of crushed blood lilies, which gleamed like powerdered rubies in the light. Apocalypse had originated from this vial, Kazimir knew. Barberini, van Houten, even little Yamaguchi: blood was smeared on the hands of all three of them. Now, if he agreed, it would be four. Do your best, Doctor, Nikolaas said into the silence. The creature is downstairs. All the world hangs onto your efforts. We certainly do. It was a cheap attempt at flattery, Kazimir thought, but it might've also been true. The dead liked him. Maybe because he smelled a little like them, sweet and chemical and heavy; or maybe because he had always harbored a little death within himself—that dark spark, which spoke of an empyrean wilderness Lady Wojczikowa must have sowed in him. He was a ponury żniwiarz: a harbinger of death as much as a decorator of it. The creature—it—she said her name was Kisara, Agostina said suddenly, and almost sounded sorry. Kazimir pocketed the vial. Take me to Kisara, then, he said.

CONNECTIONS

SASHA – THE GIRL FROM THE MOUNTAIN. She had come to him in a blaze of light: clear-eyed, sun-skinned, the corner of her pretty mouth pulled permanently into a smirk. Вийди з мого погляду, she'd tease, knowing he couldn't understand her, and shove him hard enough against the Carpathian rock that he'd push away from it with scraped hands. He'd never met anyone so alive. The Solokiya, before it became the place of Lady Wojczikowa's death, was first where Kazimir met her: she, who spoke a different language from him, who refused to give her name, who mocked him endlessly by laughter and touch alone. The river which divided Poland from Ukraine also divided them; so that he only ever saw her once, twice—every occasion something rare and to be treasured. He would carry the sound of her voice in his heart for years after: two children deep in the woods, making baleful faces at one another, too young to act bashful and too stupid to understand it was love. Kazimir never imagined meeting Sasha again, and sometimes, he wishes he hadn't at all. She has grown into unspeakable beauty—but every searching look she sends his way pierces him. For all her prowess and strength, he can sense the ribbon of sorrow that runs through her. Where once she tore through forests with him in ferocious joy, she now only floats, a rootless phantom. Julian may have pulled her from the ice and given her a new life, but Kazimir knows just how much was left behind: a language, a name, a warmth.

AGOSTINA, NIKOLAAS, & THALIA – FOUR HORSEMEN. The problem with power is, always, that it corrupts. And here were three figures drenched in it, endless and obscene: a politician seated at the apex of her pyramid, a manic doctor gone to raise new hell, and an heiress to crime whose beguiling face concealed something far uglier deep down. Kazimir understands why he has earned a place among these creators and destroyers of history: a gift for fishing the needle of humanity out from the frozen waters of every soul they've brought before him. And yet, he cannot share in any other piece of their ambitions and obsessions—for they play war games and chase divinity, spilling whoever's blood they need to in the red streets of Amsterdam. Kazimir does not. Nonetheless, he will raise them their army, even as he does not crave the way they do. Call it misplaced loyalty, call it sadistic spectating, call his willingness to indulge in their nightmares a bad habit picked up from a lifetime spent listening to the instruction of a madwoman—even Kazimir himself doesn't know what to diagnose his passivity. All the same, he knows the four of them will remain tied to one another no matter their paths, as all gods of the same pantheon are forced to exist within the same mythology.

JULIAN & NEEVE – HEAVEN AND HELL. To attain salvation, one would need to go through either he or them. This is law. More often than not, the Undead are treated by him, clinically delivered closer and closer to consciousness with every dose of PM-GRNT 197 injected into their bloodstream—but those who display, ah, potential may be offered a second path. Hellish Buchanan and ethereal Bishop: they are the twin overseers of life and death who accompany Kazimir wherever Agostina sends him, burdened with the rarest and most terrible gift of all. Resurrection. The Hague, the ruins of Eastern Europe and Central Asia, islands and mountains, even the occasional gala event Kazimir finds himself forced to attend, all protestations ignored: Julian and Neeve have acted as his second and third shadow through it all, steadfast as Death itself. He would find the constant company annoying, if they weren't so entertaining to observe—one with a heart steeped in ten feet of ice, the other chipping away at it with excrutiating precision. Maybe he's a little fond of them. He tries his best not to show it.

OPEN ♦ FC: QI JUNKAI

#kazimir #l #o #house #all #lsrpg #lsrp #new rp #bio rp #horror rp

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