Chapter Text
His face is bitter and indifferent above you, hiding all the smugness with a practiced ease, even now not letting on how much he’s going to enjoy this as he studies your body. Your arms and legs are both shackled far apart, exposing your naked body completely, slumped against the wall you’ve spent the better part of this time in hell chained to. You’ve long lost the strength to resist him like you used to. You simply don’t have the energy.
You’re gaunt and thin and wasting away slowly. He’s been skimping more and more on your meals. At first it was punishment for your continued willfulness, and it started to sink in and you learned obedience, complacency. But the past few weeks it seems like he’s been growing more tired of you, more bored. Not even hurting you brings him satisfaction like it used to. Your waking periods have grown less lucid, even the nightmares of sleeping with no sopor just blur into the nights. It’s pitiful how little they really bother you now.
He towers over you, standing, complete in his standard high-class, frivolous seadweller apparel, one of his nice suits, overdressed down to his boots. You recognize them as the ones he’s very fond of using to kick you around. You hear a small sound of concern from the other side of the room and through the blur and haze you see your moirail chained not dissimilarly on the other wall. Kindra had taken to separating the two of you more and more, and you can’t seem to recall the last time you were able to even speak with her normally, console her, do your duty as moirail. Everything was becoming one long, harrowing blur. You couldn’t see the scalpel he held calmly at his side that was making Pitche whimper.
As you struggle to focus your eyes and even see her clearly, you’re snapped back to your body when Kindra kneels down to your level and touches your inert, exposed bulge with his large, cold hand. A dazed, surprised chill courses through you. The sensation that something was wrong only grew more pressing as he unfastened the high-tech ring he’d implanted around your bulge and it was removed carefully and properly.
You try to speak, to utter any sound, but your throat is coarse, your tongue dry, and you can’t even form a proper sentence in your head. Your bulge is freed, though still barely able to wriggle around of its own accord due to the weakness and abuse it’s endured. Betraying you, the heavy load of genetic material backed up for weeks, past the point of discomfort and pain, starts to make its way through you -- you cringe as a small string of it oozes right on out of your bulge. You bite your lip and screw your eyes shut to hide the flush on your face. The feeling of relief, so wrong at this moment, is utterly humiliating, and you know exactly how much that precise action sickens Kindra. The dread knots you up inside, and you feel your pusher up in your protein chute. You don’t need to see the abhorrence in his eyes to feel it permeating your whole being. You’ve never felt more naked and exposed.
He grabs your bulge, much too firmly, squeezing the base and the whine that escapes you is pathetic. You see glint of metal as he brandishes the scalpel and fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s serious. His condescending sneer cuts you deep, making you feel even more exposed and you manage to tug at your shackles, only managing a quiet rattle. The adrenaline pounds through you as the icy metal touches your most sensitive flesh. You hear Pitche start to beg but it sounds faraway, detached, echoing. You twitch and try to shrink away from him, to do absolutely anything to escape what you know is coming. He grins.
“I’m going to relish every moment of this, gutterblood. Your body disgusts me. Every filthy fluid that comes out of it. Your shit blood. Your repulsive slurry. I’m finished with you mocking me with your deluge of it every time I extend the graciousness of removing your ring. You’re lucky I even kept you this long. It’s been longer than any of the others, easily.”
The blade cuts deep into the thick stem of your bulge and you find your voice, a wild shriek of agony tearing free as bronze blood spurts out in arcs, staining Kindra’s clothing and streaking his face.
His hand yanks down the rest of your length as it attempts to thrash wildly, weakly, like a finbeast desperate to return to water, and with a firm movement he flays you through, bisecting the whole of your most tender flesh.
Blood pours out in obscene quantity, pressurized from the returning circulation, and the twitching and firing of random nerves only last a few minutes. It pools all around and beneath you, drips down the rest of your body.
You howl until your throat is raw, bucking and twisting with everything left of your strength.
You bleed and bleed and bleed until you’re dizzy from more than just screaming your lungs out, and tears blur your vision even more. You don’t even notice what Kindra’s preparing for when he calculatingly pokes the scalpel in the middle of your chest.
This time he’s slower, agonizing, slicing you open down the rest of your stomach, spilling blood and viscera as you writhe and sob. You know this is the end now. You can feel the weight on your head as air stops reaching your brain, as your gasps grow ragged and desperate.
The excruciating pain consumes all of your senses, and you see nothing but haze as Kindra yanks your head up by your greasy hair and buries the blade into your throat, dragging it deep across your neck, severing your airflow. Hot blinding colors spark across your vision before the blackness grows heavier, heavier, dragging everything down, and with a gurgle and sputter of blood through your windpipe, you slip into the nothingness.
--
You still sob, crying out in protest, pleading, pleading for him to stop. You couldn’t have looked away from the gruesome scene even if you wanted to. You can’t believe things had to turn out this way. Gog, she can’t be gone. This has to be one of your daymares again. She can’t be gone... Everything is swirling with bronze and the air is heavy with the smell of blood, too strong and pervasive to be even your most vivid daymare. Fuck, you might be sick...
Kindra stands up slowly, once her body stops twitching. His nice suit is completely splattered with the dark blood. His expression slowly morphs from one of twisted pleasure, to relief. He almost looks peaceful and it’s horrifying. In all your long two-months’ stay, he’d never displayed this kind of bloodlust, despite everything. And she’d been behaving better than ever... Why did he...?
Your breath hikes and you lock up completely as he turns, and strides to you, with a calm, deliberate expression. He extends out a hand as he approaches, slick with her blood. He kneels again, down to your level, with far too much grace, and shooshes you with sickeningly believable sincerity, a bloody finger pressing to your lips.
“You knew I killed her, didn’t you, Kyreph?
Is that why you hurt me, so many sweeps ago?
I only wanted to be the one to comfort you.
You don’t need a shitblood to keep you safe.
You don’t need her.
You only need me.
She can’t do a thing to comfort you now, can she?
Only I can.
You hurt me, you know. You wounded and scarred me. Left me imperfect.
And I still want to be the one to comfort you.
Isn’t that kind of me, Kyreph?”