KHR! | D.Spade/Chrome; "The Machine"- R
Title: The Machine
Fandom: KHR!
Characters: Chrome Dokuro and Daemon Spade
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Notes: Violence and possibly disturbing imagery. Slight gore.
The Machine
He liked to watch her suffer.
A simple flex of his powers, a slip of the illusions that held her together and she would crumple to the floor, gasping and shuddering as her body shattered from the inside out. The skin of her stomach would sink against her butterfly-bone ribs, thin little veins stark against her pale skin as the blood rushed from it. Her face would be white, but the blood that bubbled from her lips was a crimson stain, morbid rouge he felt matched her half-life existence perfectly.
She always cried. Desperate little tears seeping out from beneath her lids that were squeezed shut. She would fight, struggle, her mouth red and gasping while her chest trembled, all just to breathe. He’d watch as she sobbed, hiccups making the blood catch in her throat, choking her while her fingers sought purchase on the hardwood floor.
“Just say it, cute little Chrome,” he would encourage, “Ask for my help. I want to.”
It took all her effort, he knew, for her to give him that one slight shake, to bite her lip and to bear it against her instincts screaming for relief.
“It’s a simple word,” he urged, “Just say ‘please’.”
She never said it. It was always a mantra of “Mukuro-sama,” over and over, that same little prayer that was too similar yet so different from the pleas he had heard countless times from his years in the painfully Catholic Italy. A lost soul crying out for a god that simply wasn’t listening.
He gave her a bit of her kidney, a section of liver and lung, making the wrinkles in her forehead lessen. Until he snatched them back and she writhed and screamed.
And she would know that she belonged to him.
Fandom: KHR!
Characters: Chrome Dokuro and Daemon Spade
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Notes: Violence and possibly disturbing imagery. Slight gore.
The Machine
He liked to watch her suffer.
A simple flex of his powers, a slip of the illusions that held her together and she would crumple to the floor, gasping and shuddering as her body shattered from the inside out. The skin of her stomach would sink against her butterfly-bone ribs, thin little veins stark against her pale skin as the blood rushed from it. Her face would be white, but the blood that bubbled from her lips was a crimson stain, morbid rouge he felt matched her half-life existence perfectly.
She always cried. Desperate little tears seeping out from beneath her lids that were squeezed shut. She would fight, struggle, her mouth red and gasping while her chest trembled, all just to breathe. He’d watch as she sobbed, hiccups making the blood catch in her throat, choking her while her fingers sought purchase on the hardwood floor.
“Just say it, cute little Chrome,” he would encourage, “Ask for my help. I want to.”
It took all her effort, he knew, for her to give him that one slight shake, to bite her lip and to bear it against her instincts screaming for relief.
“It’s a simple word,” he urged, “Just say ‘please’.”
She never said it. It was always a mantra of “Mukuro-sama,” over and over, that same little prayer that was too similar yet so different from the pleas he had heard countless times from his years in the painfully Catholic Italy. A lost soul crying out for a god that simply wasn’t listening.
He gave her a bit of her kidney, a section of liver and lung, making the wrinkles in her forehead lessen. Until he snatched them back and she writhed and screamed.
And she would know that she belonged to him.