#the hammer being flattened from grinding against the ground forever

[godaweful]

jesus christ matthew how do you always bring the most horrifying things to aeor what the fuck

[lucytara]

bumbleby ficlet: but i know you feel right (so i’m coming)

They’re twenty when Blake breaks up with her; they’re twenty-one when Blake comes back. And, well, Yang’s method of dealing with that isn’t really conventional, even if it works. 

If you keep fucking me like this, Blake says, I won’t run away again, because I won’t even be able to walk. 

[prompt from @odinsreach​: yang fucks blake so good she’ll never want to run away again. 4.3k words. rated e. wlw this porn is for u. title from pussy is god by king princess.]

Blake breaks up with her when they’re twenty.

They’ve been together for a year and a half. It’s sudden and unexpected, or it would be if Yang didn’t know about her past, her ghosts, her graveyards. Blake’s had enough bad shit happen to her to fill a black voodoo shop, imbue her with her own sense of dark magic. It’s like it follows her around - or it did, until she met Yang.

They fall hard and slow. The latter part is the problem, because by the time they both realize it, they’re in far too deep to do anything about it. Blake’s fight or flight instincts neutralize themselves whenever she’s in Yang’s arms, keep her steady, keep her grounded; likewise, Yang finds a purpose in her, finds an adventure, finds a home. All Yang’s ever wanted is to be important to somebody, she confesses drunkenly one night, and Blake wraps her up and presses kisses from her forehead to her lips.

They just make sense together. That’s what everyone says.

But Blake’s ex isn’t a ghost. He’s human, flesh and blood and living, and he creeps around the edges of her life like bloody handprint on the wall. And abusers never stop being abusers; their victims can only learn to heal.

Which is what Blake’s trying to do, what she’s been doing, but it isn’t far enough along by the time he finds her again, and she still believes his voice.

Yang puts together a few things the day after Blake dumps her: one, that Adam’s there, and every promise he makes is going to sound plausible to Blake, going to shoot through her heart like a spear, going to sever any connection between logic and emotion. And two, that whatever he’s promised, he’s promised to hurt Yang.

“I’m always afraid,” Blake says to her once, early on and quiet. “I’m afraid he’s going to find me, find me with you, and he’ll - he’ll kill you. Yang, he’ll kill you.”

“No, he won’t,” Yang tells her soothingly, sweeps her fingers through Blake’s bangs and down her cheekbone. “Nothing’s going to take me away from you, okay? Nothing.”

And, well - she’s almost right.

Nothing takes her away from Blake, except Blake herself.

--

They go to the same college. It’s not like they can avoid each other.

Blake’s gone briefly, but when she returns, it’s like she’s become the ghost.

She makes herself so small, so sparse. She can’t look at Yang without wanting to run to her and cry, and so she doesn’t, instead sticking by the side of a boy named Sun that Yang can’t bring herself to hate, even though she wishes she could. They don’t share classes. They don’t even live in the same dorms. It’s so easy for Blake to disappear.

Every day is uphill, against wind, fighting gravity. She and Blake accidentally bump into each other in the library and the way Blake gasps and bites her lip tells Yang everything she can’t ask. The circles under her eyes are dark and the gold of her irises seems dull, deadened.

“Baby,” Yang says, aching to hold her, and a tear slips down Blake’s cheek as she turns and walks away. Yang only spreads and clenches her fingers, thinking about how much she used to carry with them.

--

It’s all so clichéd and tragically romantic - Blake shows up in the rain, crying, nothing but apologies and broken pieces - and Yang drags her inside, kisses her against the back of the closed door, keeps the heat trapped in and dredges it back up between them.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, hiccups breaking her words. She’s torn herself apart. “I’m sorry I was so afraid. I’m sorry I ran away.”

“I know,” Yang says, cupping her face in her hands, thumbing her tears away. “I know.”

“I love you,” Blake says, clinging to her desperately. “I love you so much. You’re the only good thing I’ve ever had.”

“Shh, baby,” Yang murmurs, feels her heart and all of its messily repaired pieces throbbing in her chest, almost like it’s breaking again. “I know.”

--

Yang’s been careful with her since she came back. Not because she’s afraid of edges, of shattering, but because she can only think of love. She touches Blake tenderly, thoughtfully, doesn’t reopen old wounds, doesn’t press against her scars. She languishes in Blake, lets her revel in the attention, and accepts it when Blake gives it back.

For about a month.

They’re living in an apartment now, and the bedroom belongs to them, the decoration complementary and cooperative. But it still haunts her, you know. The six months she spent living in-between, the before and the after. Seeing Blake with Sun, despite her insistence that nothing had really happened. Seeing Blake around campus, tired and gaunt and fleeing the opposite direction. Seeing Blake at all and being able to do nothing.

Before they broke up, they’d toe some lines. Blake doesn’t need aggression, but there’s a ferocity and a passion that excites her, drives her. She doesn’t always mind losing control as long as she feels it’s worth it. Yang thinks about those lines, thinks about breaking them clean in half. It’s not enough.

I’m yours, Blake used to tell her. I’m yours forever, I swear.

Yang thinks of making her remember that.

She’s sitting on the couch when Blake gets home from her night class, pretending to watch something on the television. Her gaze darts to Blake immediately, focuses in on how good she looks, how beautiful she is - her bones fit so comfortably underneath her skin - she’s so small, so lithe and lean--

“You okay?” Blake says, dropping her bag on the entryway table. She eyes Yang somewhat carefully. “You’re looking at me like - kind of weird.”

Her hands are free, her hair’s flowing down her spine, the top two buttons of her blouse are undone and her collarbone peeks out. Yang stands up, takes casual, lingering steps towards her. Blake doesn’t move, doesn’t meet her halfway; she only waits, hinging on puzzlement.

She has the prettiest mouth, Yang thinks as she captures it with her own, kissing her. Her fingers are long; she has a tongue that knows what it’s doing and does it automatically. Blake fists Yang’s shirt in her hands, kisses her back, craving the affection. Yang’s about to give her a lot more than that.

Their next kiss is slower, deeper, sensual and intentioned; Yang strokes her tongue through Blake’s mouth, wraps her fingers in Blake’s hair, curls her other arm low around Blake’s waist. It’s claiming her and giving her room to move away, but she only wants closer, breath taking longer to catch itself.

“This is all shit we’ve done before,” Yang says, unbuttons her jeans, starts rolling them down Blake’s hips. “It’s all like before. But I want to know.”

“Know what?” Blake pants, struggling for every letter.

“That you won’t run away again.” She sucks Blake’s bottom lip into her mouth, digs in with her teeth; Blake catches on a moan in her throat. It pops back out, red and swollen. Yang works her hand underneath Blake’s underwear, finds her warm and wet, and murmurs, “So I’m going to fuck you so well that the thought won’t ever even cross your mind.”

Blake stares, stares, stares; Yang can feel the minute she processes because her fingers are soaked, like Blake’s just cum from her words alone. The golden ring of her irises lose themselves to blackness of her pupils. Her jeans are still stuck low on her hips, but she hurriedly helps kick them down and off, Yang refusing to move her hand, other still resting against the wood. She only watches Blake struggle with an almost detached, feral gleam in her eye, and Blake’s never felt both so safe and so thrilled by the potential of danger before.

And then Yang slips two fingers straight into her; Blake automatically gasps, tries to spread her legs, tugs Yang so closely against her that she uses Yang’s body to trap hers against the door, holding herself up, but--

Her lips part, eyes shooting up to Yang’s when she catalogues the foreign presence of something thick underneath her sweatpants. “Oh, fuck,” she says, and Yang harshly curls her fingers. “Fuck. You - when did you - fuck, fuck--”

The idea seems to get to her more than anything else; she clenches around Yang’s fingers, unable to stop herself. “Last weekend,” Yang says nonchalantly, pushes her fingers deeper. “I was waiting for the right time.”

“Oh, fuck,” Blake says again, hoarse and dried out; Yang’s palm settles over her clit, and Blake grinds against her. Yang lets her put in most of the effort, work herself up - she knows Blake’s mind is probably miles ahead, already fantasizing about what Yang’s wearing underneath her sweats - and just when she feels Blake getting close, feels her hips jerking, the tightness around her fingers, she drops to her knees, tugging Blake’s underwear down and swiping her tongue up. Blake gasps, fingers knotting in Yang’s hair, one leg automatically hooking around her back as she presses herself closer.

Yang doesn’t focus on her clit at first, too wrapped up in the taste of cum in her mouth - Blake’s always so sweet, slightly tangy, and Yang forces her tongue to the source, slips it just inside of her and out before she closes her mouth around Blake’s clit and sucks - Blake’s head knocks back against the door, her mouth falling open, and Yang scrapes it lightly with her teeth, flattens her tongue, repeats, repeats--

Blake cums quickly against her, too quickly - Yang thinks she moans, but it’s hard to hear over the sound of her own blood, her heart hammering in her stomach - she stands steadily, wipes the back of her hand over her chin, catches Blake’s jaw and kisses her roughly - Blake’s grip on her shirt returns, much less powerful--

Yang takes Blake’s hand in hers, brings it to her pelvis, lets her start at the base of what’s underneath and run it down until she catalogues the length. Blake lets out a noise somewhere between a whine and a gasp, crumbling. Yang says lowly, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Blake can’t breathe, speak, think; she nods her head the barest amount, pupils now a void her irises are lost to. Her throat works without sound. Yang smiles almost cruelly. “Okay.”

They manage to get to their bedroom - Blake’s not sure how; she’s convinced she’s so turned on she’s already blacking out, in rebellion of her shamelessness, her desperation - Yang backs her up against the bed, turns her around until she’s facing it - like staring the scene of her own future destruction, unbecoming - and starts unbuttoning the rest of her blouse from behind. It’s torturously methodical, and with every inch of skin revealed, the tension rises like an ocean tide. Yang slides it off of her arms, lets it fall to the floor, and unhooks her bra one-handed, warm breath against the back of her neck; that drops to the floor, too.

“Get on your knees,” Yang murmurs against her ear, and Blake’s entire body is already trembling in anticipation. She obeys - Yang’s sweats and shirt join Blake’s discarded clothes - Blake’s thighs are a mess, there’s no way she’ll survive this--

Yang settles behind her, presses open-mouthed kisses against her spine, letting the tension build until the room feels full, like the walls are the verge of cracking, like the ceiling’s about to be blown off; Blake can feel the length of the dildo against her, white-knuckling the sheets, tears pricking her eyes at the furious desire consuming her. Yang’s tongue sweeps over a ridge, replaces her lips, and Blake nearly cries out loud.

She’s so wired it’s difficult to keep track of where she’s being touched, with how many fingers, until suddenly Yang thrusts hard, guides herself into Blake’s cunt, hits deep until her hips are pressed against the backs of Blake’s thighs, and the pressure’s so intense Blake almost collapses right there. Yang waits, pauses a moment, before she slips out slowly, repeats. Blake has no idea how she’s doing this, where she even learned to - she wouldn’t be surprised if it was just something intrinsic, something that’d come naturally - but she’s striking the right spot with every pump of her hips, forces Blake into unabashed moaning, so loud she can’t even control it coming out of her mouth. Her elbows are shaking, her body tight and wound - Yang spreads her knees further apart, laughs at how the control somehow forces Blake even wetter than she was before, the dildo glistening and thick when she pulls it out--

She doesn’t let up even when Blake cums; she slips out of her, turns her onto her back, watches her pant for a moment, breathless with her skin flushing and glistening with sweat - makes Blake think she’s done, makes Blake think it’s safe - and then she presses the tip against her cunt again, thrusts into her, and Blake’s spine arches so sharply there’s no architecture to do it justice, her fingers grasping blindly at her pillow until they drag down Yang’s shoulders instead, her legs wrapping tightly around Yang’s waist - she pulls Yang deeper even as she works for breath, moan sounding like a sob by the time it comes out of her mouth - Blake’s never been the type to cum so many times in a row, and Yang knows the pleasure and pressure of it’s killing her, knows it’s too good for her to handle without breaking down, blacking out--

Yang supports herself with one arm, pumps her hips, runs her fingers through Blake’s hair and tugs lightly. Even in the heat of it, she’d never be purposefully aggressive. Blake’s neck arcs prettily, exposing her throat. “Open your eyes,” Yang says, and Blake does as she’s told, though Yang enunciates it with a particularly hard thrust that has Blake’s eyelashes fluttering, eyes rolling back. “I want you to watch me fuck you.”

“Fuck, fuck,” Blake barely manages, every syllable broken by breath; her gaze slants down, takes in the sight of the dildo pounding into her, Yang’s hips slamming into her raised thighs, and any sound she makes is guttural, ripped straight from her chest. She can hear how wet she is, she can feel the stickiness of her own thighs, knows the sheets are ruined, knows she is, too. “Fuck, Yang--”

Just before she cums again, Yang stops entirely, sitting up straight with the dildo still buried inside of her. She stares down, brushes her fingers over Blake’s clit, smirks at how drenched she is. “I like the idea of that,” she says conversationally, answering a thought she hadn’t spoken fully out loud. “Fucking you until the only name you even remember is mine.”

“Yang,” Blake whines, shifts her hips, grinds. Yang only laughs again, circling her clit.

“Touch yourself,” Yang says. “While I fuck you.”

Blake moves her hand instantly down, finds her clit, starts to rub; Yang bites her lip at the sight, pulls out, and drives back in; she fucks Blake harder than before, almost as if there’s a competition she’s having with Blake’s hand - can she outweigh the pleasure, can she distract Blake so badly she forgets her clit is even there - and Blake’s fingers wind up sloppy, slippery and uncoordinated, her breath sticks to her mouth, her ribs might break through her skin, her heart is burning blood--

Yang hits the spot again, and Blake cums so violently her entire body shudders, trembles - her legs hold tight, forcing Yang to stay inside of her, and she feels her navel throbbing, feels her spine snapping, her jaw opening taut and soundless--

She thinks she blacks out for a moment, her vision blurry and then dark, blood rushing in her ears; when she manages to open her eyes again, though it takes an extraordinary amount of effort, all she finds is Yang’s smirk, the toy still sitting inside of her.

That’s enough, she thinks, that has to be enough, that’s the proof she needs, Blake’s so well-fucked by this point she’s not going to move ever again--

Yang slips fully out of her, and Blake groans at the loss, suddenly empty and boneless; Yang goes to unhook the harness, strip the dildo from it, and then she meets Blake’s eyes, devilish and sinister. She raises herself onto her knees, spreads them, and places the tip of it against her own cunt. It’s still glistening, wet from Blake.

“Oh my fucking God,” Blake breathes out, watching raptly as Yang lowers herself down onto it, inch by inch, biting her own lip.

“Fuck,” Yang exhales, throwing her head back as she starts to rock. Her other hand shifts to her clit, rubbing. Her muscles are all flexed, abs defined from the effort it’s taking to hold herself up, thighs tense as she fucks herself; she doesn’t take long to cum, sinks to the hilt and shakes. Blake’s transfixed, stare locked to Yang’s fingers on her clit, the toy deep inside of her.

She breathes heavily for a moment, recovers, and for a split second Blake’s adrenaline-shot by the look in her eye - she raises herself up, finally sets the dildo aside on their nightstand, leaning over Blake as she does so. But she doesn’t stop there - she shifts up, shifts higher, until with another battered moan and a gasp, Blake understands her intention.

She straddles Blake’s mouth, her cunt now dripping with both of them; she threads her fingers through Blake’s hair and jerks. “Eat me out,” she commands lowly, glittering and dangerous, as if Blake even needed to be told in the first place - her tongue darts out, licks once, and then she wraps her mouth around Yang’s clit and sucks, forces her tongue inside of her, tastes everything. She’s shamelessly addicted, doesn’t care when Yang’s palm flattens against the back of her head and she starts grinding against Blake’s mouth, doesn’t care when her thighs tighten, doesn’t care about anything. The world could end. Some things are more important.

Blake feels her shift her weight, but she’s too high-strung and wrecked to pay attention to anything other than Yang’s taste, Yang’s clit - until Yang leans back, rocks once against her tongue, and the dildo presses against her again. She automatically spreads her legs, trapped groan in her throat, and Yang sinks it into her, leaves it there before gripping the headboard again. Blake drags her fingernails down the backs of Yang’s thighs, dropping one to her own clit. They never cum together but they’re going to be close enough; Yang’s legs are quivering, and Blake’s so strung-out it takes almost nothing, not with the dildo Yang had just fucked herself with buried in her cunt and Yang grinding hot and wet into her mouth. Her jaw’s starting to hurt and she’s forgotten how to work her tongue but it doesn’t matter--

“Blake,” Yang says as she cums, “Blake, fuck, don’t - keep going - don’t stop, oh my God--”

Blake builds and snaps from that alone, clenching around the toy, throbbing, knees colliding together - Yang convulses, shakes, and immediately slides off to the right, spreading flat out against the sheets and panting heavily.

“Fuck,” she says, over and over and over. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Blake, similarly, can’t even move her muscles, as if they’ve all revolted, on strike. She’s never felt so deliciously fucked in her life, content and weightless. Yang rolls over, finds Blake’s mouth and kisses her deeply, doesn’t care about her own taste on Blake’s lips, doesn’t care that her jaw is wet, and reaches down, finally taking the dildo slowly out of her. Blake trembles, throbs against every inch, stomach tightening and unfolding until it’s gone.

“Holy shit,” she says, and reaches blindly for Yang, curling into her on her side; Yang hums, delicately sweeps Blake’s hair behind her ears, away from her sweaty skin. She just trails her fingers everywhere she can for the next few minutes, her neck, her shoulders, her arms, her ribs, her spine. It’s so gentle, so quiet, such a contrast to the way Yang had fucked her, but it’s still just as honest. When it comes to the two of them, love’s always at the root of it.

Yang drops a kiss to Blake’s forehead. “We should - take a bath or something.”

“Mmm.”

Yang laughs at the complete lack of energy in her response. “Baby,” she says, torn between amusement and affection, “this is - this is like, bad. You can’t sleep like this.”

“Watch me,” Blake murmurs, already halfway in a dream.

Yang sighs - there’s not much she can argue, considering, well, their current state is entirely her fault - and slips out of bed, heading into the bathroom; Blake hears the water turn on, hears the interruption of the flow from Yang occasionally sticking her fingers underneath it to gauge the temperature. She gives herself ten minutes, but something about the moment - the immeasurable comfort she feels, the delighted satisfaction, the sound of the bath running, the timelessness of it - sticks with her, makes her think only of love. She can’t remember why she ever ran in the first place. All reasons seem trite and unimportant. Maybe that’s what love is supposed to do to you: make you forget the bad things even existed to begin with.

Blake’s not sure if there’s sun or moon when Yang slides her arms around her body and lifts her up, muscles prominent and flexed. Blake’s head lolls against her shoulder, content, slightly more awake. Yang says, “Feet down,” and Blake reluctantly obeys, her hips aching; Yang helps her step into the water, and then she sinks down instantly, curled into herself. Yang slips in behind her, stretches her legs out on either side, and tugs Blake back against her chest, wrapping her arms around Blake’s stomach.

It’s too comfortable - the water’s hot but good; Yang had tossed in one of their bath bombs, and the scent of jasmine and honey settles over them, leaves her as relaxed as possible - and she’s easily drifting off again when Yang runs the washcloth underwater, over the insides of her thighs, dips between her legs. She knows it’s still clinging to her and acquiesces with only a brief hum, before Yang gently adjusts her and does the same thing to herself, tosses the washcloth to the side, gives Blake to peace, content to hold her.

“If you keep fucking me like this,” Blake mumbles exhaustedly into her arms, “you won’t have to worry about me running, because I won’t even be able to walk.”

Yang laughs against her shoulder, fingertips still skating across her damp skin. “I’m thorough. Metaphorically and literally, you’re stuck with me.”

Blake grins, unafraid of the language; Yang isn’t Adam, and if she’s proved anything, it’s that she wants Blake to feel as good as possible and she’ll stop at nothing to achieve that. “Baby,” she says, and Yang’s smile brightens, “you made me cum like, ten times in a row. Believe me, I’m here of my own free will.”

“I did,“ Yang says, prideful and arrogant. “Maybe I’ll start trying to break the record.”

“Sounds like a once-a-month kind of goal.”

Yang’s smile curves even further, all snark. “Once a month?” she repeats doubtfully, and Blake sighs, caught.

“Once a week,” Blake says.

“There it is. I knew you enjoyed yourself.”

“No,” she says sarcastically, enunciated by her exhaustion. “What girl likes being fucked into absolute oblivion? Not me.”

Yang laughs again, and Blake tilts her head into the sound, drawn to it like it’s calling her name. “You’re lucky I love you,” she says. “You’re such a smartass.”

“I am,” Blake says, allows it to be serious, settling between them. Her forehead rests against Yang’s neck, cheek tucked against the crook of it. She doesn’t mind feeling small when she’s in Yang’s arms. “I’m lucky.”

Yang kisses the top of her head, unexpectedly overwhelmed and speechless. I’m the lucky one, she thinks of saying, even if you don’t believe it. I am. It’s me.

“I love you,” Yang whispers, and doesn’t say anything more, overflowing with adoration. It fills the tub instead of water, soaks into her.

She starts to drift off in the silence, finally overcome. The world sits full and calm around her, the two of them existing in nothing but serenity. She can’t remember anything ever being wrong.

But Yang, she realizes, Yang can.

“Yang,” she murmurs sleepily, lifts a hand out of the water and reaches behind, curls it around the back of Yang’s neck. “I’m not going to leave you again. I won’t break my promise. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Yang says, but any tension left in her body vanishes in an instant. “Yeah, I know.”

“It’s not because of the sex,” Blake says, still soft and quiet. “It’s because I love you, and you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Yang smiles again, unfurling against her temple as she dips her head shyly. “But the sex is part of it, right?” she asks teasingly. “‘Cause that was like, mind-blowing.”

Blake’ll give her that one. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said no.”

“Thought so.”

“Stop gloating.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Shut up,” Blake finally says, lips curved and adjusting herself in Yang’s embrace. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Don’t worry,” Yang says seriously. “I won’t let you drown.”

Blake lets her eyelids flutter closed, the water still warm around them, better than any blanket. “I’m not worried,” she murmurs, and Yang hears the unspoken intention; you won’t let anything happen to me.

“Good,” Yang says, too gentle and sincere to be answering the singular statement. Neither of them have corners they can’t see into. “Then I’m not worried, either.”

Never, Yang says.

[spin-birdie]

What about some cold-blooded torture for the Bad Things Happen Bingo. I'm a sucker for angsty shit

sorry this took fuckin forever, it took a while for me to get a decent idea for this one. enjoy 1990 words of connor suffering

word count: 1.9k

pairing: none ig

additional tags: whump, body horror, leg trauma, android gore, graphic descriptions of violence, like seriously a lot of violence i think i went over the top whoops

Connor awakens slowly, blinking away distorted error messages and opening his eyes to a rusty ceiling. He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in on sight, and his mind palace is too corrupted to run his GPS software. He’s been awake for not even twenty seconds, but dread and panic fill his mind quickly.

He tries to sit up, only to find himself stuck. He’s lying face-up on a table - metal, based on the sounds produced by his body struggling against it - and his arms and legs are tightly bound with steel rope. He pulls away from the bonds, trying to free himself in every way he knows, but nothing works. He’s only making noise and causing himself discomfort.

The only part of him that isn’t completely restrained is his head, so he takes the chance to look around the room. The walls and ceiling appear to be made of tin, though it’s so rusted out that it’s hard to tell. Shelves and tables all along the walls seem to have various tools and biocomponents lined up along them. Arms and legs, eyes and hearts and pump regulators, some in containers, some just lying in the open. The empty, limbless chassis of an ST300 lies face-down in the corner of the room. Even without his mind palace fully operational, he can detect countless thirium stains all over the room and the table he’s strapped to.

Once upon a time, a sight like this wouldn’t have fazed Connor in the least. Now, it makes his gut twist uncomfortably, sends a chill down his spine. This room has seen so much death. The fact that he’s restrained can’t mean anything good.

Connor can’t see his own stress level, but he can guess that it’s fairly high. He struggles harder against the ropes, tries to rub his wrist into it. If he can detach even one of his hands, maybe he can figure something out.

Unfortunately, he seems to have drawn too much attention. A door squeaks open somewhere out of Connor’s line of sight, followed by the sound of heavy, echoing footsteps.

“Who’s there?” Connor says, craning his neck to look behind him. He’s greeted by the upside-down visage of a human woman he can’t identify. He continues to struggle, despite knowing it’s no use.

The woman doesn’t speak. Someone else steps into the room behind her. He’s carrying a camera and a tripod in his arms. Connor can’t see their faces properly. They’re wearing masks styled to look like skinless androids.

“Who are you?” Connor yanks on his restraints. Despite his best efforts, panic creeps into his voice. “What do you want?!”

The humans exchange glances. The woman walks around the table until she’s standing at Connor’s feet. The cameraman only walks close enough for Connor to see him out of the corner of his eye.

“We’re going to send a message to your charge,” the woman says. Her voice is pitched down unnaturally; Connor can’t recognize it. “Markus. The leader of the machines.”

“People,” Connor insists. “We’re just people who want to be free.”

The woman’s voice remains unchanged. “You’re anomalies. It’s not you’re fault; you were designed to integrate with human society, and in the process, you lost sight of your true purpose. Servitude.”

Connor stops struggling and grinds his teeth. “If you think Markus is just going to roll over--”

“We know he won’t,” the cameraman interjects. “He fought tooth and nail for the freedom you don’t deserve. But he cares about his colleagues. He cares about you specifically.”

“Which is why we brought you here,” the woman finishes. She turns to the cameraman and nods.

The cameraman sets his camera and tripod down on a table and walks over to Connor. Before he can react - not that he knows how he’d react - the man lifts his head up roughly and sticks something into the access port on his neck. Connor jolts, blinking rapidly as the unknown data copies itself into Connor’s system. The specific details of said data are incoherent and jumbled up, his mind palace too damaged to tell him what’s happening.

Halfway through the process, his neck starts to burn and ache. He twitches away from the sensation, but it follows him. It’s unlike any discomfort he’s felt before; his sensory feedback is advanced, but whatever this feeling is, it’s completely foreign. He hates it.

“What are-- Ow! What is that--?!”

The download finishes, and the man tears the data drive from his neck. He feels the pull of it, but it aches, sending sparks up and down his back.

“It’s pain,” the woman says. She doesn’t elaborate.

“What does that mean?” Connor demands. He pulls the rope again. It digs into his skin uncomfortably.

“It means you’re going to suffer for the sake of your kind.” She turns to the cameraman. “Get the hammer.”

Connor follows the man’s movement as he walks away, picking up a sledgehammer in the opposite corner of the room. His stomach drops, and on instinct, he struggles wildly. Sharp discomfort shoots through his wrists and ankles, but he ignores it. He has to escape. He has to get back to Markus and warn--

In the very next instant, Connor’s vision goes white, and he emits a sound he didn’t know he could make. Warnings flash past his eyes, illegible and too numerous to comprehend. He thrashes in his restraints, kicking and choking on another scream as unimaginable pain consumes him.

“Don’t kick. You’ll only make it worse.”

Connor coughs; something an android shouldn’t be able to do. He looks down at the hammer, where it rests upon what used to be his ankle until a few seconds ago. He doesn’t need to see the wound directly to know all that remains is a mess of shattered white plastic, flattened grey metal, and blue blood.

It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt. Worse than the chill of the Zen Garden. Worse than guilt. Every sensor in his body is on fire. It’s like he’s dying again; only it’s so much worse than feeling it secondhand. He wants to vomit, but he’s physically incapable. Not that it would do him any good if he could.

The woman is unfazed. “Keep going.”

The sledgehammer comes down on his other leg. This time, it’s his knee that gets crushed and split apart. Connor whites out again, shrieking as if it will save him from the pain. He tries to force himself into stasis, but doing so only yields an error message and more pain. He feels it in his eyes, and nothing has even touched them.

Once, twice, three more times the hammer is brought down on random parts of his body. His other knee, his shin, his elbow. After that, Connor loses count. The pain is no longer centered on specific parts of his body; it’s omnipresent and inescapable. No part of him hurts more than another. It’s agony no creature should be subjected to.

By the time he hears the hammer clatter to the ground, Connor’s extremities are completely unresponsive. Most of them have fallen off, too mangled to stay attached. He could try to roll off the table, but it’s like they planned for that; his left wrist is all that’s restraining him now. Even if he could escape, he wouldn’t get far with broken legs.

The sound of the hammer being set down fills Connor with relief. It’s quickly replaced with fear when the man tears Connor’s shirt open and picks up a pair of pliers, holding it over Connor’s stomach.

“No, stop!” Connor pleads as his stomach panel is forced open. “That hurts! Get off me-- Make him stop! STOP!”

The torturers disregard him completely. The man looks over to his counterpart. “What do I do?”

“Disconnect everything that isn’t vital. Make sure he stays conscious and verbal.”

The pliers haphazardly dig into Connor’s wires, pulling them open to slip deeper into his chassis. The agony is unbearable, prompting screams of almost animalistic torment. Connor instinctively curls away from them, but they’re inside his stomach; moving even a little sends even more torturous misery through Connor’s system.

He can’t see anymore; too many bright red, corrupted warnings appear faster than he can take them in. He’s positive that he’s the closest to physically ill that an android can be, and it’s just from the pain. He’s retching and coughing uncontrollably, like his body is trying to eject the intrusion but forgot he can’t vomit. The pain gets exponentially worse with every heartbeat, but his heart just keeps beating faster from the sheer trauma of the experience. The pain is in his CPU now; he literally feels it in his brain.

He can’t think, can’t move, can barely speak. Bits of him slowly go offline as more of his biocomponents are picked apart from their wires. Thirium is pooling in his chassis, but at some point the pliers stabbed all the way through to his back and opened up, splitting him open from the inside. He feels it soaking through his clothes, distantly hears it dripping onto the floor.

He’s not going to shut down, but that might be the worst part of it. He just wants it to stop. He wants everything to stop. The torment has gone on for far too long, and there’s no hope of adapting to it.

He wants to thank every deity in existence when the pliers are finally removed, but he’s too exhausted. Not even physically; the emotional trauma of the experience has just taken everything out of him. He feels like he’s overheating, but his cooling fans, his lungs, they’re all offline. He can’t move a muscle. He barely has muscles to move anymore. He wants to sleep, but the lingering pain is too immense to allow him that luxury.

“Can you speak?” the woman asks.

Connor tries to look at her, but he’s completely paralyzed. He clenches his jaw. It hurts.

“Ffff...fuck you...” he spits. His voice is heavy with tears he doesn’t remember shedding. There’s blood in the back of his throat. His vision is completely dark. The error messages no longer appear.

“Should I set up the camera now?” the man asks.

“Yes.”

---

The sight of the deviant leader falling to his knees would be enough to alarm anyone, but considering he’s been worried sick over his missing friend for days, everyone hurries to his aid.

“Markus, what’s wrong?” North asks. “What is that?”

Markus looks between North, Josh, and the tablet in his hands. He chokes back a sob. “It’s... Connor, he’s...look...”

He turns the tablet and replays the video so the others can see. Josh immediately puts a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God...”

It’s Connor, bleeding from the mouth and strapped to a bloody table. His clothes are torn and stained with thirium, his stomach is wide open, and he looks completely unfocused. He’s mumbling to himself; almost too muffled to make out, but they can barely hear him pleading, “It hurts... Make it stop... Kill me...”

Then the angle shifts over to someone clad in black, wearing a mask. “This is what freedom has cost you,” they say in a too-even voice. “You androids are lost and in pain. You’ve lost sight of what’s important, and you’re suffering for it. If you want the RK800 back, then stop trying to merge with humanity. Further details will be disclosed after this message is broadcast to your followers. You have two days to comply.”

The figure steps over to the table and puts a hand on Connor’s forehead. He visibly bristles at the contact as his head is pushed to the side, towards the camera. “Do you have anything to say to your charge?”

His eyes aren’t even on the camera, but they’re filled with misery. “Markus...” he whispers. “Markus, it hurts... Help...”

Markus caves in on himself, tears falling uncontrollably.