#bocw reader insert

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Limp, he sits there, nearly flat against the corner of the wall, shoulders sagging in something akin to defeat. He shivers. Blood seeps from somewhere; he cannot tell where, for certain. It’s cold, so utterly cold, juxtaposing the warm, honeyed-ooze of the lifeline ichor lapping at his searing flesh. His senses, dulled and growing further dull by the ticking second— the sharp clicks of her boots reverberate like a clock’s reminder of the dwindling opening he has.

When her fingers deceptively run through his matted locks, he shudders. A mock parody of a lover’s caressing touch. It’s oh-so laughable that even such minute actions garner such visceral reaction out of his heavy body. 

There’s little reaction from him, as she tugs his hair and pulls him along, like one would a ragdoll toy. Her nails graze against his scalp.

His lame limbs, the shuddery breaths that slip through his cracked, chapped lips, his weight nothing but a burden he bore. 

When she hurls his body against the other end of the room, he swears there’s a sickening crunch. Somewhere.

Again. He cannot tell where.

The noise escaping from his lips is but a pathetic, tiny breath of a gasp (like a whine), as, with shaky hands, he attempts to push himself up. His legs refuse to work, and his brittle grasp of balance sways with each second. Even lifting his torso is a monolithic task, let alone lifting his head, or his gaze, to look at her. 

The fury is already seared in his mind anyways.

“Get up.” It’s a command. One born from the funnelling depths of frustration, as her agitated, breathless voice looms overhead.

“My attention,” she seethes the word. A hand tightly grasps his jaw, forcing him to lift his heavy, heavy head. The world whirls around him. He gasps, spluttering as a shiver (fear? no, not quite—) wracks his body. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? My ‘attention’.”

Blood trickles down the expanse of her throat—his blood—and even amidst the daze, his eyes refusing to focus, he sees the vision of her fury he dared to scorch himself with.

This…this is what he wanted.

“And so I graciously gave it to you.” She snarls coldly. “At least attempt to make it worthwhile for me.”

As cold as the biting, nipping winds of Solovetsky.

God. What did he get himself into?

With the harsh edge of her scorn digging into his flesh like shrapnel, he is tossed aside once more. Finally upright, propping himself against the nearby wall, he glances down to assess his wounds and Jesus—

“—I’m not giving up.” He attempts, even if his words waver as she gazes over her shoulder at his broken little state. “I’ll get what I want.”

A sneer. 

An insect, she called him once, an insignificant man that only got in her way. And with a look that feigns a degree of pity, she simply states:

“I’ll kill you myself then.”

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