#throneseize

↳ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄. // open. [  CHAINS  ]   receiver’s muse wakes up with their arms chained above their heads and sender’s muse is standing in front of them, waiting for them to wake up.

as his senses return to him, the first thing john can feel is the dizziness still grasping his mind. he grumbles under his breath, mistaking it at first for the usual post-hangover headache, surely aggravated by the umpteenth sleep in the wrong position. his entire body hurts, after all —— he must have fallen asleep on the couch again, probably sitting. that would explain it, he thinks, moving a hand to the head to massage it.

or, at least, trying to.

his eyes painfully snap open when he realizes his arms don't move as he wants them to. he groans, shutting them tight as the headache becomes much stronger for a moment, then tries again slower. despite the room has little to no light, the single lamp dangling near him seems to be enough to cause him ache, enough to make him realize how unnatural it's starting to feel. he remembers he drank ( he always does ), but... he also remembers he kept himself sober enough the night before.

his arms snap his attention back to themselves, feeling more and more in pain now that his senses are returning. he blinks, suddenly noticing he's not sitting on a couch —— he's not sitting at all. he's upright, his legs only now returning to hold up his own weight, up to now unloaded on...

finally, he looks up. the chains gleam fearfully clear in the dark room, wrapped tightly around his forearms and wrists, holding them up, the hook disappearing in the darkness above him. his heart skips a beat, his breath suddenly cut in the chest. « wh —— what-? » he murmurs, panic rapidly forcing him wide awake. he shakily finds a sort of balance, starting to tug at the chains, once, twice, thrice. they don't budge the slightest: they only make his arm hurt even more. how... how long has he been standing there? where--?!

the noise of the lighter snapping open makes him jump in fright. he finds immediately the small flame in front of him, close, so uncomfortably close as it moves up, lighting a cigarette held just a few steps out of his reach. he didn't even begin to think there might have been someone else in the room with him, even less this close to him, yet hidden enough in the shadows for john to not fully grasp their features.

( the panic and dizziness are probably helping with those. his head... was he put to sleep in some way? chloroform...? )

He's humming a tune to himself, something that Proton had a penchant for; its repetitive and childish, it had been stuck in his head for days now. Lips pull into a sly little smile when his superior makes his request-- how fun! A trip into nowhere to fetch a man that had fallen off of the face of the Earth.

❝ Right away sir! 🎶 ❞ Proton laughs, it's punctuated by the sound of his scissors snapping shut, and being dropped onto the surgical steel table he had been working at.

Swift tip-toeing across the room over to a supply closet! Proton opens the closet door, slips in, and when it's SLAMMED shut, static is sent through the room-- his laptop screen distorts, making an awful screeching sound, and the lights hanging from the ceiling flicker.

A dull hum comes from the laptop's speakers, before it shuts off, restarts, the screen flashing one message:

Here I come! :)

          “  i resent those words! i happen to be royalty, and as such, i am way above such primitive displays of barbaric emotion,  ”  is he still shaking from anger? yes. and he's trying very hard to hide it. lear straightens his posture almost comically much, hands crossed tightly against his chest.  “  and you, don't you have any more important things to attend to than to stand here agitating me?  ”

"I think it's time you and I had a little talk, conductor."

          the weariness that's been dragging him down for weeks has gradually turned into exhaustion, but emmet continues to stubbornly chase after that one source of endless thrill; winning.  every battle he pushes harder, more relentless, more violent.  even that guilt briefly twisting his insides afterwards is worth the rush of adrenaline. the payout of a terrible diet and barely any sleep combined with 16 hour work days is the mind-numbing tiredness.

          it's no wonder he doesn't register that uninvited company until he's shoved against the wall with little to no effort, that primal fear that grips him muted down dangerously much with the fatigue. oh. had he beaten up one too many stray grunts? maybe this is how he dies.

          “  y-yup– seems like it.  ”