imfinejustbrainrotting

* * *

Bruce's first thought, when the door cracks open and the nightmarish vision appears in the doorway, is that Joker has come to finish him off last.

He's still a bit dizzy from the latest torture attempt they'd thrown at him, though it'd been a half-hearted one. By now his captors had realized Bruce's will was not a thing easily broken. In a facility such as this, bent on mind-breaking and remaking, it could only mean they had something far worse in the works. But Bruce's head had taken a couple of hits too, and whatever concussion is brewing makes him see Joker as through a lens; edges too focused, colors too intense.

He looks like something that has crawled out of the pits of Hell. He looks like Death come to collect, and Bruce's stomach tightens.

"Darling," Joker croons, voice loud but raspy, as if he'd been screaming himself hoarse for days.

It echoes in the small, dark cell, and Bruce knows there's plenty wrong with him, but the list must've grown when he wasn't looking. The familiar sound of it almost brings him comfort.

What comfort? Joker's green eyes are glittering like glass shards from a face that's more blood than a face. It's everywhere. It's in Joker's hair, darkening its curls and caking into it; it's dripping down Joker's face, his neck, the entire right side of his naked torso and legs, his underwear. Brilliant, sickening red splashed onto blinding white stretches of skin. He looks like a canvas overcome by rust, and he walks towards Bruce with the decisive steps of a predator in a hurry, reaching out with long sharp limbs.

There's a knife in his hand, as wet with blood as any other part of him. Bruce has to resist the impulse to close his eyes, and forces himself to keep looking even through the haze of nausea and pure exhaustion. He watches the strain of Joker’s naked, lithe form and doesn’t even wonder where his clothes had gone; he only wonders how loud Joker had laughed when they’d poked him with blades and ran electricity down his veins. Tiredly, he thinks, At least I'm still me, and you're still you. He's relieved it's Joker about to kill him and not their jailers, because this is an ending that belongs to him, and could never be taken away.

Joker kneels in front of him, eyes wild and bright. The scent of him is a slaughterhouse, an abattoir.

"They told me you were dead," he whispers quietly, and one of his hands moves forward to grasp at Bruce's jaw.

Bruce feels the thick layer of blood smear onto his skin, warm and humid. He could turn his head away, and yet he doesn't. Joker's thumb runs up his cheekbone in what can only be described as a caress, and Bruce— looks away, bites his tongue, swallows down the instinctive shout for Joker to let go.

Was Joker coming here to save him better, or worse?

"But of course you're not dead," Joker continues, just as painfully desperate, gaze glassy and manic with it. "You're right here, I knew..."

Bruce freezes when Joker brings his bloodied face close, rubbing it against his own like a child.

"They can't kill my Bat, no no no," Joker coos full of relief; but then his tone takes on an edge of anger that’s chilling. "Only I can kill my Bat."

And then he retreats a little and lets his forehead fall against Bruce's. It's warm and sticky, it should be disgusting and uncomfortable, but Bruce is barely registering it: there’s a silent struggle stirring inside him, between a weakness that’s basking in Joker’s familiar closeness and an ocean of hatred that’s as old as time, roiling.

Joker doesn’t say anything more, and his eyes slip closed as he presses closer, almost aggressively. The wall digs into the back of Bruce’s skull, and his heart beats faster, but not because of fear. He stays still most of all because he understands. He lets Joker prove to himself that Bruce was real, and alive, and breathing.

Questions well up in the corners of his mind, squirmy little beasts born in the cover of darkness that are too strong to be kept in it. Was it all just some misplaced sense of possession, or had Joker been genuinely worried? Had the thought of Bruce's death tormented him? Had he fought to find him?

Why?

"You're not dead either," Bruce hears himself speak, just as wrecked.

He feels Joker's warm huff of breath over his face.

"Well observed, Detective," he teases, though not unkindly, and he doesn’t move away.

They hadn't told Bruce what happened to Joker. Bruce had asked, and they hadn't told him anything at all. They'd looked at him, blankly, and refused to answer.

Bruce wryly thinks that he should stop finding it so hard to believe Joker had been worried, when he himself had thought of nothing else but Joker for the past three days. He’d cycled through scenarios ranging from daring escapes to horrific deaths, each worse than the last. It had been purposeful, he realizes; Batman's certain death to best get at Joker, and Joker's uncertain fate to best get at Bruce.

But the moment ends, it has to. The small pocket of time they’ve been encased in pops open when Joker pulls back, shaking off the vulnerability like something inconvenient that’s been clinging for too long— and Bruce swallows around the complex wave of emotion in him, watching his edges sharpen back up again.

Concentrating on the task at hand, Joker picks up the knife and raises it, tip poised to work open the shackles chaining Bruce's arms to the wall. Bruce no longer feels the need to back away, and looks past Joker’s shoulder at the light filtering through the door. He breathes measuredly through the cloying smell of copper.

"Can you stand?" Joker asks when he’s done, so uncharacteristically sharp that Bruce can't help but stare.

The cuffs clatter against the wall, too loud.

"...Not without help," Bruce finally replies, stifling a grimace. His biceps ache with the exertion of having been pinned up for so long.

An overenthusiastic guard had fractured one of his legs on the first day. It was what had made his plans of escape significantly more complicated, though not impossible.

Suddenly, Joker grins, and it burns in the dark like a flare.

"Consider me the help," he declares, sounding a bit more like himself.

But the rasp is still there. Too stubborn to reach out just yet, Bruce uses the wall for support to try and hold himself up and wonders numbly, What did they do to you? What did you do to them?

He's overtaken by a wave of pain and nausea at the same time, and Joker has to steady him for a second... before he takes one of Bruce’s arms and quickly drapes it across his neck, supporting his weight. Bruce draws in a sharp breath. It's jarring in every possible way, this closeness between them, the drying blood on Bruce's naked chest mixing with the blood dripping from Joker's.

The unexpected heat of skin touching without barriers, bodies aligned.

"Here we go," Joker grumbles, and at this range his voice is also something that hurts in its closeness. "Oh they clipped your wings pretty bad, didn't they..."

There's steel and possessive fury wrapped in it. Vision blurry courtesy of the hits to the head, Bruce focuses only on stepping and avoiding the weight of his injured foot for a bit, on pushing down his stomach's need to empty its meager contents onto the floor. This wasn’t the time or place for personal scruples, for the dissection of this unexpected side of Joker. By the time he raises his eyes again, more resolute, they're out the door.

It takes a moment for his mind to process what he’s seeing. Bruce stiffens and stops, eyes wide.

The corridor is littered with corpses. There’s barely any light, and the black non-descript uniforms of whatever mercenaries and hired guns the organization had employed hide some of the carnage, but there's no overlooking the pools of red underneath them, limbs unnaturally askew in death, eternally frozen.

Here's one dead while clawing at the floor. There's a gash open in his throat that was done from behind. Here's one slumped forward, sitting with arms pressed down on guts spilling out, wall decorated with arterial spray next to it. Here's one face down, right next to the cell door, with fresh blood still spilling out.

The murderer responsible for the massacre is a warm, breathing thing, holding Bruce up as he surveys the hallway and waits, patiently, for whatever was charging the air to break. He’s just standing here in the middle of the slaughter, as uncaring about the lives he’s taken as a catastrophe.

There's something coiling in Bruce's stomach. Something unnamable.

"They were trying to kill us," Joker utters softly then. He could've mocked or jeered or laughed at Bruce's horror, but instead he just waits, a pillar of patient calm underneath Bruce’s weight.

And Bruce thinks about Joker escaping his bonds and killing his way through this place to get to him. He thinks about Joker having every reason to believe Bruce dead, and yet searching for him anyway; risking being captured again, risking being shot, risking death with every man he put down to get closer. He thinks about that nightmarish vision in the doorway of his cell, the monster dripping blood with pained and desperate eyes, reaching out to make sure Bruce was still there.

His arm tightens around Joker's neck. He takes the howling question of why and silences it gently, the way one would put down a dying animal. It didn’t really matter. Bruce would’ve come back for Joker, too.

"Let's go," he mutters, finally turning his head back to gaze at Joker.

The quiet must have gotten to him; he looks cornered, as if already strategizing on how to best neutralize Bruce's potentially violent response. But whatever he sees on Bruce’s features makes his green eyes go slack. There’s another familiar smile now, one that must hurt in all the places Joker’s lips are split.

There's blood staining his teeth, too.

“Your wish is my command,” Joker declares theatrically and makes to walk forward. “Anything for my poor damsel in distress!”

Bruce’s eye twitches, but he says nothing.

he doesn't have a home or a family as far as he or anyone knows of. he's lived in the woods by that campsite for what could be his entire life.

he's been picking off campers who visit those secluded cabins for years getting increasingly more violent and intense with it.

he's very violent and bloody. he was enjoying killing your cabin mate to the fullest when you first woke up.

you noticed him and waited quietly until you could get away. you hit him with your lamp as he climbed over top of you and then bolted out the door.

he currently has 19 tallies on his shoulders. you're supposed to be 20.

he also got a tattoo of your initials on his shoulder.

he's madly in love with you for being the only person who has ever escaped him. he sends you letters in his messy handwriting covered in drool and other fluids. they detail all kinds of graphic things he wants to do to you.

one time he sent a letter with blood on it and detailed how he had to take care of another inmate but he made sure not to kill him for you. you're the only one he can kill.

you decided to go to see him in prison after moving back to your hometown and he was just as gross and off-putting there. he would get so excited and act like an eager little puppy everytime he saw you again. before asking if you got his latest gross letter detailing how he wanted to make love to your corpse.

he actually started to behave better in prison after your visits started. he couldn't see you if he was put in solitary.

after only 10 years in prison he was being released on a technicality. everyone expected you to be with the other families and be completely outraged but you went on several interviews saying that you forgave him. talking about how you would kindly give him shelter.

yeah that's not exactly right. you set up the cabin for all manner of tortures. that's where you'll both live until you rot away together in the place it started.

he thinks it's romantic. he loves you so much it doesn't matter what you do to him. he's happy to be with you forever.

he'd be really happy to know he haunts your nightmares.

he got most of his tattoos in prison. that's also when his hair became so long but its always been messy.

he gets really jealous but he likes to play it off like he's not. he'll especially mock you with the fact he killed your boyfriend at the time because he's so jealous that you still care after 10 years.

he'll kill anyone who tries to interrupt your time at the cabin. he'll escape and then come back once it's over asking you to put the chains back on.

its unclear if he actually wants to kill you anymore.

nsfw

he could top but he's not allowed to. he's better as a whiny drooling bottom.

he confesses to you only all the horrible things he did to people's bodies either during or after their deaths. he got off on the violence but it isn't enough for him anymore.

he likes your violence even more than the violence he inflicted. he'll moan to exaggerate and piss you off but he's always rock hard whenever you even hit him or look at him with disgust.

he's like a dog in another way too. he'll hump anything you give him. let him hump your leg, stuffed animals, pillows, bedframes, anything that gives him any friction.

his favorite position is your hands around his neck as you bare down on him. he doesn't even care if you're fucking him, he could cum from you choking him alone.

big tits. big muscles. big guy. big dick. big whore.

he always cums so much and he drools even more. sex with him is always messy.

he would love it if you dissected him and played with his body.

you flick some of the cigarette ash towards the man in question. he's on his knees arms tied behind his back and duct tape over his mouth. he keeps shooting you dirty looks. it's funny.

"such a waste..."

you run a red room service on the dark web. essentially, anyone with enough money can hire you to kidnap and torture whoever they want. some people hire you to make elaborate snuff videos with their desires all written out for you, other people let you and your audience decide what kind of torture would take place over your live streams. that's where the handsome man in front of you came from, the gang he'd been destroying had bought your services.

you had already explained that to him, as well as mocked him for his cigarette habit. now you were letting one of the cigarettes burn before your stream actually started, you didn't actually smoke it choosing instead to let him watch you waste it. his scowl was hot.

his screams were hotter. the first hour in, you had him covered in cigarette burns and his stomach flinching away from your touch. the second hour in, he had multiple gashes all over his trembling body. the third hour in, he had finally started to sob and his body was covered in lovely bruises.

"sorry guys, we can't kill him yet. but that means we get a toy for a little while!" you gripped his hair and brought his tear stained face up to the camera. "say goodbye to our friend!"

and that ended your first stream with your new toy. you cleaned him up and brought him to his new room.

"you'll probably be the show tomorrow unless I get another job. eat up." you gave him a nice dinner and pulled the duct tape off his mouth.

"... when will I die?"

"dunno. good work chilles, sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

that's how it began. the guy ended up being your show about half the week for the next two months. never enough to kill him and every day you cleaned up his wounds and took good care of him. he never cursed you or complained about his place he would ask you questions and thank you for the food. it was pleasant conversation, he was a nice companion in your otherwise drab life.

it was halfway into the third month when you got news that those gang members who hired you were dead. you'd been waiting the whole time for them to pay for you to kill achilles and now it was never coming. at least you made good money from your streams in the meantime.

"you're free to go." you stood in the doorway of achilles's room.

his eyes looked at you, slowly widening as he realized what you said. "wh.. why?"

"m gonna drug you up and drop you in front of your house. you won't know where you were but I'd really appreciate if you didn't try to come after me at all. "

"why are you letting me go? did something happen?"

"you should quit smoking by the way. maybe i won't be able to get you-"

you saw something in his eyes snap. those eyes that had been practically blank the whole time even when the torture made him lose his voice from screaming. now they were dark and hazy, significantly more threatening than he'd been before. he crawled on his hands and knees to your leg and looked up at you with tears in his eyes.

"why....? am i not.. did i do it wrong? i can be a good toy."

you were caught off guard by his reaction. "uh... well uh the guys who hired me like... they died without paying me to kill you. so like... i don't have a reason to keep you?"

"how much?"

"huh??"

"how much do you need to keep me?"

you reached down and gently carded your hand through his hair. "you don't want to stay here, dumbass."

"yes I do." he nuzzled his head into your hand.

"you really want to stay here and get tortured until you die? use your brain."

his darkened eyes looked up at you with the most pathetic look. "i want to stay with you."

"fuck" he's cute? he's cute. "ok...jesus, lets do this. you go home, get reunited with your family, try to get back to normal life. and I'll contact you so if you still want to be LITERALLY tortured over living your normal life I'll bring you back. ok?"

"you'll actually come get me, right?"

"yeah. I'll get you and I won't even make you pay."

“[Name], right?” He smiles at you. You smile back, your posture stiff and your smile fixed painfully on your face. “I’m sure we know what this marriage is intended for.”

Your skin feels tight. “I do.”

“You can go to Thoma should you have any inquiries. My sister will help you too should you need anything.”

You tilt your head. Your tone is straightforward and blunt. “And you?”

“I’ll be busy,” Ayato says politely.

“I understand.”

There: your first conversation had been completely unremarkable and bland. But Ayato had appreciated that you had been straight to the point. You had been completely no nonsense, and Ayato at least, did not feel annoyed. He has too many things on his plate to deal with trivial things like romance: too many rival clans are trying to assassinate him, too many people are trying to destroy his clan. He does his own things, you do too. Occasionally you two meet—it’s just one house, after all, and you two make polite conversation. You make for a rather amusing partner at times, you make him laugh, and with you he feels relaxed.

Sometimes he plays the tricks he plays on Thoma; but it’s almost impressive to see you stomach the strange food he feeds you. You tease him with a rather sweet straight face; in calm tones, you poke fun at him. Ayato forgets that the two of you are married, at times, but there are also the rare times that he’s almost pleased.

Months pass after your encounter. The two of you have lapsed into a routine. Ayato finds that there are times he almost looks forward to the occasions the two of you meet. He starts planning brief instances where he can see you: he starts to finish his work a little quicker so he’ll be able to see you. He lessens your workload so you won’t be tired. He buys trinkets that remind him of you. He starts to reach out to you a lot more. 

He notices you smiling more. You seem pleased, joyful, even at this. 

(“Gosh,” Ayaka tells him once, smiling sweetly. “You two do act like a married couple.”

Married. Ah. Right. Ayato has nearly forgotten.)

One day, as he’s out, he spots a gem the color of your eyes. He spends a decidedly long time looking at it, choosing it carefully, before he tucks it in your pocket. You deserve to have nice things, he thinks to himself. And so he will give it to you. His husband.

But when he returns home, he doesn’t expect to see the sight of you barely breathing, your breaths shuddering, your body limp. Thoma and Ayaka are not in sight. They must have gone out today. And you…

The gem clinks in his pocket as he runs towards you.

“[Name],” Ayato calls for your messily, the words falling over each other as they spill from his mouth, “[Name]!”

The last word is a yell. “[Name], please…who did this to you?”

“Those bastards,” you say weakly, “from…that…clan…they wanted information. They…”

“And you—”

“I didn’t give it to them, if that’s what you were worried about,” you manage to choke out. “I know how important it was to you.”

The information. Right. The scrolls. Right. Important? Perhaps months ago Ayato would have agreed. After all, that was months, almost a year of hard work. But looking at you now, Ayato begged to differ. Here you were, bleeding out, dying, because of him.

You sacrificed yourself. You sacrificed yourself for him.

“I know what this marriage was intended for,” you repeat the words he had told you when you two had first met. His husband. His beloved husband. His darling. “I’ve honored it.”

“No,” Ayato cradles you, feeling as if life escapes your body. Your body is turning cold. “No!”

It’s too late. The gem rolls out of his pocket, and Ayato despairs.

The gem is no longer the color of your beautiful eyes.

It’s bathed in red.

CHILDE

note(s); you are from fatui

There are countless deaths when it comes to Fatui. It has become disturbingly normal. And you are Tartaglia’s subordinate. The eleventh harbinger’s associate. You two hit it off, immediately: you are of similar age, and you have a little brother the same age as Teucer. Or: you had a little brother. He was torn away from you because of your poor living conditions in Snezhnaya. And that was what spurred you on to make a last ditch attempt to join the Fatui to find a purpose somehow; to riddle yourself with work so you cannot think of your brother’s death.

Childe has been nothing but sweet to you so far. You have been seeing two sides of him: the tender, gentle side to him when he talks about Teucer, when he speaks of the little letters he gets from his siblings, or on the occasions he speaks to you. And the other is more wild; more bloodthirsty—and in those instances, you can see the marks that the Abyss has left on him. That uncontrollable urge to ravage everything in sight; to leave it broken and damaged.

Today is no different. The two of you tread the snow as you walk up the mountains. Childe is laughing as he is telling you stories. You listen to him like you always do. Neither of you spot the Ruin Guards. Not even three—by some wretched curse, there are five of them, lumbering behind. And by the time their shadows loom before the two of you, it’s too late.

Childe flinches; you reach out to him in desperation before you see him shift into his Foul Legacy form. 

What rotten luck, you curse to yourself, adrenaline starting to fill in. What kind of stupid thing have we walked into?

You have seen him use it a few times—once against three Ruin Guards. He defeated them without much difficulty—but you had seen the after effects. You had seen the way he had panted for his breath; the way his face had turned pale, the way he had quivered and had grasped onto you and the Traveler for help.

He does the same. There’s still two remaining, and Childe’s still standing. But you see him clutching his head. You think of Teucer. Childe has a family to return to. You have no one. In a way, this action would be the most logical. The most understanding. It will be a sacrifice for Childe and his brother. You know the pain of losing a brother—you don’t want Teucer to go through that again.

“I think I can handle them,” you tell Childe quietly. You don’t have a vision, but you have a delusion you have yet to use. “Go. Rest.”

“[Name],” Childe warns.

“Teucer.” Is the only word you say.

Childe’s eyes widen. He bites his lip. He sees your point—you knew he would. 

“I’ll come back alive,” you promise.

“[Name],” he tries again.

“See you later.” It’s a clear dismissal. 

You push him a little to the side; Childe stumbles away. Then you quickly unleash the delusion you have kept and unsheathe your sword. Childe was the one that taught you how to use a sword—and now you recall his advice as you step to the side. The delusion has potentially lethal consequences. You know that. It’s your first time using it. You know that too. The energy thrums in your fingertips as you start to battle—the crimson lashes out between your teeth and blows start to rain on you.

You think of your brother. It was your lack of strength that caused his death—you can still remember his shouts, his screams—and even now they haunt you. You don’t waver, but your stance and your attacks become sloppy. Useless, you think harshly, useless! I can’t even—

The delusion unleashes more power in your desperation. The ruin guards start to sway and fall. You continue, but now blood is bursting from every crevice, every corner: wounds open, flesh tears away, and your mouth overflows with blood. The ventricles of your heart seem to be pulsing dangerously—the delusion is ripping away your mortality in return for its power. You continue. Your eyes start to tear—

Thuds tell you of the defeat of the guards. You slump in relief. Your feet carried you to Childe, who has collapsed on the ground.

“Childe,” you call weakly. “I…”

The words don’t leave your throat. Your broken stance is not the one that jolts him from his consciousness, but it is the splutter of blood and the horrid gargle your throat make when you start to retch out blood that horrifies him.

“[Name]!” He yells, “[Name]!”

“Let me close my eyes,” you plead. “I’m so tired.”

“No. Let’s—let’s get you to—”

“Please,” you start to beg him. “I think…”

Childe knows better. You will die if you close your eyes. He has to get you help—he can’t let you die. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He has loved you. He loves you. He adores you.

“You promised me,” Childe starts to whisper brokenly, “you promised me, [Name]. You said you'd come back alive. You said you will…”

The promise is shattered when your head slips from his grasp.

Your first and last promise to him, broken.

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