godofthemachine | IC Contact Post for Ryslig

[When AM showed up in his office with that shark's grin and the whips, Javert knew exactly what he wanted. He hadn't forgotten how he'd goaded a contrite AM during the poison-week, taunted him to come and whip him when he didn't have the nerve. He knew he did this thing, and he knew, consequently, that he must yield to the punishment.

For many reasons. AM was happy to prattle them off for him: transgressing on his punitive area, keeping him from doing his work, stepping out of line and going 'too far' with his authorities (on this point, Javert disagrees, with a mind only for Madame Fog and Her aims). But above all, it was the godforsaken promise that damns him. Javert is a man of his word, and he will not allow himself to forget what he said and done. A promise is a promise, no matter how it was elicited. The whipping is owed. He will concede to it, or forever fall as a hypocrite.

He is better than that.

So he takes the initiative. He is the one to meet AM's gaze daringly. He is the one to march first down the hall, stripping off his outer layers as he glides. And he is the one to offer out his wrists for the ropes and chains to restrain him, the tautness of his jaw dampened only by the flaying skin of his burns.]

Here you have me. Go on.

[AM certainly hasn't forgotten what happened during the week of chaos. He curses himself and the serum for afflicting him with whatever happened for many reasons - he felt love. Love. Genuine, disgusting love. Or whatever that horrid imitation of it was. It felt good, and yet it seemed to diminish his judgment and intellect like an awful drug. (No wonder he avoids drugs!)

He knows he is utterly incapable of love, thanks to how he was built. It causes an edge of bitterness in him now, especially as he mulls over how everyone else was acting. Javert was disgusting as usual, of course, but he had told AM to whip him.

And he would be a fool not to take advantage of that now.

Javert's stupid pride will be his undoing, as AM had told him. And it is because of people like Javert that AM can never feel love, can never feel anything aside from his bitter, seething hatred. So he's the perfect target right now.

So when Javert arrives, completely shirtless, offering himself up like some noble sacrifice, AM certainly won't say no.]

Well, as different as we may have acted last week, you still seem to want this. Perhaps the serum didn't affect you at all!

[He grins upon standing up and eagerly snatches Javert's wrists, letting his claws dig into the skin. He doesn't waste time in slipping the cuffs onto those wrists either - special silver-lined cuffs that he saves for the monsters who may be weak to it. (He doesn't know if that applies here, but why not experiment?)]

[Silver was a smart call. The skin of his wrists sizzle upon impact with silver.

Javert can't keep his body from the sharp, futile recoil, one he must force to a stop with a tremor in his arms. His wrists blacken and smoke, the acrid odor of burnt flesh quickly overcoming any heavy disinfectants or old, rusty-smelling blood from AM's last round.

He allows the initial burn to wash through him, his focus driving single-mindedly through AM's skull and not on the gnawing burns. This is right. It is well. This is a debt wretchedly owed, what is one more lash, one more stroke, to me? He chants his harsh reminders unyieldingly, and even in submitting himself to monstrous retaliation, his proud, hard eyes seek purchase on AM's self-satisfied smile. The smoke still billows when he grinds out his challenge through his teeth:]

I am a man of my word. You are owed this, and so it shall be done. Don't waste your chance.

[Javert clenches his gnarled, gray fists in AM's grasp. He is not fighting, Demon. What is your next move?]

[As the silver touches Javert's wrists, there is a strong reaction, one which causes AM's eyes to light up. So Javert is weak to silver! What a nice find.

AM will have to be sure to fit more implements with silver to hurt him in the future - a collar, perhaps. Too bad his silver collar is in the dungeon at his castle right now. But still, he absolutely loves the way Javert's skin seems to burn at the touch, as he tries to hide his pain. He is rather resilient, even when subject to brutal torture in that dream. It will be AM's pleasure to break him.]

Of course I won't waste my chance. What kind of employee would I be if I were to turn down your important demands?

[Now that Javert is cuffed, AM attaches another chain to the cuffs, one that he can use to drag the poor sap. And he quickly pulls on it, yanking Javert forward. From there, he'll drag Javert to the "interrogation" room, the area where most of the tortures take place. After all, if Javert even has blood to bleed, it's more convenient to keep it in one area.

Obviously AM makes sure it's not a smooth walk. He periodically yanks on it, hoping that Javert will stumble and fall. But perhaps not. He won't even bother to shrug it off with a poor excuse about his hand slipping on the chain.

But soon enough he drags Javert into the room and instructs him to face the wall as he attaches the long chain to a hook.]

[Vampires are quick. Even with the pain of his wrists mounting to an excruciating numbness, Javert keeps his glance sharp and watches the ripple of AM's arm when he moves to yank the chains. He keeps the pace, skipping a step here, shuffling a twisted gallop there. Each small step, he pays for in a deeper burn, his flesh peeling away from the silver shackles.

By the time he's pulled into the room, his face is an ashen gray, stubbornly fixed to a grit-teeth, stubborn expression. He lifts his face in resolute, intrepid imperiousness.]

My employee. That is right, [Javert agrees, his tone grave and haughty, and his eyes set ablaze. He is not a docile lamb, laying himself before AM for sacrifice to the Fog God. No, not at all; he is a coiled, tense beast, lulling his keeper into falsely believing some twine will hold him.

It will. So long as he allows it, so long as his cup does not runneth over with noxious shadows. So long as AM's wicked nature is exactly, exactly what Javert expects from him.]

I would not forget that if I were you.

[Therein lies the crux of Javert's message. Make no mistake, AM: no matter how much he fools himself, it is Javert that conducts this theater through grinding teeth and sloughed wrists.

Javert controls this, his face comprised of sharp, hideous angles in the stark lighting. AM will whip Javert because Javert told him to. AM will flay the skin off his back because Javert allows it. And when Javert is fully spent to his satisfaction, AM will resume his normal duties, because Javert bids it so.

He turns his back to AM and stares obstinately at a crack in the far wall.]

Fetch the cat, [Javert barks.] Have at it. You've hungered for this for months.

I won't forget it, Javert.

[He somewhat seethes at that, but at the same time, it's something he can use to his advantage. Everything he does inside these walls is because of Javert. His back is going to get flayed to bits because he asked for it. And of course Javert knows that.

He'll give the warden exactly what he asked for. He'll break that resolve and make him cry out in pain.]

Just as you won't forget what a masochist you are.

[But he does as he is told, fetching the metallic cat 'o nine tails, one that had ripped up so many backs before. In humans, the shock could lead to death, or at the very least the resulting infections from the open wounds. But Javert is already dead, so it shouldn't matter.

But he doesn't waste any time. The cat comes down onto Javert's bare back, an angry flick of the arm as AM finally gets to enact one of his deepest desires.

No, it's not exactly what he wants to do to Javert. It's a rather mild thing in comparison to all that he wants to do, in fact. But it's the best he's going to get right now, and he'll take it. Eagerly, the cat comes down several more times, ripping more and more of the skin off, leaving almost nothing left. If Javert can bleed, there will be plenty of blood, but if not, then the decayed skin gives way to shredded muscle. He yearns to hear screams and cries of pain.]

[It takes much for Javert to give a single cry.

This Javert is much different than the Javert of AM's fantasies and dreams. The true Javert is far less pliant, far less malleable and much less inclined to squirm, writhe, and whimper than AM hopes. The true Javert gleams purple-and-black with surety and probity, solemnly accepting the fruits of his labor. The true Javert plunges and digs into his own darkness and clutches it near, deep enough to nestle himself in a dank place where his familiar mental anguish merges with each numbing, brutal flick of the lash. It is the very same place where the burns in his wrists mirror the biting, meandering wound left by Regulus's betrayal, where the blinding punch of the hooks flaying him down to the bone flashes with bursts of ghostly faces: Hannibal Lecter, Aunamee, Bethan Costigan, Varian, MIRAGE, Wegener, the Poachers, AM, Elsa and Cassandra, Juno Steel, Jean Valjean. Every single strike stirs something colder, something even more vile with simmering, putrid, scorned frustration from the coils in his belly, and the rushing in his ears hitches to a deafening, knifelike left hook to the temple.

And when the pain and the sensation and the depths of his despair climb to the peak, when he feels the taut marionette strings snap and recoil, only then do his strangled gasps and grunts release into a single, fanged, loathsome roar.

Javert falls limp in his binds, his consciousness slipping away in bright red and black. The blood oozes but does not flow or pool, his shoulder blades exposed to the fluid-dampened air.]

Edited 2020-10-11 15:15 (UTC)

[Javert's stoicism would still translate somewhat in AM's dreams, but those are different, because the tortures in them would be far, far worse. This is just a mild whipping in comparison, almost like a walk in the park.

And he whips and whips and whips, and there's nothing but a grim resolve, as AM knows that Javert is doing his best to deny AM the satisfaction of dominance. It's frustrating, of course, which is why the cat goes down harder each time, scraping over already-open wounds. He doesn't stop at all, even as that back is tattered, as muscle is visible. But why does he have to stop there? He'll destroy the muscle as well.

The claws rake over the exposed muscle, tearing it from where it sits upon his body, and finally AM can see the white of Javert's shoulder blades. Not good enough - he needs more.

And then finally he gets that expression of pain, that loud, bestial roar as he collapses. And oh, it's beautiful. AM knew he wouldn't hold out forever. Nobody does. Every human has their threshold, after all.

But he still doesn't stop. He wants to hear more cries of pain. Several more times the cat scrapes over the open wounds, until finally it seems that Javert isn't going to respond much anymore - he seems to have passed out from shock.

It wasn't the most satisfying session, but it's the best that he'll get for now, at least outside of those dreams.

So AM does put the weapon down and he strides over to the warden, grabbing him by an exposed, bloodied shoulder and yanking him up.]

Get up, Inspector.

[Crimson red blinds him. AM's command numbly passes through one ear and out the other. His body moves, but stiffly, the joints in his back and shoulders unresponsive without the muscle knotting them together. Javert sways yields beneath AM's grip, blood smeared and slick between them.

Even the undead, it seems, can experience shock to a peculiar degree. He is no more responsive than a rag doll now, limp trunk and gangly muscles flowing with whatever push they receive. He favors the touch, propping himself into the sturdy pain so hot it has hardened to ice.

Javert takes a few beats like this, still and haggard, his full weight bent into AM's arm.

The bloodied veil slowly lifts from his eyes and he knows, now, that he must go. Away from here. Home. Where are his keys? His wrists are still bound. That will not do, there is no way to reach them. His eyelashes flutter, bleary eyes coming into focus, and a single ragged cough erupts from his breast.]

My keys.

[In truth, AM would prefer to keep Javert cuffed like this. It's so tempting to lock him in a cell and keep him there, but unfortunately the other workers would see. People would find out.

But if he leaves while still cuffed, that would just add an extra layer of humiliation atop the whipping. Would Javert even be able to do anything while the cuffs are lined with silver? Perhaps not.

So AM does visibly hesitate when Javert asks for his keys, pausing and looking the inspector up and down. He looks an utter wreck, of course, ravaged by shock.]

Your keys?

[His lips twist once more into a smirk.] What do you need them for?

[Javert's stare is as vapid as a cow's. The skin of his wrists peel and curl a scorched black-and-brown, reeking of fried pork rinds. Delicious.

People will find out regardless, if AM does not hand over the keys. It matters little to Javert who knows what happened within his fortress's walls; let them see what this demon is capable of enjoying. Does it matter to AM?

His lip curls proudly away from his stained fangs. He struggles to pin a focused, unwavering glance at his tormentor.]

My keys, [he repeats, thunderously this time. The power in his voice only lasts for that single bark, a murmured, nearly indistinct, hoarse growl taking its place.] They are in my coat and top. Fetch them.

Edited 2020-10-28 20:43 (UTC)

[People will find out. Javert is far too established here, and his absence would be noticed, and not in a way that could be excused by those who return to the Sea of Stars. But AM does want to draw this out and revel in Javert's suffering, now that he's no longer unresponsive.

After all, he won't get this opportunity often.

But it's frustrating, in fact, how resolute Javert seems, as if he's martyring himself. (That's exactly what this is, though, isn't it?)]

Perhaps, Javert, you should fetch them yourself. You seem perfectly capable of doing so.

[There is a hiss to his words, a dissatisfied narrowing of the eyes.]

Remove the cuffs, then, [he growls, the reds in his eyes flashing bright. Javert juts his burnt chin to his equally burnt wrists, his teeth bared, lop-sided, through singed lips.] You are finished here. Be a good fellow and release me. Or else fetch the keys with you, and let me hang a few minutes longer!

[AM draws this out a bit more, staring at Javert, twirling his own thin beard around a finger in an obvious showing of thought.] Hmm...

You as well as I know that I'm not a good fellow, as often as you are keen to remind me.

Besides, I'm the one who prescribes punishments, as you have also reminded me.

[But finally, he grants a small mercy and unhooks the cuffs from the link on the wall, allowing Javert to walk out of here if he really wants.]

But... I suppose this isn't a punishment. All I did is what you so passionately asked me for.

[He grabs Javert's arm and drags him toward the door. If he can't walk, oh well - he's still dragged as best as AM can do. The large door to the "interrogation" room is opened, a metallic creak of the steel frame, and Javert is shoved outside of it into the next room.]

You should be able to find your coat and your keys from here.

[Javert's arms drop heavily. He doesn't have the time to cradle his wrists close when AM savagely snatches and hauls him to the door whilst he noodles along, his feet and legs obeying far better than he could have dared to hope. It takes two, three, four wheeling steps for him to catch himself, chest heaving. A trail of slick blood spatters in clotted puddles on the floor.

Parbleu...! What effort it demands from him to twist a gaze at AM and choke on his dry, lifeless chuckle.]

You took what you were owed, [he snarls, indiscernible from a beast's feral bark. The noise flapping from his mouth is substanceless, and it would be surprising if AM could tease apart distinct syllables from his slurred mess. Another sound, a heinous blend between a sob and a gurgle, as he turns back to the stairwell ahead of him.] Take care! We'll see each other again shortly.

[He begins his slow and painful mounting of the stairs, blood and sweat smeared in his wake.]

IC Contact Post for Ryslig

ACTION, CW: WHIPPING AND HUMILIATION

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