maskurbates: (D8)
[personal profile] maskurbates
Title: Revenge
Rating: R
Characters: Roman, Circe, Batman
Words: 446
Note: Nightmare for [livejournal.com profile] sirenspull. Contains graphic violence, torture, disturbing imagery, sexual imagery, mention of drug usage, death.



A sharp slap to the face draws you from unconsciousness. Your heartbeat pulses in your ears, your vision swims. A dry mass in your mouth indicates you've been gagged.

"Darling...wake up, darling."

That enchanting voice you'll never forget. One you'd never thought you'd hear again. The witch's. But this is Siren's Port, where even the long dead are revived and given a second chance.

You know this first-hand.

And so you lift your head and as your vision clears, your veins begin tingling with excitement, hope, love, as thrilling as a rush of cocaine and then confusion suddenly hits you as you realize you're tightly bound to an all too familiar chair, in an all too familiar basement.

Your basement.

The enchantress cackles through her emotionless ceramic mask as the realization dawns in your eyes and she moves closer, the hatred in her unblinking eyes burning holes through yours.

"Have you missed your beautiful little queen?"

Her hand lightly caresses your face, a gesture painfully familiar. She leans forward, pressing the cold mask against your cheek, and whispers in your ear.

"I've been waiting so long..."

You grunt through the gag. You've been waiting too, but not for this; your creations don't get to enact revenge. You turn your head away from her, knowing she will take your face in her hand and turn it toward her once again.

You headbutt her when she does.

But she gives that tittering laugh that always irritated you and buries a knife you hadn't seen before in your abdomen, deftly slicing a wide slit. You howl in pain as she reaches in to pull out your intestines, her laughter drowning out your screams.

Not that anyone will hear you anyway. You always swore by soundproofing.

Blood and innards spill into a warm puddle on your lap. Gently, she takes a length of intestine and strokes it lewdly before winding it loosely around your neck. Both of her hands move to her mask.

"It's only fitting that your last sight will be the terror you brought upon yourself."

The cermaic mask smashes on the cement floor.

It's not the once beautiful enchantress that you yourself lovingly disfigured all those years ago, but a much more threatening visage, partly covered by a black cowl, the mouth curled into an even more hateful sneer. He falls upon you, drawing the intestine tight around your neck and choking you, growling as he does so.

"Scum like you reap what you sow."

Darkness swiftly clouds your vision, the pain from your abdomen now forgotten.

But just before you take your last breath, just beyond his caped shoulder, you see her.

Unmarred.

And laughing.
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ROMAN SIONIS | BLACK MASK

May 2016

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